by Ev Bishop
“Who didn’t?” The man’s grin was more like a leer. Mia tried to tell herself he might just be socially inept, not intentionally disgusting—but then he wet his lips in an exaggerated way with his fat tongue.
Mia felt dizzy. A few pedestrians slowed again, curiosity piqued anew. She needed the couple to go away. The fastest way to make that happen was to—
As if from a great distance, Mia saw herself reach for the pen, though everything inside her keened in resistance.
Suddenly a smooth, pretty hand with a square-tipped French manicure snatched the pen from her and thrust it back at the woman. It was Sam to the rescue. She rolled her eyes at the woman and spoke in a dry, slightly condescending tone. “Don’t feel badly. You’re not the first person to mistake my lunatic sister for Clark.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open, as Sam turned to Mia and hissed, “Are you insane? Seriously! Stop being such an imposter. It’s embarrassing.”
“You mean, she’s not . . . what?” The woman looked at Sam, then at Mia. The fangirl awe that had glazed her expression seconds earlier morphed into a look of intense dislike. “How pathetic,” she exclaimed. “You don’t even look that much alike. I can’t believe you go around masquerading as Mia Clark. Get a life.”
What had just happened? Mia’s brain practically shot off sparks as she jumped up to speed. “Um, so does that mean you don’t want an autograph, after all?” she called to the woman’s quickly departing back. Sam snickered.
The woman didn’t slow, but the man in her grip did a half turn. “You could still autograph me, sweetheart.”
“Gross, Carl,” the woman said, yarding him back into line. From the outrage and indignation in her voice, a person would’ve thought Mia was the one who had accosted them.
Gross indeed. Couldn’t have said it better myself, Mia thought. When the creepy couple were well out of hearing distance, she shot Sam a look, shaking her head in wonder.
“What?” Sam raised her hands as if confused. “Don’t tell me you’re put off by a little fib. We could be sisters. I mean, don’t feel bad, I know I’m prettier, but you’re not bad looking yourself . . . except you’re old apparently.”
Despite the waning adrenalin making her queasy, Mia laughed. “You’re incorrigible!”
Sam grinned. “Now you really do sound like my blood relation.”
She linked her arm through Mia’s and hauled her into the shoe store. As it had earlier in the day, Mia’s whole body went rigid in Sam’s grasp. This time she forced herself not to pull away. To let herself take comfort in it.
“Sam—” Mia broke off, at a loss for how to put her gratitude into words, but apparently Sam didn’t require thanks. In fact, she seemed bent on avoiding it. She dropped Mia’s arm to focus all of the considerable force of her attention on a pair of purple suede boots.
“Oh. My. God,” she said in perfect parody of the horrible woman. Mia chuckled but it felt obligatory now, like she was playing the part of a woman enjoying an afternoon out with her zany friend, not a real person doing anything of the sort. “These boots are gorgeous—totally impractical for the weather up here. I’m getting them.”
Trying to get back in the spirit of things, Mia asked the saleswoman if she could try on the purple boots too.
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Copycat!” she exclaimed, but seemed delighted.
Mia adored the boots. The color reminded her of Sockeye’s vivid door. They had flannel lined uppers, thick, comfy rubber soles, and fit like they’d been custom designed for her.
She and Sam made their way to the till together, boots in hand. Sam got hers wrapped up, but at the last minute, Mia changed her mind. She didn’t need the boots, and really, what was the point? It wasn’t like she’d go anywhere anyone would see them.
A frown creased Sam’s face for a moment, but then she was her dry, cheery self again. “Your loss,” she said lightly.
The rest of the afternoon only got flatter from there. The sense of fun and easy camaraderie she and Sam had enjoyed was gone, and Mia knew it was her fault. Sam chatted about this and that as they hit a grocery store to pick up a few things, then browsed through the marvelous magazine selection at the local independent bookstore. Mia tried to respond appropriately, but her heart wasn’t in it.
Finally, over a late lunch of spicy Pad Thai at a little place called Don’s, Sam lost patience with her.
