I can see that even for my confident, easy-going boy, this concept is a little tough to process. And while I tell myself it's technically not a lie, because Ross and I are just friends now and he'll be gone in a few weeks, it feels disingenuous somehow when I respond, "No. Like I said, he's an old friend. He's just here for the month, and I'm trying to help him with Sara. That's really all there is to it, hon. I'm not out hunting for a boyfriend. Honest."
His easy grin reappears, and my poor chest tightens in a knot. This boy. He's so beautiful that sometimes I don't think my heart can stand it.
"That's good. I mean, he seems like an okay guy, but until Chuck gives the stamp of approval, he's not boyfriend material."
I laugh, then, and harmony is restored. "Go see Jake but tell him I said he needs to clean his car out. I saw it parked on Main Street the other day and it was full of fast food wrappers. It's disgusting."
He laughs before heading off to get ready for his day. But I'm left wondering if my policy of always being honest with myself is in danger, because every time I say Ross and I are just friends, it feels a little less honest than the time before.
17
Ross
"Come on, Dude. Just take a piss," I mutter as I watch Blanco sniff around in the bushes underneath my front porch. I've only been living with the little beast for two days, but I've already discovered that if I let him out in the backyard unattended, he barks like a banshee. He's as high maintenance as Sara, and practically as expensive, too.
He cocks his little white fluffy head at me and yips, as if to say, "Fuck you," then continues burrowing around in the shrubs.
And so it is, that I'm standing in a pair of jeans half-buttoned, an old t-shirt from one of Odyssey's tours, bare feet, cup of coffee in one hand and Blanco's leash in the other, when I hear the gasp. I turn to look toward the street, and there are a cluster of women about my age, one or two of whom I think I recognize. They're all in yoga pants and full makeup, and they've frozen on the sidewalk, staring at me.
Oh. Shit. I look toward the door to the house, wondering if I should just make a run for it, but I know it's too late when I hear one of them say, "Oh my God, it's really him!"
I sigh and raise my cup of coffee. "Good morning, ladies," I say with a tight smile. It's one thing to meet fans out in public, but it's a little different when you're standing in your front yard. The last thing I need is people camped out in the driveway or trying to break in to get a memento from my underwear drawer. Especially when I have Sara living with me.
"Hi!" they all say in unison.
"Great morning for a walk," I tell them.
They all nod, then the boldest one—because there's always a bold one, just like there's always a sensible one and a fainter—says, "Ross? Would you mind autographing something for me? I brought a Sharpie."
I give Blanco a little tug and walk closer to the sidewalk. I have to give them credit, they didn't just barge onto my lawn like people would have in L.A. Nor have any of them started taking pictures with their phones.
As I reach them, I realize the two I recognize are from my class in high school. "Oh, hey, Stacey, Jessica, how are you doing?"
Both women smile and seem to relax now that I've recognized them. "Hey, Ross," Stacey says. "We didn't really get a chance to talk at the reunion, but I heard you're staying in town for a while?"
I nod as the bold one shoves a Sharpie in my hand, then turns her back to me. "Right there on the shoulder, ok?"
I scrawl my name across her t-shirt as a couple of the others murmur, "Ohh, what a good idea! Can I borrow your Sharpie, Georgia?"
I continue to make small talk with Stacey and Jessica while I sign their friends' t-shirts, then we take a quick selfie. When I'm done, they all thank me.
"No problem, but I have a favor to ask," I say, looking at each of them. "I'm here for a few weeks with my daughter. She's only fourteen, and we don't get a lot of time together because of my schedule. One of the reasons I wanted to stay here in Grove City is that I knew everyone would let us have some time alone. It would be a huge favor to me if you ladies could keep my address to yourselves. I know, eventually, people will find out, but I'm hoping they'll respect my daughter's privacy and not approach the house."
They all look chagrined, and there's a lot of crosstalk, "Oh my gosh...of course...we're so sorry...what a good father you are..." Then they swear up and down that they'll never tell anyone where I'm living. I know it won't buy me immunity, but maybe it'll postpone the problems.
