by Lauren Rowe
Kat moves to the far end of the room and stands on a chair, capturing both tables of people in her frame.
“I’ve got some cool news,” Dax says. “I just found out ‘People Like Us’ cracked the Top Ten! It’s number nine, guys—a worldwide smash!”
Pure pandemonium overtakes the room.
“A toast!” Ryan says, hopping up and raising his glass. “To Daxy and 22 Goats! And to ‘People Like Us’—the first of many, many Top Ten songs for our boys!”
“Hear, hear!” everyone shouts, raising their glasses toward Dax’s exuberant face. I glance at Aloha and she’s visibly floored at the display of familial affection she’s witnessing—staring at the Morgans like she’s watching exotic animals humping in a zoo.
“Next stop? Number one!” Keane shouts, fist-pumping the air, and everyone cheers.
“Oh my gosh,” Louise Morgan says, fanning herself and slumping against her husband’s shoulder. “So much goodness, all at once. Daxy is a rock star. Keaney is an actor who’s going to cry on TV and not just take off his clothes. And, most importantly, Mamma Mia is finally here and healthy and beautiful... “ That’s it. The poor woman can’t go on. She chokes up and clamps her lips together, too moved to continue.
Ryan raises his glass again. “Let’s drink to all of it, shall we?”
More cheers erupt.
“Hey, any excuse to drink,” Kat says dryly, and everyone laughs.
Ryan turns to Keane. “Congrats, little brother. Slay, Peenie, slay. Chase those dreams and never stop.”
Everyone raises their glasses to Keane, who looks moved.
Ryan turns next to Lydia. “Lydi-Bug, great job cooking and pushing Mamma Mia out. She’s perfection.” He winks at Colby. “Cheese, you did a great job helping Lydia make her, I’m sure, but we all know your job was nothing but the fun part.”
Everyone, including Colby, laughs.
Ryan clinks Colby’s and Lydia’s glasses and resumes his seat.
“Hey, fam,” Keane says, standing. “As long as we’re going around the table giving props, can we send some love Maddy’s way? Her latest documentary got honorable mention at a huge film festival last month.”
“Woohoo!” Hannah says enthusiastically, and everyone mimics her and raises their glasses.
Keane smiles down at Maddy, a huge smile on his smitten face. “You crushed it, Mad Dog, because you’re brilliant and gifted and the smartest person I’ve ever met. Cheers to you. This is only the beginning.”
The table collectively swoons and exchanges glances like “Who the fuck is he now?” and then we all clink our glasses and drink to Maddy’s success.
With an excited squeal, Isabella, Colby and Lydia’s nine-year-old, leaps to standing with her glass of milk in hand. “Cheers to Theo! Last night, he played me a new song he wrote and it was his best one, ever! When he’s a rock star, just like Uncle Daxy, I’m gonna go to his concert!”
Everyone cheers and whoops and laughs, including Dax who’s still hanging out on FaceTime.
Theo thanks his little sister and then raises his glass back to her in reply. “To Izzy! She got third place in her school’s spelling bee this week.”
“To Izzy!” the enthusiastic crowd shouts.
Okay, this is getting ridiculous. I don’t know if we’re all drunk or what, but the adults at this table are finding this litany of toasts hilarious at this point.
“Yo, fam,” Dax cuts in on Kat’s phone. “It sounds like this lovefest is gonna go on for a while and I’ve been up all night. I gotta go. Love you all.”
Everyone says their goodbyes to Dax. Tells him to stay safe and check in again soon.
But just before Kat ends the call, Dax says, “Oh, wait, Kitty. Bring me to Theo-Leo real quick.”
Kat pans her camera onto Theo.
“I’ll call you this week so you can play me that new song of yours, okay, little dude?”
“Awesome. Thanks, Uncle Daxy.”
“You bet. Okay, bye, everyone. Be good.”
Everyone congratulates Dax, yet again, and, finally, Kat ends the call.
And that’s when, out of nowhere, four-year-old Beatrice sitting in my lap—whom I’ve been assuming has been dead asleep against my chest this whole time—abruptly lifts her head and shouts, “I got to be Miss Yeager’s helper at pre-school today!”
