“I will,” I say, and then leave the plane without looking back, putting my focus on the walkway that leads to the customs terminal. I can’t deny a feeling of letdown, as if I’m driving by a scenic overlook to a beautiful place but have passed the turnoff and have no choice but to keep going.
I spot the sign that says “Baggage Claim”—Italian above, English below. I head in that direction and notice my reflection in a window.
My suspicions of horror are confirmed. My hair looks as if I slept with a blanket over my head. My face is completely devoid of any makeup. My clothes look like I’ve been wearing them for a week.
I repair the damage as best I can and walk to the luggage area. It takes several minutes for me to get there and when I do, I realize that most of the other passengers on the plane have beaten me to it.
It takes forever to get through customs, and when I finally step through and start looking for a taxi-stand, I hear a young girl’s shriek. A chorus of yelps follows hers, and I see what looks like a group of college-age girls circling something or someone, shouldering into one another. It becomes clear then that they are getting things signed, shoulders, T-shirts, hats. One by one, they melt away from the circle, jumping up and down with ear-piercing squeals of delight.
Curious, I watch for a couple of minutes longer until the crowd has thinned enough for me to glimpse what it is that sent them into this frenzy. That’s when I see Beautiful Male Watching. Pen in hand. Signing as quickly and efficiently as he can while being bumped and shouldered into by dozens of young females.
He looks up then, finds me staring and shrugs as if he’s the one who’s embarrassed. And then, in that moment, I realize the reason he had looked familiar to me.
He is Ren Sawyer.
Lead singer for Temporal.
My drunken topple had landed me on the lap of a rock star.
4
Ren
THE BACK OF A LIMO is one of the loneliest places a person can be alone.
I’ve never said as much to anyone, because I know how it sounds. First-world problems and such.
With the window up between me and the driver, I’m in a bubble. I can see the world outside, but people can’t see me. I’m not a part of that world. Which is as close a metaphor to my current life as I can probably get.
I’ve long given up trying to convince Stuart that I would much rather grab a taxi than climb into a limousine when the whole reason I take these trips by myself is to get away from the attention. What draws attention more than a limousine driver holding up a card with my name on it?
All I want right now is a dark room and a bed where I can sleep for as long as my body will let me.
I never sleep on flights because the truth is I hate flying.
For control freaks, flying is an adventure in letting go—accepting fate and the fact that your future is in someone else’s hands. I’ve never been very good at either.
My phone rings. I pull it from my shirt pocket, glance at the screen, and drop my head back against the seat. Gretchen. No doubt calling to make sure I haven’t changed my mind about spending some time here alone. I know all I have to do is give the slightest encouragement, and she’ll be over on the next plane. The fact that I do not want her to come says more about me than it does about her.
She’s nice—or as nice as an over-indulged rich girl turned supermodel can possibly be. Of all people, I guess I should know what constant adoration can do to supersize a person’s ego. It doesn’t even seem fair to blame her.
Guilt requires me to answer the call. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she says back. “You’re there?”
“Yes. On the way to the hotel.”
“Did Stuart ignore you and get the limo anyway?”
“Stuart ignored me.”
“He wouldn’t consider himself a good manager if he didn’t. His heart is in the right place. He thinks you’re safer that way. And I have to agree with him.”
I start to murmur some sound of agreement, but I stop myself because I really don’t want to. What I want is to disappear for a while. To not be recognized by anyone. Walk through an airport. Pick up my luggage. And disappear.
If I could do that, really do that, I’m not sure I would come back. Smart guy that he is, Stuart knows this. It’s not something we’ve ever talked about. But he knows it. That’s why he keeps up the walls, the limousines, the five-star hotels, and leaking information on my whereabouts to reporters. He considers all of this part of his job, part of maintaining what is. And from his point of view, I get it. The illusion is held together with invisible threads. Pull one and the whole thing collapses from within.
“Are you okay?” Gretchen asks.
I hear the concern in her voice. I know if I ask her, she will say she loves me. Only I’m not sure exactly who it is she loves. The guy she thinks I am: the one who takes her to A-list parties, the one who sings in front of thousands of people. Songs he’s begun to get a little tired of. I wonder if she could be in love with the me she’s never had a chance to meet.
I think I know the answer. And that’s what makes what we have feel thin and insubstantial.
Even as I find myself thinking this, I have to admit none of that is her fault. She can only know the guy I’ve shown her. The one who fits the image that’s been created for me. The one I’ve worked so hard to make fit. Because, after all, I’m the one who went after this dream. No one made me. I think of that old adage about the dog who chased the car every day until he finally caught it. And then there was nothing to chase anymore.
If I had to name the place, I’d say that’s where I am.
“I want to come, Ren,” Gretchen says, breaking the silence between us. “Why won’t you let me?”
“I just need a little time away. That’s all.”
“But you won’t say how long.”
