by B. E. Baker
So that’s one down. Now for details about the waiter. “Noted. But how did getting asked out turn bad? Did he follow you home? Stalk you?”
“He came early to pick me up, and I wasn’t ready. He took one look at my hair and my non-made-up face and ran the other direction.”
The man is an utter moron. “I don’t believe you.”
“God’s honest truth, I swear.”
I wish I could buy that idiot a drink. I mean, I’m sorry that Beth feels bad, but if he’s too dim-witted to realize that Beth is so much more than shiny hair and startlingly large eyes, that’s a win for me. “Why would you accept a date with someone that stupid?”
“I must have been mesmerized by his dreamy blue eyes.”
Gross. “A sucker for the blue eyes. I’ll have to remember that.”
“I like green eyes better, but those are exceptionally rare. Actually, I looked it up. They’re the most uncommon color.”
Green eyes, like mine? Is she flirting? Please be flirting. “You don’t say.”
“It’s hard to find a good guy whom my hair won’t scare away who also happens to have green eyes.”
She is flirting. She must be. “I can imagine, especially when you’re restricting your search to Atlanta.” Hint, hint. Atlanta sucks. Come here instead.
“True. Just not enough green-eyed men in Atlanta. And it’s even harder because I’m so tall. I basically need a green-eyed giraffe. Maybe I should try the zoo.”
A giraffe? I’ve been compared to worse things. “Probably a good idea.”
“Or I could lower my standards, I suppose.”
Do not accept any imposters. Do not. Hold out for me. Tell me that you want the real deal, the original green-eyed giraffe. “No, don’t do that. Never do that. You deserve exactly what you want in life.”
“You do, too.”
“I didn’t think so for a long time.” I should keep things light, but I want to tell her that I confessed to my parents. I want to tell her that she was right.
“But now you do?” She sounds distracted, and that sounded like a click.
“Do you have a call on the other line?”
“Yes, and I’m afraid they’re going to call back over and over until I answer.”
Probably smarter for me not to dump the heavy stuff the very first time she texts me. That would be a typical Cole mistake. “You better take that, then.” I try to stop talking there, but more words just spring out. “But maybe if you text me tomorrow, we won’t have as much catching up to do next time.” Oh, no. That sounded attacky. Bad, Cole.
“You didn’t text me either.”
Because I’m a coward. “You’re right.”
“Well, I guess now you know.”
Huh? “What do I know?”
“You know that it takes me about a month to recover from wounded pride.”
A month? Did she message me and I missed it? Did it not come through? “We haven’t talked in nearly four months.”
“But for most of that time, I was living in a hospital with my brother and sister-in-law.”
“That’s the kind of person you are.” And now I look like the guy who has been creepily marking the days on a calendar since we last spoke. Which is kind of true, but not very flattering. I need to make this into a joke. Light and maybe a little sarcastic. “But you had a phone, I assume.”
“You’re saying that time still counts?”
“I might give you a pass this time.” Or anytime, about anything, forever. I swallow. Breezy, Cole. Breezy. “But next time, toss the pride out the window and text me.”
“Alright,” she says. Another click.
“You better take that call before they come and bang your door down.”
“Yeah. Okay. Good to hear your voice.”
“You too,” I say.
When she hangs up, I pull up the photo she sent immediately and set it as my wallpaper. She’s so beautiful. My heart aches from a mixture of joy and longing.
I cannot screw this up. Not this time.
19
Beth
Cole texts me every day, and calls me most nights. I don’t confess that I’m in Europe, much less about to go on tour. He either doesn’t know or he does an excellent job pretending that he doesn’t know.
I can’t keep any food down on the day of my first concert. “How many tickets sold?” I ask my manager, Jonathan.
He smiles. “I told you. Three thousand, two hundred. Seven hundred people requested refunds after the initial cancellation, but eight hundred and fifty more sold when we announced you would be taking the spot.”