Of course, everyone loses their mind at our little Bumble Bea’s insane cuteness and we all raise our glasses to her stunning achievement. In the midst of the laughter and love swirling around us, I smile at Aloha next to me and my heart bursts at the glowing smile on her face. The girl is lit up like a Christmas tree and it’s a sight to see.
I raise my glass to Aloha. “Can I get a little woot-woot for our beloved Alo-haha? She’d never mention this herself, but she just found out yesterday her Pretty Girl album has officially gone triple platinum.”
“Zander,” Aloha says shyly, just as a collective woot-woot rises up from both tables. In a flash, every glass of wine, beer, Scotch, apple juice, milk, and water is raised in Aloha’s direction and a tidal wave of love is crashing down on her.
“To Aloha!” I say, and everyone follows suit.
I glance at Barry at the other table and the look of pure love on his face causes a lump to rise in my throat.
“Aloha,” my mother says at the far end of my table, and I peel my eyes off Barry to look at her. She says, “I don’t know what it means for an album to go ‘triple platinum,’ but it’s obviously a big achievement. And I think that’s wonderful, because I’ve always believed good things should happen to good people, of which you are most definitely one.”
Oh, my shit. My normally talkative mother has barely spoken during this entire dinner party, opting instead to dote on the babies and silently watch me like a hawk. To think she broke her noticeable silence to say that to Aloha, in front of everyone, is making my heart feel like it’s medically palpitating. And one look at Aloha, and it’s clear she’s feeling the same way.
I glance at my sister at the other table and she’s visibly floored. And then I look at Aloha to my left again and my heart explodes to discover she’s tearing up. I slide my free hand—the one not cuddling Bea—into Aloha’s under the table and try not to well up with tears myself.
Normal conversation around the dinner table resumes. But I’m too mesmerized by Aloha’s stunning face—and the palpable energy coursing between us—to focus on anything being said at the table.
“. . . for you, Aloha?” Mrs. Morgan asks, drawing me out of my euphoric stupor.
Aloha turns away from me and gazes at Mrs. Morgan, her eyebrows raised in a question.
“I asked, what’s next for you?” Mrs. Morgan says. “Where will the tour go next? Are you doing anything glamorous and exciting in the near future?”
Aloha graciously describes her remaining tour schedule. She talks briefly about some promo appearances and late-night TV interviews she’s scheduled to do. And then, in wrap-up, she says she’s going to perform next month at the Billboard Music Awards in Las Vegas.
“Oh, how exciting!” Mrs. Morgan says. “You must be so excited. We’ll have to set our DVR.”
My stomach clenches. I know full well, because Aloha’s told me so herself, she’s not excited about the performance, but, in fact, is dreading it. The same way she dreads all awards show performances and appearances. But will Aloha reveal that to Mrs. Morgan or simply flip into Aloha Carmichael mode?
“Um, actually, to be honest...” Aloha begins tentatively. She clears her throat. “Awards shows really aren’t my favorite thing. They’re actually extremely anxiety-producing for me.”
My skin electrifies. I’m not happy about the sentiments Aloha just expressed, of course. I feel sorry for her. But I’m elated she feels comfortable enough in this crowd to tell the truth.
“Why are awards shows anxiety-producing?” Maddy asks.
“They tend to be particularly chaotic and disorganized. Plus, with so many celebrities, all in one pla
ce, all of them with their own personal bodyguards, it always feels like there are too many cooks in the kitchen and security actually feels lacking. Which is counter-intuitive, I know.” She shrugs. “Awards shows are just a perfect storm of everything that stresses me out the most. Add to all that, it’s a live performance, televised around the world, and I’m always worried I’ll have some sort of panic attack in front of millions that will go viral and haunt me forever.”
I look around the table at the people I love the most, and not surprisingly, everyone looks sympathetic and not the least bit judgmental. My eyes meet Barry’s, and, instantly, I know he’s as blown away by Aloha’s stark honesty as I am.
“Can I ask what’s probably a stupid question?” Kat says. “If you hate performing at awards shows so much, if they cause you severe anxiety, then why do you perform at them? You don’t have to do them... right?”
