Famously Mine: A Contemporary Romance Box Set

by Roxy Reid

  I slam my hand against the bar. “But why was she working for them in the first place?”

  “Yeah. Fair. I wouldn’t do that to any of my exes. No matter how much they were offering.” He starts putting glasses away. “How much were they offering her?”

  “Not much. Twenty thousand.”

  Jim drops a glass. It shatters against the concrete. “Not much? Jesus. How rich are you?”

  “Rich enough I could pay off Mom and Dad’s mortgage if they’d just give in and tell me who to pay.

  “I’ll figure it out before Christmas,” Jim says as he grabs a dustpan and sweeps up the rest of the glass.

  “So … um …” I’m feeling incredibly stupid, but I need to know.

  Jim finishes cleaning up and stands, facing me, “Spit it out.”

  “Twenty thousand is a lot?” I blurt. “Charlie said it could change her life, but I assumed she meant getting a big story in a national magazine, not the money itself …”

  “It’s a lot of money,” Jim says. “I’d guess between a third to two thirds of a year’s salary, for her. Is there something she’s saving up for?”

  My gut sinks as I think of how she talked about the project she wanted to do with all the adopted kids.

  “Would you do it?” I ask. “Would you screw someone over for that much money?”

  “No. Yes. Well.” Jim goes back to putting glasses away. “I’d like to say no, but it depends on who it was. If it was one of my friends? Or an ex I’ve already hurt once? Or just someone who’s got less than me? No. But if it was someone who screwed me over, and then got super rich and famous and untouchable, and if there was something I wanted bad enough …” He shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “But I didn’t screw her over,” I say. “I broke up with her so she’d, you know, graduate and go to college and shit, and have a better life than she would with me.”

  This time when the glass breaks, it’s because Jim slams it down on the counter too hard. “That’s why you broke up with her?”

  “I was eighteen,” I say defensively.

  “Fuck. Does she know that’s why you broke up with her?”

  I ignore him and drink my Guinness.

  “I’ll take that as a no. Did you at least tell her you love her this time? Before your fight yesterday morning?”

  Now I’m getting annoyed. “I can’t just say that. It’s only been a few weeks. No one falls in love that fast. She won’t believe me.”

  “That’s because you didn’t fall in love. You stayed in love. You jackass.”

  “It’s more complicated than you’re making it sound,” I mutter.

  “No, I don’t think it is, Finn.”

  “But—”

  “Let me be a big brother for a sec.” Jim swings his towel over his shoulder, and holds up a finger. “1. You break her heart without warning or explanation, and you don’t talk to each other for ten years. You get rich and famous, while she struggles along like a normal person. 2. She gets offered a huge amount of money to, let’s face it, tell the truth about you. Yes, she’s breaking your trust, but it’s not like she’s making shit up. 3. You give her the perfect story, and she doesn’t use it. Instead, she helps you fix your problem. 4. Someone else spills the beans, and instead of shrugging and going with it, she tries to persuade her boss to do a good piece on you instead. 5. She does this even though you haven’t told her how you feel about her. And then 6., when she tries to explain, you won’t let her explain, and in general are so angry that she decides to leave the tour.”

  “She didn’t leave the tour,” I say.

  “What?”

  “She wanted us to calm down, and talk about it when we got to San Francisco. But I fired her and left her in Chicago.”

  Jim smacks his forehead, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Please tell me that’s the last stupid thing you did.”

  “I threatened to sue her.”

  “You fucking dumbass.”

  I want to argue, because he’s my brother and it goes against every instinct I have to let him be right, but my brain is running through everything that happened through Charlie’s perspective.

  And Jim has a point.

  “Fuck,” I say.

  This time Jim pours me a shot of Jamison’s whiskey. Vitamin J, as my mom calls it.

  “I have to get her back,” I say, already standing up. “I have to go to the airport. If I leave tonight—”

  Jim looks alarmed. “Hold on their slugger. You’ve got a concert tonight.”

  “Fuck that,” I say viciously.

  “You think Charlie wants a boy who will screw over all his employees because he has an epiphany? Or do you think she wants a man who responsibly honors his commitments and then catches the first plane the next morning?”

  I narrow my eyes at Jim. “I hate you.”

  “Drink your whiskey.”

  I down it in a shot and turn to go.

  Then I remember what he said about the twenty thousand and pull out my wallet.

  Jim frowns in confusion. “What are you doing?”

  “Paying for my drinks. Like you said, I’m rich—”

  “Your money’s no good here. You dweeb. Now go play the show and get the girl.”

  I hesitate. “Thanks, Jim. I mean it.”

  He gives me the lopsided grin he’s been giving me since we were kids. “Eh. I figure at least one of us should get the love of his life.”

  On impulse, I hop over the bar and give him a bear hug.

  “You cheesy sap,” Jim says, but he hugs me back, tight.

  That’s when I remember something. I break the hug and reach for my wallet.

  “Hey I said—”

  “I’m not paying you. I’m giving you two tickets to my concert.”

  Jim takes the tickets, his thumb tracing the part where it says my last name—our last name—above the date and venue.

  “Huh,” he says.

