Cardinal

by Sara Mack

  “I’ll let the school decide,” Latson responds. “He’s a little young to have a preference, I think.”

  “But he’ll want to be with his friends.” She lets out a tittering laugh. “Max and Oliver are like two peas in a pod.”

  They are? I glance at Latson and recognize the knowing gleam in his eye. He can tell she’s flirting. “He talks about a lot of kids,” he says. “I’m sure some of them are bound to be in his class.”

  Natalie shrugs and moves closer. “It doesn’t hurt to be sure. I can submit the form to the office for you. It would only take a few seconds. I could also sign him up for t-ball with Max for the summer. We could carpool. What do you say?”

  Latson gives me a wide-eyed look, as if saying, “Can you believe this?” A snicker gets caught in my throat, and I cover it with a fake cough.

  He takes another drink of water, then leans in to give me a wet kiss on the cheek. “I’d better get back.” He looks at Natalie. “I think we’re all set, but thank you.”

  His tone indicates he’s talking about more than class selection and sports. He winks at me then walks away, finishing his water as he goes. When the bottle is empty, he shoots it like a basketball at a nearby recycling container. It goes in.

  Natalie turns to me, her shocked expression full of questions. “You know him?”

  I give her a sweet smile. “Yes.”

  The top of her ears turn pink. “Well, I … I … didn’t realize.” She stiffens her spine and holds out her hand. “Natalie Spencer, PTA president. You are?”

  “Jen Elliott.” I shake her hand. “Girlfriend.”

  She nods, then turns on her heel and walks away, struggling to keep a slow pace back to the other moms. I look at Erica and she laughs. “You should have seen her face when he kissed you. No amount of Botox could have hid that reaction.”

  I shake my head. This is the last place I expected women to vie for Latson’s attention. Torque and the gym I understand. But an elementary school?

  My thoughts are interrupted when the kids in front of us start to leave. Per my instructions, I round the front of our table and hold out a container of disinfecting wipes for them to take as they walk by. Behind me, Erica grabs another stack of plastic cups. “Ready to make some more slop?”

  “Ready as ever,” I say.

  By the end of the afternoon, the kids are tired, sticky, and sunburned. Oliver says goodbye to his teacher and his friends, and the three of us head to Latson’s car for my trip to the airport. Since I have to be there early to get through security, we decided to leave straight from the picnic. After shutting the car door, I turn around to look at O in the backseat. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes!” He grins. “I did so many flips in the bounce house I almost threw up!”

  My face contorts. “Gross. That doesn’t sound like fun to me.”

  He giggles. “Uncle Gunnar? Can Donovan spend the night? He wants to come over and his mom said maybe.”

  “Not tonight, buddy,” Latson says as we leave the school. “After we take Jen to the airport we’re going to dinner, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah!” Oliver looks excited. “We’re going to Medieval Times.”

  “What’s Medieval Times?” I ask.

  “It’s where you eat with your hands, and there are knights and horses. They have battles right in front of you.”

  “That sounds much better than puking,” I say. “Make sure you take pictures and send them to me.”

  “I will. Uncle Gunnar? Can I use your phone?”

  Latson’s eyes find Oliver in the rearview mirror. “Sure, dude.” He looks at me. “You might get a bunch of blurry texts later.”

  I smile. “I look forward to it.”

  Latson pulls away from the school, and we discuss Oliver’s summer vacation plans. Along with more aquarium time, he’d like to visit the zoo, go swimming, see his buddies, and have more Nerf wars, for which he says he’ll need some sort of new gun.

  “You have forty guns,” Latson says. “That’s enough.”

  “You’re lying,” Oliver’s little voice accuses. “I have eighteen; I counted. You have more guitars than anything and you don’t even play with all of them.”

  My eyes grow wide and swing to Latson. This is the most attitude I’ve ever heard from O. “I think you just got told by a second grader.”

  He smirks. “He’s not a second grader yet.”

  “Am, too,” Oliver interjects.

  “We’ll see once I get your report card,” Latson says.

  Their back and forth banter is sweet, and a pang of sadness hits. I’m going to miss this over the next few months. I’d love to take O to the zoo or to the beach. We never did get to the park to play in the fountains. Suddenly, I want more time. I stare out the window and swallow.