After they leave, I take Blanco up on the porch swing with me and settle in with my acoustic guitar. I find myself picking out a new song and, at some point, I hit the record button on my phone so I can send it to my bandmate, Joe. The two of us do most of the songwriting.
I must lose track of time, because it's nearly eleven a.m. when the front door swings open and Sara steps out, her hair up in a puffy thing on top of her head, tiny pajama shorts and a tight tank top covering her thin frame. I swear to God, the kid owns nothing that isn't toddler sized.
"Oh my God, Blanco," she exclaims, scurrying over to pick him up. "There you are. My poor baby, I've been looking everywhere for you."
She doesn't even glance at me before heading back toward the door, burying her nose in Blanco's fur and keeping up a steady stream of baby talk.
It's been like this since she got here. Three days of near silent treatment. The only time she even attempts to be agreeable is when we're around other people. Dinner at Carly's went decently, although it was a shock to discover she'd never prepared food of any sort, nor seen her mother prepare it. "We have a service that gives us perfectly portioned, all-organic meals," she informed me. "Why would we need to cook?"
Then we spent an afternoon at Craig and Deanna's, and Sara actually seemed to enjoy taking care of Mandy. They played princess and Mandy thought Sara was the prettiest big girl she'd ever seen.
But the rest of the time—when it's just Sara and I—it's mostly silent. She sleeps until eleven or twelve, spends the majority of her time Snapchatting and Instagramming, and only picks at the food I give her.
"Hey," I call out before she can shut herself back inside the house. "I was thinking we could go do something today."
She turns to look at me warily. "Like what?"
I shrug. "I don't know, maybe fishing or hiking? Craig and I used to go fishing at the river all the time when we were growing up."
Her nose crinkles in disgust. "Seriously? I am not touching a dead fish."
"Okay, so what do you do at home—besides shop?" I ask nonchalantly.
She rolls her eyes. "Nothing you can do here."
I set the guitar aside and lean my elbows on my knees. "Sara. I know this wasn't your first choice, but we're here for a month, your mom agrees it's what's best right now, and you can hate it the whole time and make yourself miserable, or you can try to enjoy it. L.A. doesn't have the monopoly on things to do. What kind of stuff do you like?"
She scowls at me, and I swear by all that's holy, there isn't a more confounding creature in the world than a teenage girl.
Her nose tilts in the air like the little diva in training she is, as she announces, "I like planning parties. My friends and I have parties all the time. Theme parties, where we plan the food and the decorations and the music. But since I have no friends here, I guess I can't do that, can I?"
Her expression is pure satisfaction. She thinks she's won, but I'm not so easily defeated.
"You may not have friends here, but I do, and I actually know a few things about throwing parties myself."
She scoffs. "Yeah, like how to order booze and hookers," she mutters.
"Hey. Don't believe everything you read in the tabloids. You know that, right?"
She shrugs.
"Seriously. I've been to some great parties I bet even you would approve of. Like the Grammies after-party with all the red roses at 1Oak."
She can't keep the interest off her face. "Really? You were at
that party? I heard that every surface was covered in roses, even the walls."
"Yes, ma'am," I answer. "It was one of the better after-parties I've been to. I also once went to a dinner party at Gwyneth Paltrow's place in New York. I met Apple and Moses and she served everything on china that had Goop scrawled across it in Sharpie."
"Oh my God. Mom loves her, but that whole Goop thing is so dumb."
I don't think she even realizes that she's come to sit next to me on the swing now, Blanco curling up between us.
I spend the next fifteen minutes regaling her with stories of the parties I've been to—the decorations, the food, the guests. It's the first time since she was a little girl that I've found something to bond over with her.
"We could have a party here?" she asks.
"Sure we could. The backyard's big enough for thirty or so, we could do any kind of theme you want. We could have dinner, show movies, whatever you'd like."
