by Zoe Lee
With a grin, Dunk declared, “Rejoice, for I have brought food and the lady’s suitcase!”
“Why are you up so early?” he mumbled around the world’s biggest yawn.
Astrid bit her tongue and hid a smirk, seeing him like a prickly porcupine, and couldn’t help but tease him, replying dryly, “Clean living.”
“Coffee,” he groaned like a zombie, shuffling into the kitchen.
“See you later, Astrid,” Dunk said with an exaggerated wink, then slammed out.
Seth came back, slurping coffee in the least Seth-like way imaginable. “Dunk gone?”
“This is a fascinating side to you,” she told him, her voice shaking with suppressed laughter. “The resemblance to your siblings is suddenly uncanny.”
He glared at her, but he was squinting so it lacked any believability.
But an hour later, after he’d finished his third mug of coffee, showered, and gotten dressed, he was up to speed, back to the usual calm, mysterious Seth she knew.
He packed up his car with two coolers of ice and they left for Tristan’s get-together. He dropped by a cafe near The Orchid on the way to buy bagels and muffins, parking right in front. With the windows down, she could hear him laughing and watched him get hugs from several concerned-looking people. Once he got in the car again, he drove past a resort and down a bumpy road around a lake until they reached Tristan’s beautifully eccentric house.
The sun was blazing and it made the multitude of windows on the house glitter like crystal charms. Behind it, the long yellowy-green grass sloped gently down to the muddy lakeshore, a classic wooden dock jutting out over the water, which rippled subtly.
But it was only idyllic for a second because as she was following Seth onto the lawn and carrying the food while he carried the coolers, a bunch of people burst outside.
“Looks like they’ve all reconciled,” Seth muttered. “Guess there’s nothing like worrying about a grown man to bring people together.”
Astrid snorted because he’d sounded strident and irritated that everyone cared.
They all caught sight of Seth and threw their arms in the air, stampeding over to wrap him up in hugs and rub his hair and squish his face while they kissed his stubbled cheeks. Maybe he was still irritated, but he absolutely let them all coddle him until they had gotten their fill, while Astrid hung back, setting down the food on one of the plastic patio tables.
As soon as she stood up, Aden was there. “Thanks for helping,” he mumbled, taking off his baseball cap and slapping it against his thigh before shoving it back on. “Appreciate it.”
She barely had time to say “You’re welcome” before he hurried away.
The invitations had been restricted to Seth’s inner circle, all of whom she had already at least met, and everyone hung around in lawn chairs around the unlit fire pit. Seth was as relaxed as the day they met, inscrutable in a warm, steady way, reclining with a bran muffin and a can of pilsner. He laughed easily, joked around with everyone, and seamlessly wove stories that tied all the segments of his life together. Astrid, on the other hand, had no idea what her place was or what it should be. It seemed there was gratitude towards her for ultimately being the one who got Seth to unlock his studio, but because Downbeat was here, she was technically also shadowing them for the story she was still writing about them.
When Tristan said he was going swimming, all of the locals except Seth joined him as if they had some unspoken arrangement, while Seth and Downbeat stayed where they were.
Astrid shifted on her lawn chair, torn between staying and going herself.
But no one asked her to go or told her that she didn’t belong, and she didn’t want to go.
“We’ve seen you freeze before or after a show,” Gin said, looking grim. “We’ve helped you get through it. But the other night, that was different. It scared the shit out of us.”
Xavier plowed on when Seth looked like he was about to bolt again, “Gin and I, we’re so fucking sorry about the song request, about pressuring you into it, you have to know—”
“It’s okay,” Seth interrupted, shaking his head and looking at Gin then Xavier. “I love the song, too. I shouldn’t be scared of it. Playing it with you was like a celebration, Gin. An honor. I ran and I hid because it’s just… it’s just been a hell of a fucking month, y’all.”
“Shit, and I came to talk to you about rejoining the band too,” Xavier groaned.
