by Julia London
Mia couldn’t wait to get out of there. She didn’t know why she was so perturbed, really—a few years ago she would have been ecstatic that Jesse Fisher wanted to take her out. And maybe she was just the slightest bit giddy at the prospect. But mostly she felt nervous. She didn’t want to explore the East Beach scene. She didn’t want to give anyone the impression—least of all herself—that she had given up and was settling in this little town.
Least of all, anyone who lived up on the hill at the Ross house. In case anyone up there was interested.
The next morning, Emily and Skylar appeared at Mia’s apartment—Emily, to try on the dress that Mia had been making for her, and Skylar . . . well, who knew why Skylar did anything.
“I love this place,” Emily said, twirling slowly around in the middle of it. “It’s secluded and pretty. All you need is a car, Mia.”
“I don’t need a car,” Mia said. A car would imply she was staying. Not only that, she liked her bike. She could feel herself getting stronger by tackling that hill every day. She held up the dress to Emily.
Emily gasped.
“Is that a good gasp or a bad gasp?”
“Mia . . . it’s gorgeous,” Emily said.
That was good to hear. Mia was pretty pleased with it so far. It was pale green silk with a fitted bodice and short skirt. She’d put some tulle beneath the skirt to lift it, and had made tiny rose appliqués to add to the hem.
Emily snatched it out of her hand and laid it on the bed, then began to strip out of her clothes.
“So guess what?” Skylar asked as Emily put herself into the dress. “I’m meeting with one of the festival guys tomorrow.”
“Again?” Mia asked.
“Yes, again,” Skylar said. “You never know.”
“What about the shop?” Emily asked as she presented her back to Mia to be pinned and fitted.
“What about the shop?” Skylar asked with a shrug. “It’s not like Mia can’t answer phones.”
“Thanks,” Mia said, and gave Skylar a withering look. “I’m working up at the Ross house, remember?”
“I know, but Mom can get someone else to do that.”
Something hitched in Mia’s chest. She didn’t want anyone else to do it. She wanted to be at the Ross house.
“Which reminds me. You haven’t mentioned Crazypants,” Skylar said curiously. “Is he still there?”
“Oh, ah . . . I guess,” Mia said, and squinted at the back of the dress, pretending to concentrate, even though she’d already tucked Emily in.
“I can’t believe he’s still in town,” Emily said as she examined herself in the full-length mirror. “Maybe he’s sticking around for the music festival.”
That idea hadn’t occurred to Mia. It made perfect sense—he was a musician and he’d come to take in the music festival. He’d be gone after that. He would have figured out what the universe wanted from him, and he’d hear some music, and he’d take off, back to Los Angeles or someplace where he had a life. She could just ignore that nauseating little curl of disappointment in her belly. It was inevitable—the summer people always left.
“That’s what I’m sticking around for,” Skylar said. “After that, I’m moving on to bigger and better things.”
“Like what?” Mia asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Skylar said. “But trust me, I’ll have a new gig before long.”
“I love it,” Emily said. “I absolutely freaking adore it, Mia.”
“It is gorgeous,” Skylar agreed, eyeing the dress Emily had donned. “Maybe you can make me a dress.”
“For what?”
“For whatever. A maxi. Yeah, that’s it! I want a really nice maxi to wear to the music festival parties. And not in plaid or leather, please.”
“Which brings us to your date,” Emily said, twirling one way, then the other.
“How does any of that bring us anywhere near my date?” Mia protested. “And it’s not really a date. It’s drinks to catch up. And you guys are way too deep in my business.”
“Whatever it is, maybe you should wear something a little less . . . creative,” Emily said, ignoring her protests that it was none of their business.
“Ohmigod,” Mia said. “Really?”
“No one wants you to show up looking like the Bride of Frankenstein,” Skylar said.
“The Bride of Frankenstein?” Mia echoed, insulted.
“That’s not it,” Emily said. “It’s just that everyone is really conservative around here. And besides, I have this super cute dress you could borrow,” she added. “It’s pink—”
“No. I fundamentally disagree with pink,” Mia said irritably.