"It has to fit the locale," she informs me seriously. "Party planning means choosing a theme that fits with the setting, and then carrying that out into every tiny detail."
I nod, trying to adopt the appropriate somber expression. She obviously takes this very seriously.
"This is a small town, so it wouldn't work to do a theme like we do in L.A."
"Well, what about something different, then. Maybe country western. You could have barbecue and wear cowboy boots."
Her nose wrinkles again. "If we were in Texas, maybe, but not in Illinois." She thinks for a moment. "What did you want to do earlier? Fishing?"
"They do a lot of that here. That big old Mississippi River down the hill is full of fish." I wink at her and this time, when she rolls her eyes, it doesn't feel the same. It's more like the kind of eye roll Quinn gave Carly during dinner. There's no antagonism behind it, just normal teen exasperation.
She pulls her phone out then, swiping madly at the screen for a moment. "Tell me about the Mississippi River," she tells me. "We might be able to use that for a theme."
I smile and lean back, my arm across the swing behind Sara's back. Whether subconsciously or not, she relaxes into my side, her little shoulder just brushing my chest as her thumbs fly across the phone screen while I tell her about the history of my hometown, the river that flows alongside us, and who her dad really is—not the rockstar, but the man.
18
Carly
I'm walking down Main Street after having lunch with Ali, when I hear someone calling my name. I turn to find Martha and one of her regular accomplices, Violet, leaning out the door of Garden and Garage. Violet's long white hair is up in her usual bun, and she's wearing hot pink lipstick and an orange pants suit that I'm guessing is from the 1960s. It's polyester and has bell bottomed pants and a blazer with extra wide lapels.
"Come here for a moment, won't you, dear?" Martha calls out.
I don't trust the two of them. They might be old, but they're crafty, and both of them are wearing a look that says trouble. But because I was raised right, and I'm a responsible member of my community, I reverse course and make my way back to the store.
Once inside, Martha flips the sign on the door to closed and locks it behind me.
"Come right on in now," Violet tells me, taking my elbow in a surprisingly strong grip for a woman who's under five feet at this point in her life. Next thing I know, we're moving toward the little room behind the counter.
Once there, I see they have their lunches all laid out.
"Sit down and talk to us while we have our lunch break," Martha instructs.
If only I had an appointment I could rely on to get me out of this, but of course, all I have is paperwork, so it's not a legit excuse to be rude to two of the town's oldest residents.
"What are we talking about, ladies?" I ask, even though I have a pretty good idea what it's going to be.
"We're concerned about Ross," Violet begins.
I scowl at Martha, because she swore she wasn't going to gossip about him. But she stops me before I can voice my upset.
"This isn't gossip," Martha tells me firmly. "We're not going around talking to everyone about him, we've taken his friend aside and we're discussing it only with you. If that Craig Bissetti had come walking along, we'd have pulled him in, but I think he's been avoiding me since Christmas, when I told him I was going to speak to his mother because he lets Mandy eat Taco Haven for breakfast. There they were at the stoplight on Main and First, that poor child covered in pico de gallo at eight a.m. in her little child seat."
I stifle my laugh behind a delicate cough.
"I'm not sure I can be of much help to you ladies," I say finally. "I'm a friend of Ross's, but I'm not really a big expert on his day-to-day activities."
"I remember when his grandmother was alive. Patsy was a great friend of mine," Violet informs me. "I feel an obligation to watch out for him."
"He was in the diner yesterday when we went for our afternoon ice cream," Martha tells me.
"And his pretty girl," Violet adds.
"But she was sassing him something awful," Martha finishes. Violet gives a determined nod.
"He has to put a stop to that."
"Mmhm," Violet echoes.
I take a deep breath. "I've only met Sara a couple of times, but I think the whole thing is complicated—"
"It's actually very simple," Violet decrees. "He brought her here so he could be a father to her. Now, he needs to act like one."
"She's not a bad kid—"
"But she will be if he doesn't do his job," Martha replies.
