A Crazy Kind of Love

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  I’d never paid much attention to Eden’s music. Zion had filled me in on her background on our way over. She’d reputedly used nepotism to break into the music business. Twice actually—through her brother, Micah, and her boyfriend, Adam. She’d met Adam a few years ago through Micah when their bands toured together. A year later, she had a song that played occasionally on the radio. It would probably get more airplay if people respected her as a musician who’d paid her dues. Or if people came out to hear her play live. I liked what she performed tonight better than that song on the radio last year.

  Eden strummed a chord one note at a time and said, “Thank you,” to the applause. When she announced she’d be playing one last song, I followed Micah’s advice and moved over to the side of the stage. As she bantered, I climbed partway up the steps so I could get a close shot of Eden from the side with the faces of her audience beyond. I peered through the lens and zoomed in on Zion with his phone in one hand. I lifted my head from my camera to check the rest of the audience. A dozen smartphones were positioned in the air, snapping a picture or capturing video. I reassessed the value of selling any pictures taken during a show.

  The lighting from that angle fell differently and shrouded the audience beyond in a pale gray mystery. In that shadow, Zion caught my eye again, and I noticed him turning his phone at an angle away from Eden. I realized at once that he was taking secret selfies with Adrianna and rolled my eyes at his audacity. I casually let my gaze drift to the spot where Micah’d been sitting. I’d been trying so hard not to obviously stare at him that I hadn’t noticed he was gone.

  Had he left already? Would he leave after asking me to go out after the show? Had he taken my response as a no? My stomach clenched. His offer might have just been polite. But why would he walk out on Eden’s performance?

  With that thought, I felt pressure on my right side. I turned and found Micah standing behind me on the stairs with his hand on my waist. A chill ran down the length of my body, and I leaned into him. He breathed in my hair as he rested his chin on my head. His arm slid around to the front of me and tightened. Without thinking, I twined my fingers in his, and his other hand wrapped around and pulled me in closer. A thrill forced my shoulders into a shrug and my head fell to the side, eyes closed. I felt his cheek brush mine. Or it might have been his lips.

  I wanted nothing more than to melt into him, but at that precise moment, Eden said, “If you’d all welcome my brother Micah up—” and she turned to look at the side of the stage, where I stood encircled in his arms.

  Micah chuckled and whispered into my ear, “Stay here.” Then he bounded onto the stage.

  My heart raced, and small drops of perspiration began to form across my forehead. I caught Zion out in the audience flashing me a huge grin. He shot a thumbs-up at me, but I wanted the floor to swallow me. I couldn’t believe I’d thought Micah had been standing there for me, but he’d evidently put his hand on me to nudge me out of his way so he could perform. He could turn into a flirt on a dime. I made a mental note to watch out for him and not to imagine him as a romantic prospect. It would be insanity to start thinking of him like that.

  Though it would be fun to think of him like that.

  He put his guitar strap over his shoulder and stood to Eden’s side, strumming his guitar, singing into the mic, harmonizing with his sister. Their voices fit together beautifully. Micah’s fingers flew across the strings, and Eden played something that looked incredibly intricate. Together their guitars sounded like something out of some seventeenth-century baroque period. Utterly gorgeous.

  I remembered my camera and focused in on the two of them. I could get them both in profile if I leaned a little bit forward. I put my knee on the stage and shot. Then I stopped and gazed through my camera lens. This was the most openly I’d been able to sit and stare at Micah.

  The women in the front row weren’t as shy about it, and those that weren’t training their phone cameras on him were either gawking at him or whispering with their friends and sighing, hands clenched over their hearts. I wouldn’t want to have to compete with all the women in this room. If I wanted a chance with Micah Sinclair, I’d obviously have to get in line.

  Finally, they finished their song and took a bow. As they came down the stairs, Micah touched my elbow. I turned with him and headed down, but Eden grabbed my arm. “Come with me real quick. I’ve only got a few minutes.”