“I really don’t know how long,” I say. Because I really don’t. Long enough for this feeling of despair to dissipate. Did I really just think despair? How pathetic is that? A guy who has everything he ever wanted—and more. Despair?
But that’s the word that seems to cover it. A panicky feeling of sorts that makes me wonder if I’m losing it altogether.
I think about the concert in Charlotte two nights ago. The dread that swept through me right before I went on stage. And the sensation of choking that never left me for a single minute throughout the show.
I don’t know. The feeling might have started a year or so ago. Maybe a little longer. Growing incrementally with every performance until it became too large for me to ignore.
I haven’t told anyone. But after what happened during this last show, I realize that fairly soon I’m not going to have to.
This time, the panic attack didn’t blow up until I left the stage. Without an encore, for the first time since Temporal hit the big league.
I managed to convince Stuart and everyone else that it was a bug of some sort. That I’d gotten sick in the bathroom and already felt better.
None of that had been the truth. I suspect if Stuart didn’t already know it, he did when I told him yesterday morning that I was going away for a while.
He had objected. Strongly. “Ren, we’ve got tons of post-tour publicity scheduled. Can’t you wait a couple of weeks?”
“No,” I say, my voice firm in a way that I’m not sure I’ve ever used with him.
He’d picked up on it immediately, saying, “All right. Okay. Whatever you need to do. It’s been a long tour. You’re probably exhausted.”
I didn’t answer that, letting my silence indicate agreement. He didn’t question me again. Instead, he booked the flight, made the hotel reservation in Rome and told me to call him in a few days.
I’m not sure how long silence has again taken over our conversation, when Gretchen breaks it with, “Ren? Are you there?”
“Yes,” I say. “Look, I’ll call you in a day or two.”
“I’ll cancel my shoot in Barbados if you’ll change your mi
nd,” she offers.
“You go,” I say. “We’ll talk when you get back. All right?”
“Okay, then,” she says, her reluctance clear. “Be safe.”
“You too,” I say and end the call.
The limo windows are tinted, but I can still see the streets. We’re passing the Coliseum ruins, a sight that never fails to unnerve me, makes me think about the fact that this is where people once came for their entertainment, most of it too horrible to contemplate.
If I have begun to think that Temporal’s performances feel a bit insipid, at least there’s comfort in knowing that the entertainment we provide doesn’t include watching people be torn to shreds by a starved wild animal.
The limo pulls up in front of the hotel some twenty minutes later. I’ve stayed here several times before and know the drill. The driver tries to help me with my suitcase. I insist on taking it, handing him a fifty and thanking him for the ride.
A man in a dark suit walks out to greet me and then leads me to a private elevator and up to my room. This, too, Stuart has arranged, and I have to admit I’m grateful for this part. If only because it assures me I won’t be stopped.
The man is discreet, opening my door and then handing me the key with a polite Italian-accented wish for a good stay.
“Thank you,” I say, step into the room and close the door behind me. With the click of the lock, something inside me screams a quiet relief. I am alone. Finally. No pretenses to maintain. No pretending to be anything other than what I am. A guy who has created a life for himself that he no longer deserves.
5
Lizzy
I HAVE A three-hour layover in Rome. I find a café and ply myself with two espressos in an effort to stay awake.
I guess drunken sleep isn’t the same as sober sleep, because I feel as if I didn’t sleep at all.
The mega dose of caffeine helps, but it doesn’t erase the yucky fatigued feeling.
I find myself wondering if Ren Sawyer slept on the plane. He’s probably used to staying up most of the night with after-concert parties. An overnight flight would be lightweight to him.
Every time his name pops into my head, my cheeks instantly ignite with embarrassment. It was bad enough to think that I had subjected myself to the mortification of a drunken topple onto a stranger. That was enough to last me several lifetimes, but add to that the now undeniable fact that the stranger had been the superstar my own daughter had lusted after throughout her high school years, well, that put it into the realm of what did I do to deserve that?
Not that it would likely ever cross his mind again.
But it would certainly cross mine.
I force my attention to the book I’ve been trying to read on my iPad. Every other line or so, the words start to blur, and my intention of putting my mind on something else fails.
Instead, I open my laptop, turn on the wireless and find a hotspot to log on through. Since my phone doesn’t have service, I fully expect a blistering email from Ty. And there they are, three of them, the subject line in capital letters: CALL ME NOW!
I open the messages to find nothing other than the subject, and something about the demand has me exiting out of my account and slapping the laptop closed.
At least I no longer need to wonder if he’s angry.
Which, if I let myself think about it, will send me right over the edge.
Ty’s decision not to follow through on this trip he had promised we would take together was his own choice. The fact that he had assumed I would do what I’ve always done, fall in line with his choices, well that was his to live with.
As for me? If I needed any further impetus to stay here for the next month, to not let guilt weaken my resolve and walk me over to the ticket counter for a reroute home, he has just given it to me.
