It took her a minute to fasten her seat belt. Finally, it clicked in.
She thought Brodie was driving her home, but they were headed in the opposite direction.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Some place quiet, where you can breathe again, where you won't have to worry about who's going to come knocking on your door." He flung her a quick look. "Can you trust me, Chelsea?"
At this moment, he felt like the only one she could trust. "Yes," she murmured. "Don't let me down."
Chapter Eleven
Brodie drove for twenty minutes, winding his way around the lake. As the traffic and city lights faded into the night shadows, Chelsea felt her tension ease. She still couldn't quite believe that Austin had shown up at the inn, or that he'd taken over the microphone to sing the song he'd written for her. Had he heard nothing she'd said yesterday?
Clearly, he didn't care about what she'd said. He didn't care about her at all. It was all about him. It had probably always been about him, but she just hadn't seen it.
She'd been blind to so many things, and Austin was at the top of that list.
Brodie finally turned off the highway, driving down a dirt road. Then he parked and shut off the engine.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"Butterfly Beach. You've never been here before?"
"No. I've never even heard of it."
"It's not much, but it's peaceful and quiet. And during the day, you can see butterflies everywhere. Want to take a walk?"
She nodded, then unfastened her seat belt and got out of the car. Brodie turned on the flashlight on his phone, and a bright stream of light lit up the path, although, it wasn't completely necessary. There was a full moon and a starry sky overhead.
The path ended on a sandy beach in a small cove with a couple of picnic tables and barbecues. The water lapped gently against the shoreline, and with the way the coastline meandered around hills of rock, the beach felt completely private.
Maybe a little too private, she thought, as Brodie took a seat on top of a picnic table, patting the spot next to him.
But he'd asked her to trust him, and she did. It felt a little surprising to silently admit that, because trust wasn't something she was comfortable with anymore.
She sat down next to him, leaving a good foot between them, and for several long minutes, they just looked out at the lake. Brodie was certainly giving her plenty of time to regroup, something she greatly appreciated. She had a feeling there were dozens of questions pressing against his lips, but so far, he'd managed to hold them back.
Finally, she said, "I'm admiring your patience."
"I'm glad there's something about me you admire."
"There are actually several things," she admitted. "You must think I'm a crazy person."
"No. But I think you need to talk to Austin again."
"I spoke to him yesterday."
"You did? When? You didn't mention that when we were having drinks."
"I didn't have a chance. But he came by the school and I was very clear about not wanting to talk to him or sing with him."
"Wait—he wanted you to sing with him?"
"Yes. He wants me to write and sing a duet. His sales are apparently tanking, and he thinks I'm his ticket back to the top. He even said I wouldn't have to sing in public or tour. I could just record in the studio. He thinks our fans will be over the moon at the chance to hear us sing together once more."
"That's probably true. I'm sure your fans would want you to sing again, whether it's with Austin, or just on your own."
"I can't do it, Brodie. I told Austin that. But he's apparently more desperate than I realized."
"I thought he was very successful."
"Success doesn't last forever, and, frankly, Austin always cared more about hits than music that would stand the test of time. Maybe that's not fair to say, but I thought he was a lot better before he got famous. Then he started singing about things he didn't care about. There was no depth to his songs. They didn't feel real. I think his fans started to pick up on that. But he just kept putting out more songs, like quantity could hide the fact that there wasn't a lot of substance there. I saw that even before I left him. I tried to tell him, but he didn't want to hear me. His own voice was too loud."
Brodie nodded. "That makes a lot of sense. Surely he must have known you'd say no to this request."
"He thought he could sweeten the deal by telling me I didn't have to perform the song, but I know there would be pressure to go on stage, and I can't do it." She drew in another breath. "I had the same anxiety attack tonight that I had the last time I hit the stage. I couldn't breathe. I was afraid I'd pass out."
"You looked like you were ready to keel over."
"But you got me out of there. Thank you—again. You keep coming to my rescue. But then, you come to a lot of people's rescue, don't you?"
"It's been a busy week," he said lightly.
"Yes, it has." She drew in a breath. "I know you're curious, Brodie."
"I am, but it's your story to tell, if and when you want to tell it."
She felt terribly torn. "I thought if I never talked about it, I might be able to forget it."
"But you can't forget it, can you? You're haunted by whatever it is." His gaze bored into hers. "If you don't want to tell me, Chelsea, tell someone—Lizzie, or Adam. They're strong enough to deal with the press if they come calling. But you can't keep it inside."
"I'm ashamed," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I was so caught up in myself, I didn't realize what impact my music, my songs, my words could have on someone."
His gaze narrowed. "What happened?"
Could she really tell him?
A solid minute passed. She wanted to tell him, but it would put a burden on him. "You can't tell anyone, Brodie."
"I know that. You can trust me not to talk."
