by Lauren Rowe
“Perfect. See you soon.”
“Oh, hey. I ordered a bunch of groceries to be delivered to the house tomorrow morning—everything for Mimi’s famous raviolis. I thought Mimi could show Laila and me how an expert makes pasta from scratch tomorrow.”
Sasha pauses, ever so briefly. But it’s long enough to make the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“What?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up too high about Mimi cooking with you during your visit, Ady. Mimi’s been really tired lately.”
My breathing catches. “I’ll make sure Mimi gets plenty of rest, I promise. But I have to see her cooking like a boss in that huge gourmet kitchen.”
Sasha smiles thinly, but says nothing.
I take a shallow breath. “Okay, well. Gotta go. See you tomorrow.”
“Sleep tight and travel safe,” Sasha says. “Is Laila there?”
“Right here.”
I shift the camera to capture Laila and she waves.
“I can’t wait to see you in person,” Sasha says.
“Same here,” Laila replies. “Thank you for taking such good care of Mimi.”
“Thank you for taking such good care of Adrian.”
“Okay, bye now,” I say, abruptly shifting the camera back to myself. “Love you, Sash.”
I hang up the call, feeling physically ill. If I hadn’t messed up today, that call would have been one of the most exciting of my life. If I hadn’t messed up, I’d be on the cusp of taking a girl home to meet my family, for the first time in my life. For real. And, man, I would have been excited about that. Proud to show Laila off, as my gorgeous, talented, brilliant girlfriend. As it is, however, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, it seems like we’re hanging on by the barest of threads, if at all.
Our SUV reaches the iron gate in front of our reality TV mansion and our driver punches in the code—and when we roll into our driveway, we see a car already parked in front of the house.
“Fuck,” I say, suddenly remembering. “Fish and Alessandra. We’re writing our sappy love song tonight, remember?”
“Fuck,” Laila replies. She shakes her head. “Well, all I can say is thank God for Fish and Alessandra. Because as hard as it’s been to write a song about our ‘undying love’ the past few weeks, it’d be fucking impossible now.”
Twenty-Two
Laila
When Savage and I enter our large kitchen, Fish and Alessandra are already there, seated on stools at the island while our private chef prepares something on the stove.
Savage and I greet Fish and Alessandra and the chef. We thank our friends for coming here to save our asses and chat about today’s long shoot, since three out of four of us were there. And through it all, I can’t bring myself to look at Savage, even once.
After some more small talk, we sit down at the kitchen table and eat the meal our chef has prepared. As we eat, I keep catching Savage staring at me, his eyes begging for forgiveness. And I must admit, despite everything, my anger thaws a bit every time I look into his dark, tormented eyes. My solution? I try to avoid looking into Savage’s eyes, as much as possible. However much living with Savage in this TV mansion has made me swoon, today made me realize there’s too much baggage between us, too much jealousy and hypocrisy and popcorn lies, for us to move forward together, as a real couple, outside of this carefully curated bubble. Which means I’d better get my heart extricated now from this situation, before it’s too late.
After our meal ends, our foursome heads into the living room to get to work, with Savage and Fish grabbing acoustic guitars, Alessandra taking an armchair with her laptop, and me taking a seat behind the baby grand.
“Okay,” Fish says on an exhale, tuning the guitar in his lap. “Reed said this song should be a ‘classic love song.’ He said he wants it ‘sweet and romantic.’”
“Pure, gooey goodness,” Alessandra chimes in.
Fish looks at Savage and me. “Is that your understanding, too?”
“Yep,” Savage says.
“Cool,” Fish replies. “Let’s write a hit love song, guys.”
“Thank God you and Alessandra came over to help us out,” I say. “Left to our own devices, Savage and I couldn’t write ‘pure, gooey goodness’ to save our lives.”
Savage looks like I’ve slapped him in the face. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” he mutters, and I quickly look away from his pained expression.