“Don’t look so horrified. It’s not bubblegum pink. You’ll look great in it.”
“No,” Mia said. “I am what I am.”
“Sure you are. But it doesn’t hurt to look sexy and mainstream sometimes, either,” Emily said cheerfully.
“So, not only am I the Bride of Frankenstein, I’m not sexy?” Mia demanded.
“Please,” Skylar said. “Don’t act like you don’t know how weird you are, kiddo.” She threw a companionable arm around Mia’s shoulders. “But that’s why we love you.”
“Being different and unique and being weird are not the same thing, Skylar.”
“I’m just going to pop out and get the dress,” Emily said.
Surprisingly, Mia didn’t mind the pink when her cousins made her put it on. She couldn’t disagree that she looked nice. What Mia didn’t say was that she looked like any woman in any city in any part of this country. She felt strange, like she wasn’t herself. She wasn’t this kind of girl. She was not a pink girl.
But pink is what Mia had on when Jesse arrived to pick her up. His gaze skimmed over her, and he grinned broadly. “Wow,” he said. “Wow. Nice dress, Mia.”
Mia resisted the urge to squirm. She tried not to take his obvious pleasure in this dress as an indictment of what she generally wore. “Thank you.” She moved stiffly in the gold heels Emily had provided, and picked up the wrap and clutch that Emily had almost tearfully insisted she carry, because Mia’s leather jacket, she maintained, would ruin everything.
Jesse cupped her elbow to help her down the stairs. “Relax,” he said. “You’re not going to fall.”
Mia shook her head and took a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m not the best at heels. Or dates. I mean, if this is a date. If it’s not, it would be great if you would say so now so I can let my guard down.”
He laughed. “Well you better keep your guard up then, because I’m counting it as a first date.”
Great. Emily and Skylar were right. Mia had had second thoughts about “catching up” with Jesse after spending the day and evening with Brennan. Brennan was the one on her mind . . . but Mia had lived in this town long enough to know that there would never be anything more than that day, or maybe a handful of them. And she’d be a fool to dismiss a guy like Jesse out of hand.
“Okay, then,” she said. “Then I’ll do my best.” She flashed him a smile. She was aware that she hadn’t felt so awkward with Brennan as she did with Jesse. It was a completely different vibe. Maybe it was because with Brennan, she’d been wearing her own dress. And her own shoes.
Jesse drove them to Black Springs to a standard Italian restaurant with standard Italian décor and standard Italian fare. She discovered that he was easier to talk to than she would have believed ten years ago. He reported on people that had been in school with them. Hillary Davis, who had been every guy’s dream, had turned out to be gay and had married the high school volleyball coach last year. Danny Richards was killed in a car wreck five years ago, hit by a drunk driver. The girl he’d dated their senior year, Deanna, had moved to Arizona.
He ran through an entire list of names that sounded only vaguely familiar to Mia now. People who meant nothing to her, other than a memory of a snub, or someone who’d sat near her in a class. Jesse remembered them all, had kept up with them. It was as if time had stood still fo
r Jesse, but for Mia? It was all a distant memory. It wasn’t a past she belonged to anymore.
Jesse told her about his business and the many renovation projects he had underway. About how thrilled he was to get the Ross house job. Maybe, Mia thought, as she watched the way his eyes sparkled and how his grin remained irrepressible, being in East Beach wouldn’t be as bad as she feared. Maybe someone like Jesse would surprise her, and actually be the right person for her. Maybe she’d been so sure of what people saw in her that she lost sight of her good qualities. Maybe people really did grow up.
Maybe all that was true, but Mia was also aware that there was nothing about Jesse that touched her in the same way Brennan had touched her. It was almost as if he was speaking another language entirely. An un-artistic language. But was that fair? Did normal people really speak like artists?
