“Thank you.” She beams then darts toward the register to buy it.
“I haven’t read that one, is it really his best?” Wes asks.
“I don’t know… I haven’t read any of them.”
“Really? Why not?”
“Because I’m terrified it would be like seeing his ghost. And it’s not the ghost part that scares me. I wonder if he’d be proud of me, you know? He never got to see any of this, and maybe that’s for the best. He didn’t have to see me become someone who was willing to marry someone to become five percent more famous.” My eyes sting, my throat tightening with every word of my admission. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to read one of his books.” I reach down, shuffling the remaining two books into better positions like as if I’m rearranging flowers at a grave site. “I guess that’s why I haven’t gone back to Caper either.”
“You could, though, if you wanted to,” he says as his face softens.
“That’s your home, Wes. George is your mother. I have plenty of other places I can be.”
There have been times I’ve thought I was ready to go back. But ever since what happened between us, it didn’t feel right. That’s his home. She’s his family. What right do I have to march in and hope I’m still welcome? Sure, George and I are on good terms, but phone calls and texts are different than staying for dinner.
“It’s not the same without you.”
“So sorry, but we need to lock up for the day. Can I help you with any purchases?” the bookseller asks, her mouth in a plastic smile that lets me know she wishes she didn’t have to interrupt us.
“We were just about to get going,” I tell her, stepping away from the shelf.
We leave and ride together in silence. It was such a good day, but talking about Dad and Caper is just a reminder of how much has changed.
“He’d be proud of you. What you’re doing now, finding yourself again… He’d be so proud,” Wes says when we pull to a stop in front of the single-story white house I’ve rented for my time in LA. “I don’t know if me saying that counts for anything. But I can’t imagine a world where it isn’t true.”
The day sticks with me even as rehearsals start and Wes and I rarely see each other beyond when my time is about to end and his is about to start. Because our sets are separate, beyond a joint finale number each night, our rehearsal times are also separate. In those moments I feel his eyes on me, watching every move, cocking his head to take in every note that falls from my lips. It doesn’t make me feel judged, but that he truly appreciates it no matter how many times he listens to the same song.
I don’t know what to make of him. I want to believe he’s changed, but I can’t. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to give me a reason not to trust him.
“He’s. So. Infuriating.” Each word is punctuated with a sharp inhale.
My lungs burn as the heels of my boots thud heavily against the rapidly rotating belt of my treadmill. It’s tucked in the back room of my rental, facing a window so I can see the sparkling skyline of LA against the starless night sky.
“I could have told you that.” Evelyn’s voice comes from the headphone plugged into one ear. The other earbud whips around wildly between my body and the treadmill's digital dashboard. “I’m not sure why you’re expecting him to be any different.
“You’re right.” I hesitate to tell her more. She wasn’t exactly a fan of me going on this tour in the first place. And keeping my hopes for the future locked in my head feels safer, like if I don’t say that I’m excited out loud, then it’s less likely I’ll be hurt if Wes does disappoint me.
“Are you good? I can call back later.”
“No,” I pant. “This is good. If I wasn’t calling you, I’d be singing while doing this.” The exercise is supposed to help with building stamina and stability so while I’m moving on stage my voice remains smooth and not like my entire body is bouncing. Plus, this is a great way to break in the new pairs of boots I bought with Wes, so they mold to my feet and won’t give me blisters after performing in them for hours.
“Because you haven’t done enough of that today. You’re just going to tire yourself out and be too exhausted for tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. We’ll be working on our first finale number together. I’ll be singing with Wes, and I’m both excited and terrified of what old feeling may come to the surface.
A sigh gusts from my lips. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“Sleep. Call me tomorrow to tell me how it went.”
“You too, it’s late.” With a three-hour time difference it’s close to midnight for her.
We say goodbye, and I turn off the treadmill, wiping sweat from my face and heading to my kitchen to get more water.
A knock sounds through the empty house. I want to ignore it and go to bed like Evelyn suggested, exhaustion finally seeping through my aching legs, but I also know that with the security measures in place, not just anyone would be able to come to my door.
Setting my glass in the sink, I head to the front, pausing to look through the peephole. Wes stands arms crossed over his chest, head swiveling to take in my house.
A zip of excitement shoots up my spine. All it took was a few weeks for my body to forget itself. I can’t trust him yet, no matter how my heart seems to pound faster at the distorted view of him through the door.