“It shouldn’t be too hard for the four of us geniuses to write something, on-brand, if we put our heads together,” Fish says. And Alessandra concurs. But when the pair looks at Savage and me for confirmation . . . they get crickets. Nothing. In fact, with each passing second of silence, the air in the room is becoming increasingly thick and stilted.
Alessandra clears her throat. “So, have you two worked up any ideas to get us started, or . . . ?”
“We’ve got nothing,” I reply, letting my eyes return to Savage’s. And when the words leave my lips, he physically winces in reply, like I’ve lashed him with a whip. Crap. Maybe that was a bit harsh of me. My heart aching, I peel my eyes off Savage’s tormented face and return to Fish and Alessandra. “We’ve tried to write this song, over and over again. But everything we’ve come up with has been all wrong. Way too intense and passionate and angsty for the assignment.”
“I think a little angst would be okay, here and there,” Alessandra says.
“Yeah, well, angst is all we’ve got, unfortunately.”
Alessandra looks at Fish. And then back at me. “I do think the song should feel authentic to you two, regardless of the assignment, since you’re the ones who’ll be singing it. And you’re both extremely intense and passionate people. Why don’t you guys let Fish and me get the ball rolling, to lay the groundwork for something on the lighter side, and then we’ll let you two sprinkle in some details in the verses that are more personal to you. Little details here and there that will make the song feel tailored to you?”
“Love it, babe,” Fish says. He looks at Savage and me, but we say nothing. “Is that approach cool with you guys?”
“Great,” I say, while Savage strums his guitar and mutters, “Whatever you want to do.”
Alessandra and Fish look at each other again for a long beat, their expressions clearly saying, “What the heck?” But after her nonverbal conversation with Fish, Alessandra turns to the group and suggests everyone think about a person we love unconditionally and without complication. “Not necessarily in a romantic way,” Alessandra prompts. “I want you to think about the purest, easiest form of love in your life and meditate on the way that kind of love makes you feel, deep in your soul.”
I quiet my mind and think about my infant niece, Everly, who’s already the light of my life in the most uncomplicated way possible. I look at Savage and instantly know who he’s thinking about. Mimi. And, damn it, despite everything, my heart swells for him, as I think about how much that poor man loves his grandmother and can’t stand the thought of losing her.
I lay my fingers on the piano keys and play the little melody Savage always sings to his grandmother at bedtime and Savage’s attention snaps to me, his face as beautiful and heartbreaking as I’ve ever seen it.
“I love that!” Alessandra says. “Let’s build on that!”
“Yeah, that’s a perfect riff for the chorus,” Fish agrees. “It feels like a lullaby.”
“Exactly!” Alessandra says excitedly.
And that’s all it takes. The minute we’ve got some mutual inspiration going, the song basically writes itself. In a flurry, we brainstorm some themes for our lyrics, based on our ideas about uncomplicated love. We shout out words like unconditional and endless. Eternal and infinite. And Alessandra notes everything on her laptop. We jam for a bit, building on that little lullaby sequence, and faster than I would have thought possible, the musical structure for the song and vocal melody begin taking shape.
As suggested by Alessandra earlier, Savage and I thro
w in a few angsty lyrics to complement the gooey-sweet ones we’ve already written. But, nonetheless, in the end, the song the group creates feels far more about the sweet love shared by Fish and Alessandra than about anything felt by Savage and me. But that’s okay. The assignment was to write a classic love song that will make us truckloads of money after we perform it on Sing Your Heart Out. And I’m pretty confident we’ve done exactly that.
We run through the song several times, making tweaks, here and there, until, finally, everybody agrees we wouldn’t change a thing.
“Let’s record a quick demo and send it off to Reed for his feedback,” Fish suggests. “If we need to change anything after Reed’s notes, we can do that remotely while you guys are out of town.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say. And when my eyes flicker to Savage, it’s clear he’s deeply relieved by the implication of my comment: I’m still planning to travel with him to Chicago, like I assured him earlier in the car.