"All right. Here goes. They were teenagers. She was seventeen and a senior in high school. He was eighteen and a freshman in college. They'd been dating for seven months. He thought they were in love. She thought so, too, for a while. Until she started listening to my music, to a song called 'No More'. I wrote it three years ago, when I started to realize that Austin wasn't right for me. It was about accepting that I'd made the wrong choice and finding the courage to speak out, to end what wasn't good."
Brodie stared back at her, his gaze encouraging.
"God, I don't know if I can say the rest." Her stomach was churning.
"Take your time."
She swallowed hard, then continued. "The girl came to one of my concerts. She was in the front row. She touched my hand when I first came on the stage and said I'd changed her life. I didn't know what she meant. I didn't think twice about it. I started my show, and I sang my heart out, and she was right there with me. I felt like we were in sync. She was understanding everything I had to say. But I didn't know then…"
The lump in her throat grew larger.
"What didn't you know?" he asked gently.
She forced some air into her lungs. "I didn't know that she'd broken up with her boyfriend the night before my show. She'd been inspired by my lyrics to end what wasn't right. But he didn't take it well. He was in love, and she was his life. Without her, he didn't feel he had anything. He took his life the night of that concert. And the next morning, the police knocked on my door."
"Why?"
"He'd left a letter addressed to me. He blamed me for the breakup. He said his girlfriend didn't understand that I was just making shit up, that I didn't know anything about them, or their relationship. He accused me of brainwashing girls to be like me. He said…" She blinked rapidly, as the tears threatened to fall. "He said I was the reason he was dead. My music killed him."
Her voice broke. All the pain and emotion she'd been holding back for the last eighteen months came rushing out. She didn’t want to cry, but the tears came, and the gulping sobs. Suddenly, she was in Brodie's arms, her head buried
against his solid chest, as the dam broke. She cried for that sad kid. She cried for his parents, who would never be whole again. She cried for the girl who had been swamped with guilt after the suicide. And she cried for herself, for the loss of everything that had meant so much to her.
She'd always known if she talked, the pain would be unbearable, and it was.
If Brodie hadn't been holding her, she would have collapsed, but he'd told her when they'd left the party that he had her…and, somehow, he did.
Brodie's mind raced as he mentally grappled with the story that Chelsea had just told him. He had a million questions, but none that he could ask.
Chelsea was crying with the pain of someone who had been deeply wounded. It was agonizing to listen to her. He wanted to help, but beyond holding her tight and stroking her back, he didn't know what to do. There was nothing he could say to make her feel better. He couldn't fix this, no matter how much he wanted to.
He now understood why she'd quit music, why she hadn't told anyone her reasons. At least, he thought he understood, but he wasn't completely sure.
Had she wanted to protect the kids' families? Or had she been so devastated by her perceived role in the tragedy that she'd been unwilling to share the story?
Maybe it was both. Maybe it was something else. He wanted her to keep talking, but she needed to let go of all the pain first.
He hoped the tears would be cathartic, that they would release her from the emotional prison she'd put herself in.
Finally, her sobs began to subside. His shirt was soaked with her tears, but he didn't give a damn. If he could give her any comfort, he would, because she'd tortured herself enough.
She lifted her head and gave him an apologetic look. "Sorry," she said, embarrassment in her gaze now. "I didn't mean to do that."
"You needed to let it out."
She sniffed and wiped her eyes with her fingers. "I'm a mess."
She was a beautiful mess, and his heart went out to her. "Do you feel any better?"
"I don't know." She shrugged. "A little, maybe. I've never told anyone the whole story. I tried not to take on all the responsibility in the beginning. I told myself it wasn't my fault. But when I went on stage three nights later, and I saw all those girls in the front row, looking at me with adoration and respect, all I could think about was that other girl, the one who'd touched my hand, and told me I'd changed her life. I froze. All I could think about was what those kids were thinking, what they were taking from my music, what they would do with the inspiration. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The world started to spin. The lights were so hot. I couldn't breathe. I thought I was going to die right there on the stage. And then one of my band members stepped forward and led me off."
"That must have been terrifying," he said quietly.
"The official story was that I was exhausted. I needed a break."
"Why didn't the real story come out? You were living such a public life."
"The only people who read the boy's letter were the police, the boy's parents, and me. They didn't want the letter to be shared with anyone else, not even the girl who'd broken up with him. They wanted their son to have his dignity. I guess it was some small solace. I don't know. I did think the story might leak, but as the weeks and months passed, and nothing happened, I thought maybe it was over."
"I'm still a little surprised you didn't tell Lizzie or your parents. Was it just to protect them from having to lie? Or were you afraid they'd try to talk you into singing again? Or that they'd try to convince you it wasn't your fault?"
"That was part of it," she admitted.
"It was easier to let everyone believe that exhaustion, the pressure of the tour, your problems with Austin were behind your decision to leave music."
She stared back at him. "That's pretty accurate."
"But your family knows there's more behind your retirement. They keep hoping you'll tell them."
