The Way Back Home

by Alecia Whitaker

  “Every time I think about it, I get goose bumps,” I say.

  “And you need to think about your date,” she goes on. Before I even reply she holds up a hand and says, “I know, I know. The Grammys aren’t until February, but the paparazzi have snagged some good pot-stirring shots of you and Adam, and I think it’s something you need to consider. Do you want to come out publicly as a couple? Are you ready for that?”

  I look over at my mom, who raises her shoulders and shakes her head. Clearly this is a personal decision, and I don’t get to make many of those, so I ask Anita if I can think about it.

  “Please do,” she says. “And ask Adam what he thinks. I’m sure his publicist will have some thoughts as well, but if it were me running this show, I think attending the Grammys together on Valentine’s weekend would be the perfect way to let the world know that you’re walking the red carpet with your special someone.”

  “Oh my gosh,” I breathe.

  I look at my mom, and she smiles. “It does seem kind of perfect, like your Cinderella moment.”

  “You’d think I’d have reached my life’s quota on those,” I say.

  Mom reaches over and squeezes my hand. “It also gives you a couple more months to keep things to yourselves, which I know has been important to you.”

  I consider it as our plane taxis to the gate, picturing the whole thing. It really does seem perfect, and it would be amazing to take Adam to his first Grammys. I can just see his expression as he sits in an arena full of music icons and legends. And if I win one, he would be the first person I’d want to share it with anyway.

  “I like it,” I tell Anita as Troy unbuckles his seat belt and stands up. “We’ve got to go, but I’ll talk to Adam and let you know.”

  I can’t imagine that he would turn down the chance to go to the Grammys, but I don’t know how he feels about taking our relationship public. After this conversation with my team, I really do feel like a fairy-tale princess on her way to a ball. Now to snag my prince…

  “How is this happening right now?” Adam asks as he takes another shot from the free-throw line at the Smoothie King Center in New Orleans.

  I rebound for him, bouncing the ball back his way. I’m just relieved to see him in a good mood. When we landed in Duluth, I was all set to tell Adam about Anita’s plan. I figured he wouldn’t need much convincing, but I had my whole spiel ready about how important he is to me and how I’m ready to take things to the next level, aka let the public know about us. I ran right over to his bus when we got back, but when his drummer opened the door for me, I immediately felt the tension. His band was fighting. One guy was threatening to quit the tour, and Adam looked completely helpless. Probably not the best time to talk about “us.”

  “I’ll come back,” I told him.

  But it seems like our schedules haven’t been lining up at all lately, with me flying off for press appearances about the Grammy nominations and him ducking out for local interviews or to record here and there. His label really wants to take advantage of the momentum he’s gaining by being on my tour, so they’ve booked him in studios at a few stops so he can record on his days off or in his early-morning free time. It doesn’t seem like the best idea to me, but Adam’s still in that hungry stage. He wants so desperately to be successful.

  I want that for him, too.

  But still, I miss him.

  We play here tomorrow night, and since we’re both off today I asked Marco to pull some strings to get us court access. Adam and I have floor seats tonight for the Pelicans game, and we get to meet the team afterward, but right now, we’re shooting hoops on the regulation floor. We only have about twenty minutes, but it’s been enough to send him over the moon… and to put me at the top of the list of greatest girlfriends of all time.

  “I just sank an NBA three-pointer on an actual NBA court!” he calls, his hands in the air. “Somebody pinch me.”

  “I think it’s safe to say that this is what heaven looks like for guys,” I remark.

  “I think you’re right,” he replies with a silly grin. He grabs the ball and runs toward the basket, laying it in effortlessly. “Want to play around the world?”

  I rebound and put the ball on my hip. “Sounds like the perfect game for a couple on tour,” I say. “How do you play?”

  He takes the ball from me and banks in a shot from the hash mark under the goal. “Usually you play around the three-point line, but we can play around the paint so it’s a little easier, okay? We’ll shoot from each of these little lines.”

  I look up at the basket. “Okay.”