  We pull into O’Hare International Airport, and Latson finds a parking space. Dean is supposed to meet us inside, along with Pete and Jules. I grab my guitar, swinging the case over my head and shoulder, and then my carry-on bag. Latson pulls my two suitcases from the trunk. I’m only working with what I brought to Chicago, so there wasn’t much to pack. As we make our way to the crosswalk to head to the terminal, Oliver decides he wants to help. Latson lets him drag one of my bags, and the sight is too freaking cute. Maybe I’m being overly sentimental, but I let the boys walk ahead of me so I can take a picture.

  Once I get checked in, we walk to the security screening point. There, I find Dean, Jules, and Pete standing off to the side.

  And, unexpectedly, Carter, Felix, and Gwen.

  “You guys!” I say in surprise and hurry my steps. “What are you doing here?”

  Carter opens his arms wide, and I step into them for a hug. “Little J. Do you think we’d let you leave without saying goodbye?”

  “I said goodbye last night at work.” My voice is muffled against his chest.

  “It’s not the same.” He holds me tight. “I forgot to tell you. If you need a bodyguard, let me know. I’ll be there in a heartbeat.”

  Aww, I think. Before I can respond, he steps back and hands me off to Felix.

  “Mi amor,” Felix says with a pout. He catches my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Como voy a vivir sin ti?”

  I give him knowing look. “You’ve lived without me before. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  He grins. “Be careful out there.” He wraps me a quick hug before Gwen pushes him out of the way. She holds on to my shoulders and looks me squarely in the eye. “You must call or text me,” she demands. “I want all the details. I want pictures of roadies. I want pictures from the stage. Oh! I want pictures of you on stage.”

  I laugh. “Okay, but only if you promise to take care of my boys.” My eyes jump from Carter to Felix, then to Latson and Oliver who are talking to Dean. “You don’t have to worry about Pete. Jules has that covered.”

  “You’re damn right I do,” Jules says and walks over. “Don’t worry about us back here. Concentrate on you.” She leans into my side. “And, remember, if you need someone on the tambourine, my offer still stands.”

  “Got it,” I say. “You guys will probably get sick of my daily updates. I’ve never met Paul or Drew, and I doubt Dean and I have much in common. I’ll need someone to talk to.”

  “We’re here for you twenty-four, seven,” Jules says and Gwen nods. “Any hour of the day or night. Don’t hesitate to call.”

  “Thanks.” Even though I assumed as much, it’s still reassuring to hear the words.

  Jules’ eyes focus on something over my shoulder, and I turn around to see my brother. He doesn’t say anything; we’ve talked about this opportunity so many times over the last week there’s nothing left to discuss. Without words, I step up to him and we give each other an insane squeeze. “Love you,” he says against my hair.

  “Ditto,” I say into his chest.

  After I step away from Pete, Oliver skips over and tugs on my hand. “I made you something.”

  “You did?” I crouch down to hi
s level. “What is it?”

  He holds out a piece of paper that’s been folded a dozen times. “It’s a picture.”

  “You made me my own Oliver art?” He nods as I carefully take the paper and open it.

  It’s a drawing of three stick figures. Each one is labeled above their head: “Uncle Gunnar,” “Me,” and “Jen.” My heart melts as I notice the little Oliver figure stands in the middle, holding hands with his uncle and me. I’m wearing a colorful triangle-shaped dress, and there’s a guitar in my other hand. Latson is wearing shorts and has three straight lines for hair. A bright yellow sun sits at the top of the paper, and there’s green grass at the bottom.

  I hold it out so we both can see. “I’m going to hang this up wherever I go,” I tell Oliver.

  “You will?” He gives me a tiny smile. “I thought if you missed us, you could look at a picture. That’s what I do when I miss my mom. It makes me feel better.”

  My breath catches. He’s such a well-adjusted kid. It’s easy to forget everything he’s been through. I look over his sweet drawing again, now aware of the meaning behind it. “Thank you,” I say softly. “I’ll look at it every day.”

  He looks a little sheepish as I ruffle his hair.

