I change again, this time into a black dress with sheer lace paneling. It’s flowy and light, the fabric catching on the faint breeze coming from the fans.
There’s a swish next to me as Wes goes into his dressing room. I wait for him outside and he doesn’t take long. With a dramatic sweep, he pushes back the curtain to reveal his selections.
My hand flies to my mouth. “No. There’s no way.”
Leather pants. Same pink boa. And a cropped purple concert shirt that shows off the dusting of hair on his lower stomach. My fingers twitch with a desire to reach out and touch him, run a knuckle over the exposed skin and see what reaction I can draw out of him. But I snap out of my daze when I see what’s screen printed on the fabric. It’s merch from my first tour—and has my face on it.
“I know, right? Who would want to get rid of this? A classic.”
“Wes, you need to put that back.”
“This treasure? I’m wearing it in front of everyone to let them know exactly who your biggest fan is.” He pulls off his boa and steps closer to me. In one swift motion, he wraps it around me and pulls me to him so our hips lock together.
My hands land on his chest as a delighted laugh rockets out of my throat. “You didn’t need to do all of this.” The air crackled between us, and my fingers shift over the soft fabric, inconspicuously exploring the ridges of his body.
“I wanted to. It might seem silly, but this is a big deal to me. You’re a big deal to me.”
When was the last time someone prioritized my happiness without any ulterior motives? I haven’t even done that for myself.
“Thank you,” I say, forcing myself to step back. The boa floats to the floor as he releases it and me.
I carry these thoughts with me as we change back into our regular clothes and carry everything we’ve selected up front. I try to pay, but Wes has already put his card down. Another gift from him.
His car is parked outside but as I pop open the passenger door, I spot something.
“You can go on ahead if you want, I can call a car. I’m going to check out that bookstore.” I cock my head toward the low stucco building with windows full of shiny new releases and posters for upcoming author signings.
“I have time, I’ll come with.”
With our bags in the car, we cross the street.
“Welcome in. Just so you know, we close in fifteen minutes. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” says a bookseller straightening up a shelf of thrillers near the front.
I head toward the “Fiction” sign at the heart of the shop. When we reach the wooden shelves, my eyes trail along crisp, unbroken spines until they land on Hudson Sloane.
Using my index finger, I slide out the first of the three titles, more than I’m used to seeing. It’s worse when there are none of his books, like he’s slowly being erased. If he was any less popular of an author, his work would be out of print by now.
As always, for Avery and George,reads the dedication page.
“Here, can you take this?” I ask Wes, thrusting the book in his direction. He takes it, and I fish in my purse for my phone. I use it to take a picture and send it to George and my grandparents. I still haven’t heard from them since the Jamie scandal, and honestly I’ve enjoyed the reprieve, but I like to think they like seeing evidence of Dad still out in the world the way I do. “Thanks.”
“Do you visit bookstores a lot? It seemed like you knew exactly where these would be shelved.”
“If I have time. It’s nice to see his name and that people still get to know him. I think he’d like that, he always loved meeting new people, and he still gets to.”
“That’s your last name. Oh my gosh, is this your pen name? Did you write these?” I jump at the stranger’s voice and find agirl looking at Wes and me from around the corner of the shelf. She can’t be more than seventeen.
“Yeah, I wrote it when I was ten,” I say flatly. The book was written in 2002 when we were in Paris. We were sitting at a café outside of Basilique du Sacré-Coeur when he scribbled“The End.”Her brows furrow, and I sigh. “My dad wrote it.”
“He’s a writer?”
“He was.”
“Is this one good?”
“His best. Here, take it. I have copies at home.” Stacks and stacks of them.
She takes it gingerly from me, like the book is precious. Part of me wishes I could have just had this moment here alone with Wes and the books. That I could have one uninterrupted moment, but seeing how she cradles it in her arms melts the ice around my heart.