  The loud applause grew muffled as I ducked down a hallway and into a small side room. I assumed this was where the musicians went to hide before the show. A nice leather sofa overwhelmed one wall, and plates of half-eaten food balanced on a coffee table.

  Eden dropped onto the sofa, and I joined her. “Thanks for coming out tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t find you before the show. Were you able to get any pictures?”

  I pulled out my camera and flipped through the images quickly. “I like these the most.” I showed her the ones from the side of the stage.

  “Great.” She scratched something onto a notepad and tore off the paper. “Here’s the email address of my webmaster. Can you send us both whichever pictures turn out the best?” She reached into a backpack and got out her wallet. “What did we agree to?”

  I folded up the note, feeling incredibly uncomfortable suddenly. “Could I ask you a favor instead?”

  She shrugged. “What sort of favor?”

  “Instead of paying me, would you mind if I keep any pictures you don’t use for my own portfolio if I promise not to sell them to the tabloids?”

  “What portfolio?”

  “I don’t always intend to make money spying on celebrities. The pictures you liked last night, the interesting pictures . . . I can’t keep those unless my boss releases them to me because I was on the job. Tonight is my own time, my own camera.”

  She thought for a minute. “Will you put these up in some kind of photo display at some time? Like a gallery?”

  I nodded. “I might. I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “I did like those pictures you took. And I’d love to see what you’d come up with. I’ll make a deal with you if you promise not to use anything without getting written consent first. Would you agree to that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The applause in the front of the house had picked up into a near rhythmic stomping. Eden paused a moment longer. “I’ll still pay you for whichever pictures I end up keeping. Okay?”

  “Deal.”

  She jumped up. “Thanks again for coming tonight. I hope to see you again. You’ve got my email, so let me know how it goes with the photos.”

  And she flew out the door. By the time I left the room, she was already performing an encore song. I squeezed around to my chair and scooted over next to Zion. Adrianna and Micah had left. I knocked Zion with my shoulder, and he leaned into me. All around us, people were singing along with Eden’s song, but I’d never heard it before. I wanted to leave now, but it would’ve been rude, so I sat and waited for Eden to sing another song and say good night.

  The lights came up, and Zion immediately asked, “Have you eaten anything?”

  I found my carrots again and took a bite out of one. “Okay?”

  “So? What now?”

  “Micah said something about meeting him out front. Do you want to see if he’s there? I don’t have any idea where they were planning to go.”

  “You sure you’re up for it?”

  It was a valid question. I knew he meant because of the night before. But I processed it a little differently. Was I up for tagging along with Micah Sinclair who seemed up for anything? Had he only asked me along to get some favorable press photos? Would any of that be so bad?

  “It beats going home and turning in. Let’s go check it out.” I grabbed my pocketbook and pushed through the people crowding around the alcove with the merchandise table. I expected to see Eden back there, signing her CDs, but the line abruptly ended at the girl I’d seen there earlier. I guessed people were waiting until Eden came out to gr
eet them. I wondered if Micah had gone backstage, too.

  Zion’s thoughts must have followed my own. He muttered, “I hope we don’t have to wait for him out front for an hour.”

  Then I saw Micah’s hair through the blank spaces in the window that the posters didn’t cover. His back faced the window. My face brightened of its own accord. I didn’t expect to feel so . . . what? relieved? . . . to see him out front. I grabbed Zion’s hand. “Are we going to do this?”

  “Why not?”

  He swung the door wide open, and I saw Micah talking to someone I’d seen before. Someone holding a camera in one hand, resting it on his shoulder for a moment. I placed him all at once. Wally, the guy I’d seen the night before. Possibly the same guy who’d published pictures of me with Micah.

  Micah was engaged in conversation with Wally, but when I stepped out on the sidewalk, his eyes turned my way, and a smile broke out across his face. Just like that, my heart slammed in my chest. He lifted his hand up toward me, reaching out to pull me into him if I’d let him.

