Dude, please. If he read my book, he knows damn well I don’t have a husband anymore.
“I think you know the answer to that.”
“Right. Good. One ticket. Watch for it.”
One ticket. Niles Russell wants me to watch for one ticket. To his show. Where I’ll see him. And touch him. And—ermergerd!—meet him. How is this even happening?
I know I’m pushing it, but dammit I’m on a roll, so I gather up my big-girl bloomers and ask the one big question that’s been on my mind since the minute he texted.
“So, how did you get my number, Niles? And why?”
“My people called your people, LOL. We had to jump a few hoops, but we got ahold of your agent who had a pretty good feeling you wouldn’t mind hearing from me.” Winky face.
“She was right. Really, really right.” I make a mental note to call Lucy first thing in the morning. She was already my hero to begin with, but now I might have to propose marriage or buy her a house or something as a thank-you for this one. Seriously. I really might.
“What you did was cool. Freaky and trippy, like I said. But cool. So thanks.” Blushing smiley. “See you at the show Friday. Later.”
I set my phone face down on my leg, my mind trying so hard to process this whole thing. But it can’t. I can’t even breathe, let alone understand what just happened.
My phone dings again, and since I’m sure it’s Sara and she is going to die when she hears this (after I actually get her to believe me, of course), I flip that puppy over and get my typing thumbs ready.
Except it’s not Sara. It’s yet another selfie of Niles. This time, he’s holding my book in his left hand while giving a thumbs-up. His hair is flopped over his left eye, his right eye is clear and twinkly, and I see just enough of his shirt and jacket to know exactly what he’s wearing to the concert tonight. He is so sexy, I die on the spot.
What. In the hell. Am I getting myself into?
CHAPTER THREE
Let’s Make a Deal
As predicted, Sara doesn’t believe me when I call to share my news. Even after I send her Niles’s first two selfies, which, she claims, I lifted off the Internet. Nope, instead of freaking out with me like I hoped she would, she insists I am finally off my rocker and that my obsession with Niles has morphed from “healthy outlet” to “next stop: Psychoville.”
“Okay then, watch this.” I send her the last thing in my arsenal: the picture of Niles with my book. If this doesn’t work, nothing will.
I wait a moment then hear her squeal. Bingo!
“Kallie, where did you get that?! That’s incredible. Is that really him? With your book?”
“Told ya.”
I have a totally captive audience for the next hour as Sara hangs on my every word. I recap our whole texting conversation, and the fact that I’d already heard from him again this evening. He wondered what side of the stage I prefer and if I could text him my email address so his people could send the ticket. I told him I didn’t care where I sat, that every spot within ten yards of him was perfect. (I nearly puked in my own mouth after I sent that one.)
For sure, I am bordering on crazy. He’s just being nice. He wants to know where I want to sit to increase his chances of finding me in the crowd. He’s trying to act like he cares about my silly book, but no doubt this is something his PR people think is necessary since I devoted an entire tome to him. Not that most people would know it’s about him. But still. I need to talk to Lucy to see what she knows about all this.
Of course, I don’t sleep a single second all night. Not one. Thoughts of our conversation, thoughts of meeting him, thoughts that both his email address and cell phone number are now permanent residents in my electronic devices—seriously, I can’t even handle myself! This is so beyond real, I swear I must’ve dropped dead at some point without knowing it and this is my little sampling of heaven.
Finally, finally, after a night of everything but rest, it’s morning. And the second nine o’clock hits, I’m on the horn with Lucy.
“So, uh, I got a text from someone kind of interesting last night,” I tease after an as-professional-as-I-can-manage hello.
“You did?” She knows exactly who I mean. It’s written all over her voice.
“Any idea who?”
“Oh my gosh, Kallie! He really texted you?” It’s hard not to notice that her voice registers even higher on the squee-meter than Sara’s did. I love it! (Lucy’s a huge fan of Niles now, too, thanks to my excellent sales skills—as in, every conversation we have, I sneak something in about Niles or the band). When pressed, she assures me that if this is a PR ploy, she’s not aware of it. And she can usually smell stuff like that from a mile away.