We record a rough demo of the song on Fish’s iPad, with me playing piano and the guys on their guitars—and Savage and I barely look at each other as we sing our parts. Fish says he’ll add a few bells and whistles to the demo—stuff like programmed drums and a bassline—in order to give Reed an idea of the general vibe we’re envisioning for the full production. And, finally, after Fish and Alessandra have gathered up their stuff, Savage and I walk them to the front door.
We say our goodbyes to our friends. Give them high-fives about the song. And, finally, Fish and Alessandra head out the door and into the starry night, to drive to the home they share together on the beach—to enjoy the sweet, uncomplicated, gooey goodness that is their love story.
I close the front door behind our friends and lean against it, exhaling. “What time is our flight?”
“Noon.”
“Thank goodness it’s not at the crack of dawn. Today was a long day.” I press my lips together and wait. Savage looks like he’s going to say something—something important. But in the end, he closes his mouth, bites the inside of his cheek, and sighs.
“Okay, well, goodnight,” I say. “I’ll wake you up when I get up, so don’t worry about setting an alarm.”
“Laila.”
I turn around.
Savage’s Adam’s apple bobs. He clears his throat. “I’m so sorry I punched a hole in that wall. I can’t believe I did that. I hope you can find your way to forgiving me for that, at some point. I promise on my love for Mimi I’ll never, ever do that again, or anything else that would scare you. I’ll never break a promise to you again, Laila. I’m giving you my solemn word on that.”
I twist my mouth. His promises don’t mean a whole lot to me. But I don’t feel like fighting right now. I just want to go to sleep. “Thank you for that,” I say calmly. “I need to get some sleep now. We can talk some more about that another time, maybe.”
He nods. “Any time you want.”
“Goodnight, Adrian.”
“Goodnight, Laila.”
As I walk away, I bite my lip, and somehow keep myself from crying until I get safely into one of the bedrooms down the hallway from the master. Which is where I throw myself onto the bed and cry myself to sleep.
Twenty-Three
Laila
Evanston, Illinois
“Is this still Chicago?” I ask Savage, looking out the window of our limo. After pulling away from the curbside at O’Hare, we’ve been driving about thirty minutes now, and the view out my window has become decidedly suburban and upscale.
“No, we’re in Evanston now,” Savage replies. “Mimi’s house is a few blocks away.”
“It’s so pretty here.”
“This is where Mimi lived as a teenager.”
“Oh, I thought you lived with Mimi in the City.”
“I did. In an apartment. But Mimi lived here with her mom when she was young.”
I return to the window on my side of the car. “Was Mimi’s family wealthy, or did this neighborhood become posh more recently?”
“Mimi grew up poor. Her dad died when she was twelve or thirteen, so her mom got work as a housekeeper in this neighborhood.”
“Ah.”
“I’ll let Mimi tell you the whole story, but, basically, Mimi’s mom went to work for a rich family in Evanston, and that’s where Mimi met her husband, Jasper, a teenager. He was one of the rich family’s teenaged sons.”
It’s the longest, and most relaxed, conversation Savage and I have had all day. We didn’t speak at all during the drive to the airport this morning, though Savage’s dark eyes pleaded with me to speak first. We barely spoke during our flight, other than to ask polite questions about legroom and the shows we were separately watching. But now that we’re here, and on our way to Mimi’s new house, the cold air feels too super-charged with excitement and adventure for my heart to remember to be closed off.
The limo turns onto a residential street lined with stunning mini-mansions. And when the car makes another turn, the passing homes turn from mini-mansions to actual ones—massive homes with meticulously sheared hedges and tidy walkways and iron gates. Stunning homes that look straight out of a bygone era.
“Whoa,” I breathe. “These homes are gorgeous.” I gasp and point. “Look at that one!”
To my shock, I’ve no sooner said the words than the car comes to a stop in front of the very house I’m indicating—a breathtaking mansion with countless windows framed by green-painted shutters, sprawling gardens, and brickwork walkways.
