by Karen Booth
“Pregnant woman?” I whispered when we were in the hall leading backstage.
“I saw it in a movie.” Amy pulled out the passes, and the security guard instructed us to put them on. My brain was running like a washing machine spin cycle, round and round.
What do I say to him?
Amy found the bathroom when we got back to the hospitality room. I followed her inside and quickly swiped away the mascara smudges under my eyes. I took about seven million cleansing breaths, avoiding my own reflection, which was just going to leave me unsettled. I straightened my skirt, my top. No cleavage to speak of, I was ill equipped for backstage. I really wished I'd worn something vaguely sexy. Damn my sister and her nebulous fashion advice.
My stomach growled, loudly, and I crossed my arms at my waist to muffle the sound. Eamon had made me forget about food tonight, event though I'd been famished. He'd had that effect on me when we were together, too. I lost my Freshman Fifteen, plus another ten. I'd needed no sustenance other than Eamon. Precisely why it felt like playing with fire to be around him.
Amy came out of the stall and washed her hands. “Ready?”
I wasn't.
Back in the hospitality room, we tried to act nonchalant and cool. There were about two dozen people in there with us, an odd mix of women trying too hard, scruffy looking rock guys, and a couple of teenagers with rolled posters and Sharpies. Not nearly enough room to hide. I still wasn't sure I had the guts to approach him. What if Amy was right and he'd forgotten me? What if I had to introduce myself? Surely I had never meant as much to him as he had meant to me.
I opened my mouth to say something mindless to Amy, and Eamon walked into the room. The chemistry of the air abruptly changed. I wasn't the only one to notice. Everyone did. The tone of voices changed, they pitched higher, and the conversations became rambling and painfully self-aware.
He was wearing the beat-up jean jacket he'd owned when I knew him. His hair was pulled back in a messy knot. He stopped to speak to a redheaded man with a fluffy beard. They smiled. They laughed. Eamon clapped him on the back. He was wearing sunglasses. Black ones, Wayfarers. It was too bad, because I'd really wanted to see his eyes up close one more time, but I understood it—rock star. He pulled it off so effortlessly, it was like everyone who'd done it before him was just copying his look.
This was all too intimidating. I couldn't approach him. Why torture myself? If I talked to him and had to explain who I was, I'd never stop thinking about it. It would stick with me forever. I was there to remember the good times. The sexy times. There were a lot of those.
“He's coming over here.” Amy rattled the words off so quickly that it came out as a single utterance. Hescomingoverhere.
“Would you stop grabbing my arm?”
I turned and Eamon was zeroing in on me, people in the room parting to make way. A few tried to talk to him, but his path to me was clear.
He swiped off his sunglasses and said it.
He said my name.
Right then and there.
“Katherine.”
I waited for my head to hit the floor. But somehow, I didn't faint.
Chapter Three
“Katherine.”
It was like no one had ever said my name before, like he'd plucked it out of thin air. I'd forgotten the lilt of his voice when he said it. Kah-thrin. If I thought too hard about what it was like to have him mutter it directly into my ear, his soft breath on my neck in the middle of the night, I was going to leave backstage on a stretcher.
“Hi.” That's what you came up with? Hi?
He pulled me into a hug, holding onto me for a few seconds. I'd also forgotten just how tall he was, probably because it was different when you were standing this close to him. He made me feel petite. I never felt petite. I took my chance and settled the side of my head against his broad chest, tentatively placing my hands in the center of his back and soaking up his body heat, all while remembering what his embrace had been like when we'd had to say goodbye. I'd drenched his shirt with tears. He'd kissed the top of my head over and over again. But he never asked me to stay. And I never asked if I could, even though I'd wanted to.
He stepped back and shook his head in disbelief. “This is such a surprise.” He sucked in his lower lip and licked it, leaving me staring at his mouth for too long. Kissing Eamon had been my hobby for four months. It was hard not to get caught up in remembrances. “How long has it been?”