  He steps to the line next to me and sinks that shot, too. I rebound, bounce passing the ball to him, and he moves to the next spot. “You’re good,” I say when I watch him make yet another basket.

  “You sound surprised,” he says, mock hurt.

  “No, I just—I’m not a very good athlete.”

  He finally misses and chases down his own rebound.

  “Yeah, but you’re tall,” he says. “Look how close your first shot is.”

  I stand on the white box to the right of the basket, and when I miss, he gives me another chance. When I miss that one, he walks around and helps me with my form. When I miss that one, he laughs and gives up, dribbling the ball back to his spot. Soon we fall into a fun groove: him making shots and moving easily around the world and me staying put at the first position while he laughs harder at my every attempt.

  “Bank it, Bird,” he finally says, grinning as he shows me how to bounce it off the box on the glass.

  I throw another miserable attempt, and he nearly cries from laughing so hard. “You may break a world record soon,” he chokes out. “Good thing you don’t play for the Pelicans.”

  I laugh, too, and even if the jokes are on me, it’s nice having Adam to myself again. He is now on his way back to the start, getting closer to where I’ve stayed put, when he looks at me with wonder and says, “You know, it’s crazy enough playing this arena the way we do, but can you imagine what it’s like for these guys? At least we’re up on a stage. They’re right in the belly of the beast, in a fishbowl, living and dying with each free throw.” As he says that, he misses his. “And the opposing team cheers.”

  “Hooray!” I tease as I grab the ball. “Okay,” I say, focusing on the rim. “This is my moment.”

  He stands right in front of me. “Take your shot, Bird.”

  “You’re standing too close,” I complain. “I’m afraid I’m going to hit you.”

  Adam moves behind me, and whispers in my ear, “Is this better?”

  “No!” I squeal, pushing him back. I take my shot and miss, then rush him. “Cheater!”

  “Oh yeah, like you would’ve made it if it weren’t for me.” He laughs and when I catch up to him, he throws both arms around me. “You know, it’s been too long since I kissed you.”

  He does, briefly, and I notice that we both glance around to see if anyone is watching. I know what he means about those guys in a fishbowl.

  “Adam?” I ask, attempting nonchalance as he loosens his hold on me. “Have you given any thought to all the tabloid speculation and stuff about us?”

  He shrugs. “Not really. They ask me about you in interviews and stuff, but I tell them you’re an important person in my life and personal stuff is off-limits. I just say I’d rather talk about music.”

  I nod, following him as he goes for the ball. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I’ve been doing, too.”

  He makes another shot and asks, “Is everything okay? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No!” I say quickly. “No, no, no. Nothing like that.”

  “But something’s on your mind,” he says. An employee approaches us and lets us know that our time on the court is up. We give the ball back and thank him profusely, then leisurely walk toward the exit, neither of us saying anything.

  Finally, I start up again. “It’s just that I was thinking about the Grammys.”

  “Oh!” he says, looking
over at me with fake surprise. “Are you going to that?”

  I laugh and swat his arm.

  “Bird, I know all that stuff is pretty carefully orchestrated. You don’t have to worry about me. My feelings won’t be hurt if I’m not your date.”

  “What?”

  “Who’s the lucky guy?” he asks. “Your brothers said they had a great time last year, but I know you’ve been missing your dad a lot, too.”

  “Well,” I say, stopping in the tunnel, “Anita thinks I should take you.”

  He looks stunned. “Really?”

  I nod.

  He cocks his head, looking at me like there’s a catch. “So Anita wants me to go, or you want me to go?”

  “I’d love it if you went with me,” I reply honestly. “I just want you to know that it’d be more than a regular date.” I gulp. “The show’s on Valentine’s weekend this year. We’d be coming out, like, publicly. As a couple.”

  “Wait a minute,” Adam says, a huge smile across his face. “So somebody’s going to pay for me go on a romantic Valentine’s Day date in Los Angeles, where I’ll get to meet all my music heroes and cheer on my smoking-hot girlfriend?”