  “Hey.”

  I stand up at the sound of Latson’s voice. He gestures for me to follow him, and we walk a few steps away from the group. He takes my free hand, threading his fingers through mine.

  “Dean’s ready whenever you are,” he says. “He didn’t want to interrupt your goodbyes to tell you.”

  “So he made you do it?”

  “I volunteered.” Latson gives me an uneasy smile. “I wanted a few minutes alone with you.”

  I don’t like his expression. “Is everything okay?”

  He nods. “Do you like Oliver’s picture?”

  “I love it,” I say. “He’s so thoughtful. You’re doing a good job with him, you know.”

  Latson ignores my compliment and runs his thumb over the back of my hand. “You remembered to pack my shirt, right?”

  “Of course.” Latson gave me one of his white tees that suspiciously smelled like he dropped a whole bottle of cologne on it. “Everything in my suitcase is going to smell like you.”

  His smile grows more genuine. “I may have added another one to your bag. I hope you don’t mind.”

  I wind my hand, the one that holds Oliver’s picture, around his waist. “I don’t, but I wish you had crawled inside instead.”

  Latson lets out a breath and rests his forehead against mine. “How did this day get here so fast?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Time always does the opposite of what I want.”

  We stand there in silence before he brings his hand to cradle my face. He kisses me, catching my mouth with his and taking his time to brand every part. When I think the kiss is over, he surprises me by capturing my lips again.

  And again.

  “I want that burned into your memory,” he whispers. “No one else gets to kiss you. No one.”

  “Okay,” I breathe. Like the thought would cross my mind. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “Not as much as I’ll miss you.”

  “Jen?” I hear Dean. “You ready?”

