“Oh. It’s in North Carolina.”
He laughs, then he cranes his neck to stare back at me and abruptly stops. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.” Why wouldn’t I be?
He sighs. “Right. I’m gonna need a pre-authorization on that charge and your ID.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your credit card and your driver’s license.” His words are gruff, as though I’m irritating him. “I have to verify funds before I drive you halfway across the country.”
I dig out my phone and pull my cards from the little wallet stuck on the back, but then I pause. My ID has my legal name. It isn’t well known, so it should be all right. I’ve never used the credit card, but I always carry one, along with some cash, for emergencies.
I hand him the cards through the little window in the clear divider separating us and realize my hands are shaking.
“No, scan the card. Behind me.” He hands it back.
“Where?”
He sighs again, then he directs me to touch it to a box on the back of the passenger seat.
“Sorry, I’ve never used one of these before,” I explain, but he squints at me in the mirror. I need to try harder to blend in. People might get suspicious.
He hands me my ID back, and I sigh, dropping my shoulders and resting my head back for a moment as we roll out of the stadium parking lot.
I’m doing it. I’m taking a vacation. It’s happening.
Melody would be proud of me. She’s always encouraging me to demand more downtime. She knows how exhausted I’ve been.
But what if she thinks I’ve been kidnapped? That the stalker finally got me?
I need to let her know I’m safe and that I’ll be back for Sunday’s show so management doesn’t cancel it. My fans in Toronto paid their hard-earned money to see that show, and I’m not going to let them down. The last thing I need is another big PR disaster on top of what happened with Johnny. That kind of thing could destroy my brand, which is something a lot of people have worked hard to create. My whole team depends on it for their livelihoods.
But I need a break.
Just. One. Break.
Enough time to clear my head. To get back to where I can feel the music the way I used to and remember what I love about it. The fans. Entertaining. My music.
Afterward I’ll do everything they need me to do exactly the way they need me to do it. I’ll work twice as hard to make up for the lost time. I’ll say whatever they need me to say.
I pick up my phone and turn it on, and it’s like a bomb going off in my hand: dozens of pings and beeps, and my customringtone with the old 6ixPack song “Tell Me U Love Me” playing on repeat.
My driver glares at me in the rearview mirror, and I hit the button to silence it.
Forty-two notifications. Calls and texts and voicemails. Darcy. Melody. Tony. Even our stage manager, Bruno, sent me a text asking where I was. Half the messages are in all caps with punctuation marks trailing after them.
DARCY: WHERE ARE YOU???
MELODY: TEXT ME BACK IF YOU’RE OK!!!!!
Everyone is panicked.
I take a deep breath, then tap out a quick message.
ME: Hey, Mel. Please let everyone know I’m safe. I just need some time away. Promise I’ll be back for the next show.
I wait, nervously bouncing my knees as the dots that indicate she’s typing appear.