  Suddenly I feel self-conscious. “I mean, you don’t have to. It’s late notice, and you probably have to work, and you’ve certainly heard me sing before …”

  “Are you kidding? Of course, I’m coming. If only to make sure you actually show up, instead of ditching us all to chase Charlie.”

  I fake a laugh, and Jim shoves me toward the door. “Go on. Get out of here. Before you make me break another glass.”

  And just like that, I’m out in the gray and the rain again, staring down De Luca’s Fine Italian Dining.

  On impulse, I dial Charlie. It would be better to do this in person, but I can’t wait twenty-four hours to tell her I’m sorry. What if that’s all the time she needs to decide she’s done giving me second chances?

  My call goes straight to voicemail, and my stomach tightens.

  She’s rejecting my calls.

  I hang up.

  The cheery restaurant across the street looks at me with reproach. Look what you lost, it says.

  I’m going to get you back Charlie, I think. I promise.

  I’m too amped up to be around other people, so I get my guitar and head to a spot in a park Charlie and I used to hang out at. It’s done raining, but the gray damp means I’ve got privacy. With my hood up, no one looks at me twice. Just another street musician with a guitar.

  I try to work on the song I was writing last night in my hotel room. It’s a sardonic song about getting over a woman, and I was having a bitter sort of fun with it yesterday, but now I can’t get into it.

  I glance around the park to make sure no one’s paying attention to me, and then I let my fingers start playing the other song.

  The guilty pleasure song.

  It’s the song I started writing that first morning in the hotel room, after we slept together. It started as a riff on an old Irish love song my mom used to sing to us when we were trying to fall asleep, but that felt too sad to hold Charlie in it, so I changed a few chords to let more light in to the melody.

  Before, the chorus was about loving her and knowing it c
ouldn’t last. Artistically, I know that’s the way to go. People don’t want beautiful, straightforward love songs from guys like me. I can do something giddy and fast on an electric guitar, if I keep it just a little crude. Or I can do something beautiful and honest, but only if it’s laced with sadness.

  If it’s just happy and in love, it won’t go with anything else on the album.

  But everything in me is revolting against even the idea that Charlie and I don’t last.

  On the other hand, I’m wound too tight to write something genuinely happy. That feels too much like jinxing us.

  So maybe … maybe a song asking her to take me back.

  I start picking out the chords, trying out lyrics under my breath.

  “You said I had until dawn/ And I took what you gave/ But here’s the thing about dawn, babe/ It comes every day.”

  I play with it until I have a chorus, then a verse, then another verse. I’m not holding anything back. No tricks saved for the next, better song. Everything I have is going in this one.

  Maybe if I do it well enough, she’ll hear what I’m saying, and take me back. Third time’s a charm right?

  It’s the germ of an idea, and by the end of it I feel both terrified and certain.

  I’m going to finish this song. And then I’m going to play it on stage in front of thousands of people. And people will record it and put it online, because they always do, and it will go a little bit viral. And maybe if I’m lucky it will make its way to Charlie, and it’ll soften her up just enough that she’ll be ready to listen when I show up on her doorstep.

  Shit. I don’t know where she lives.

  Ok, maybe it will soften her parents up, so they give me her address, so the begging can commence.

  But first I have to be emotionally naked in front of thousands of people with cameras.

  No sarcasm. No jokes. Just me.

  Oh fuck. This isn’t going to work.

  I try to play through the song for real now, singing it all out, like I would in a stadium.

  “YOU SUCK!” someone yells from across the park.

  And I just start laughing, because that puts everything in perspective.

  Having people think I suck? I can handle that.

  I can handle anything if it gets me closer to Charlie.

  “Don’t mind him,” a voice says, and I look up to see a well-dressed old lady with an even older dog holding out a crisp dollar bill. “I liked it. I bet if you work at it, you could be really good someday.”

  I should probably be insulted, but I’m oddly touched.

  “Thank you,” I say, accepting the dollar. “But I just need to be good enough to get her back.”

  “Oh,” she says, significantly more doubtful. “Well, good luck with that.”

  I nod, and go back to my song as she walks off with her dog.

  “YOU STILL SUCK,” the first man calls.

  “FUCK YOU,” I respond and go back to my tender love song.

  15

  Charlie

  “Charlie? Oh honey, she’s here!” On the other side of the luggage claim, my mom waves aggressively, like maybe I’ve gone blind in the nine months since Christmas and can’t see her.

  I raise a hand in a half-ass wave, and my mom’s face lights up like I hung the moon.

  She rushes around the luggage carrousel to hug me like she always does but hesitates at the last minute.

  “Is this ok?” she asks. “Or are you too mad?”

  I look over at my dad, who waits patiently, like any answer I give is ok, and it’s my right to give it.

  “Yeah, it’s ok,” I say, and my mom wraps me in a hug. “I’m still mad, but it’s ok.”

  I’ve spent the last 20 hours on planes or in airports—there were no direct tickets to San Francisco left, so naturally, the quickest way to get here was via Florida—and it’s given me time to think.

  My parents and I are going to need to have a long talk to fully work through this, but we love each other and we’re going to be ok.