Jesse took her home after dinner and walked her up the stairs to the little landing outside her door. They stood awkwardly on the landing—Jesse with his hands shoved into his pockets, Mia with her hands behind her back.
“This was great,” Jesse said at last. “I really enjoyed it.”
“Me too,” Mia said. All she wanted was to get out of these shoes and take Emily’s dress off. She fit her key into the lock, and when she turned back to say good night, Jesse had closed the tiny bit of distance between them. His lips landed on hers. His hand landed on her arm. His kiss was soft and undemanding. It was nice.
He lifted his head. “So I guess I’ll see you at work on Monday.”
Mia blinked. “Umm . . . yes.” She nodded. “Thanks for tonight. I had a good time.”
“Me too.” He touched her hand before he jogged down the steps, and at the bottom he paused and waved up at her.
Mia opened the door of her apartment and walked in. She kicked the shoes off, dropped the clutch, and stood just inside the door as she wiggled out of the dress and left it on the floor and stood in the middle of the room in her bra and panties, her hands on her hips.
Jesse’s kiss was sweet. A perfectly acceptable, perfectly reasonable first-date kiss.
But there were no stars in that kiss. There was nothing tingling inside her. Not like when Brennan had kissed her.
She suddenly had the urge to paint, a habit she’d developed years ago when she was unsettled or anxious. She went to the easel she’d put up and began to paint the lanterns hanging in Eckland’s Hardware.
Sixteen
Brennan’s work was progressing and getting stronger every day. He’d thought a lot about the script, had put some notes together for the producer and sent it back through his agent. “So let’s present this to her together,” Phil said.
“Next month,” Brennan said. “Give me another month.”
Phil groused about it, but Brennan wasn’t ready to return to his life just yet. He liked that he was slowly rebuilding his work muscle and his creative strength. He liked the feeling of finally being in a groove. He was making progress—albeit slow progress, but progress nonetheless—to the extent that he didn’t even feel guilty when Chance texted him. Can we talk? Brennan texted back: Give me a couple of weeks, bro, and I’m yours.
He heard nothing after that.
His spirit was renewing, sloughing off the outer layers of his depression and the self-doubts. Brennan was feeling more like himself every day. And yet there was something nagging at him, something that kept dancing around the edges of his thoughts, wanting attention.
It didn’t take a psychologist to ferret it out—he knew it was Mia who kept teasing his thoughts. Brennan couldn’t be entirely sure if his growing obsession with her had more to do with not getting past her apartment door than genuine attraction—he was used to getting what he wanted from women with very little effort. Not that all women fell at the feet of a rock star, but women who tended to put themselves in the path of a rock star were generally up for anything. It was the selling point of this life, wasn’t it? Drugs, sex, rock and roll.
It had been so long since a woman had refused him that Brennan hadn’t known how to respond, other than with disbelief.
And yet it was more than that. He’d had conversations with Mia that he had never had with anyone besides Trey, really. He honestly couldn’t recall ever having a conversation with Jenna about anything important. Sure, she talked about scripts she’d received and things her agent said, and he supposed he’d mentioned songs he was writing or tour problems. But he could honestly say he had no idea what her political or religious beliefs were. He had no clue who she admired or what was on her bucket list, if she’d known her grandparents, had ever kissed a girl. And he’d been with her for more than a year.
To be fair, Jenna’s interest in him had been just as shallow. She wanted the bad boy of the stage. She had been happy to be the arm candy, to appear at his concerts and soak up applause when he pointed her out. She was happy to amuse him in the bedroom, to smoke a little pot with him. She never asked him much about himself, either. She never asked him what had happened to his real father, or how he got into music, or where he was going.
And that had been okay. Brennan preferred an emotional arm’s length distance with most people. It was easier that way. There was no hurt that way. He’d never really bothered to think too deeply about why that was. It just was.
But Mia didn’t see the rock star. She was genuine, had let some of her own emotions show. She had let him in, if only a little, and still, Brennan couldn’t help but wonder if this epiphany about his feelings for her would have happened if she’d let him in her apartment that night. Would it have been another one-night stand? Probably.