“And then sweet-talked your way into coming here,” Seth added with a twist of his lips.
Astrid’s thoughts ground to a halt and she inadvertently gasped, “What?”
“Astrid, this is off the fucking record,” Kayla leapt in protectively.
But Astrid ignored her, couldn’t care less about the record in that moment. She kept her eyes on Seth, her hands drifting up to press between her breasts. “Seth?”
“Xavier asked me to rejoin the band when we were in Chicago,” Seth confirmed in that infuriatingly calm, unknowable way. “It’s the main reason they’re here now.”
Drawing in a quick breath, unwilling to show any hurt, she claimed in her own cool, impenetrable tone, “You speak of it so casually that you must have said no.”
“My feelings about art have never wavered,” he replied, not with fierceness but with deep, sure certainty that was undeniable and impossible to disbelieve. “I don’t know where my gifts come from, but I’m grateful for them, Astrid, proud of them. I couldn’t deny them forever, no matter how hard I might have wanted to sometimes. There’s nothing like hearing something I wrote on the radio and there’s also nothing like bringing the house down at an intimate venue with a band I love. But… that’s not the same as making it big.”
“I thought you had no interest in that,” she said in that same way.
“It’s been too… close to other issues, darlin’,” Seth admitted. “You go to Juilliard, there’s enormous pressure to ‘make something of yourself’. It’s a school, yes, but I never met anyone who was there just to learn. Hedda put enormous pressure on herself to elevate the type of music we made into something that millions of people loved. But she… we… it never happened. Sometimes I think I sabotaged it, because I didn’t—it was like I didn’t want to share her, didn’t want our world to be that big. Didn’t want to lose so many pieces of myself, the way fame can do to everyone, whether you’re a musician or an athlete or a queen.”
For a second, she allowed herself to be proud of him for the admission. It was a hard thing to do, to outline what weaknesses had shaped one’s life, causing one to swerve away from opportunities that might have drastically altered the course of a life.
But then she steeled herself and commented, icily neutral, “It can be a distasteful idea, fame, and I’d imagine it’s especially so for a genius like you.”
“I’m not a genius,” he denied immediately.
“Yes, you are,” Xavier, Trentham and Kayla chorused.
“But we don’t have to use the word if you don’t like it,” Gin promised him.
Trentham leaned forward and pinned Seth with a heavy look. “You moved so many people at Pitchfork with just one song. You have no idea how many other people you’ve moved with your music, whether it was you performing it, or us, or some other artists.”
“It’s a lot,” Kayla said. “You know your reputation among artists. They see your gifts.”
“You deserve to rejoin us,” Xavier pressed. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”
“What do you think, Astrid?” Seth suddenly demanded of her.
Astrid’s eyes flew wide, flaring with panic. Her chest began to rise and fall in quick, shallow jerks as protests stumbled past her lips, “We barely know each other.”
“Well, that’s a damned lie,” he countered, still as calm as can be.
He got up decisively, stalked over, planted his hands on the arms of her chair, and leaned in, making her flash back to when he’d let loose his temper in the café. There was no way to mistake their proximi
ty, their familiarity with it painfully obvious. Astrid certainly wasn’t ashamed of sleeping with Seth and it wasn’t unprofessional, with the story’s focus back to Downbeat. But while these were Seth’s people, they weren’t hers. She felt like she was being challenged by Seth and watched by five hawks whose priority was him.
Needing to sidestep the challenge because they were so far away from being ready to discuss this on a personal level, she kept it intellectual and said slowly, “People think… they see someone else’s gift, even in just one song, and they think they’re entitled to more. They think it’s your obligation to give and give and give. They’re envious and awed, and can’t imagine that they would ever want to hide or protect or limit that gift if it were theirs.”
“I’m not talking about those people,” Xavier said. “Unless you think I have no talent.”