“Those people were losers, hey? They totally wrecked our day.”
“Yeah,” Mia agreed sadly.
“Wrong.” Sam set her water glass down so hard it made a banging sound. “You’re wrecking it.”
Mia nodded again. “I’m sorry. My mood’s the pits, I know. I should’ve called it a day before we had lunch. I just thought, since we’d already planned it—”
“Nope, that’s not what I’m saying either. I can handle a bad mood, or a sad mood, or a mad mood. What I don’t like is this resigned blah. You ran into some jerks. So what?”
Mia’s eyes smarted, but Sam wasn’t done. “Newsflash: There are jerks everywhere—and it’s not because you’re Mia Clark. We could’ve just as easily had a run-in with some rude loser who had no idea who you are.”
“I can’t help it. Things like that are a trigger. They remind me of how bad I am at reading people and how I can never deal with things myself, or protect myself . . . What if you weren’t there?”
Sam shrugged. “But I was. And there’s no shame in accepting help from a friend. And if I wasn’t there, big deal, you’d have signed the poor woman’s planner.”
“The poor woman?”
“She’s attached herself to a man, and I use the term euphemistically, like Carl. Trust me, her life, and her issues, are worse than yours.”
Sam had a point. “Yeah, okay, but—” Mia wanted to explain how incidents like this might not seem like a big deal to Sam, but each one blew itself up in Mia’s mind, made her worry that this newest person wouldn’t go away. Maybe they’d keep trying to contact her. Maybe they’d start following her or graft themselves into her life somehow. Maybe they already posed some threat she wasn’t aware of . . .
Sam interrupted like she was psychic. “I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m saying you need to stop giving your power to other people. Don’t let a rotten five minutes wreck your whole day. Pretend you’re brave until you actually are. Brazen it out—you know, the whole fake it till you make it thing.”
Mia chewed her lip, noodles and shrimp forgotten. She didn’t know if Sam’s speech was the right thing to say to someone who’d been through what she had been. Usually people went overboard with sympathy. Told her how difficult, how almost impossible to get over, it must be. Even went so far as to agree that retreating from the world and keeping her circle small and limited to only the closest friends and family was, if not optimal, certainly sensible. And she appreciated that understanding. And maybe in the first year, Sam’s “advice” would’ve fallen on deaf ears, or been too hurtful. Mia might’ve felt like Sam was saying her injuries were all in her head, were all a choice. Today, however, where she was now, she found herself liking Sam’s hard ass, practical form of empathy—and her assumption that Mia could handle things.
“Also, I need to apologize to you.”
Mia’s attention jerked back to Sam. “What? No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I lied back there—and I very rarely lie. A little omission or avoidance of a fact here or there, maybe. Or the tiniest misdirection, perhaps . . . but no outright lies.”
Mia didn’t laugh. She was honestly confused. What was this big lie Sam was confessing about?
Sam sighed. “I wanted to tell your, ahem, admirers to bugger off and/or to get some manners. That yes, you’re Mia Clark, but you’re not signing autographs—but then I remembered Jo’s command about secrecy.”
“Oh . . .”
“That’s right . . . oh. So I didn’t feel I had the freedom to spill the beans officially by speaking my mind—but that’s what you need to do. Lea
rn to say No. Honestly, just repeat after me, ‘No, I’m not signing autographs.’ ‘Step back.’ ‘Get away from me, cretin Carl.’”
Sam’s words had their desired effect this time. Mia finally smiled a sincere smile again. Even chuckled a little.
Sam nodded encouragingly, and her miss-nothing green eyes were intense. “That’s right, laugh. It is funny. Arm yourself with that laughter in public, keep up a shield of aloof reserve, and never let them see they’ve shaken you. I can’t believe you never learned any of this, considering how much fan contact you must’ve had.”
“My manager—my mom—and hired staff handled any ugliness. I just had to smile for fans’ cameras and be nice to reporters. I never had to really talk or make hard decisions. Never wanted to. I loved the music. I could’ve done without everything else.”