“I promise. I have never talked to his people before. This came out of nowhere. I thought it was a joke, but then they put him on the line and his voice is, well, pretty recognizable. Under most—well, pretty much all—circumstances, I’d never give out a client’s info. But in this case, I kind of thought you wouldn’t mind.”
What would ever give her that idea?
Now, please excuse me while I go pass out.
***
For being so busy and having a “shit” memory, Niles seems to have figured out the art of keeping in touch. He’s currently blowing up my phone, telling me that they always have food after the concert. Mostly junk food, since he likes to binge after burning off somewhere close to a bazillion calories during his shows.
I’ve always marveled at his energy level. He’s not a stand-there-and-belt-it-out kind of guy. He’s everywhere. He bounces and jumps and runs and sometimes even slides. One thing he doesn’t do is dance. I hate to say it, but I don’t think he has a lick of rhythm in that super-fly body of his. But, for sure, they (whoever “they” is) should do a study on his pipes. Even after all that gallivanting on stage—and the fact that he just quit smoking after a fifteen-year habit—he somehow has the lung capacity to carry a note for ages. It’s pretty incredible.
He asks me if I want something special after the show. Any type of drink or salad or smoothie or whatever. He tells me he likes to down some Scotch on the rocks before his concerts (I already know this), but usually sticks to beer after. I say beer is just fine, and no food is necessary. He tells me there will be jalapeño poppers, since those are his favorite, and I promise to eat a few with him. This must make him happy because he responds with a series of seven smiley emoticons.
Who knew rock stars had such a penchant for emoticons?
But let’s get serious for a minute here: the idea of sipping beers and eating poppers with my rock star obsession? Yeah, I’m kind of tingling all over. And the fact that he keeps texting me? Even more tingling. True, the texts usually start out as business-type inquiries (tickets, backstage food, etc.) but in no time they develop into borderline we’ve-been-friends-for-ages chats that go on longer than they need to. Over the course of Wednesday and Thursday, we chat five more times, in between me visiting the hair salon for a highlight refresh and lounging outside to catch a tan.
I am grateful now more than ever for my flexible writer’s schedule, though the mom in me feels sad that I’m not with my girls. For years, I coveted a schedule like this so I could be home with them during the summer and on snow days, baking cupcakes and making Etsy-worthy crafts. Now that I’m finally around, they’re staying with Brad at his parents’ in North Carolina. For the whole freaking summer.
My stomach turns over as I walk past their bedroom. It’s nothing special, especially since Brad kept the house and they have to share a room here. But it’s cute, anyway. It’s a mix of princesses and ocean life, true to each girl’s personality. It’s tidy and colorful and looks like a nine- and seven-year-old girls’ room should.
Seeing it makes me miss them. A lot.
I think about our lives now, and yes, it’s different and hard sometimes, but I know I didn’t make a mistake. Since Brad and I split, the girls and I have gotten along so well. I’m happy now, joyful and (pretty m
uch) carefree. We take off and shop until someone has a meltdown, sometimes never buying a thing, but always enjoying each other’s company (until said meltdown occurs). We eat ice cream for dinner, then make up for it the next day with vegetable omelets and whole grain toast with organic honey. They giggle nonstop and I do, too. We paint each other’s toenails and comb each other’s hair. When Brad and I were married, it was one strained Family Movie Night per week and the rest of the time we spent avoiding each other. It was no way to live and I think the girls can see that now.
I flop on my couch and reach for my laptop. I really need to send Lucy the first three chapters of my next book—the highly anticipated sequel to Emily and Nash’s story—but my mind is a little, um, preoccupied. I check my phone, hoping for a text from Niles, but there isn’t anything other than a missed call from my dentist, confirming my cleaning appointment for Monday.