Brennan didn’t like what that said about him.
Come closer, girl. Rescue my shipwrecked heart. Come closer. Don’t let me fall apart.
By Saturday evening, Brennan had the bare bones skeleton of a song.
“Brennan?”
He hadn’t noticed his mother at the threshold of his suite until she spoke. “Come in, Mom.”
She was dressed in yoga clothes, her long graying hair tied up in a towering knot atop her head. She stuck her head in and looked around with some trepidation, as if she expected the mayhem of trash and beer bottles and music. “Hey!” she said brightly, nodding approvingly at his more hygienic state. “Not bad!”
“What’s up?”
“I’m flying to LA tomorrow,” she said, stepping over his guitar case. “I’m going to be gone for a couple of weeks. I’m feeling the need for a new summer wardrobe befitting my status as mistress of this house,” she said, and struck a funny pose.
He smiled at her. That pose sparked a flash of memory in him—he was four or five, his mother was playing dress-up with him, walking with exaggerated swagger, wrapping him in silk scarves and pulling him up, making him dance with her.
“But you’ll be in good hands,” she said, and he noticed that her smile was especially bright as she bounced down on the bed beside him.
“What’s that mean?”
She tweaked his cheek. “Rough as sandpaper. You might want to think about shaving—”
“Whose hands, Mom? I know you’re not talking about Magda—she wouldn’t care if I starved to death up here, you know.”
“I know she’s a little crotchety, but she does keep this house sparkling,” his mother said. “Most of it, anyway. But I meant that Mia seems to have everything under control.”
“Okay,” he said warily. He knew his mother too well and knew when she was up to something.
And as if to prove he was right, his mother said, far too casually, “She’s a good girl, don’t you think?”
Brennan leveled a look of warning on his mother. “Don’t even try it, Mom.”
“I’m not trying anything!” she protested, and airily waved her hand at him. “Good Lord, I learned years ago that you won’t listen to a thing I say, so why would I try anything? But I do think she is very sweet, and she’s interesting, and it just so happens that she’ll be around to oversee the renovations while I’m gone. That’s
all I’m saying.”
“Great,” he said. He leaned back against the cushioned headboard as he studied his mother’s face.
She picked at the bedspread. “I happen to like Mia.”
And there it was. She was matchmaking. Brennan stifled a groan. “So you’ve said. Over and over.” He picked up his guitar. “I know what you’re doing, but I think you should turn down your enthusiasm a notch or two, Mom. She’s not exactly the kind of woman that fits into my world.”
His mother made a sound of surprise.
Even Brennan was a little surprised he’d said those dickhead words aloud. Worse, he couldn’t believe he’d actually thought them, but there they had come, flowing like a fountain out of him. As if he was living such an exalted life. Wasn’t that the kind of elitist thinking he and Chance had written about with their music?
But wasn’t it also true to some extent? Wasn’t that part of what had been bugging him the last couple of days? He was too emotionally distant, he had a different life than most—
“She certainly won’t fit in with that attitude,” his mother huffed. “I don’t know what happened to you, Brennan. You were always such a kind little boy.”
“Here we go,” he muttered.
His mother clenched her jaw, and he had a funny feeling she was trying to keep from slapping him. “Sometimes, I really don’t get you,” she said curtly.
Join the club. “I’m not going to hook up with a woman you picked out for me,” he said, trying to make a joke of it.
“Because you’ve done so well on your own, huh? Well I know one thing, you’ve certainly taken arrogant prick to a new level.” She stood up, hopped over the guitar case, and glared at him over her shoulder before disappearing through his door.
“Have a good trip,” he called after her.
She did not respond.
On that note, Brennan needed a drink to wash down the niggling feeling that he was an arrogant prick. Unfortunately, he discovered the liquor cabinet was bare, thanks to his mother’s concern that he was becoming an alcoholic. He grabbed his keys and drove into East Beach and to the little package store there to pick up a few items.