"Yes, but what I said before—about not wanting to put them in the position of having to lie—that's still true."
"And Austin doesn't have a clue as to why you got anxiety on stage?"
She shook her head. "No. Maybe if he'd called me back, if he'd come home, if he'd realized that I needed him, I would have told him. But he didn't come back for almost a month. By then, I was done."
He bit down on his lip as the words she didn't want to hear pressed against his lips. He turned away from her, gazing out at the lake, fighting off the urge to tell her what he thought.
"Brodie?" she questioned.
"What?"
"Just say it. Your soaked shirt has earned you that right."
He turned back to her. "It's not your fault, none of it. You don't want to hear it, but it's true."
"I've tried to believe that; I have. But I keep seeing those shaky, scrawled words. The pain was right there on the page in front of me. The hopelessness. The despair." Her chest lifted as she took another deep breath. "My music inspired the breakup. My music inspired his suicide. How do I let that go?"
"I don't know, but you need to figure out a way. Because this life you've created for yourself—it isn't the real you."
"It's the real me now. I can be a teacher and not a singer."
"And you don't think you have any influence as a teacher?" he challenged.
Surprise flashed through her eyes. "I teach little kids."
"So?"
"I don't tell them what to do in their personal lives; I teach them about chords and notes. It's all very basic."
"You're still a role model."
"It's different."
He wasn't going to argue that point. "Did you ever talk to the girl again? Do you know what happened to her?"
"No. And if I'm being honest, I think part of my stage paralysis came from the idea that she might show up again, only this time she'd accuse me of killing her boyfriend."
"Maybe their relationship was terrible. Perhaps it was a good thing she broke up with him. Clearly, he had emotional issues. Those issues didn't come from your song, and I don't think they even came from his breakup with his girlfriend. What do you know about him?"
"Nothing really. Just what I told you, the basic details." She paused. "There's a part of me that knows there was more to what happened than just my song, but I was still part of a tragedy. I never ever wanted to hurt anyone, Brodie. I wanted my music to touch people's hearts, resonate in some profound way, maybe entertain or bring much-needed escape. I didn't realize that there could be a dark side to all that."
"It's all about perspective, isn't it? Our favorite music is a backdrop to our lives. When I hear certain songs, they take me to a moment or to a feeling, and that's a good thing. It's like seeing an old friend. It's a reminder of who I once was."
"Or a reminder of what you don't have, what you've lost, what you'll never get," she countered.
"Right. But as the creator, you can't control what happens after your music is heard. No artist can do that. Your product is solely yours until you release it into the world, and then it belongs to the public. They get to have their reaction. They can love it or hate it or not care about it at all. You can't change any of that. You don't have that much power."
"I suppose that's true. I've never thought of it in exactly that way. Not that people haven't hated my music. I've had bad reviews."
"And good ones, too."
"But the bad ones always stick in my head."
"I know. I've read some bad reviews about myself. Some people thought I was washed up years before I crashed. I let them down when I lost. It took me a long time to divorce myself from that kind of pressure. My successes and failures belonged solely to me. I was in an individual sport, and if people were disappointed when I didn't meet their expectations, well, there wasn't much I could do about that."
"I get that. But what happened with this kid…it goes beyond a bad review. How could I ever risk something like that occurring again?"
"Life is filled with risk, Chelsea."
"It doesn’t have to be. I don't have to sing or play again. I don't have to get on a stage."
"No, you don't. And if you're truly happy not doing either of those things, then that's your choice. But are you happy?"
"Is anyone truly happy? Are you content being a cop, or was it just your second choice?"
He frowned at her question, reminded of the conversation he'd had earlier with his father. "I don't know," he said honestly.
She gave him a look of surprise. "I thought you were going to tell me you were completely content."
"I do like my job, and I think it's worth doing. I just need to be sure I'm not running away."
"What would you be running away from?" she asked in confusion.
"I talked to my father yesterday. I was going to tell you about it when we had drinks. Anyway, he has a job opportunity that involves me hosting a TV show about sports, a news magazine kind of deal."
"Wow, that's big. What did you tell him?"
"That I'd think about it."
"It sounds exciting. But you said it was difficult for you to be around skiers."
"Which is why I have to decide if I'm settling or if I'm choosing a different life because it's what makes me happy now. You need to do the same. I told you we were on similar tracks."
She gave him a faint smile. "It does look that way. I don't think I could ever go back to the stage. Even the way I felt tonight was terrifying. I know that makes me a coward."
"It makes you human. I can't imagine what you went through. Honestly, Chelsea, it's a tragic story. And I completely understand why your life was shattered over it. I just don't want that tragedy to define your whole life."
"And I don't want your accident to define your whole life."
"So we help each other get to where we need to go."
"You are not asking me for another date," she said, a lighter note in her voice now.
"We're not dating. We're just spending time together."
My Wildest Dream: Whisper Lake #2 Page 11