“I’m talking about the people Seth moved,” she countered. “A part of me feels like that, too, but it makes me uncomfortable because I know so many gifted, talented people and none of you are commodities, or put on this earth to entertain me and inspire my jealousy.”
“Why would you feel that way?” Seth asked, frowning as he pushed up and took the empty chair next to Astrid, bending his legs so that he could tuck his feet on the seat too. Folded up, chin on palm, he looked like a young philosopher. “You’re talking about all of this like you don’t have any first-hand experience with it. But you’re not a stranger on the street who’s never had a single brush with talent or fame. You walked away from acting.”
That sent her into gales of hysterical laughter, which had his mouth actually falling open in an expression of shock. From her observations of how he interacted with everyone, she believed that he was deeply empathetic, so she loved that she could surprise him.
“Seth,” she gasped out, “I didn’t walk away!”
“What do you mean?”
The earnest frown on his face made her heart thud against her ribs, as if he truly thought that she was as talented an actor as he was a musician. It was gratification and flattery, but it was also terrifying, too, and her eyes flitted around to the others. They were still watching her like hawks, but she could hear Xavier thinking Don’t fuck this up.
So she leveled Seth with an amused look and explained. “While I also went to school to study the arts, I’m not an incredible actor. Putting me in proximity to you isn’t right. I don’t have untapped potential sitting inside of me, just waiting. I was lucky as anything when I got cast on the TV show. But when it was done, I couldn’t get another role. I was told that my personal fame would always eclipse any role. Some offers were explicitly because I was Barley Finn’s wife and that would draw interest to their project. Auditions for comedies told me I didn’t have the timing. Auditions for drama told me I didn’t look beautiful crying. Auditions for TV shows told me that no one would ever see me as anything but my old role.”
She saw him struggle not to pity her, and it scraped her raw because normally pity was a terrible thing to have aimed at her, but she knew his came from a place of hurting for her.
Before he could do something unforgivable like say You can always try again, she forced herself to say with measured enthusiasm, as if she had no personal investment in him, “It’s so exciting for you, all the chances ahead of you if you choose to take those risks.”
Mouth twisting up stubbornly, he demanded, “But what’s your opinion?”
Wondering how the hell her life had gotten so far off track, she blew out a hiss of air.
All she’d meant to do was write a story about why it was Downbeat’s time to break through, to leap into the heights and stretch their hands towards the sun. But instead, her focus and attention, her curiosity and her passion, had honed in on Seth like he was the North Pole and she were a compass needle. And now, after less than a week, there was something raw and ready to bloom between them, except she couldn’t let things go there.
“Which opinion do you want, Seth?” she forced herself to ask with that hint of ice, instead of the hot lick of panic. “Are you asking a music journalist? Or Ms. A.? Or just me?”
“Yes.”
She gathered up all of her resolve and strengthened her piercing gaze, then replied carefully but firmly, “A day ago, you were locked in your studio because Xavier asked you to go back to Downbeat, you and Gin sang a song you wrote with Hedda, and your family and best friends don’t know very much about your life out there. So I’m not answering that.”
“Damn,” Gin breathed out, sounding impressed.
“What if someone offered you a choice TV role for all the right reasons?” he pressed.
She snapped, “It’s not the same situation at all.” When he narrowed his eyes, she put up a hand and added, “I was on TV a long, long time ago. I can’t move backward.”
That had him dropping his hand and rearing up. “Would I be moving backwards if I rejoined Downbeat?” he posed with an urgency she’d never heard outside of bed. “Would it be moving backwards if I left here, where I was born, and became a band member again?”
“I know you’ve made important decisions about your life before. You’ve lived with those consequences. So I refuse to say anything. This is your decision. I can’t influence it.”
“Don’t do that,” he cut her off, those gorgeous, sad eyes flaring hot. “Don’t dismiss me.”
“I’m going to… go swim,” Jorge mumbled awkwardly, jerking a thumb at the water.
Blinking, Astrid’s tunnel vision flared wide to take in the others.
