Being in his house reinforces what Baylor wants — family, life at a pace he can enjoy, work that keeps him busy. His awards are displayed tastefully down in his studio, proudly, but it’s clear that they don’t motivate him.
And that’s what I have to offer. Some sort of undefinable fame that’s measured in sales and downloads and plays. That’s it. And, that’s all it has ever been.
He already has that, without all the celebrity bullshit.
That’s not what he wants. Hell, he’s walked away from it once before.
In my mind, I had always pictured Baylor as the kind to hold on to things that mattered. His family. Bear Valley. It’s one of my favorite things about him.
Looking at his home though, it’s clear he built this for someone with some kind of future in mind — an “us” kind of future. Mr. and Mr. towels in the bathroom, two chairs on the deck to catch the sunset, kissing someone when they arrive home from work and all the rest.
And someone left him, I’m guessing. There is a melancholy to Bee that doesn’t coincide with new love waiting in the wings.
Not only that, but Baylor would have held onto something he loved.
Right?
My mind is foggy with this puzzle, because another thing I know about Baylor Mann is that he wouldn’t want to leave marks on anyone.
Not even the finger-tip bruises of holding on too long.
No. He would go and nurse his broken heart somewhere alone.
Maybe even in the house he had built thinking of a future with the person he let go.
And then write a song about it.
My stomach drops. Maybe the love song wasn’t the one I should have been paying attention to. It was all the others.
How many words have I sang in the past decade that were his words of loss to someone else? That thought leaves me a little queasy. I don’t want him singing about anyone else.
I can see through all the windows and glass when Jack, Matt, Caleb, and Nix stumble into the kitchen with Baylor traveling behind.
I try not to notice how relieved Baylor looks at not being alone with me anymore. He busies himself with passing out drinks and being the host, and soon we are all reassembled around Baylor’s long dining room table.
“We need to talk logistics,” Nix says, matter-of-factly. “Baylor, what was your plan for cowriting?”
“Umm. . .well, I. . .”
“I’m going to stay in Bear Valley for a bit.” I say hastily. “No need for Baylor to displace himself.”
My house isn’t a home, even without the break in. If I am going to truly rest from this tour, I’m in the best place on Earth to do that. But, also, I’m not leaving until I figure out this Baylor thing.
“It makes sense right now,” I say, “with the songwriting and everything. Not to mention filming is in Denver, so this way I can easily just stay in the bubble of this project. Since I can’t go back to my house anyway.”
“Why can’t you go home?” Baylor asks, the question directed straight to me, like no one else is in the room at all.
“There was a break in,” my mouth answers for me, unwilling to lie to the guy I still consider my best friend and former lover. “This feels more homey right now, not to mention proximity to Denver and you,” I pause and then tack on a, “to collaborate,” before I make things awkward.
I can see Baylor watching me carefully, but he doesn’t say anything.
Jack says, “Do you have any idea where you would like to stay? Just give me an idea and some time and we can find something for you.”
I have no doubt that the vast catalog of Mann Properties can magic up just about anything I would want. But, staying by myself in some rental isn’t what I want.
“I thought maybe I would just stay out here with Bee.” The words jump out of my mouth before I can call them back. Damn, I’ve got some balls. Maybe the rockstar nonsense has gone to my head completely.
At the same time, Baylor says, “You can stay here.”
