by Sarina Bowen
“Seriously?” Adam gave a low whistle. “You can’t get anything past that kid. She’s probably going to be president one day. Or head of the CIA.”
“She still believes in Santa,” I reminded him.
“Maybe she’s just humoring us.”
Ethan skidded to a stop in front of us. “Hey! Good to see you again,” he said, grabbing Adam into a hug that was tighter than the one I’d just given him. Huh. “Thanks for helping me with the lawyer thing.”
“No problem,” my brother said. And if I wasn’t mistaken, Adam’s cheeks got a little pinker than normal.
“Glad you could make it tonight.”
Adam’s lips twitched. “It’s pretty hard to drag me to a free concert when I could be at my desk right about now.”
Ethan clapped him on the back with a hand the size of a dinner plate. “Thanks for making the time.” Then he hurried off to help someone find his security pass.
The last person to arrive in Jonas’s suite was Quinn. She wore skin-tight black jeans and a shimmering, form-fitting tank top. Her eyes were smoldering in expertly applied makeup, and her lips were painted man-killer red. It was the kind of look I’d never pulled off in my life.
Quinn greeted her bandmates first and then paused in front of me, Vivi, and Adam. “Hello there.” She smiled at me. “I like your blouse.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprised by the compliment.
I was just opening my mouth again to pay her a compliment, when she added: “My mother has one just like it.”
And I felt like I’d been slapped.
I was trying to formulate a response when Vivi piped up. “Mama tried on LOTS of shirts. Like all of them. They’re still all over her bed.”
Adam clamped a hand over his mouth, while Quinn let out a snort.
Speechless now, I wondered why this fancy suite did not come equipped with a trapdoor for quick escapes. It really needed one.
Club level my ass.
“What did I miss?” Jonas asked, coming up behind me, putting a warm hand in the center of my back.
Quinn’s eyes got squinty. She turned and headed for the other end of the room.
“Nothing at all,” I said a beat too late.
“Ethan says the cars are two minutes away,” Jonas said.
“Cars? The concert is… a hundred yards from here, no?”
He made a face. “We can’t walk it. Too many people between here and there. Sorry.”
Ethan clapped his hands and asked everyone to proceed to the elevators.
It was show time.
As promised, Vivi, Adam, and I were ushered into front-row seats just a minute before the PA system announced, to shrieking fans, that Hush Note was about to take the stage. The overhead lights went out, and Vivi scrambled immediately into my lap.
There was a charged silence while fifteen thousand people waited to see what would happen next. My heart thumped harder as bodies moved around on the stage in the darkness.
The sound of a fast guitar riff gave me goosebumps. And then a yellow beam of light illuminated Nixon, and the audience screamed its approval.
After a few bars, the bass and drums came in together, and more lights came up as my heart rate increased to match the drumbeat. Around us, the audience got to its feet, and I let Vivi stand up on the seat, holding her body so she wouldn’t fall.
Finally, a spotlight came up on Jonas. As the audience lost its mind, I experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance. He was standing up there in the same jeans and T-shirt I’d seen on him a few minutes ago, but now he looked like a stranger with the stage lighting washing over him and a microphone in his hand.
“I turn up on Saturday nights and always find you in this spot,” Jonas sang. “Used to think it was a coincidence, but now I think it’s not.”
His voice sent shivers down my spine and across my shoulders.
The song was “Start Something With Me.” I knew it well. I hadn’t set out to become a Hush Note fan, but after I’d discovered who Jonas was, I’d become unwillingly tuned into him, like a radio signal that suddenly sharpens from static to clarity. I’d heard him everywhere—on the radios of cars passing by on the street, at the drugstore, and even in an ad for dog food.
“Start Something With Me” was like a family member. I hadn’t chosen to memorize the lyrics or hear the tune in my head, but it was there just the same.
God, I could never let Jonas get ahold of the playlists on my phone. I didn’t want him to know that I owned his music, and listened to it sometimes, especially in summer, when I was most susceptible to him. He’d written most of Summer Nights during that summer in Maine.
Until a few short days ago, the music was all I had left of his voice.
“Wow,” Vivi yelled. “My daddy is loud.”
I couldn’t disagree. At least Vivi was sporting a pair of hot-pink headphones that fit snugly over her ears. They were special ones, for noise protection. Just before we’d stepped into the car, Ethan had torn them out of a plastic package, and Jonas had fitted them carefully over Vivi’s ears. “You have to wear these for the whole concert, okay? Otherwise the music will hurt your ears. Promise me you’ll wear them?”
Vivi’s face had become solemn. “Okay, Daddy. I promise.”
I’d had to blink away tears, and Adam had, too.
After clearing his throat, Ethan had given a tiny plastic packet to both me and Adam. “And you two should wear these. Jonas and I always do.” We’d tried on the ball-shaped earplugs, with little tubes sticking out of them. I’d thought they made us look like aliens.
“God, I have enough trouble looking cool without the science fiction headgear,” Adam had grumbled.
For some reason, Ethan had found this hilarious. And then he’d shut our car door and rapped on the window as a signal to the driver to go. Just like in the movies.
