by T. K. Leigh
Chapter Twenty-Eight
My mind reels as I sift through the witness interviews that were conducted as part of the investigation into my birth mother. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read these over the past several hours. I keep hoping to find something, anything that will tell me whether Lincoln is right. A part of me wants him to be. I like the idea that my birth mother didn’t abandon me because she didn’t want me, which is what I’ve told myself since I learned I was adopted. But another part of me thinks his theory is too farfetched to be real.
My phone ringing cuts through, and I tear my eyes away from the papers, Nora’s name popping up on the screen.
“Hey,” I answer.
“I need a date,” she replies without a greeting.
“Sorry. You’re not my type. And I don’t put out.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. Seriously, Iz. You, me, and a new club in the Village. One of my clients is doing the PR for it. Got me on the guest list. I don’t want to go alone, so I called you.”
“Did you only call me because I’m single?” I prop my phone up to my ear with my shoulder, flipping through the papers in front of me, half-listening, half-reading.
“No. Well, yes, but that’s not the only reason. I only have a plus one, not a plus three.”
“Then shouldn’t you take your plus one?”
There’s a slight pause before she whines, “Come on, Iz. There are free drinks. You need a night away from trying to put together the puzzle pieces of your life. I love you, but this whole search is consuming you. Don’t get me wrong. If I were trying to solve a thirty-year mystery, it would probably consume me, too. But I want some time with my friend.”
I close my eyes, blowing out a long breath. Since I started down this proverbial rabbit hole, I’ve been obsessed with learning the truth. In a way, it helps distract me from everything else in my life, namely Asher York. Then again, I’ve allowed it to distract me from other parts of my life, too, like my friends. Maybe a night out is exactly what I need.
“Fine. I’ll be your plus one.”
“Yay,” she cheers excitedly. “I’ll text you the address. Meet me at eleven.”
“Eleven? So late?” God, I sound old. A few months ago, I’d consider eleven early. But that was before I started working a nine-to-five job.
“Yes, Izzy. Eleven. Of our little circle, you’re the last one I thought would consider that late.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll be there.”
“You’d better. Or I’ll hunt you down. I do know where you live.”
“See you soon,” I sing, then end the call before dragging myself into the shower.
A few minutes past eleven, my Uber pulls up in front of a nondescript brick building in Greenwich Village. A line of people waiting to get into what appears to be the newest hotspot in town snakes around the block. I step onto the sidewalk, looking up and down the street for any sign of Nora’s strawberry blonde hair. It doesn’t take me long to spot her as she waves me over.
“There you are!” she exclaims as I approach. “I thought you were standing me up.”
“Never.” We exchange hugs.
“You clean up good, Iz.” She scans my fitted black dress. I figured since I spend most of my time in scrubs, may as well wear something sexy. And with the slit going up my thigh and the way the dress pushes up my chest, it definitely qualifies as sexy. “Guys won’t be able to take their eyes off you.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I comment, gesturing to her simple V-neck green dress she paired with leopard print heels.
“Thanks. Now, let’s go drink for free.” She loops her arm through mine.
“I like the sound of that.”
She leads me toward a large man standing by a roped off area and gives him her name. He checks his clipboard, then pulls back the rope, allowing us to enter.
The instant we step inside, I’m taken by surprise at my surroundings. I expected a dark club with thumping music, girls wearing dresses that don’t leave much to the imagination. Instead, it’s more low-key and laid back. Small tables fill the area, the focal point a stage against the far wall where a small ensemble plays jazz.
“Where’s Jeremy tonight?” I ask once we’re shown to a table in a separate VIP area and a waitress returns with our drinks. I take a sip of my vodka tonic, lowering it when I notice her hesitant expression.
“Umm…” She chews on her lower lip as she seems to look everywhere but at me.
“Nora, is—”
“He’s gay,” she blurts out as the song comes to an end, silence seeming to ring through the room. Or maybe it feels that way because of my complete and utter shock.