I am here. I am staying. If it kills me, I will enjoy myself.
6
Ty
YOU HOPE SHE’S already starting to regret her rashness.
She’s barely ever traveled anywhere without you or Kylie. The Lizzy you know was never a chance taker. She’d always been the one to read aloud articles about Americans who had horrible disaster vacations while outside the country.
There had been that cruise ship that hit a rock off the coast of Italy and capsized. She’d even made you and Kylie watch a documentary about the whole thing. And she’d vowed never again to get on a cruise ship.
You finally give up on sleep at five-thirty, get up and take a shower, then head to the kitchen to make coffee. Normally, Lizzy has it ready for you. After numerous edits over the years, she now makes it exactly as you like it—from coffee beans. Very hot. Very strong.
You don’t add enough coffee, and the first cup is far weaker than you like. You ditch the whole pot and start over.
You find yourself resenting her for putting you in this position. She should be here, making coffee the way she always does. It’s not your job, anyway. Your job is to get up and go to work, not in a state of frustration, but ready to meet the challenges of what are often very challenging days.
You feel the heat of anger light your cheeks again, and suddenly, you really want to hit something. Instead, you walk outside, get the newspaper and bring it back to the kitchen table where you sit with your mildly improved coffee.
Just as you open the first section, your cell phone rings from its spot on the counter. You get up quickly, sure it will be her, asking you to get her on the next flight home. She made a mistake. She should have known better.
But a glance at the screen shows Kylie’s name and picture. You consider not answering. Explaining all of this to her right now seems like more than you can manage. But if you don’t answer, she’ll just call back.
You swipe the screen and put on a bright voice. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re up early. How’s everything in Charlottesville?”
“Good. Are y’all in Rome?” she asks, yawning.
“Ah, no,” you say, “at least I’m not.”
She’s silent for a moment as if she’s not sure what to make of your answer. “You’re not?”
“I wasn’t able to go on the trip. A case needed my attention at the last minute.”
“Oh. I know Mom must have been disappointed not to go.”
“Yeah,” you say. “About that. She went alone.”
“Mom?” she says, expressing the same incredulity you felt on learning of it. “No way.”
“Way, I’m afraid,” you say.
“I can’t believe you let her do that.”
“I didn’t have a lot to say about it.”
“You didn’t know she was going?”
“No.”
Silence stagnates on the line. You suddenly feel the need to break it, to lessen the implications of Lizzy making such a choice. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s wanted to do the trip for a long time.”
“I know. But that doesn’t sound like Mom. Can you go over and join her at some point?”
“I’m not really sure,” you say, trying to keep your voice even, unmarred by the anger still lighting a flare in your chest.
“Is she sticking with the original itinerary?”
“I would assume so,” you say, and then wish you could take that back. It sounds so spineless, so wimplike.
“Dad. Is everything all right between you two?”
“Everything is fine.”
Silence again, while your daughter weighs whether to believe you or not. But you know she will. Because you’re her favorite. She always sides with you.
“I can’t believe she wouldn’t reschedule the trip so that you could go too.”
There. Just as you’d thought. You have her sympathy. “It’s okay, honey. I’ve got plenty of work to keep me busy.”
“All work and no play—”
“You know they’re practically the same to me.”
“Yeah, I know. Well, call me if you want me to come home for the weekend.”
You start to say that’s a good idea, but then you
picture the new associate, that smooth skin above the neckline of her sweater. Instead, you say, “I suspect I’ll be in the office most of Saturday and Sunday. Otherwise, I’d take you up on it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll be checking on you.”
“Thanks, honey.”
Once she clicks off, you stand for a moment, staring at the phone. Shouldn’t you feel a little bit of guilt for deceiving your daughter?
Yes. You wait for it to hit, but it doesn’t.
You stick the phone in your pocket, grab your briefcase and head for the door.
7
Kylie
KYLIE HANGS UP from the phone call with her dad, feeling as if she never saw that one coming.
She’s sitting on her bed, staring at the screen of her phone when Peyton, her roommate, opens the door and slinks into the room.
“Dare I ask where you spent the night?” Kylie asks, looking at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Probably better if you don’t,” Peyton says, flopping down on the twin bed beside her. “What did you do? Study all night?”
“Imagine that. This being college and all.”
“Ooh. Kylie’s snippy this morning. I like it.”
“Shut up,” she says and swats Peyton’s arm. Kylie smiles despite herself. Most of the time, she’s irritated at Peyton. She’s like a toddler who constantly gets into trouble, but has become expert at charming her way out of it.
“So what’s the source? Your mom call?” she asks, looking at the phone in Kylie’s hand.
“No,” Kylie says quickly, and then, because she feels a desperate need to talk about what had just happened, adds, “My dad.”
“Isn’t he the one you get along with?”
Kylie shrugs. “It’s not that my mom and I don’t get along. She just kind of smothers me.”
Rock Her Page 3
