She was singing “Crash.” Onstage. With Bran Kelly.
And he was smiling that one-sided grin at her, and even though they were in a room with thousands of people holding their cameras high, that smile was just for her. He lunged back for a quick riff on the guitar and then forward again to share the microphone with her, close enough that his most famous lock of hair brushed her forehead.
It was a dream. It had to be, she’d wake up when they finished the song, open mouths drawing out the last line—
So watch me crash.
It wasn’t until the confetti cannon blurred her vision, the crowd cheering loud enough to shake the arena’s foundation, that Nelle felt the sweat she’d earned onstage turn cold. She and Bran left the lights behind. She fumbled to unplug her guitar and ignored the people clapping Bran on the back, moving on as soon as she had freed herself. She remembered their deal: one night, and then as much distance as they could put between them. That deal, that secret—keeping it mattered, at least to her.
But he caught up with her in the hall, pulling her into an empty room.
“What the fuck was that?” She shrugged him off, and they stared at each other, breathing heavy, twin guitars slung across their backs.
“You were playing my song—I just—I wanted to sing with you.”
“That’s great, Bran. Did you forget that we’re trying not to be seen together?”
He twisted his hair up and forgot to bring it back down. “I’m sorry—I got—”
“Do you even want this to be a secret? Or are you trying to play me?”
“How can you ask me that?”
“You just made a huge scene, how can I not?”
“You were singing my song to a sea of iPhones. That isn’t a scene? That doesn’t link us?”
She gripped the strap at her chest. She couldn’t explain why she’d decided to do that. “Your concierge already told some blogger I had hot dogs delivered to my room last night, Bran.”
“But they don’t know about us—”
She laughed. “No, the spin on that one is disproving my ever-so-flattering plastic surgery rumors by implicating my binge eating as the reason my ass is so ‘thicc.’”
Bran’s jaw tensed. “Neither of us want this in the press—we’re on the same team—”
“No, we aren’t. We can’t be. Because if this gets out, you’ll be the hero who fucked a pop star, and I’ll be the slutty punchline. I’ll be the cliché.”
“That’s not fair.”
Nelle had to get out of this room before someone saw them together. It had finally hit her, how much more at stake she had than Bran. She glanced into the hallway and then back at him. Her chest heaved up and down, the guitar on her back tapped against her hamstring as she let herself sink into those clear blue eyes one last time.
She stepped backwards into the hall, shaking her head. “Of course it’s not fair—but you know how this works. And you just gave them a lead.”
The last image she’d have of him would be the rush of emotion in his eyes, the one step he took to follow her, and the way his fists clenched as he held himself back.
Bran FUCKING Kelly
Wed, Mar 21, 6:03 pm
LA?
NYC : (
Sat, Jul 14, 3:47 pm
London (praying hands emoji)
Mexico City
(Taco beer guitar)
Fri, Dec 7, 1:13 pm
Chicago?
Chicago.
[...]
Wed, Mar 21, 6:03 pm
LA?
NYC : (
Sat, Jul 14, 3:47 pm
London (praying hands emoji)
Mexico City
(Taco beer guitar)
Fri, Dec 7, 1:13 pm
Chicago?
Chicago.
Chapter Eleven
“We should have gone.” Cormac stretched his leg onto the upholstered ottoman that served as Bran’s coffee table. A U-shaped sectional fit around the tufted square, and an oversized TV loomed above them between two doorways, one leading upstairs, the other to the front hall that separated this side of the house from the kitchen.
“Where?” Arlo closed the book in his lap, one finger holding his place. “The funeral? B said no.”
“Not that. Yes, that. But not that.”
“It was small,” Bran broke in. “Just Tomi, me, a few of Gran’s friends from the block.”
“And your dad,” Arlo said. “We should have been there.”
Bran’s bandmates each took a corner of the couch while he sat between them. He imagined them at his sides at the funeral, when his dad had ripped the sunglasses from his face. Arlo’s voice would have been low and steady at his shoulder, urging him to walk away as he stood frozen, his fists deep in his pockets. And Cormac. Cormac would have reacted, as Bran never could when it came to his dad. A celebrity brawl would definitely have made the news. “You had finals. And C was working.”
“We would have come.” Arlo paused, like he was considering how to phrase his next thought. “Was he...okay?”
Bran stuffed his hands into the pockets of a zipper hoodie, merch from the band’s first tour that would do reasonably well on eBay, even if the buyer didn’t know he’d worn it. “I didn’t want a media circus. And we agreed not to be seen together.” He retrieved the coaster he’d slipped into the pocket earlier and ran his thumb along the edge. It was one of two souvenirs from Chicago, and he couldn’t very well carry the other around in his pocket.
“I’m not talking about that, anyway.” Cormac gestured to the soccer match on the screen. “We should have gone to the game. What are we doing getting up at the crack of dawn to watch it here like chumps?”
Arlo eyed the coaster in Bran’s palm. Bran shoved it back in the pocket and shrugged out of the hoodie, his back hot.