Her admission echoes around us until the audience finally claps. I join in, albeit halfheartedly, as I lean toward her. “What do you mean? Jeremy’s not gay. I have no problem with anyone who is, but—”
“I know. It’s crazy. Especially considering how we met. Why the hell would he be on Tinder looking to hook up with a woman if he’s gay?” She throws back her rocks glass filled with a dark liquid, practically finishing it before returning it to the table.
Tonight now makes sense, why she was so desperate to have me agree to come. She needed someone to talk to. Sure, she could have confided in Chloe or Evie, but they’re married. There’s something to be said about commiserating with single people about relationship troubles.
“I haven’t felt things were right for a while. I thought it was all in my head. That it was because we were both working so much. About a month ago, I decided to surprise him when he was out of town on a business trip. Called his assistant and got all his travel information, including the hotel where he was staying. Unfortunately, I was the one who ended up being surprised when he answered the door to his room, fresh from a shower, a man in a similar state of undress sitting on the mussed-up bed.”
“Oh, Nora…”
“And the funny thing? He was so sweet about it. I want to be mad at him, but I can’t.”
“He still lied to you. Still went behind your back.”
“That’s what I thought at first, too, until I put myself in his shoes. You’ve met his family. They’re…conservative.”
I snort a laugh. Calling them conservative is putting it mildly. When I went to Hawaii for their wedding, Jeremy’s parents constantly asked me to clear their plates or fetch them a drink, mistaking me for the waitstaff because of the tone of my skin. It took every ounce of resolve I possessed to bite my tongue at the constant comments of “all Mexicans look the same to me”. I can imagine how they’d react if they knew their son wasn’t straight.
“It broke my heart to hear him talk about how miserable he’d been,” Nora continues.
“But if he were miserable, why did he go on Tinder in the first place? And why would he ask you to marry him?”
“He hoped he’d get used to being with a woman. But it doesn’t work that way. You can’t just flip the switch.”
I shift my attention forward, nodding in rhythm with the music. I’d always thought Nora and Jeremy had the perfect relationship. She was the first of our circle to get engaged, then married. They both appeared so happy. Maybe not everything is as it seems.
“What are you going to do?” I ask after a while.
“I’m filing for divorce. Jeremy is agreeable. He doesn’t plan on contesting anything, so unless there are any surprises, I’ll be Nora Tremblay again by Labor Day.”
“I’m sorry,” I offer, covering her hand with mine.
“Don’t be.” She smiles sadly. “It’s part of life. At least I got a great friend out of it. Despite everything, Jeremy will always be a friend.” She pushes out a laugh that borders on being a sob. “I now have a gay best friend. I just didn’t think that gay best friend would also be my ex-husband.” She tilts back her glass, swallowing the last of her drink.
“Look on the bright side,” I begin, my voice bright in an effort to lighten the mood. “Now you can enjoy all the eye candy here with me.” I gestur
e to a couple of tall, well-dressed men standing by the bar, obviously checking us out. “Hell, you can even take one home if you really wanted.”
“I’m not sure I want anyone else,” Nora says. “Not yet anyway. It’s more important I fall in love with myself again.”
I give her a sympathetic smile, squeezing her hand, a silent encouragement. Nora’s imminent divorce from Jeremy hits me harder than it should. On the outside, they were the picture-perfect couple. I honestly thought they’d be one of those couples who died together when they were old and gray. Instead, Nora’s filing for divorce before they even hit their one-year wedding anniversary. It makes me wonder whether any couple can really survive.
“Thank you,” a gravelly voice comes over the speakers after the band finishes another number. It almost reminds me of Louis Armstrong. Low. Raspy. Soulful. “You’re a fantastic group of people. But this party’s just getting started. Next up, we have a little surprise. A last-minute addition, a man who got his start studying the blues. And you can hear it in his music to this very day. Give it up for the one, the only, Asher York!”
