“Oh,” I said. “Well, I guess that’s a pretty decent silver lining.”
“Even better was the fact that she said I got the very best parts of him. So, in some way, it’s almost like he’s still around, because of me. Also, my mom and I are best friends.”
“Do you still talk to your dad?”
“Sure, sometimes. Holidays, birthdays, that sort of thing. But for the day-to-day, it’s really just me and my mom.”
I nodded. There was so much I felt compelled to say, but my mouth couldn’t form any words. How was she able to do that to me after only knowing me for just a few hours?
“What about you?” Harmony asked. “Are you here with your family?”
I shook my head. “Nope. It’s just me.”
“Really?” she wondered. “I think it’s scary to travel alone.”
“I guess it can be. It’s pretty exhilarating, though, discovering new places.”
“Do you fly solo often?”
I shook my head. “This is my first time.”
“And? Thoughts?”
I didn’t want to admit that I’d been recreationally working on a manuscript for years and was finally trying to finish it in an attempt to pivot from a hobbyist to a professional writer. Here was this effervescent beauty who struck me as intelligent, refined, and wildly out of my league. Approaching herquestion with unfettered honesty might scare her away like a skittish feline. Would she really want to hear that I’d saved up for months just so I could get to Aruba to clear my head and finally complete my floundering work in progress? Of course not. Harmony would be better off not being inundated with the ramblings of an aspiring novelist.
Writing. I mean, really. Who did I think I was?
If we were being entirely truthful, I was running. Marathon-distance racing away from being home the day after Christmas, somewhere that felt nothing at all like New York, each step propelling me further away from memories that still managed to sting, despite my adult age.
I was running away from his words. Two words in particular:I’m sorry.
Those words shaped everything I’d become ever since he said them.
But I couldn’t share that with Harmony, especially not after just having met her.
Nobody wants to hear about a grown man’s daddy issues.
So for the time being, I’d stay quiet about the details, worrying instead that she’d think I was some self-indulgent wealthy guy who could merely jet set anywhere I pleased on a whim. An idea like that couldn’t have been further from the truth. After a brief hesitation, I settled on, “I like it here.” Short, sweet, and decidedly sincere.
“You like being alone?” Harmony asked.
“I’m not alone,” I corrected her. “I’m with you.”
I shut the paperback and close my eyes, willing away a flood of emotionsthat threaten to drown me. I pull the covers up over my head and pat the mattress next to me, my palm searching for the worn hacky sack that doubles as my stress ball. My fingers locate it; I squeeze lightly. The well-loved knit shell instantly lowers my blood pressure.
I guess that’s it,I tell myself.
I’ve googled Beckett Nash more times than I care to discuss. I know all about his sudden skyrocket to stardom, his hefty, six-figure advance from Hudson Yards, the movie rights that he just sold to Tri Star. I’m well aware of the fact thatEntertainment Weeklysaid, “Beckett Nash will break your heart worse than Nicholas Sparks’sThe Notebook.” And yes, of course I know that his fame has only intensified as a result of dating Analise Renda, the lead singer of the insanely popular all-girl band, Untethered.
According toRolling Stone, she “really likes to read.”
I suppose it makes sense, Beckett and Analise. He wrote a book about falling in love with the daughter of a songwriter, then went ahead and fell in love with a songwriter in real life. That happens, I’ve heard—the whole life imitates art bit.
Just not for me.
I have to stop torturing myself,I decide, rolling over and planting my face deeply into my pillow. Eyes closed, I reach for the lamp on my bedside table. I know exactly the angle to position my arm in order to hit the switch. This apartment is so deeply a part of me, it’s like an extension of my body. Every fixture, every quirk. This is who I am.
I’m Melody Adams. Plain. Boring. I’m nobody’s lead singer. Nobody’s muse. Just a teacher turned writer who (thankfully) never quit her day job.