I open my mouth wide in shock. “This is the house you got for Mimi?”
“This is it,” Savage confirms, his beautiful face radiating with pride.
As the driver exits the car and begins unloading our luggage from the back, Savage and I start bundling up for the short walk from the street to the front door. I don’t know anything about architecture, so my brain can’t conjure the right words to describe this home. All I can say is it looks like a “Victorian mansion” to me. Or maybe a Civil war era house? Yeah, I don’t know what I’m talking about. All I know is it looks old, but painstakingly restored, and gorgeous. No wonder Savage wanted to keep his full salary from the show! I don’t know how much this fancy house cost him, but I have to think Savage was depending on his full salary from the show when he decided to buy it.
“Who lives here with Mimi?” I ask, as we begin walking up the front pathway with our luggage.
“Sasha is staying here, for the time being, and Mimi’s got a rotation of caregivers who stay here, too.”
“I’m not sure there’s enough room for everyone,” I joke.
“Just barely,” he replies.
“It must take a day just to vacuum the downstairs.”
“I’ve got a maid service coming, twice a week, to keep it from getting dusty.”
“Wow. I would have given anything to play hide and seek in a house like this as a kid.”
Savage flashes a crooked smile. “I’d be happy to play with you during our stay, if you’d like.” There’s sexual innuendo buried in his tone. Knowing him, he’s probably imagining himself nailing me, wherever he finds me.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say. “We’re here for Mimi.”
His face falls. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks again for that.” He reaches for the doorknob, but stops and takes a deep breath, like he’s gearing up for something.
“What?” I ask.
He bites his lip. “I know intellectually you’re only here for Mimi’s sake. But, still, my heart is racing. Even if this is fake, it’s still a first for me—bringing a girl home to meet my family. I’ve never done that before, and it’s kind of exciting.”
Oh, crap. In a torrent, I feel the urge to throw myself into Savage’s arms and kiss the hell out of him. I want to tell him to forget yesterday—to say we’ll press the ‘reset’ button, again. But, this time, as much as my heart wants to ignore the red flags and bury my head in the sand and enjoy the ride, my head won’t allow such foolishness.
“J
ust so you know,” Savage says. “When we walk through this door, Mimi is going to fling her little hummingbird body at you like a missile.” He chuckles. “I’m sure she’s sitting on the couch, watching TV right now. And the minute she hears our voices in the foyer, she’s going to hobble over to us and lose her ever-loving mind.”
I giggle. “Sounds amazing. I think I can handle being attacked by a hummingbird. Bring it, Mimi.”
With a huge smile, Savage takes a deep breath and opens the front door. We walk inside the house and into a beautiful foyer, where we’re surrounded on all sides by splendor—a huge wooden staircase directly in front of us, and two well-appointed rooms to either side.
“Whoa,” I say. “It looks straight out of a movie! Did you hire a designer?”
“No, I bought it this way. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Hello?” Savage booms. “We’re here!” He pauses, a huge smile on his face. And then, when the house remains quiet as a mouse, he yells, “Sasha? Mimi? We’re here!” We wait. But nothing happens. “She must be watching TV in the family room. It’s hard to hear back there. Come on.” He grabs my hand, and off we go through a fancy living room into another room appointed with more modern-looking, comfy furniture and a large-screen TV. But it’s empty. We head into the next room—a huge, modern kitchen. And, again, there’s nobody here.
“Where the hell is everyone?” Savage mutters. “Mimi always watches TV around this time—and never in bed. Mimi says it makes her sleep better at night if she spends most of the day outside her bedroom.”
“Adrian,” a voice says behind us. And when we turn around, it’s Savage’s pretty cousin, Sasha Wilkes—a Mother Earth type I’ve spoken to several times on FaceTime. Not surprisingly, given that she shares genes with Savage, Sasha is a beauty with dark hair and eyes. Also, from what I’ve seen, she’s someone who’s earned Savage’s full trust and admiration.