I stiffen, my wide eyes shooting to the stage, where I see a ruggedly handsome man emerging. He nods in acknowledgment of the warm welcome, but doesn’t smile enthusiastically. That’s never been his style. His stage presence is more…aloof. Mysterious. Sexy.
“Are you okay?” Nora presses, her hand covering my forearm.
I rip my gaze from the stage, meeting her curious stare. I never told her or Evie about Asher. They weren’t part of my life when I was engaged to Jessie, so they’d have no reason to know about Asher. The only person who does is Chloe.
I part my lips, a deer caught in the headlights, uncertain how to explain why I’m this on edge over the fact that one of the top musical acts in the country is mere feet away from me.
“I’m fine.” I plaster on a fake smile, but it doesn’t assuage her suspicion. “Just surprised someone like Asher York would be here,” I flounder, unable to shake the heat of Nora’s stare studying my every move.
“Thank you,” Asher says into the microphone. A stagehand approaches with a black acoustic-electric guitar, and Asher takes it. After slinging it over his body, he plays a quick chord to check the tuning before stepping back up to the microphone. “This is a great little club, isn’t it?”
The audience erupts in cheers and whistles, except me. I remain frozen in place, soaking up every single syllable he utters.
“The owner, Guy Frederickson, has a similar club up in Boston, which is where I grew up. In Boston music circles, it is the club. The place you want to play if you’re going to be somebody. And I desperately wanted to be somebody. I must have sent him a new demo every week, begging to play in his club. You know what he told me?” He pauses, a nostalgic smile lighting up his eyes.
I should leave before Asher realizes I’m here, but I’m transfixed, mesmerized by the way he tells a story, how comfortable he looks in front of all these people. Granted, it’s not remotely close to the size of the audience he’ll play in front of tomorrow night, but this place can still easily hold several hundred people. A far cry from the basement bars where drunk men shouted for his band to play “Freebird”.
“He told me if I wanted to play his club, I needed to find my soul. I thought that meant playing the blues, like he does so very well. So I studied the blues. Watched the greats play. Listened to it for days, months. Wrote my own stuff.
“After a while, I was absolutely certain he’d book me. I knew the blues. Up. Down. Left. Right. Inside. Outside. Put all the elements of the quintessential blues song into my work, too. And yet…” He tilts his head, pausing briefly. “He said no.” He chuckles slightly, everyone joining in. I can’t help but laugh myself.
“Next time I dropped off a demo, he pulled me aside. He said, ‘Kid…’” He mimics a rough voice, pretending to wrap his arm around imaginary shoulders, “‘let me give you a piece of advice. You don’t play the blues. The blues play you.’”
“That’s right!” a man from the crowd yells in agreement.
“At first, I thought he was just a little tipsy. If any of you know Guy, you know he likes his coffee strong and his whiskey neat. Sometimes at the same time. But he went on to explain. He told me I hadn’t yet mastered the blues because I’d never experienced a soul-crushing loss. Because I’d never hit rock bottom. Because I’d never experienced…love.”
In an instant, the atmosphere in the room shifts. It’s no longer one of nostalgia and appreciation for the man who made tonight possible. It’s more solemn.
“I couldn’t believe my ears. I was convinced I’d experienced all of that. I’d lost a dear friend in high school.” A sad smile builds on his mouth. “I loved her like a sister. I didn’t think anything could possibly top that feeling of absolute agony. When I wrote my music, I returned to that place, those memories, those feelings. But still, Guy told me it wasn’t enough. I hate to say it, but he was right. Losing this friend wasn’t the soul-crushing loss I thought it was. Since then, I’ve experienced another loss… A deeper loss.”
A hush falls over the crowd, not so much as the clanking of ice against glass sounding in the club, everyone on the edge of their seats to learn the rest of his story.