I lift the lid on my laptop and am immediately lured in by the number on my inbox. I dig right in and see not one, not two, but three emails from Niles and his “people.” The ones from his people are confirmations of my front row ticket and backstage pass. I am allowed to bring a camera, but no backpacks or anything else aside from “my person.” Sure, fine, that I can do.
The one from Niles starts out innocently enough but gets personal in a hurry. He tells me he’s excited to see me and that every time he starts envisioning what I look like, he pushes it out of his head because he doesn’t want any preconceived ideas.
For real? That’s kind of adorable.
As I think about how to respond to his email, a text from him comes in asking what I think he should wear to the show on Friday. My poor mind can’t keep up with him. He’s all over the place.
But, hey, I know what you should wear, Niles.
How about Not. A. Thing?
After my cheeks catch fire thanks to my naughty thoughts, I yank my mind back out of the gutter, pull myself together, and tell him that I love the black jacket he’s worn in the past, but I think it will be way, way, way too hot for that. As in, 90 degrees hot. He says he’ll wear it anyway and ditch it when the sweat starts pouring. I shiver. Niles Russell is wearing my favorite jacket. Because I asked him to. Wow. I couldn’t even get Brad to wear a shirt without holes in it on the rare occasions we went to the mall.
“Kallie, I just want to prepare you . . .”
Uh-oh.
“I’m not the most outgoing guy IRL. So if I’m a little awkward after the show, don’t be surprised. I figured I’d better just apologize in advance.”
Not outgoing? That makes no sense. All of our conversations, his stage presence, the zillions of interviews I’ve seen him do. If he’s not outgoing, then he’s a darn good faker.
“I hide behind my music. But you probably know something about that, don’t you?”
I let this digest a second, then shake my head as if he can see me. I have no idea where he is going with this.
“You don’t need to hide behind your words with me, Kallie. When we meet on Friday, be yourself. And I’ll be me. Let’s at least try. Deal?”
Oh. So that’s what he meant.
Okay, then.
“Deal.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Ring My Bell (Or, My Cell)
It’s finally concert day, and I’m on my way, gripping the steering wheel as if it will fly out of my hands if I dare loosen up. I hate highway driving and the venue is a good hour and a half away. Not good news for me, right?
The only thing squelching my fears is my brain’s constant replay of our last conversation. In the few days we’ve been talking, Niles has apparently gotten to know me better than I know myself. How could that be? He didn’t watch a hundred interviews of me, like I did him. He doesn’t know my friends. Or my family. Or the really real story behind my relationship with Brad. I don’t think he even knows I’m a mother. Yet, he knows how to pull me out from behind my own curtain. He knows how to get me to flirt, how to let myself be more vulnerable than ever, how to twist my guts by calling me out for something he’s guilty of as well.
Hiding.
I never thought of it that way, but that’s exactly what it is. Instead of talking through my problems with Brad, I hid from them by creating a fictional world. A world where I was in control and I called the shots. Where I could make anyone do what I wanted, when I wanted, and I could dictate every second of my own destiny.
In my book, Nash and Emily weren’t perfect, but they were close. The few hiccups they had (every book needs tension!) were solved within a chapter or three. The overarching plotline was dreaming big and being lucky enough to have those dreams come true. That was much simpler than real life and it made for a better story.
As I went to bed last night, I thought of Brad. Was it unfair of me to end our relationship without trying harder? Were we that far off? Was what we had really unsalvageable or could we have stuck it through?
I flopped around for a while, thinking I should feel sad about the empty sheets beside me. But, I don’t. I don’t miss his snoring or his grunting or the way his breath encased me as he rolled toward me while he slept. I don’t miss seeing him at breakfast or dancing around him as he fumbled in the kitchen. I don’t miss faking our good-bye peck or the emptiness of the “Love you” I’d obligatorily fire at him as he left for work each day. I don’t miss any of it. I don’t miss him at all.