  I grin and nod.

  He walks toward me and kisses me, leading us backward until I’m leaning against the wall of the tunnel with his hands on either side of my head. When he pulls away, his eyes are twinkling. “Yeah, I think I’m in.”

  I beam at him.

  “But full disclosure?” he says, trailing little kisses around my ear. “I’m irresistible in a tuxedo.”

  I clutch his shirt, bringing his mouth to mine again.

  I don’t doubt it.

  27

  “HEY,” I SAY a week later, opening the front door of my Nashville house for my clearly exhausted boyfriend. “It’s almost midnight. I was worried.”

  “Sorry,” Adam says as he comes inside. He kicks his boots off and gives me a peck on the cheek before walking to the living room and crashing on the couch.

  I can’t read his mood, but I remember how hard I worked when we recorded Wildflower. Every phrase, every instrument, every lyric and the accompanying tone had to be perfect. It was torture, but then when a song was finished, it all felt worth it. I hope he’s happy with what he’s recording, but he hasn’t wanted to talk about work after work. I sit down on the tiny bit of couch his body isn’t occupying; he’s sprawled out on his belly like a dead man. I run my fingers over his forehead and around his neck, gently, knowing how tired he must be. He puts his hands around my hips and pulls himself onto my lap, his eyes still closed as I play with his hair.

  “We missed you at the movies tonight,” I say softly. “I was a total third wheel with Stylan. Not even Zac Efron shirtless could make up for your absence.”

  “The High School Musical kid?” Adam asks, opening one eye.

  “He’s, like, almost thirty now,” I say, flicking him in the head.

  “Should I be jealous?” he asks with a lazy grin.

  “Of his poster maybe,” I say. “If you keep up these crazy hours, I’m going to need a stand-in.”

  He closes his eyes again and squeezes my waist. “They wanted to finish ‘Let Her Preach’ since we’re off tomorrow and Friday for Christmas,” he mumbles.

  “Are you still coming over for the Second Annual Barrett Family Christmas Bash tomorrow night?”

  He yawns so big and loud that it’s almost laughable. “Definitely,” he finally says.

  I don’t pester him anymore, knowing how important it is that he rests. Instead I play with his hair and watch the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle red, green, blue, and white. I left my phone on the kitchen counter, so I slip his out of his back pocket to put on some music. He doesn’t even move, already knocked out on my lap, and when I slide my thumb across the screen to unlock his phone, I accidentally pull up a text message he hasn’t checked. It’s from his mom:

  I didn’t realize a hundred bucks for a Christmas tree was asking so much. You’re rich and famous now but can’t help out your own mother?

  Instantly I know I wasn’t supposed to see this. I know I should push the HOME button and pull up his Music app like I had originally planned, but it already shows that it’s a read message, so that’s not what I do. Instead, I read more. Even though it’s a pretty big violation of his privacy, I tell myself that Adam and I don’t have secrets, or at least I don’t. I glance down at his peaceful face to make sure he’s still sleeping and then slowly scroll through their text thread, sickened by the things I read. Some messages are full of typos and mean rants where she’s clearly intoxicated, some are little updates about him paying her phone bill or rent, but others are just pitiful, begging him to come home more often or call her once in a while. I feel like I’m in the head of a crazy person. His replies are always short and noncommittal, but I don’t know how he stays so grounded while being pulled in so many different directions without any support at home. I suddenly feel protective of Adam, suddenly knowing with all my heart exactly how I feel about him.

  “I love you, Adam Dean,” I whisper. I bend over and kiss the top of his head, tears filling my eyes. “I love you now, and I always will.”

  “So you told him you love him?” Stella asks the day after Christmas. She came over on Christmas Eve, but so did half my extended family, including our boyfriends, so we didn’t have time for intense girl talk. I texted her today that I wanted to hang out, just the two of us, and she suggested we go shopping. Why we thought the mall the day after Christmas was a good idea is beyond me, but I’m in disguise and I have security with me, so I’m hoping all goes well.