I'd stopped counting at five years, four months, and eleven days. I was driving myself crazy. “At least ten years.”
“Incredible. Absolutely incredible. I'm so glad you came.”
Just say a few intelligent words. It doesn't have to be an Oscar acceptance speech. I shifted my weight and tried to figure out what to do with my hands. “The, uh, the show was great. Really good. Super good, actually.”
“She cried,” Amy added.
“Amy,” I blurted.
“What?” She shrugged and smiled sweetly. “You did.”
Eamon laughed. I'd forgotten what a freaking fantastic sound that was—throaty and sexy. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“This is my sister, Amy.” I didn't add on any commentary about how she was thirty years old and still working on her manners.
“Ah, yes. I remember you talking about your sister a few times. It's nice to meet you.” He shook her hand, but quickly returned his focus to me. I had to admit that it felt pretty good to be his center of attention, even if it made me nervous. “Katherine and I knew each other very well at one time.” He said it to Amy, but he was looking at me, completing his statement with a bounce of his eyebrows.
“So I've heard.” Amy had a far too flirtatious tone to her voice. Between that and the crying comment, I wanted to smack her.
“We need to catch up,” he said. “The next show is in Boston, but we're not leaving until noon tomorrow. Come to my hotel and have a late dinner with me.”
It was just like him to state his intention rather than ask a question—probably because he knew it would leave me with virtually no reason to decline.
“Yes. That is a great idea.” Amy hitched her purse on her shoulder like she was ready to bolt. Who knew she was such an eager wingman? “You two catch up. I'll head home.”
But I knew exactly where dinner and a hotel led…straight into his bed. As tempting as the idea was, as much as the women standing behind me, who were now clearly eavesdropping, would probably kill for the same opportunity, it wasn't a good choice. A night with Eamon would punch a gaping hole in my psyche. It would leave me longing for a life that wasn't wedged firmly enough in reality. “That would be really nice, but Amy and I are having Girls' Night. And I have a big day at the office tomorrow.”
Amy swatted my thigh with the back of her hand.
He nodded, breaking me down with nothing more than a look. There was a softness in his eyes that made it feel like my legs were asleep. “Coffee then? In the morning.”
His determination made me feel so damn good. It made me tingle. My body hummed. “I seem to remember you don't like to get up in the morning.”
“I don't. I hate it. But I will for you.” He reached for my hand, taking my fingers and wrapping them up in a familiar, calloused warmth. “It's true. I'll give up the little sleep I get for you. I owe you that much.”
Damn him. That was about the sweetest thing he could've possibly said. “Eamon. You don't owe me anything.”
A smile played at the corner of his lips. “Now you've done it. You said my name. You have to come to coffee tomorrow. I won't take no for an answer.”
My face flushed with an odd mix of accomplishment and embarrassment. “Okay. Fine. Coffee. There's a diner not far from my office.”
“I’m sure it makes me sound like a bloody spanner, but too many people.”
Oh, right. Rock star. “It's pretty easy to be anonymous in New York.”
“I know. But I want to talk. I want to hear your voice. I don't want to deal with interrupt
ions.”
Interruptions? What would we be doing that could possibly be interrupted?
“My hotel," he continued. "I'll have everything waiting when you arrive. Does eight work? Should give us enough time.” He gave my hand a gentle squeeze.
I nodded in agreement, but that last thing he said was going to keep me up all night. Enough time for what? “Sure. Okay.”
“Perfect.” He pulled his cellphone out of his back pocket. “Give me your number. I'll text you the hotel info.”
I rattled off the digits, probably a bit too eagerly. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”
“I’ll send it when I'm done chatting and signing autographs.” He still had my hand, and he used it to pull me close one more time, although he didn't have to try hard. He softly kissed my cheek. His stubble scratched my skin. It was the most glorious feeling.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Nice to meet you, Eamon.” Amy did that eye-bugging thing at me, and we high-tailed it out of there, back through the theater lobby and out onto the street.