  Everything started running in parallel time. My pulse raced like I’d pressed Fast Forward, like I’d inhaled a pound of sugar. But Wally moved on another time line, in slow motion. First, his eyes lifted and met mine. His eyebrows followed the upward trajectory as recognition registered. Then, his head swung toward Micah. Then back to me. When his gaze dropped down to Micah’s rising arm, his mouth formed a tight O.

  And then he reached for his camera.

  Time clicked into place. I grabbed Zion’s arm and pressed him to keep moving down the sidewalk. I skirted behind Micah, throwing one glance at the confused paparazzo. His wrist went limp, and the camera didn’t pursue us. Zion’s mind must have caught up with his body because he resisted me slightly.

  I tugged him. “Keep walking.”

  At the first opportunity, I turned the corner and abruptly stopped.

  Zion pivoted so his whole body turned in a wide circle back toward me. “What are you doing, Josie?”

  “I can’t go back there.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “I just can’t. Andy will kill me if I get caught in the news again with Micah with nothing to report.”

  “You’re on your own time, Josie.”

  “Zion, you don’t understand. He told me I have to choose between work and play. What if he fires me?”

  Zion’s eye roll was a study in dramatics. “He’s not going to fire you. But if you wanna be a big baby, we can wait till that guy leaves and then go back.” He peeked around the corner.

  “What if he doesn’t? Or what if Micah comes over here looking for us? How lame would it be to tell him I’m hiding from the paparazzi?”

  Zion just laughed. “I’m guessing you didn’t foresee this problem at the beginning of the week.”

  I leaned against the wall. “I’ve never known Andy to be so weirdly overinvested in any other celebrities. I don’t get why he even cares about Micah that much.”

  “Probably because his sister and Adam like to fuck with him.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Like how Adam and Adrianna somehow had the entire tabloid industry chasing after an engagement that turned out to be completely fictional.”

  “I think I remember that.” I’d been aware of the tabloids from glancing at them in the Publix while waiting to check out. But at that time, I’d been using my useless degree in fine arts to cover the local interest stories for an Atlanta newspaper. If a soldier returned from Afghanistan, I’d be at the airport snapping pictures of his tender embrace with his wife. I’d jumped at the chance to come work with Zion in New York City without questioning what I’d be doing.

  I readjusted my camera strap. “I didn’t know they hadn’t been engaged. I figured they broke up.”

  “You need to go and read the articles about Adam and Eden back then. Back when Andy made Eden look like the worst gold-digging home wrecker, before Adrianna put out a press release denying the engagement. Ever since then, Eden and Andy have had a kind of low-level vendetta. Although, for the past several months, she’s been off his radar.”

  I thought about Eden’s pregnancy. Had she shown me something on purpose so I’d feed it to Andy? Was I a pawn in her game? “Lord, I’m naïve, huh?”

  “Naw. You’re normal. This world makes people crazy.”

  I laughed and relaxed. And that’s when Micah rounded the corner and stopped cold. He looked from me to Zion. “Oh.” It was the first time he’d ever met me without a smile on his face. “I assumed you’d left.”

  “No, I—” I what? I can’t ever be seen with you? You who have never seen a camera you didn’t pose for? My feet shuffled.

  He lifted his hand and rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah, okay. Well, I’m heading off.” He put a hand out to Zion. “It was good to meet you.”

  Zion shook and said, “Yeah, you, too,” but he stared at me. The whites of his eyes practically glowed from bulging out of their sockets. If I could read his mind, it would’ve said, “Ask him to tag along.” But I couldn’t do that.

  Micah’s hand stretched out to me again, but unlike the last time when he’d so casually raised it in expectation, this time it was a formal gesture. I took his hand in mine and gripped tight. I gazed into his blue eyes, wondering if I could pull him toward me and steal that second kiss. My mouth twisted into a frown, wishing I could find the words to say. I got out, “I’m sorry for—” right as Micah spoke.