  “Yeah, but he was asleep,” I say.

  “And you didn’t tell him again?” Stella asks, confused. “Like, you know, when he was conscious?”

  I shake my head. “I think I’m going to wait.” I don’t want to break his confidence by going too deep into the details about his home life, but I try to explain to my best friend how I’m feeling anyway. “It’s like with Adam, he has this wall up. He didn’t have the greatest childhood, and he protects himself by being this easygoing, fun-loving guy that everyone likes to be around. I feel like he probably doesn’t want to get hurt, so he doesn’t invest in many real relationships. Even you’ve said how our relationship has moved at a snail’s pace—”

  “So slow,” she cuts in. “I don’t see how you do it.”

  I ignore her tone, sidestep a distracted shopper, and go on. “And now that he’s opening up to me, I don’t want to scare him off.”

  “I see that, I guess,” she says, looking at a cute phone case at a mall kiosk. “But maybe he’s scared to say it first because you’re a bigger star than he is and he doesn’t want to look like an opportunist.”

  “Stella,” I say. “Come on.”

  “What?” she asks, walking with me again. “Men can be intimidated by powerful women. I think he’s just trying to show you that he’s in it for you, not for your connections.”

  “Well, I already know that!”

  “Yeah, but guys are dumb,” she says, shaking her head and pinching her mouth up. “So dumb. So, so, so, so, so, so very dumb.”

  Clearly we aren’t talking about Adam anymore.

  “What’d he do?” I ask reluctantly. Then I add, “Broad strokes.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I know, I know. Boundaries.”

  I sigh. “Stella, I want to be there for you, but it’s hard when the dumb guy is my brother.”

  “Look at this,” she says, pulling me over to a bench. “This is what Dylan got me for Christmas. This.” She pulls a gray hoodie out of the shopping bag she’s holding. It says, Don’t follow me, I’m lost.

  I smile. “That’s so you.”

  Stella’s mouth falls open. “Are you serious right now?”

  Immediately I realize I’ve reacted in the wrong way. I try to backtrack. “No, not like ‘That’s so you,’ because I know you don’t really wear that type of clothing—”

  “Bird,” she int
errupts. “It’s a lace-up hooded tunic made out of sweatshirt material.”

  I think it looks comfy, but I know it’s not her style. I screw my face up and hope it’s the reaction she wants.

  She blows air through her bangs and shakes her head. “I’m bummed because I spent a lot of time thinking about what to get him. I found a local artist to turn a selfie from the night of our first kiss into this gorgeous oil painting,” she explains. “It was really special and thoughtful, and then he gets me this sweatshop piece of crap that he probably waited until a couple of days ago to get because he forgot.”

  I nod along, trying to stay neutral, but I know Dylan, and in his mind stores like Aeropostale, Abercrombie & Fitch, and Hollister are high-end. “Right, so you don’t wear a lot of sweats—”

  “Any.”

  “—and I can see where the lace-up sides are a little much—”

  “A corset on a sweatshirt? That should be illegal!”

  “—but I can also see how, for Dylan, it was a sweet gesture.” I can’t help but defend my brother a little.

  Stella looks at me like I’ve personally betrayed her. “Never mind. Let’s get a pretzel.”

  She stands up and starts walking away so that I have to chase after her. “Stella, seriously,” I say. “Dylan loves that store, and I know he didn’t wait until the last minute because I saw my mom wrapping it for him over Thanksgiving break. And it actually is thoughtful, because on tour it’s like, Stella, seriously, you know you never know where we are. And you are a terrible navigator. Remember when we drove around Seattle trying to get to the Space Needle, which was so big that we were all like, ‘It’s right there!’ but Google Maps kept telling you to circle the block and we wasted, like, twenty minutes driving around it?” She breaks a little, softening. “See? It brought back that good memory for me, so I can see where he’s coming from. It’s funny. I know it’s not romantic or sentimental, but to be honest, you’re not exactly dating a romantic or sentimental guy.”