I gulp. “That means twenty-five hundred of the people here didn’t really want to see me. At least, not when they bought the tickets.” I straighten my blouse—er—my blousy, backless, blinged handkerchief shirt. I have no idea what to call it. “Are you sure I shouldn’t wear the black dress?”
Jonathan’s tone is flat. “You looked like a teacher in that. This is young and hip, and if you’re sticking with the ‘I perform alone to connect with each of you’ gimmick, you need something to draw their attention.”
“I don’t really wear sequins.”
Jonathan’s eyes bug a little.
“But it’s fine. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.” I lower my voice as I walk toward the backstage prepping area. “Probably.”
“Good luck,” he says. “I really hope this goes well.”
He doesn’t tell me that if I screw up, they’ll replace me. But they haven’t officially announced that I’ll be taking the entire tour, and I can guess why not. They gave me the first two concerts to make sure I can handle it. Which means tonight is half concert—half audition. The fact that I’ve only really been assigned two concerts so far may also be why Cole hasn’t figured out that I’m in Europe. Two performances, the first in Barcelona, the second in Madrid, isn’t exactly something that would make the European papers.
“Tonight will be your hardest audience,” Jonathan says, “since this is Miguel’s hometown. If it doesn’t go smoothly, chin up. After tonight, it’ll get easier.”
I didn’t need the reminder. And if I truly botch this, I won’t have much of a chance to do better. Ugh.
When I walk out on stage, a handful of people cheer—a few hundred, maybe. At least as many people boo. I tune it out and pretend that I’m playing at the Hotel Adler. I pick up the mic. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t speak Spanish.” An interpreter translates for me.
More boos. Hooray.
“I know that usually a performer, like Miguel, would start the concert with one of their huge hits. Since I don’t have any of those, I thought I’d do something a little different. I was absolutely gutted when I learned that he had passed, as I’m sure many of you are right now. I’d like to thank you for coming out anyway, and for giving me a chance. I’m going to play some of my music, a lot of it actually, but I also prepared my favorite two songs of his. I’d like to begin and end with them. I can’t always understand the reason why bad things happen in this world, but when we lose someone like Miguel, the world is a dimmer place for it.”
As the translator finishes, the boos taper off.
Now I need to do his song justice in front of his original and biggest fans. I sit at the piano bench and close my eyes. I ask for God’s help in honoring Miguel and his purpose in singing. So many of his songs were about dependency, which is also what took him in the end. I play the opening notes, usually played on a guitar, to his saddest song. He talks of his childhood, his lowest lows. In his version, it’s the wailing of a raw guitar, light on bass, and light on drums.
I add a new line of depth, hopeful notes, but they’re subtle. When the song ends, on his fear that he won’t be able to overcome his addiction, the audience stands up. They don’t clap. They don’t cheer or boo, they just stand up and put their hands over their hearts.
“I haven’t experienced the same type of pain in my life as Miguel,” I say, “but I think we’ve all experienced loss, fea
r, doubt, and frustration. I wrote this song just after I graduated high school—the week I discovered that I hadn’t been accepted to Juilliard. I had failed to achieve my lifelong dream. I carried around this pain for a long time, but recently I’ve discovered that there are many paths we can take in our climb up the mountain, many different ways to reach the top. Sometimes we don’t take the path we planned, but the journey is more beautiful because of it. I’d like to thank all of you for being here, on what is a huge step for me along my path—my first solo concert.”
There aren’t any more boos, and when I close the concert with my final song from Miguel, one about the joy and peace he found—clearly written when he was clean—the audience stands again. This time, they clap, and clap, and clap. A standing ovation at my first concert. I breathe a sigh of relief and sit down. “It didn’t occur to me that you might be such a supportive audience,” I say. “I didn’t prepare anything else—as you know I’m relatively new. But I did write a little song a week or so ago about second chances. It’s pretty rough, but I’d be happy to play it for you guys—yours would be the very first ears to hear it, if you’d be interested?”