“That’s rough.” Sam sipped her black coffee, her own food untouched too. “I used to be bitter about not having anyone watch out for me when I was young, but sometimes I think it had some benefits too. At least I wasn’t made weak and vulnerable by the best of intentions. No one raised me to be ‘nice.’ Yes, some people think I’m a big bitch, but I kind of recommend it. More women need to be able to say fuck off when the occasion—or person—warrants it.”
Mia giggled like a nine-year-old when Sam’s F-bomb exploded, and once she started, she couldn’t stop for a long time.
“Is Jo as tough as you?” she asked when she could talk again.
“Tougher—but tell her I said so and die.”
Mia shook her head.
“People think Jo’s a pushover, but she’s not. She’s kind. It’s different. No one fools her, and if they think they have, it’s because she’s letting them think it. She’ll help anyone who needs it, regardless of who they are to her.”
The description jarred Mia; it was very similar to how Jo had described Gray.
“So basically,” Sam continued, “she’s tough like I said and totally nauseating.”
Mia nibbled a forkful of noodles, then took a bigger bite. The food was very good, but she was suddenly impatient to get moving again. “You’ve made me feel better, thank you.”
Sam’s voice was wry. “Not exactly what I was shooting for, since you need to be able to make yourself feel better—but good enough for now.”
Mia shoveled down two more big mouthfuls of food, downed her water, and stood up.
“What on earth?”
“Hurry and finish your meal. I’ve got something to do that can’t wait.”
“Eating’s for wimps.” Sam stood too. “What’s up?”
*
“So actually your day didn’t get wrecked. It was wonderful,” Mia corrected her negative thoughts aloud. “You had a rough ten minutes and let it color an hour or two. Big deal. The beginning and the end of the day were fabulous.” She rested her legs on her cabin’s funky coffee table, admired her new purple boots, and grinned, remembering Sam’s expression when she realized what Mia’s urgent “to do” was.
“You don’t think it’s too weird if I buy the same boots as you?” she had asked Sam, making sure before she dug out her credit card.
“Trust me, that’s the least weird thing about you.”
“True, that,” Mia said happily, making Sam snort.
Recalling the moment, Mia was just as happy. She had hoped this trip would help her become her old self again—her old self or better. And maybe it was working. She’d even made a fast and true friend, something she never would’ve predicted. Before she’d arrived at River’s Sigh, it had literally been years since she met anyone new without her mom and sister guarding her back. Now she had a whole crew of new acquaintances that she trusted.
Yes, she’d had an annoying clash with someone who recognized her and had aggressively wanted something from her—and true, she hadn’t handled it herself—but she’d seen it dealt with so casually and easily that she had high hopes of doing so herself in the future.
Most exciting of all, or, at least as exciting as everything else, was the lonely music shop in need of a new owner. The note on the door revealed it wasn’t as small as it appeared to be. In addition to the retail storefront, it had a small studio in the basement and lesson rooms in the back. Was she nuts to even be considering it? She wanted a big change, a new scene, but—
Argh, there was so much twirling around in her head, good and bad.
She wanted to talk to Gray or to write him a note—or maybe a poem. Poems weren’t lyrics. Or not exactly—and writing things to Gray didn’t really count as writing writing, right? Well, maybe it did, but it didn’t paralyze her the way contemplating writing songs again did. But Gray wasn’t around. She couldn’t hike over to see him. And it was nearly dark—not the best time to go to their tree.
To distract herself and hoping to burn off some energy, Mia called her sister. And got voicemail. She left a message.
“Jackie? Hello! It’s me. Call me back. I have great news. I went up town, bought boots, ate lunch—and I have a new friend, or I should say, we have a new friend. You’ll love her too. Also . . . I have an idea. Or a possible idea. Maybe. Call me back. Have I said call me back? I mean it. Call meeeeeee!”
Mia hung up and cranked her music, then danced around the room in her purple boots. For the first time in so long she couldn’t remember how long exactly, she was locked away in the safe privacy of her little cocoon—and didn’t want to be. Or not fully anyway. An increasingly loud part of herself wanted to be out and about. It was Friday night, guys. Friday night! She didn’t want to party, exactly. That would never be her scene again—but dinner out would be nice. Or a concert.