After a moment his friend’s attention shifted, answering their ex-drummer with a nod at his packed bag waiting by the den steps. “I’m flying back to Boston tonight. I couldn’t have gone.”
Bran’s leg swayed as Cormac knocked it. “What’s your excuse?”
“The album. I’m writing.”
Cormac leveled his eyes on Bran. “B.”
“What?”
“B.”
“What.”
“You are not writing. You’ve just been strumming that one lonely refrain over and over again.”
Bran’s brow furrowed. “Which one?”
Arlo’s eyes were on his book again as he said, “The one that sounds like drowning in paint.”
A laugh escaped Cormac. “Exactly. You are stuck. Inspiration has left the building. We should be in Spain—maybe a little flamenco in the sheets would—”
Bran’s arms tightened as his hands balled. Might as well tell them. They knew everything else about him. Well, almost everything. “I couldn’t have done that either.”
“Why not?”
“I’m celibate.”
“Yeah, we can celebrate in—”
“Celibate.”
He didn’t know which one of them to look at, feeling both their stares on either side of his face, so Bran kept his focus on the game. Like he hadn’t just admitted something completely absurd.
“Like a New Year’s resolution?” Arlo asked, and the echo of Nelle saying the same thing had Bran sinking lower in his seat.
He had to not think about Nelle. For one thing, Nelle-related urges were not good for celibacy. For another, his stomach did this weird backwards roll thing whenever he imagined her contacting him again. It would only be for one reason, and it was only a matter of time, before she called for the paperwork. Before she called it off.
From the couch’s corner, Cormac broadcast his incredulity. “Like. No sex? What the hell for, man?”
“I thought it would
clear my head.”
“You gave up sex because you have writer’s block? This is why we can’t be seen together.”
Arlo scratched at his beard. “I thought that was just our mutual discouragement of an overzealous media?”
Cormac shook his head. “It’s because I’m embarrassed by both of you. I can’t be associated with this kind of decision making. You’re reading during El Clasico. And this guy—it’s shameful. You know what it is? It’s bad for business. Don’t come to my restaurant. I mean it.”
Bran exchanged smirks with Arlo. When the band had broken up, they’d agreed not to make appearances together, preferring to keep their relationships private. Rumors of course kicked up in the press, but the three of them knew the truth. That feeling that Bran got whenever the press ran something dumb about his rift with Arlo, a man who slept on his couch whenever he was in town, was part of what inspired the deal he’d made with Nelle. He liked the way it felt, to hold the truth close, warm himself on it, knowing it was safe.
For a month he’d gotten to do the same with that secret night in Chicago. It had been a month since he’d jeopardized the pact that she’d call to dissolve any day now. A month since he’d been impulsive, been reckless—but she’d been playing his song. The one he wrote fueled by the strongest teenage sensations, the feelings you never get over—first love, first heartbreak. And she knew it by heart. He had heard it in her voice, in the way her fingers owned the notes, that song had meant something to her. Bran had managed to mean something to her, before he’d even known her—and what was he supposed to do with that?
He must have been thinking her name too loudly as they watched the game, because Cormac wondered aloud, “Are you just lying low because of the Nelle thing?”
Bran swallowed. “There is no Nelle thing.”
“Sure there was—you interrupted her set and she didn’t appreciate you taking the chance to shine so bright at the expense of her moment.”
“That’s not what—”
“Says a source close to the starlet,” Cormac mimicked. “Why are you letting this bother you so much? Aya can get anything—ask her for Nelle’s number. Text her. Say you didn’t mean to offend. If she knew you, she’d know the only thing you overthink is how long to fade an outro—”
“I’m not saying anything. It’s whatever. One story. That’s it.”
Bran’s pocket buzzed and he stretched his leg straight to slide his phone out.
Security Steve: You order food?
Bran typed back: probably one of the guys. It’s fine. He dropped the phone into his lap. “Can you ask next time you get food delivered to my house—I’d have gone in. I need a snack.”
Cormac had brought chicken and waffles (“the ultimate Sunday breakfast”), but they’d finished that before kickoff.
“I didn’t order anything.” Arlo directed a questioning look at Cormac. “C?”
The drummer shook his head, his eyes glued to the screen again. “I would have too though—there is nothing remotely edible in that fridge of yours. You don’t even have ice.”
“Machine’s acting weird,” Bran said defensively.
The television glowed green as the camera panned wide to follow a player breaking away from the others. He headed towards the stark white net at the opposite end of the field, and Cormac and Arlo leaned into the game.
Bran’s lap vibrated. He almost dropped the phone, seeing the contact initials in the text preview. He fumbled his thumb across the screen twice before it slid open.
Above him, the action neared goal. Casillas rushed Messi but the only star that mattered to Bran was Nelle. The shot went wide and Arlo groaned, deflating in his seat.
“Shanked it!” Cormac dropped his head back.
NK: LA?
Bran leapt to his feet, one fist held high.
Cormac looked at him sideways. “You know good guys wear stripes, right?”
“What? Oh. Yeah, of course.” Bran sat, hunching over his phone.