  “It was good to see you again, Jo Jo.” He gave my arm one good businesslike shake before he walked away from me, down the sidewalk and out of reach.

  “I expect that’s the last I’ll ever see of him.” My voice cracked, and Zion put his arm around me.

  “Not so fast, my friend. While you were talking to Eden, I got us these.” He slipped a pair of tickets out of his back pocket.

  I snatched them from him and read the print. “Theater of the Absurd at the Dobbler Theater? You got tickets to see Micah’s band?”

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Yup. He said he’d intended to give them to you earlier.” He nudged me. “He said he hoped he’d run into you again.”

  Hope and disappointment vied for supremacy. “That was sweet of him, but what do you think it means?”

  “I think it means you’re going to have to tell Andy to back off.”

  I stared at the tickets, processing the competing emotions. For the second night in a row, Micah must have thought I’d blown him off fairly blatantly. He’d apparently recovered from the rejection of the night before. He couldn’t have failed to read my reaction to him when he kissed me. Would he forgive a second cold shoulder? Or was I reading too much into what he’d said to Zion? There could be more than one explanation for wanting to invite me to his concert. More than one reason he’d want to run into me again.

  And I hadn’t even processed what I thought about Micah Sinclair. It would probably be better to let him slip away before I felt anything for him.

  “I’m not going to need to tell Andy anything, Zion. There’s nothing to tell.”

  Chapter 10

  Sometime during the weekend, Andy had sorted and archived the pictures from Friday night’s party without posting any of them online on the newspaper website. In case they might become useful in the future, he left me the daunting task of tagging them. I scrolled through the images, wishing I could steal them back. Some of them would have made great additions to my portfolio, and Andy wouldn’t use them anyway. The pics of Victoria Sedgwick were beautifully tragic but worthless to anyone trying to make a buck off her name. I jotted down the image numbers in case I caught him in a good mood. Maybe he’d let me have them.

  Kristin and Jennifer argued loudly over who had aged better: Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp. Leonard threw out anecdotes about stalking each of them, saying Brad was nicer to him, slightly. The chatter became a kind of background noise I heard but wasn’t listening to.

  When Derek sidled up beside me, I jumped at the sound of his voice close
to my ear. “So, you’re Indian?”

  I glanced at him but then went back to scrolling through photos. “My dad is. I’m actually American.”

  He leaned an elbow on my workstation and openly scrutinized me. “ ’Cause you don’t really look Indian. I mean, I always figured you just tanned easily.”

  Did he think he was complimenting me? I turned an arched eyebrow at him to let him see that I didn’t really care for the direction this conversation was taking. It opened up way more worm cans than Derek could ever imagine because I did look Indian—just not enough.

  I inherited my spiral locks and sepia-toned skin from my dad, but the ash brown hair from my American-as-apple-pie mom separated me from an entire subcontinent. My hybrid coloring was only the most obvious indication that I never quite fit in.

  It was the great curse of my existence that I was never enough. Not Indian enough. Not American enough. Not artistic enough. Not tabloid enough. Not healthy enough. Never enough.

  This became apparent the summer my dad took me to India. One afternoon, after we’d been there for almost a week, my dad and grandfather argued. My dad, who rarely raised his voice to me, spoke so loud, I heard him from outside the house where I leaned against a banyan tree eating the coconut sukhiyan Acha-ma had cooked for me.

  The words “ava malayi alla” carried out the open front door, followed by my livid father, who gave me one look and told me to go pack my bags.

  I repeated the phrase: “ava malayi alla”—she is not Malayali. I didn’t know if my grandfather was talking about me or my mom. In any case, we left the house in a taxi, my dad talking to my mom about how his father could not decide his life. But when we got home, he and Mom argued, and he began to travel more often. And then he stopped coming home.

  The kicker was that I’d always expected my Indian family to accept me since my mom’s mom had apparently taken one look at me and decided I was too Indian.