The idea that she was contemplating such things with anticipation not dread was mind blowing. She dug out her journal, planning to diligently report her progress—but instead found herself trying to capture snippets of the thoughts and images streaming through her brain. She wouldn’t call her scribblings lyrics or poetry or anything at all. She’d just let them out.
Chapter 17
“What’s up with you? Something’s different,” Gray muttered almost to himself—but it was true. He’d only been gone a week and a half, yet Mia had . . . changed.
She looked surprised, then grinned sort of shyly and waggled her foot. “It’s just the hot purple boots.”
“It is not the boots,” he groused. “But they’re something else, all right.”
“Something else good, or something else bad?”
Gray wasn’t sure. He was too distracted by her denim clad legs—ah, that was part of the difference maybe. Her clothes. He was used to her baggy sweats and tucked up hair. Seeing her in snug jeans and a low-necked sweater was . . . disconcerting. He was already disturbingly attracted to her when she was in workout gear, sans makeup, sans effort. Now that she was dressing up, or he was around when she was dressed up anyway, he couldn’t help but notice—and he didn’t like it. Or rather, he did like it. That was the problem.
They were sitting on Sockeye’s cozy covered porch with a crackling fire blazing away in the little chiminea. Over their heads, rain pounded a wild beat on the tin roof, streaming from the sky in sheets, not drops.
Gray tried not to think how nice it was to sit and watch the rain with Mia, rather than languishing at his place, listening to it alone. He’d been back for three days and this was his second time seeing her, despite the crazy rain, although they hadn’t resumed lessons yet. He’d stopped by on his way home from the airport, ostensibly to check in with her and to confirm she hadn’t started training with someone else, that she still wanted lessons from him. He knew better than to believe his own excuse though. He’d missed her while he was away. Grieving his friend, helping Tracy with arrangements, enduring the rigmarole of the funeral, etc.—none of it had kept his mind off her. And then today he’d come to see her, well, because he was weak and couldn’t stay away.
“Back in a sec,” she said suddenly, popping out of her seat and disappearing into the cabin. Gray tried not to watch her depart
ure and failed miserably.
“You’re scowling,” she said, when she reappeared a few minutes later, carrying two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.
He set his down on the porch railing. “We have to talk,” he said at the exact same time Mia chirped, “I’m so happy you’re back!”
She obviously heard him because the warm glow in her eyes dimmed a bit.
“Talk about what?” she asked guardedly.
“The little notes, the impromptu visits, our hanging out longer than designated lesson times . . . It all has to stop.”
Mia had been about to sip her cocoa, but now she lowered the brimming mug without a taste. “But why? I thought that we were, maybe, um . . .” Her cheeks flamed as she stumbled over her words, then she repeated herself and finished her sentence in an embarrassed whisper. “I thought we’d become friends.”
Shit, thought Gray. That was the predicament, all right. They had become friends. Or maybe, as she’d sort of implied, even been on their way to flirting with something more. His memory replayed the sweet, awkward high five she’d given him. He knew now, as he had then, how much her voluntarily initiating physical contact meant.
He avoided her eyes. “My best friend since we were eight died last month. I hadn’t seen him face to face in years—not since Celine and Simon’s funeral—and I didn’t call him enough.” He had no idea why he added those last two bits of information.
“I know. Jo told me when she explained you’d be missing some of our sessions. I’m so sorry, Gray. I didn’t bring it up because I figured you wouldn’t want to talk about it, or at least not right away.”
Astute of her. And kind. Two qualities that pretty much epitomized her. And if he did want to talk about it, it would be with her. The fact seared through him.
Gray crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re right, I don’t. But it reminded me, for a lot reasons, why you and I should keep a healthy distance. You’re leaving soon. No good will come of complicating things. If you still want self-defense tips, we can keep meeting, but we should leave it at that.”