  Finn and I? That’s still up in the air. Which means I need to get to the hotel the tour is staying at.

  I check my phone as we head to the car, to see if Bridget answered my question about where I should meet her to give her the flash-drive with the photos.

  But instead of an address, she’s sent me a text saying she’s never seen Finn like this, and using the photos today doesn’t seem appropriate. She still wants the photos but over email sometime in the next week.

  I stare blankly down at the phone.

  I could go to the concert, but if Bridget won’t even tell me what hotel they’re at, there’s no way I’m still on the staff list to get backstage.

  Maybe if I buy a ticket … but a quick google tells me the concert’s been sold out for weeks.

  We pile into my parents’ car, and I stare numbly ahead.

  “Where to, sugar?” my dad asks.

  “One second.”

  I didn’t want to do this over the phone, but that seems like my only option. I don’t even know what city Finn will be in after tonight.

  “How about I just drive us home, and we can plan from there?” my dad says, and I nod without really hearing him.

  I go to call Finn, and my heart skips a beat when I realize I have two missed calls from him.

  One of them is an old one from earlier this week, but one of them is from today, when I was on an airplane.

  I call him back, my heart pounding.

  “So did you have a nice flight?” my mom asks as we pull out of the parking lot.

  “Not now, Mom!”

  “Do they still serve peanuts? I heard they don’t serve peanuts anymore because of allergies,” my dad says, and Finn’s phone finishes ringing and goes to voicemail.

  I hang up and call him again. Maybe he just didn’t get to it before it finished ringing. Maybe he’s in the shower.

  Maybe it’s a billion and one reasons besides the reason it actually is: that his call to me was a butt dial or a lapse in judgement. He’s still mad, and he doesn’t want to talk.

  “Who are you trying to reach, Charlie?” my dad says.

  “Finn. But he’s not picking up.”

  My dad frowns in confusion, “Just leave a message. He’ll call you back.”

  “She’s a millennial,” my mom says. “They don’t do that.”

  “That seems inconvenient,” my dad says. He barely checks his mirror before merging recklessly, looking befuddled when the other driver shoots him the bird. “I wish you’d told me you were trying to get in touch with Finn. I could have passed on a message when I saw him at the restaurant today.”

  “WHAT??!!” my mom and I shout.

  “Well, not at the restaurant. Across from it, in front of his family’s place.”

  “When was this?” I demand.

  “A few hours ago,” my dad says, zooming around the sane person in front of us going the speed limit.

  “Did you see him leave?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he says.

  “TAKE ME TO THE RESTAURANT NOW.”

  I race into Ryan’s Pub like … well, like the love of my life is inside and this is my last chance to get him back.

  Everyone turns to stare at me. My parents shuffle in behind me at a more sedate pace.

  Jim Ryan’s behind the bar, looking the same as ever.

  “Where is he? Where’s Finn?”

  It takes him a moment, but then he breaks into a smile. “Charlie! You changed your hair.”

  “Is Finn still here?”

  “No, he headed off to the concert.”

  I swear and run a hand through my hair.

  My parents exchange glances.

  My mom clears her throat, “Charlie, your dad and I were talking, and we could buy you a ticket, so you can get in to talk to him. They’re a little pricey, but we owe you the chance to have a real conversation with him.”

  I smile tightly, because I know they mean well, but right now I want to scre
am. “They’re all sold out. And he’s not answering his phone. And I don’t even know what city he’s going to be in tomorrow.”

  I sink into an old wooden chair, suddenly exhausted.

  “You really do love him,” my dad says quietly.

  I bury my face in my hands and nod.

  I’m in love with Finn Ryan. And he doesn’t love me back.

  My dad signals Jim. “Can I have a shot of whiskey please?”

  “I can do you one better. Want to be my date tonight?”

  I look up to tell him to go to hell—I’m sure as hell not going on a date with Finn’s brother—when I see what he’s holding up.

  Two tickets for tonight’s concert.

  “Oh my God. Yes. How did you …”

  “He gave them to me earlier. I was going to catch a bus in a few minutes, if you want to head over together …”

  “We’ll drive you,” my mom says firmly.

  Which is how I end up driving through a rainy San Francisco night, heading to my ex-boyfriend’s rock concert with his brother and my parents, all of them trying to give me romantic advice at once, with brief breaks to yell at other drivers.

  I ignore them all and focus on not puking from nerves.

  This is going to be fine. This is going to be fine. This is going to be fine …

  16

  Finn

  I’m in my dressing room playing through Charlie’s song one last time. A local band is on stage warming up the crowd. It’s a matter of minutes before someone pokes their head in here and tells me to get on stage.

  I feel scattered, like the way a wave sprays up when it crashes on rocks. I jolt from hope that I’m going to get to see Charlie again tomorrow and everything will be great, to fear that she’s never going to speak to me again. Sometimes I just think about her for a while, and that feels like a delicious treat, to let my mind go where it wants to, which is, always, back to Charlie. To her heat and strength and smile. I run through every memory I have of her, binge-watching all things Charlie.

  Thinking about singing my sappy love song in front of a crowd of thousands is almost a relief. At least that would be a failure that doesn’t involve Charlie.