“I’m staying right—” Xavier started to say.
“No, we’re all going,” Trentham cut him off, standing up and hauling Xavier up too. “I’m just going to say one last thing here. You’re fucking absolutely right that we want you back with us. Downbeat would be better if you were with us. But you are more important, okay? The band is fantastic now and we’ll be fantastic tomorrow, no matter what.”
They hurried off, Xavier catapulting off the dock a minute later with a whoop.
Seth dropped his head back and blew out a breath upwards. “If you think I ain’t going to take you into account when I make this decision, you’re crazy, Astrid,” he mumbled.
She studied him, this man who had captivated her with silken threads of calm and strength and curiosity since the seconds she’d met him. All of the truths of who she was— what she wanted, what was too scary, and what was too dangerous for her heart and her career—crashed into each other. “What is it that you think this is, Seth?” she blurted out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Seth
This barely-remembered feeling swept like burning ice through the chambers of Seth’s heart, spraying outwards through the splitting branches of arteries, veins and capillaries. It had been a long time since he’d put himself out there in any real way, because he’d chosen to look for mutually satisfying nights and ignored the music he wrote for himself. The last person who might have been called a significant other was Bruno, his lover in Brazil. But the stillness of Astrid’s body, the shielded look in her eyes, was instantly recognizable.
He knew that things had gotten out of control somewhere along the way.
He knew it was probably his fault, so he needed to reel himself in.
He huffed out a wry laugh and countered in as undemanding a tone as he could, “I guess it would be smarter to turn it back on you. To ask you to tell me what you think this is so I don’t make this uncomfortable.” He heard a snort like a horse whuffling and was pleased that he’d amused her even if it was at his own expense. “But I told you I’m all kinds of fucked up right now—and I’m a pretty emotional man even if I’m steady on the outside normally. So whatever I’m thinking, it doesn’t seem like it’s the same thing that you’re thinking.”
Her fingertips stroked his face as if she were memorizing it, or ensuring that she touched every cell at least once. “It’s been quite some time since I felt this sort of passion or draw to someone,” she replied slowly, her voic
e low and careful as if she were consciously trying to soften her sharp-edged diction. “So please don’t think I’m speaking carelessly here. But I’m afraid that in the aftermath of everything that’s happened, I’m quite… practical.”
Practical.
It had never been a dirty word before, because he was steady and patient and level-headed himself. He’d never begged for anything except for news of Hedda’s death to be a lie. He’d never blurted out how he felt without meaning to. He’d never fumbled his words with people when he asked them, out or invited them to bed, or told them that it was time to move on and say goodbye. So he controlled the half-formed thoughts and bargains shoving up his throat and crowding on his tongue, piling up against the insides of his teeth.
Well, then, it looked like his attempt to lighten the moment wasn’t going to happen.
So he declared, the very idea of it infuriating him, “I don’t want you to be practical. I don’t want you to put aside this passion we feel for each other like it’s silly.”
“I can see that you believe what you’re saying,” she struggled to reply, he could see it in her posture. “I can see that you believe that all of this is romantic. But I am practical and I have to protect myself. In my experience, love means empathy, deep honest knowledge, and commitment. But you’re in no position to offer me any commitments.”
With unwavering calm and certainty, he said, “Every place I took you, you came right with me and gave me something back that I wasn’t expecting, but it turns out I needed. Everything you shared with me, I’ve kept safe. When you made mistakes, you owned it. And when you lay your hands on me—Jesus Christ, Astrid, we know how fucking rare that is. But I’m not about making people say, or do, things they’re not comfortable with—or ready for,” he said with a too-brutal honesty he hadn’t let loose since the early months with Downbeat.
And he turned to look at her, his steady gaze relaying that he believed his words, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it. She sighed, her eyes melting into something like regret, but there was tension in her strong shoulders, in the stem of her neck. His mouth shifted at one corner in wry regret and his shoulders twitched up in a quick shrug.