When I finish, they give me a second standing ovation. “I’m really out of songs this time,” I say. “How about I play “Piano Man,” and you can all sing along?”
They love it. I have even more fun tonight than I had at the Adler, or in Paris, and without any drama from my bio mom. Thankfully, it’s more than enough to keep my label from replacing me for the tour.
Over the next few weeks, I develop a routine. I wake up, work out, text Cole, or sometimes talk to him on the phone, shower, get ready, practice or work on new songs, and then prepare for my performance. Every day a part of me hopes he’ll realize that I’m Elizabeth Gauvón, and that I’m geographically close.
But he never does.
I tell myself that he’s probably waiting to do some grand gesture. He’s probably figured it out, and he’s going to surprise me again, like he did in Paris. The week leading up to my show in Antwerp is one of the longest of my life. I read and reread every text he sends, trying to figure out whether he’s coming. But he doesn’t come, and I cry for an hour afterward. I don’t answer the phone when he calls me the next day. Which is why, when he calls me again two hours later, while I’m on the road to Luxembourg, I answer.
I usually don’t answer when I’m not alone in my room, but if I screen his call twice, he might worry that I’m upset. I am, but not for any reason that’s fair. “Hey,” I say.
“You have the day off?” he asks.
“What?”
“Aren’t you usually busy cutting and dyeing hair right now?”
Dangit. “Why did you call if you thought I was busy?”
“I had some good news,” he says. “I figured I’d leave you a message asking you to call me back, since you didn’t answer earlier.”
“What’s your good news?” I ask, just as my merchandising manager asks me in German, “Did Jonathan order more shirts? We’re nearly out. If his contact can’t get them done fast enough, I have a guy. He’d give us a good price.”
“What was that?” Cole asks.
“What was what?” I wave my merchandising manager off.
But it’s too late. “Shirts? Ordering shirts?”
Up until now, I have never lied to him. To get out of this, I’ll have to lie. “It’s a long story.” I wince. “I better go. I’ll call you tomorrow for sure. Okay?”
“Sure,” he says.
After he hangs up, I think of four or five decent explanations. Maybe I’ve been practicing my German with someone at the salon, and one of those people was asking about salon shirts. Or maybe I’m at a store, and maybe one of the employees was speaking in German. But all of them sound pretty flimsy. Which means I might have just given him the key to figuring out my secret. And if he does figure it out and I didn’t tell him, then what? Will he be mad? Will he think I’ve been lying to him? After all, a lie of omission is still a lie.
Why have I been lying?
Because I wanted him to pursue me. I wanted him to demand to know where I am, or offer to fly out to Atlanta, or, I don’t know. Do something. . . big. I’m a bigger diva than I realized. And I wanted him to want me before he found out that I’m becoming successful.
At the end of the day, I didn’t tell him because I want him to want Beth, not Elizabeth.
Oh, well. No way to stop him if he decides to investigate why he heard someone speaking German in the background. The tour has been wildly successful so far, which is a huge blessing, but it also means it’s at the top of most Google searches for anyone who makes half an effort. I walk to the front of the bus. “Hey, Jonathan, Harris wants to know if you ordered the shirts.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m good at my job. Of course I did.”
“Just checking. Hey, what’s the tart thing you said is amazing in Luxembourg? I’m going to need about three of those tonight.”
“Rough day already?” he asks.
I shrug. “Not my best.”
“They only make quetschentaart in the fall, when plums are in season. It’s made with damson plums, and the top has a crunchy sugar.” He closes his eyes. “No matter what happened, two of these will fix it.”
The more I think about it, the more I worry that I blew it. Maybe I should call Cole and explain. Maybe I should text an explanation, so he has to at least read it. How mad will he be? Especially when he realizes I was actually in Antwerp and never even told him. . . Although, I guess I don’t know that he took that job his buddy was holding. He never said that, specifically. He just talks about being busy with work a lot.