The concert was amazing on so many levels. Seeing Jonas work the stage was surreal and overwhelming. There were two of him up there—both the guy I knew and the famous stranger, all wrapped up together. He prowled the stage under the multicolored lights, eyes on the audience, his brow glistening with effort.
My eyes were fixed on the way his hands danced over his bass guitar. It was impossible to believe that those hands had once played my body. An entire lifetime had passed for me since that night.
And after each song, a deafening wave of applause rolled over me. I hadn’t been to a big concert like this since my teen years. I’d forgotten the sheer power of live music—the way the crowd’s energy seemed to rise up from their waving hands into the sky, and the way the bass echoed inside my chest.
It was big and wild, and one thing seemed absolutely certain. Jonas was never mine, and he never would be. I’d bet a dozen homemade whoopie pies that every person in this stadium felt an equal sense of ownership.
They played one of my favorite songs near the end. After another loud crash of applause, Nixon began picking out the beginning of a slow tune called “Heavenly.” His strumming shimmered through the amplifiers, breaking over me like goosebumps.
Jonas began to sing about the pain of indecision. I’d heard the song before, of course, but watching him perform it was a different experience. His voice was supple and easy, though there was sweat coursing down his face. His body seemed to bend with emotion, squeezing the high notes from some place deep inside.
The crowd ate it up. As I watched, a scrap of something red sailed through the air and landed on the lip of the stage. I was close enough to see it was a lacy red thong.
And here I thought thrown panties were just a myth. And how was it done, exactly? Had the panty-tosser wiggled out of them? Or had she brought a spare pair in her pocketbook?
Adam cupped his hand over my ear. “Are you going to toss yours?”
I gave him a sharp look. “I did that five years ago.”
He shrugged, grinning like he knew a secret.
I’d better learn how to tamp down my reaction to Jonas. And I’d bet
ter learn to do it soon.
Vivi shocked me by staying awake for the entire concert. Even so, she leaned more heavily on me after each song, her little body sagging with the lateness of the hour.
Finally, on the heels of thunderous applause, Jonas unhooked the microphone and announced their last song of the evening. “We’re going to play you our new single, just released last week. I thought I’d tell you a little something about it. It’s called ‘Sweetness.’”
“Hey!” Adam poked me in the arm. “Isn’t that what he calls you?”
“About five years ago I met somebody wonderful. And then I spent five years trying to write a song about her. But I couldn’t do it. Every version was worse than the one before. But then last year I finally figured out where I went wrong with the lyrics. And everything fell into place. This is a song about meeting the right person at the wrong time. It’s a song about regrets. And I hope the girl in the song knows that I mean every word. Because I’m really hoping the story isn’t over yet.”
The audience hooted its approval, and Quinn clicked her sticks together four times, bringing the rest of the band into the groove. By the time Jonas sang the first lyric, I was holding my breath.
* * *
It was many years ago now
That summer was my saving grace
We were so much younger then
But I will not forget her face
* * *
So I might never be the same
Since that night that meant so much
I will never mind the pain
But I’ll always miss her touch
* * *
I want her to be happy
Hell, I pray for it sometimes
I never found what I was after
At least I know the reason why
* * *
Sweetness…
I let the good one get away
Sweetness…
If you found love I’ll be okay.
* * *
“Wow.” Adam nudged my shoulder. “Fire up the panty cannons. That is so romantic.”
“It’s…something,” I stammered. Confusing was the first word that sprang to mind.
After the last chord died away, Nixon yelled, “Thank you very much!” and walked off the stage.
“All done?” Vivi asked with a yawn.
“There might be one more,” Adam cautioned.
Indeed, after the audience stomped and whistled for five solid minutes, a solitary stagehand appeared with a chair. He set it in the middle of the stage, then placed a microphone in front of it. A moment later, Jonas walked onto the stage alone, carrying only an acoustic guitar, and sat down.
The crowd got quiet to see what he’d do.
“I hope you’ll indulge me in an encore, unplugged,” he said, his voice whiskey-rough from a night of singing. The crowd applauded, and he went on. “I don’t remember much about my parents. They died when I was young. But one of my memories is having my hair washed by my mom. And she used to sing to me while she did it. One day I started to cry, and she thought it was because she got soap in my eyes. But really, it was just the song. It’s one of those that’s both sad and happy.”
He strummed the guitar absently while he spoke.
“Five years ago almost to this day I started whistling it to a friend of mine. I don’t even know why it popped into my head. Just one of those things, I guess. But it’s the perfect song, and I’m going to sing it to you now.”
Oh hell, I thought. And then the stage got blurry as Jonas sang the first words to “You Are My Sunshine.” By the time he sang “please don’t take my sunshine away,” I had to wipe tears from my face.
“Huh. Shot scored,” Adam said.
“I know this song,” Vivi said from Adam’s arms. Then she gave a big yawn, and put her head on Adam’s shoulder.
“Your daddy said that he was singing this one just for your mama,” Adam said. Vivi’s response was to fall asleep.
After the concert ended, we waited by our seats, avoiding the crush of the crowd. But as the audience drained away, I saw Ethan waiting for us at the end of the row.