I nod, defeated. I know they're right, but I also know Ross is terrified she'll go back to L.A. if he's too hard on her.
"I know parenting has changed a lot in my lifetime," Martha continues. "But it's still not good parenting to let your kids run roughshod over you. That girl was begging him to step up and act like a dad. And he just sat there and let her embarrass herself in front of an ice cream shop full of people."
"She needs him to be her father," Violet tells me softly. "And you're his friend and a mother. You have to explain it to him."
I sigh. "Okay, you two. Okay. I'll see what I can do."
They both give me satisfied smiles. "Have a cookie, dear," Martha adds, holding up a ginger snap. I can't help but feel it's the perfect symbol for their combination of spicy demands and sweet intentions.
I spend the rest of my afternoon distracted by what Martha and Violet have tasked me to do. It's not completely out of line for me to offer him some advice, he did ask me for help with Sara. But sometimes advice sounds like a great thing, until you actually get it. And what if I tell him something that makes her go running back to L.A.? I'll be the worst friend on the planet.
As much as I can't let myself get attached to Ross, I also don't want him to hate me. Somehow, that thought is more heartbreaking than never seeing him again.
I've just about decided not to say anything when my cell phone rings, and it's the man himself.
"Hey there, you must be psychic," I answer.
"Is she with you?" he asks breathlessly.
"Who?"
"Sara."
"Um, no." My heart rate picks up because I can hear the sheer panic in his voice. "You don't know where she is?"
He swears softly, but his anguish comes through loud and clear.
"Let's start from the beginning. What happened?"
"We had an argument—another argument—this morning. She didn't take the dog out before bed last night like she was supposed to, and he took a dump on the living room floor while we were asleep. I..." He takes a deep breath and his voice goes rough with emotion. "I've been trying so hard not to come down on her. No matter how rude or difficult she's been. I don't want her to leave, you know?"
My eyes burn because I feel his pain like it was my own. "I know. I know you're really trying to do the right thing here."
"But it was such a simple chore, and it wasn't just about her, it was unfair to the dog. If she's going to have a pet, sh
e needs to care for it, right?"
I nod, even though he can't see me.
"I got mad. I lectured her and told her I was taking her phone for the rest of the day."
Oh shit. "And that didn't go over too well, I take it?"
"No. She stormed off upstairs, I went to take the dog on a walk to cool down, and when I got back, she was gone."
"And she doesn't have her phone," I finish the story for him, my stomach churning with fear.
"Carly, I've looked everywhere. Craig and Deanna's. The library I took her to yesterday. The river where we had a walk the day before. You're the only other person she knows. And she's not with you."
"We'll find her, Ross. I promise."
"God. What the hell was I thinking, coming down on her like that? As if I have the right to lecture and punish her. I haven't earned that right. I've been nothing but a disappointment her whole life. And now I go and act like—"
"A dad?" I interject.
He's silent for a long breath. "I don't know how to be a dad.”
"We can talk more about this later, but yes, you do. And what you did today was exactly what a father does. And what you're doing now? Calling me and feeling that sick panic in your chest? That's exactly what a dad does, too. Now, I'm going to call Ali and Dex, and you're going to get Craig and Deanna home from work, and we're going to divide up the town and find her."
"If someone has touched her, I swear—"
"No one has. This isn't L.A. and she's a smart girl. She's hiding out somewhere licking her wounds, and we're going to find her and bring her home, where you will first tell her how much you love her, then ground her for the rest of the time she's here."
He laughs, then, finally letting the guilt and fear loosen their stranglehold on him.
"Tell everyone to meet at my house in fifteen minutes, we'll organize from there," I instruct.
We hang up and I rush to shut down my computer and grab my keys. Less than five minutes later, I'm about to walk up the porch steps at home when I hear voices from inside. I stop and wait, listening through the screen door that's the only barrier between the inside of the house and me.
Encore: A Standalone Rockstar Novel Page 10