He’s not a bad guy. He really isn’t. He loves our girls in a crazy way and is a really great dad. It’s just that somewhere along the way we stopped trying to impress each other, stopped having fun with each other, stopped wanting to learn more about each other. Each day was the same. We were on autopilot. There were no date nights, no weekends away, not even a quintessential princess-filled trip to goddamn Disney World with the girls. He likes predictability and I like excitement. We just weren’t a good match anymore, and carrying on as if time would fix that was just completely unrealistic.
When I woke this morning, my first thought was of Niles. He knows me. Already. Brad no longer knew me. To me, that speaks volumes.
The second I knew she’d be at her desk at work, I called Sara to share my big revelation.
“You want my two cents?” she asked after I finally shut up.
“Yeah, of course.”
“Niles is a smart guy. He’s a writer, too, so he gets it.” I nodded as a smile broke across my face. I knew she’d agree with me.
“However . . .” Uh oh. “Just because he ‘gets’ some of the stuff you’re going through doesn’t mean he knows you, Kallie. He’s still just a guy you ‘met’ a few days ago. You’ve spoken over text and email. That’s it. You haven’t even shared air with him yet. I mean, right?”
Of course she’s right.
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” she continued, “and maybe it’s possible you two will have some sort of insta-bond. But just remember, this guy’s been around. He’s a professional performer who’s met a lot of people. Maybe not one who’s written a book based on her wildest fantasies with him, but still.”
To her credit, she tried to laugh and lighten the mood, but when I wouldn’t play along, she said, “Just be careful, Kal. You’re my best girl and I don’t want to see you get hurt. Hang tight before giving your heart away again, okay? Even to a rock star.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Good. I’m done lecturing now. Have fun tonight, take a million pictures, and call me first thing in the morning.”
“Of course.”
“And Kallie?”
“Yeah?”
“If he tries to kiss you—or more—don’t let him. Not yet.”
Uh, right.
“Sure.”
“Good. Now, go get yourself together and get on the road. Your granny ass will take twice as long to drive there as a normal person.”
***
What can I say? The girl knows me. As she predicted, the hour-and-a-half drive turned into two hours and twenty minutes. But that’s fine, since I left plenty early
. Now I’m here and I’m in one piece, and holy crap, I’m about to see and meet Niles!
I clench my ticket to within an inch of its life as I trudge through the open field that serves as the parking lot to the outdoor venue. Five minutes into my walk, the sweat is already trickling down my temples and my shorts are sticking in my crotch. Thank goodness I spent so much time toning my legs this winter, though, because crotch-intrusion aside, I am rocking the hell out of these white cutoffs.
I adjust my shirt, careful to show just enough of the The Ladies to be intriguing. (That was one of our final joint investments—new boobies—but even those couldn’t save Brad and me.) I’ve played with this shirt in front of the mirror so many times today I know exactly how much to yank before I get into the danger zone. Once I’m satisfied, I smooth down my humidity-destroyed hair to the best of my abilities and take my place in line.
As I stand there, my eyes sweep across the gobs of people that I fully consider “my peeps.” I can tell instantly who the old fans are and who are new. Those with concert tees from tours past feel like long-lost relatives to me. I’d love to embrace them all, one by one, but that might be a little weird.
Then there are the girls. For certain, at least half of them crush on Niles nearly as hard as I do. Each of the main band members are cute in their own right, and each has their own following, but Niles attracts the most attention, by far. (As the lead singer often does, I suppose.)
I eye up one particularly cute blonde, feeling smug because I will be touching Niles later and she won’t. She catches me looking at her and flashes a sweet smile. I flash one back, then reach for my phone as a distraction. It takes all my restraint not to run over and show her the many lines of text chats between Niles and me. Or the selfies. He’s only sent the original three, despite my telepathic encouragement for him to send more. But it’s three more than Blonde Girl has on her phone, so I still rule the world.
As I scroll through the extended weather forecast in an effort to keep my mind busy, my phone buzzes. I nearly leap out of my skin as Niles’s name and picture overtake my screen. I stand frozen with my eyes bugging out, not knowing whether to show the universe or hide my phone for privacy. It takes me a second to realize this is not a text. He’s calling me. Like, seriously, really calling me.
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