“You’d probably think once my music got radio time and I started selling out stadiums, Guy would have no problem booking me at one of his clubs.” He laughs slightly, shaking his head. “Well, you’re wrong. Because he still refused, said I still hadn’t found my soul. Until I sent him a demo of this song about a week ago. I guess it changed his mind because he called me up. With no greeting, he said the words I’ve been waiting to hear out of his mouth for over ten years. ‘Son, the blues finally found you.’” He scans the crowd. I tense, worried he’ll notice me, but his gaze never reaches me. “This is ‘Throw Away My Love’.”
He steps back from the microphone, the lights dimming on the stage, apart from a lone spotlight shining on him. I hold my breath as his fingers find their position on the frets and he brings the pic up to the strings. Then the sound of a simple, sparse melody comes forward, like a whisper at first, before it vanishes.
When his voice fills the room, there’s a collective sigh as the tension rolls off everyone. I lean closer, grasping onto every single one of his beautiful lyrics. But in that beauty is pain. Is heartache. Is soul-crushing agony. He sings of being cold, despite the sunlight bathing him. Of feeling poor, despite his lavish house and furnishings. Of feeling alone, despite being surrounded by people who call him a friend. All because the woman he’d risk it all for threw away the greatest gift he could give her — his love.
I search my memory for this song being on his latest album. I was there when he penned each of them. This isn’t one of them. Which can only mean one thing — he wrote it after I walked away.
“Oh god…” I cover my mouth with my hand to hide my trembling chin as the lyrics dig their way into the very depths of my soul.
I’ve seen Asher perform more times than I can count. I’ve always found myself hypnotized by the raw emotion he’s able to evoke so easily from the crowd. But I’ve never experienced this, like I can physically feel his heart being ripped from his chest and displayed in front of him while it still beats. I wonder if that’s what it felt like when he walked into that bar and was handed an origami dove.
As the final note rings out, the entire place is still as they process the magic they just experienced. The anguish. The despair. The unmistakable heartache. Then everyone simultaneously jumps to their feet, the applause thunderous. It’s true. This song is evidence of the fact that the blues found Asher.
Because of me.
I snap my eyes to Nora, frantic. “Can we go?” I ask with a quiver, tears streaming down my cheeks.
She studies me for a moment, a thousand questions swirling in her gaze. But instead of pushing the topic, she nods. “Of course.”
We push through the throng of people standing and cheering. I keep my head dow
n, not wanting to draw attention to myself. But when a heat prickles my nape, I slow my steps. Despite my brain telling my body to keep going, to not look back, I do. When I glance at the stage, despondent brown eyes lock with mine. I don’t know how long I stand here, unable to move. Could be hours. Could be seconds. All I know is I’ve never seen Asher so…lost.
Then an icy stare washes over him, sending a chill down my spine. It’s unlike any look he’s ever given me. I deserve it. Deserve his hatred, his animosity, his disgust. It’s what I wanted. But it still hurts.
My lips parting, I shake my head, wishing he could read the warring thoughts in my mind. But he can’t. So I simply mouth, I’m sorry, then follow Nora out of the club.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Nora asks, walking me to the door of the Union Square apartment she once shared with Jeremy. Most of his things are gone, a reminder of how fleeting everything in this world can be.
After we made our escape from the club, we came back here, where I finally told her everything. My engagement to Jessie. The reason I broke it off. My one night in Vegas with Asher. Jessie reaching out in January. His proposition. Spending two weeks with Asher up at the lake house. Why I walked away. She didn’t judge, didn’t tell me I made a mistake. She simply encouraged me to follow my heart.
I wish I knew which direction my heart was heading.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Text me when you get home?”
“I will.”
I give her a hug, then make my way out of her building and emerge onto the sidewalk. As I keep an eye out for the Uber I’d ordered, I relish in the peacefulness, the streets that are normally packed with cars much less populated after two in the morning. So instead of waiting for my ride that’s a few minutes away, I cancel it, taking this opportunity to walk through the city I love.