Aloha opens her mouth. And then closes it. She cocks her head. “In theory, that’s true, but... I don’t really have a choice. They’re an invaluable promotional opportunity and also a huge way I give back to my fans. Not everyone can afford a ticket to one of my shows. My fans don’t know I suffer from anxiety. All they know is they want to see me sing their favorite song. So, mostly, I do it for them.”
“You poor little thing,” Mrs. Morgan says. “It sounds so stressful for you.”
“What triggers your anxiety the most, Aloha?” Keane asks. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
Aloha twists her mouth. “Crowds, I guess. The feeling that people are pressing in on me and I have no personal space and can’t breathe. Even fans who only want to show me love can freak me out sometimes. They get so excited to meet me, they scratch and claw at me. It can be scary. And painful. I’ve been cut and bruised and tossed around more times than I can count. Felt like I was being smothered. When I was little, I used to think the whole world wanted to hurt me or kidnap me. I’d constantly have terrifying nightmares about people chasing me or suffocating me or stealing me.”
You could hear a pin drop in the room, other than the twin snoring sounds coming from little Beatrice in my lap and Colby’s dog, Ralph, at his feet. Again, I glance at Barry at the other table and his expression reflects my emotions: heartache, protectiveness, love.
“I used to have anxiety when I was a kid,” Keane says. “I still get it sometimes now, but not too often.”
“I get anxiety,” Theo pipes in. “Not as much as I used to, though, because my family and band have helped me so much.”
“Your band?” Aloha says. “You’re in a band?”
Theo grins proudly. “The Bedwetters.”
Aloha chuckles. “Wow.”
“We call ourselves that because I used to wet my bed—like, right up until last year. I got bullied pretty badly for it. So I decided to do what Uncle Daxy and Uncle Keaney both told me to do: make my most embarrassing thing a badge of honor. Uncle Keane told me, ‘When they’re running you outta town, get in front and make it look like a parade.’”
“Yee-boy, baby!” Keane shouts.
“So that’s what I do.”
For some reason, I feel compelled to glance at my mother at the other end of the table, and I’m surprised to find her staring at me, not at Theo as he speaks. And, suddenly, by the look in her eyes, I know my mother will be loving when I finally tell her about my feelings for Aloha. I don’t know when that’ll happen, of course. I’ve got no thumping desire to do it any time soon. But when I do, my gut tells me she’ll be happy for me... right after she whoops my ass for screwing up the best job I’ve ever had.
“I’d love to hear that new song of yours,” Aloha says to Theo.
“Really?” Theo says excitedly. “I didn’t bring my guitar with me tonight, but I’m sure one of Uncle Dax’s old guitars is here somewhere.”
“There’s probably one in Daxy’s room,” Colby says, popping up.
I have the urge to say, “Hold on, Cheese. Why don’t you grab the guitar in Keane’s room—the one I asked Keane to buy as a surprise gift for Aloha?” And, indeed, by the look Keane is shooting me, he’s obviously thinking the same thing. But, no. I shake my head at Keane and bite my tongue. Now isn’t the time to give Aloha that ribbon-tied guitar. My gut tells me I should give it to her in private, when it’s just Aloha and me.
“Well, then,” Mrs. Morgan says, drawing everyone’s attention. Her blue eyes are glistening. She tucks her blonde bob behind her ear, takes a deep breath, and says, “Let’s clear these tables and have our cake and ice cream on the couches while we listen to a concert by our very talented singer-songwriter, Theo-Leo. That sounds like a lovely plan to me.”
Chapter 39
Zander
There were plenty of wackos and weirdos to choose from,” Henn says, shaking his head. “People on the interwebs are scary, guys.”
I’m standing in the Morgans’ kitchen with Henn and Barry, swiping through photos of men and women, but mostly men, whom Henn, with an assist from Brett’s buddy at the FBI, determined are a tad bit too obsessed with Aloha.
The rest of the party is in the family room, listening to Theo perform an original song. The pleasant sounds of Theo’s singing and guitar strumming in the other room provide a stark contrast to the thunderous crashing of my heart. The mere thought that any of these “über-fans” might one day creep out from behind their keyboards and come at my baby, even if it’s just to hug her way too hard and tell her they “love” her, is making my pulse skyrocket and my skin crawl.
Henn continues, “To be honest, I’m just chasing wild geese here, guys. The odds are high we’ll never see hide nor hair of any of these wackos. I just did my best to narrow it down to my best hunches, like you asked.”