LA! he replied. And regretted the exclamation point immediately. What was he excited about, anyway? If she wanted to talk, it would be about divorce. He had just been surprised—that’s all his reaction was. She surprised him.
NK: Can we meet?
He sighed and wished he could pretend he hadn’t seen. But there was no point in delaying the inevitable. Sure—when?
A knock sounded at the door.
NK: Now
And Bran was moving, up and out of the den, around the corner to the hall.
She always surprised him.
Caught in momentum, it didn’t matter why she was here, he just cared that she was. He just wanted to see her. But he slowed as he approached the big grey door. Stopped to press his palm against the smooth surface. Whatever excitement he’d felt in the den condensed, heavy and cold in his chest. It was over. She was here to end it.
He took a breath and heaved the door inward.
And there was Nelle, standing next to a large SteamLine suitcase wearing a printed shirtdress and brown ankle boots. Her hair was pulled up high on her head, and she pushed tortoise-shell sunglasses into the mess, revealing the freckles across her nose and glowing amber eyes. “Hi.”
Bran had only rushed from the den, but he felt like he’d been the one dodging defenders down the field’s left flank. He gripped the door and the frame, his breathing rough and uneven. “It’s upstairs.”
“What is?”
“The—um—you know.” Bran took a breath through his nose. His knees nearly buckled as he caught the scent of her on the breeze. The soft, familiar smell of flowers. And hints of something else, something bright, something spicy. He closed his eyes to finish the sentence. “The form, the certificate. Of marriage.” When he opened them, her lips were pressed together and she was staring down the stairs at a Subaru waiting for her in the driveway. “That’s why you’re here, right?”
She swung her gaze back to him and he felt exactly how he had the last time he saw her: like the weight of her disappointment was crushing his chest.
“No. That’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why—”
The glasses tangled in her hair as she tried to put them back on. “I start tour rehearsals Tuesday morning in Washington.”
Bran barely knew how to respond—he’d gotten it wrong so many times. “How was your break? How was home?”
That seemed like a safe enough question but her eyes narrowed.
“Are you gloating?”
“What? No, I’m—I have no idea what I’m doing, honestly.”
“You didn’t see the pictures?”
“Of us?” He leaned into the jamb for support.
“No, Bran.” She huffed out a sigh. “Of me. At Mass? With my parents on Christmas Eve? The paps didn’t need to infiltrate my town, because someone I knew was happy enough to snap a pic on their phone of what was actually a sacred moment for my family.” She pulled up the photo to show him. The image was dim, a candle in her hand reflecting light in her eyes, and a wet streak on her cheek. Her parents stood next to her, her mother leaning into her father, her face buried in his shoulder, his raised up. Nelle bent her foot at the ankle. “Did you know my dad was sick?”
“I think maybe I heard something—he’s okay now?”
“He’s okay now. But he was sick last Christmas. And I was working up until the last minute, because they didn’t tell me. I found out and we thought—we thought that might have been his last one and I had missed most of it. So, this year was—this was joy that was just for us.” Her voice wavered. “Why does it have to be like this? Why aren’t there boundaries? Why isn’t family off-limits? It isn’t right. My parents are uncomfortable attending services now. That’s how my mom got through Dad’s recovery. I hate that someone took that from them, and I can’t do anything about it.”
If the door ha
d been any less sturdy, Bran’s grip could have crushed it. He understood perfectly. At the bar, he’d been drawn in realizing they spoke a language of shared experience. Now, Nelle’s fluency in it made his blood hot. Who was it? he wanted to demand. He’d make sure they didn’t do it again. But it’d be someone else next time, and the time after that. The only way to beat the house was to never start playing—and she was already mid-game, cards in hand. “I’m sorry that happened to you. People are scavengers.”
She swiped a finger under her glasses. “I’m sure they needed the money.” Of course she’d defend the person who’d sold a chunk of her. Bran had never been that charitable. “Anyway. You told me so.”
He stood a little straighter. Not because he liked being right about something that hurt her. But he recognized the returned force in her tone, and it pulled something tight inside him. Did she doubt his confidence? That he’d keep what they shared to himself?
“Why are you here, Nelle?” His pulse was so loud in his ears, he’d be lucky to hear her answer.
She pushed the glasses up again, her eyes wet but focused. “I want to keep this secret. Our secret. I want to have something they can’t touch.”
She wanted to tell him she was still in. That was better than divorce. She could probably have texted it, instead of risking someone seeing her here. Not that he was worried about that. His house was up in the hills, a small building on a big lot, acres of trees surrounded by a Very Expensive Fence. He’d even installed reflectors on either side of the door, in the event that someone got past Security Steve and attempted any flash photography.
She seemed to be waiting for him to say something.
Bran wet his bottom lip. “Okay.” Of course he was still down.
“Wow, okay.”
She grabbed the handle of the suitcase and started for the flight of steps that would take her back down to the Subaru idling in the driveway. It was Benj, Bran was sure, the person she would trust to help her deliver her message. He was also sure he hadn’t said the right thing. The suitcase clunked against the top step as she moved down a level.
All the Best Nights Page 10