The night air was bone cold, the sort of evening where you can't help but walk with your shoulders up around your ears. Amy put on her coat right away, but I decided I'd wait for a block or two. I needed to sober up and cool down.
“That was pretty intense, Kat.”
“Which part?”
“The whole thing. The show. Meeting him. The revelation that my sister who tells me everything had a thing with an actual rock star.”
A breathy laugh crossed my lips as we stopped at the corner for the signal. “See how stupid that sounds? That's why I didn't tell you.”
“I will always believe you. You know that.”
The light changed and we marched through the crosswalk.
“But now you have to tell me something about you guys together. To make up for keeping the secret from me.”
I'd known this was coming, but I was still getting used to the idea of sharing this secret. It was going to have to come out in a trickle at first. “One of his songs is about me.”
She came to a dead stop and socked me in the arm. “Shut up. Which one?”
I laughed, for real this time, finally succumbing to the cold and putting on my coat. “Do you know Sunny Girl? He didn't play it tonight.” I was relieved he hadn't. A few tears were one thing. That song might end with me in a puddle of my own emotion.
“Straw blonde hair and a smile that never dies? That's supposed to be you?”
Everything that had been funny a moment ago was now heavy with irony. Of course my sister didn't see me as Sunny Girl. No one but Eamon ever had. “Believe it or not, yes.”
“Wow.” She shook her head. “My sister is Sunny Girl.”
“Yeah, well, Gloom and Doom Girl doesn't have the same ring to it.”
“Funny. That's funny. I feel like I'm seeing you in a whole new light.”
“I was different with Eamon. I don't know how else to say it.”
She nodded. We slowed our pace, even though it was cold. It was like neither one of us wanted the night to end, which was a little silly since we lived together, but I didn't say anything. I knew she'd text Luke the minute we got home and that would be the end of the conversation.
“Didn't you feel different when you left home and went to college?” I asked. “I know I did.”
Going off to school had been a difficult decision for me. I'd spent eight years taking care of my dad and sister. It made me feel guilty to leave and not just because I wouldn't be there to make dinner or do the laundry. The truth was that I'd formulated my escape, starting the day the high school guidance counselor spoke to us about planning for college. She gave a talk about good grades, scholarships, and study abroad. She spoke of independence and getting away. That was all I'd needed to hear. From that moment, I hit the books, but never told a soul why I was studying so hard. There was no money to send me to college. If I wanted out, and I had, I knew I was going to have to work my way there.
“Yeah. I felt different,” Amy said. “It was nice to be out of Chester, that's for sure.”
“Exactly. I was just glad I didn't have to be one of the poor Fuller girls anymore. I could just be Katherine Fuller, Co-ed.”
“Or Katherine Fuller, rock star groupie.”
“He wasn't a rock star then. Not even close.”
“That's hard to imagine.”
“Seriously. We had no money. He worked part time as a carpenter just so he could pay for his flat, but otherwise he spent all of his time writing music and trying to get a record deal.”
We walked for nearly an entire cross-town block in silence before she asked the question, “He doesn't know, does he?”
Amy didn't have to say that she was talking about Mom and the accident. “No. He doesn’t.” I was in high school when I’d stopped telling anyone about it. I couldn’t keep reliving it, and everyone always wanted the gruesome details.
“Yeah. I still haven't told Luke. There's never a good time to bring it up.”
I could relate, although with Eamon, it'd been a case of not wanting to ruin something perfect. Being with him was like waking up each morning to a blanket of fresh snow on the ground. A single footstep would destroy all that beauty.
“Right. There's never a good time.” Another convenient excuse was that Eamon and I had spent such a huge percentage of our time together making love. And fucking. Those were two separate activities with him, which was part of the allure. Sometimes he'd seduce me for an entire day, with sweet smiles and soft kisses at the corner of my mouth. After hours of getting me worked up, he'd take my hand and lead me to his bedroom. A master of the slow burn, he'd caress my stomach, glaze his mouth over my breasts, and take strokes that were slow and deep, all while he burrowed into my soul with his gaze.