“Follow me,” he said, fullbacking through the stragglers towards a stage door. A beefy guy in a SECURITY T-shirt stepped aside when Ethan showed him a pass.
After a quick walk through the back of the outdoor venue and into a cordoned-off area, Ethan opened the door to a shiny sedan. There was a car seat set up for Vivi, and Adam poured her into it and clipped the harness.
“Jonas wanted me to tell you he’ll be a half hour or so behind you,” Ethan said as I slipped into the back beside my daughter. “He has a few hands to shake before he can get away.”
“I’m sure he has plenty to do,” I said. In fact, I should probably just head home. Except I’d left my overnight bag in Jonas’s hotel room. Nice job, subconscious. “Are you getting in?” I asked my brother.
Adam raked a hand through his hair. “Well… I think I’m going to stop by the afterparty for a little while.”
I could only blink up at him in surprise. “Oh! Sure. You should totally do that.” Who knew my nerdy lawyer brother would want to drink with a bunch of rock stars?
He blew me a kiss. “Goodnight.” The door closed, and a few seconds later, the car headed for the hotel.
Fifteen
Jonas
After the show, I was cornered by a beefy Boston radio DJ who wanted to talk about “Sweetness.” We were standing outdoors under the awning at the rear of the band shell.
“It’s like poetry, but with a poppy backbeat,” the DJ gushed, swigging a beer. “And the bridge is just seminal.”
“Thanks, man!” I kept my smile pasted on, but my eyes drifted to where Ethan stood. That man needed to get the hell over here and rescue me from this fuckwad.
“This one’s gonna go big,” the DJ said, sweating through his Hawaiian shirt.
“I sure hope so,” I returned, trying to sound modest. Trying to sound even half civil.
I wondered if Kira had made it back to the hotel suite yet. And—more importantly—what the hell she was thinking. I’d just spent the last two hours seeing my life with fresh eyes. Now I was dying to know how put off Kira was by the onstage strutting and the screaming hordes.
The music didn’t embarrass me. The music was good. At least, it was as good as I could make it. The songs I wrote always sounded better in my head than they did in the recording studio. But I could live with that. Creative frustration came with the territory.
The circus of a concert, though, that was something else. I’d forgotten about the underwear throwing, for starters. It’s not like I had a collection at home.
What did happen to all those flying thongs, anyway? The stadium must have a dumpster out back just for women’s panties.
And then there was the line of hardcore fans outside the ropes. Security men were planted in a row, like shrubberies, one man every three or four feet, just to make sure the fans didn’t storm the place. Some of them would be teenage boys who’d spent all their free hours learning guitar riffs in their bedrooms. I’d been one of those, once, too. I could almost understand waiting like penned cattle for a glimpse of a favorite player and for the slim chance of a hand-shake or an autograph.
But quite a few of those fans were drawn to fame for fame’s sake. Some people wanted a taste of us just because other people wanted a taste of us. We were desired simply because we were desired.
God, it made my head spin. And when I imagined explaining it to Kira, I didn’t even know where to start.
What sane woman would want a guy that dealt with all this craziness? She’d probably rather be with a guy who came home every night at six, and whose coworkers weren’t drunk or stoned half the time. And who didn’t have to make a lot of small talk with radio DJs. The guy in front of me was still talking.
“Jonas,” Ethan’s voice rumbled over my shoulder. Finally. “You have that conference call with your Chinese record label in three minutes,” he said.
>
“Dude, you’re right,” I said, reaching out to shake the DJ’s hand one more time. Ethan and I used this same fake excuse at least three nights a week. “Duty calls,” I lied, begging off.
“Great show, man. Great show,” the DJ said before walking off.
I felt suddenly weary. I let Ethan lead me over to a bank of lockers, where the big man extracted my wallet and phone from one of them, handing them over. “Here you go, Jojo. The car is ready to take you to the hotel.”
And to Kira. “Can I get a beer?” I heard myself ask.
Ethan had a Sam Adams in his hand. He offered it to me.
“What, I don’t get my own? Just a sip from Mom’s bottle?”
“I thought you were leaving. There’s plenty of beer in your hotel room. I checked.”
“Maybe I should stay,” I wondered aloud. “I could keep an eye on Nixon.”
Ethan shook his giant head. “No. No, Jojo. Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“You’re stalling.”
“No, I’m not,” I lied.
“Maybe I’m your paid slave, but I am not an idiot,” he said, his tone as grumpy as I’d ever heard it. “Man up, would you? Go back to the hotel and tell your girl that you meant every word.”
“She’s not my girl,” I muttered. I’d been an idiot to say all those things on stage. In Maine, Kira had accused me of going all “rock-star power trip” in front of that ex-boyfriend of hers. And I’d vigorously denied it.
She’d been right, too. The sight of another man sitting across the table from Kira had made me crazy. The pull I felt whenever I looked at her was undeniable, but that didn’t make me worthy of her. I couldn’t make myself into a better man just by wishing for it. And I couldn’t make her trust me just by telling a large audience how much I loved her.
She was probably back at the hotel right this minute, thinking of all the different ways she might tell me to take a hike.