“No, this is great,” Barry says. “Will you send these to me?”
“I just did. Lemme know if you want me to do anything else.”
Henn describes the further services he could provide, if desired—hacking and tracking, he calls it—and after a bit of discussion, Barry says that, at this stage of the game, the further assistance Henn could provide isn’t justifiable from a cost/benefit standpoint.
“But if Aloha receives any kind of specific threat, whether anonymously or from anyone on our ‘watch list,’ we’ll go balls to the walls with all of it,” Barry says. And, begrudgingly, I have to agree it’s the right call.
Suddenly, the sound of Aloha’s voice mingling with Theo’s drifts into the kitchen, and I’m instantly drawn like a moth to flame.
“Thanks, Henn,” I say. “Great work. I think I’m gonna head into the other room and see what’s shakin’.” With that, I fist-bump Henn and Barry and hightail it straight out the door.
Chapter 40
Zander
The entire room erupts in applause when Aloha and Theo finish their song. Apparently, Aloha quickly caught on to the simple chorus of Theo’s original song and joined in as his backup singer when the chorus came around the second and third times.
“That was amazing!” Theo says, strumming his last chord. “Can we do it again and get a video of it this time? Just for me. I won’t post it.”
“Of course. And post away.”
Theo looks at his mother, his eyes wide. “Can I, Mom?”
Lydia gives her permission and, just like that, several Morgans pull out their phones as the duo launches into the song again. Only this time around, Aloha’s picked up on even more of Theo’s lyrics and melodies and she’s now adding even more harmonies and vocal flourishes, all of which make the song shine almost like a professional masterpiece. Wow. I’d never tell Aloha this, but I’m enjoying what she’s doing here with Theo even more than half the over-produced songs she performs on her tour. Those songs are catchy as hell and she’s a powerhouse performing them with all the bells and whistles, but I prefer hearing her singing like this, with such purity and raw simplicity and backed by nothing but the warmth of Theo’s acoustic guitar.
When the duo finishes singing Theo’s song for the second ti
me, the room erupts with even louder applause than before. For my part, I’m overcome with the urge to bound across the room and scoop Aloha into my arms and kiss the hell out of her in front of everyone in this room, the same way I brazenly devoured Aloha at Captain’s last night. But I refrain, since Aloha is flanked by Theo and Izzy on that couch. Plus, surely, my every move is being scrutinized by the one-two punch of Barry and my mother.
When the applause dies down, Theo launches into another song. And then another. And with each song he plays, Aloha listens for the first quarter and then joins in when she gets it—each time visibly thrilling Theo and the entire room.
Finally, Theo puts down his guitar and everyone applauds and compliments him and Aloha before dispersing into little pockets of conversation and cake-eating around the room. I watch Aloha chatting with Theo and Izzy for a while, feeling pulled to her like a magnet to steel. And when Izzy bolts off the couch to join Colby in taking his boxer, Ralph, for a walk around the block, I seize the chance to assume Izzy’s seat next to Aloha.
“What inspired that last song?” Aloha is asking Theo as I settle onto the couch.
“My dad dying when I was seven.”
Aloha blanches. “Oh, Theo. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”
Theo tells Aloha about his late father and Aloha hugs him and whispers something into his ear.
“Thanks,” Theo says as he pulls out of their embrace. “I think about him all the time. And when I do, I just do what Uncle Dax taught me to do: I put my feelings into a song.”
“That song is so... honest. How did you get the courage to write like that—without holding anything back?”
Theo shrugs. “When I got my first guitar, Uncle Dax told me I should think about what kind of songwriter I wanted to be. He said there’s music designed to make you tap your toe or shake your booty and music designed to touch people’s souls. He said some songs do all three. Some do only one. That there’s no right or wrong. But he said for him, personally, songwriting is always about touching people’s souls. So, when I said I wanted to be just like him—that I wanted to write songs that touch people’s souls, too, Uncle Daxy said, ‘Okay, then, you’ve got to take a vow to be fearless. Not just with your songwriting, but in life. Because there might be someone out there who’s going through a hard time and they’ll hear your song and you’ll help them, but only if you’re one hundred percent honest.’”