Jonathan stops the tour bus at his favorite bakery and buys a whole box of the plum tarts, and he’s right. They are almost enough to calm me down. But by the time we reach the hotel, I’m antsy again. I don’t want to sit around, obsessing over my phone. Since we have the night off—my concert here isn’t until tomorrow—I decide to go for a walk. I grab a jacket I picked up in Rome, my very favorite jacket ever, and head out to get a look around Luxembourg. Since I have nothing else to do, I walk for a long time. I figure I have two plum tarts to work off.
When a song pops up in my head, a good one maybe, about secrets, I decide to head back. When I don’t write them down quickly, sometimes I lose them. I’m so preoccupied that I walk past the lobby of my hotel and have to circle back. Embarrassing. I almost have the entire melodic line hammered down by the time I reach the elevators. They bing and I step in, thinking of ideas for the second verse. I wait and wait—which I’ve become accustomed to by now. Some European elevators are slower than taking the stairs. Even if I crawled up them on my hands and knees. Finally the doors ding and open. I step forward and nearly run into someone who was clearly waiting to enter. I throw my hands out to keep from falling and strong hands catch me.
When I look up, my gaze locks on the most gorgeous green eyes I’ve ever seen. The color of freshly cut St. Augustine grass. The color of the purest emeralds ever mined. “I was worried you could see me from the peephole on your room and weren’t answering.” Cole beams at me.
“What—what are you doing here?” I swallow, but my throat still feels like I blow-dried it with a round brush.
“I think that’s a question I could be asking you.” Cole hasn’t released my forearms, and the heat in his hands radiates up my arms, even through the sleeves of my leather jacket.
“I’m on tour,” I say.
“You never mentioned that to me,” he says.
“I thought you might come, when I performed in Antwerp.” My voice is soft, almost apologetic. I shouldn’t have to apologize. Anger pulses through me. He never even asked. He just assumed I was still in Atlanta. “But you never asked me—and I never lied.” I lift my chin.
“I love when you get feisty.”
I can’t breathe. I can’t blink. I can’t move, or this dream will shatter. I’ll go back to always being alone.
“Last t
ime I tried this, your mother screwed it up.”
Henrietta is not my mother, but I don’t interrupt him, not right now.
His head lowers toward mine slowly, and his arms finally release their hold on me to wrap around my waist. “You have no idea how good this feels, to be near you again.” His lips find mine then, firm, insistent, unyielding.
Every single thing I remembered.
And so much more.
He kisses me until I forget what I’m wearing. He kisses me until I forget why I’m here. I forget where we are at all.
Until the elevator bings. “Oh, excuse me,” a man says.
A familiar voice.
“Elizabeth?”
I stiffen in Cole’s arms. He stands up straight, his arms loosening enough that I can spin around. “Hey, Jonathan.” I meet Cole’s eyes. “Jonathan is my tour manager, and Jonathan, this is Cole.” Uh. Cole with nine names that I can’t remember. “Of Liechtenstein.”
“Beth’s boyfriend.” Cole’s voice rumbles behind me, deep and possessive, like he’s claiming his territory.
I love it. I smile and say, “Yes, my boyfriend.”
“You were upset earlier.” Jonathan is a pretty big guy, and he doesn’t back down at Cole’s clear demarcation of our relationship. “Didn’t have anything to do with this guy, did it?”
I laugh. “I thought he wasn’t going to be here this weekend. But he surprised me.”
Jonathan nods. “Alright then. You know where to reach me if you need anything.” He heads down the hall and ducks into his room.
“My boyfriend?” I arch one eyebrow.
“I’m sorry,” Cole says. “I don’t know why I said that. He seemed so. . . proprietary when he looked at you. Is that the right word?”
“You and I talk every day,” I say. “And you’re a green-eyed, gorgeous giraffe.”
The smile steals across his face slowly. “That I am.”
“I might be okay with being your girlfriend. I mean, how much would really change from how we already interact?”
“Well.” His voice is low again, rough. “I can think of a few things.” His eyes move to my mouth.
