I give him the smile I can tell he wants. “Don’t push it.”
We hold each other’s eyes. Even black-and-blue, Theo is lovely in the soft light, dust motes glittering around him. He takes a deep breath, and I watch his chest rise and fall, thinking that I could be happy doing that forever.
“Hannah.” Theo’s voice is quiet, his expression turned serious. He reaches for me and cups my jaw, skimming my skin with the soft pad of his thumb. He studies my face like he wants to memorize it. “There’s no point telling me I shouldn’t have come after you. I would follow you anywhere. Into the ocean. Across the world. Wherever you’re going.” His heartbeats so hard in his chest I can feel it through the places our bodies touch. “And it’s not because I was your manager.”
The way he’s looking at me is like he’s pledging something. I don’t deserve Theo Ford, I never have, but I close the distance and kiss him anyway. It’s slow at first. I’m afraid to hurt him, kissing his swollen bottom lip gently, brushing back his tumble of dark hair, but he’s impatient. He deepens the kiss, leans back in his bed, and pulls me over him. I’m practically on top of him, hands bracing the mattress, when he breaks away and brushes the hair out of my face.
“Stay,” he whispers. “For tonight. Please. I don’t think I can let you go so soon—”
“I know.” Leaving tomorrow is going to be unbearable, and he’s the biggest reason why. But so many things have been unbearable this past year, and yet here I am, alive and bearing them. “I won’t go anywhere,” I promise. “Tonight is for you.”
Chapter 56
Theo
Friday, November 29, 2024
When I climb out of the subway station in Times Square, she’s staring back at me in full Technicolor, lording above the tourists, larger than life: the Future Saints, splashed across a billboard. Even though I’ve seen this ad many times by now, I stop in my tracks, ignoring the angry grumbles from people exiting the subway behind me. The three of them are a tortured, roaring, beatific triptych, their signature poses recreated for the album cover. It’s been two weeks since I released Hannah into the care of her parents and a car bound for Malibu, yet with these ads for the Saints’ album blanketing the city, I see her ghost everywhere. It makes me lonelier, somehow, to have her so close and so far away at the same time.
I pull my peacoat tighter against the autumn wind and keep walking in the direction of the restaurant where I’m meeting Bryan and Gemma for breakfast. Say what you will about California’s eternal summer, but a New York fall has its own charms, even here in Mid-town, with the trees ablaze in orange and yellow and the city bustling in preparation for the holidays. I pause in front of a small flower shop next tothe restaurant, admiring the bouquets of roses, lilies, and ra-nunculus in the window.
I’ve been feverishly tracking sales of the Saints’ album since it dropped, and they’re every bit as strong as we’d hoped. It turns out no one listened to Jerry Hughes at theNew York Times. Consumers cared about YouTube reviews and TikTok edits, and they had a very different opinion ofOne Day, Virginia. Looking in the flower shop window, I’m struck by the urge to pull a Hannah and send Roger a bouquet with a snarky note. Maybe something like:You’re welcome for not trusting your tired instincts. Enjoy the spectacular album sales.The thought of Roger’s reddening face while reading the note brings me a thrill, but the next moment, my shoulders slump. What’s the point in harboring old grudges? It’s time to follow Hannah’s suit and move forward.
I pull open the door to the restaurant and a bell chimes to announce me.
Bryan and Gemma are already sitting at a table in the back corner, arms entwined, practically in each other’s laps. When they see me, they pull apart and flash big smiles.
“My favorite entrepreneur!” Bryan calls. He looks as sharp as ever in a well-tailored suit, a colorful tie knotted around his neck. “What’s up, buddy? It’s been too long. I missed you.”
“Bry, we hung out two days ago.” I pull out a chair with my good arm. My face has healed up in the two weeks since my fight on the beach, most of the bruising and cuts faded, but I’ll be in this sling for another couple weeks. Bryan freaked out when he landed at LAX and saw the damage, but in my opinion, these injuries are the least I deserve after temporarily losing my mind and starting a fistfight with strangers. Thank god the man I lunged at took pity on me and declined to press charges.
“Exactly,” Bryan says. “Two days is too long.”
He’s been happy to have me back in the city, to say the least.
Gemma stands to give me a half hug. “Sorry for making you come all the way out to Midtown.”
“No worries.” A waiter comes by and pours coffee, and I nod my thanks. “I had to make the trek anyway. I’ve got a meeting with a loan officer today.”
Bryan’s face lights up. “Is today the big pitch? Is that why you’re all gussied up?”
I nod, trying to contain my nerves. I’ve been mostly holed up in my apartment for the last two weeks, channeling my complicated emotions into workaholism in true Theo Ford fashion. Now I’ve got a tight business plan for the fledgling Ford Records, and all I need to start putting things into motion is a loan from a bank.
God help me: I’m actually starting my own record label. I’ve taken business advice from the Saints.
“You’ll do great,” Gemma assures me. Unlike me and Bryan in our suits, Gemma’s work attire as an Equinox instructor consists of head-to-toe spandex. “Enneagram Type Twos are known for making strong connections with people right off the bat.”
I think of my disastrous first meeting with Hannah and the band and smile to myself. “Is that so?”
To Gemma’s credit, she’d been right so far about my Enneagram type. I happened to know that because she forced me to take the personality test not even four hours into our first meeting.
As the waiter returns for food orders, my phone vibrates so hard it nearly jumps off the table. I stare at the screen for a moment, wondering why the hell the Saints’ new manager is calling.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Gemma asks.
I frown at the phone. “It’s a guy I used to work with.” I haven’t heard a peep from any of my former coworkers since I was fired.
“Maybe Roger’s private plane went down in the Bermuda Triangle,” Bryan suggests, yelping as Gemma slaps him on the arm.