  No, I think, but “yes” comes out of my mouth. Latson squeezes my fingers before letting me go. Reluctantly, he gives me his lopsided dimple smile. “Go be a rock star.”

  ~~~~

  After a four -hour flight, we land at LAX. I spent most of the trip with my eyes closed and my ear buds in, listening to a continuous loop of Dean’s songs. Before the plane took off, he showed me an itinerary for the coming days. Scheduled in amongst rehearsals and photo shoots are appointments for costuming and radio interviews. It was a little nerve-wracking to see what lies ahead, so instead of watching the in-flight movie, this newbie decided to be proactive and practice playing guitar in her mind. The music took me to another place, and it also helped block out the cries from a screaming toddler a few rows back.

  “Roxanne will meet us by the baggage claim,” Dean says as we walk down the jetway.

  “Who’s Roxanne?”

  “She’s my agent-slash-manager.” He smiles. “She’ll be joining us on the tour, so you won’t be stuck alone with us guys.”

  The news will make my brother happy. “Is that routine?” I ask. “I mean, she’s not just doing it for me, is she?”

  “No,” Dean says. “Managers usually accompany their talent.”

  I nod. Okay. Good.

  We exit our gate to a long line of people waiting to board our empty plane. The airport is teeming, as I assumed it would be. Dean seems to know where he’s going, so I walk beside him without question and glance around. Maybe I’ll see someone famous. All I end up seeing are a blur of faces until my eyes zero in on a Starbucks.

  “Can we stop?” I ask, my eyes darting to the coffee shop. “The pretzels on the plane really didn’t do it for me.”

  “Sure.” He pulls out his phone. “Let me tell Roxanne.”

  “You have to check in?”

  “She has a car waiting. It’s courtesy to let her know we’ll be a few minutes.”

  Holy crap. I didn’t realize. “I’ll make it fast,” I promise and start to walk away. I thought we would be taking a cab.

  “Wait.” Dean follows me. “You’re not the only one who’s hungry.”

  Of course the place is crowded and the line takes forever to move. I don’t want to leave a bad impression with Roxanne by making a pit stop, but I really am starving. I consider getting a smoothie, but throw health out the window and end up ordering a S’mores Frappuccino instead. I get a zucchini walnut muffin too, and Dean opts for an iced coffee with milk. When our drinks are prepared, the barista calls out, “Jan and Dean!”

  “Jan and Dean?” I frown. “Wasn’t that a real group?”

  Dean laughs. “Yeah. It was two guys from the sixties.”

  I shrug and go retrieve our drinks. I’ll be Jan as long as I can claim my Frappuccino.

  We make our way to the escalators, then down to the baggage claim. It seems like everywhere I look there’s a driver holding a sign. I read a line of them: Ryan, Stephens, Reid, McCarthy. That’s us. A tall man wearing a blue suit holds the sign and looks bored while a petite woman with a raven-colored pixie cut stands beside him consulting her phone.

  “Rox!” Dean shouts and waves.

  She looks up and waves back. “’Bout time!”

  Dean weaves around people to get to his manager and when he does, he hugs her. Then, he steps back and introduces us. “Jen, Roxanne Hughes. Rox, Jen Elliott. Rhythm guitar.”

  Roxanne extends her hand and I shake it. “I’ve heard good things about you.” She looks me over from head to toe, appraising my appearance. “This is good,” she says to herself and then looks at Dean. “Nice window dressing. You needed some spice for the men in the crowd. Now you can appeal to more fans.”

  Wait. What?

  My eyes swing to Dean. “That’s why you asked me out here? To sex up your band?” Disbelief washes over me. I can’t believe I fell for this. “You brought me across the country to look pretty?”

  Dean’s complexion pales. “No! You’re mad talented.” He gives Roxanne a hard stare. “Why would you say that? You just met her.”

  Roxanne looks stunned, but in a phony way. “I wasn’t trying to be nasty. I’m your manager; I look at your image from every angle. Despite her inexperience, she will help.” Her eyes focus on mine. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. It’s the nature of the business.”

  I want to throw my Starbucks at her. I picture it splattering against her chest, and I’m surprised by my visceral reaction. It must be because I’ve been pent up in a flying metal tube for the last four hours.

  “Jen.” Dean can tell I’m annoyed. “Gunnar would never support this if he thought I was messing with you. Don’t be upset. Rox is just –”

  “Telling you how it is,” she cuts him off. “I’ve been planning this tour n
on-stop since we were given the green light. It’s Dean’s second chance and everything needs to be analyzed.” She extends her hand again. “Let’s start over. I’ve heard great things about your playing and nothing about your looks.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  “Jen.” Dean looks desperate. “It’s true.”

  I believe him. I really do. It’s Roxanne I’m not sure about. My shoulders relax a little and I focus on Dean’s manager. “Did he tell you this was all new to me?”

  “He did.”

  “Okay. Then you know I have no idea how the business works,” I stress the word. “If he gains new fans, that’s fine. But it won’t be because I’m window dressing. I didn’t come out here to parade around. I came to play.” I don’t need her thinking she can dress me up like a doll.

  Roxanne’s professional expression turns into an approving one. “Good.” She steps to my side, wraps her arm around my waist, and starts to usher me toward the baggage carousels. “I was worried when Dean said you’ve never toured. The last thing I have time to do is babysit you. I don’t need you breaking down on me.”

  “You were concerned?”

  “The pressure can be stressful,” she says. “There are new people and new temptations. You’re in a new place every other day. I don’t need you getting emotional. My instincts tell me you’ll only do that when necessary. You won’t allow anyone to run over you. That’s important.”

  “I wasn’t planning any emotions other than nerves.”

  “Trust me,” Roxanne leans closer, “there will be plenty of feelings. Just try to act on them in a positive way. Remember, there are cameras everywhere. Are you on social media?”

  I think I know what she’s getting at. “I’m not going to make a fool of myself, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  She gives me a curt nod. “Not anymore.”

  We step up to a conveyor belt of traveling bags. “Let’s get your stuff and get moving.” Roxanne consults her vibrating phone. “Paul and Drew are already at the hotel.”

  Once we find our belongings, we walk outside to where our driver parked a sleek black town car in a reserved space. He helps load everything into the trunk, and then I get in the back with Roxanne while Dean sits up front. Once we leave the airport the ride is stop and go. Traffic is unbearable, even after seven p.m. I stare out the window and pick at my muffin, realizing the time difference. In Chicago it would be after nine. Since I’m trapped in the car, I find my phone and send a group text to my brother, Jules, Gwen, and Latson to let them know I landed safely.