Then there were times when we'd be mid-conversation, making dinner or at the pub for a pint, and he'd wrap his arms around my waist and tell me he wanted me so bad he couldn't think straight. He fucked me on the kitchen table. Two or three times. We did it in a pub bathroom once, standing, while he held the door closed with his hand. There was no explaining the physics we'd used to make it happen.
“Oh. We're on Madison,” Amy said when we got to the corner. "Let's walk this way. I want to show you something in the Vera Wang window."
“That's out of our way. Can we do it this weekend, during the day, when it’s not so cold?”
Amy started across the street. “It'll take five minutes. Come on.”
I did my sisterly duty and followed, but I wasn't thrilled with the change in subject. Everything these days circled back to the wedding.
When we were a few hundred yards from the Vera Wang storefront, Amy's feet began to carry her faster. “This. This is what I wanted to show you. What do you think?” She tapped the window as I caught up. On the other side of the glass, a faceless mannequin wore an exquisite white gown, with the perfect amount of poof in the skirt and just a hint of sparkle, like something Cinderella would wear. It wasn't an exact match for the dress our mom had worn, the one we'd only seen in photographs, but it wasn't far off.
I started to cry, silent and slow, my tears nearly freezing on my cheeks. My first thought of weddings was always the framed portrait of our parents that had hung on the living room wall at home. When I was five or six and I wanted to be a princess, our mom was a shining example. When I was seven or eight, it became the only evidence that our parents belonged together. Our mom was radiant. Dad looked so handsome in his tux. More than anything, they were a visual representation of true love. They gazed into each other's eyes like nothing else, and certainly no one else, mattered. It was impossible to imagine that they would end up the way they did.
Even today, if someone were to ask my opinion of the way marriage should be, I would want to have that photograph so I could say, “This is what marriage should look like. Two people who love each other more than anything. You stay together. Forever.” But it wasn’t so easy to point to the portrait anymore.
My dad took it off the living room wall a week after my mom passed away, and banished it to the back of the coat closet.
“What do you think?” Amy asked. “Too much?”
I shook my head, my sights swinging back and forth between her and the dress. I choked back tears that could only be described as coming from a place of mourning and happiness. “It's perfect. You'll look amazing in it.”
“It's so expensive.”
“So? You should have the perfect dress. This is the perfect dress. I'll chip in if you need help paying for it.” I never would have thought so a week ago, but I wanted that dress for her more than anything.
Amy cocked her head. “Are you feeling okay?”
I nodded eagerly. “Yes. I'm just emotional. Seeing the dress. Thinking about the wedding.” It was really happening. And I had to stop holding my breath. “It's going to be such an amazing day and you're going to be the most beautiful bride ever.”
“God, I really hope so. I have such a hard time picturing it.”
“That's what bridal magazines are for. We'll figure it out.”
For as many times as our aunts, uncles, and grandparents had been married, Amy and I hadn't been to many weddings as kids. Most of them took place in far-off, exotic locales like Illinois and our parents never wanted to drive that far. We did go to our Aunt Lucy's weddings, since she lived only a half hour away. Our Mom's sister, she has had five husbands, which always astounded me. How do you find five people to spend your entire life with? Even by the fifth husband, she was still having formal portraits taken. She just recycled the frame. I'd once made a joke that it was like walking past a movie theater, since you never knew who would be in that frame the next time you came to visit. I was never Aunt Lucy's favorite.
My phone buzzed with a text and I jumped. It was like the sound was plugged into my heart, like jumper cables on a car battery.
“It must be Eamon,” Amy said, sounding frantic. “Read it, read it.”
“Hold your horses.” I fumbled with the buckle on my bag, and slipped my cell out of its hiding place.
