Long. Still at the airport. How are you?
Would he care about their picture being posted on social media? It could end up on TMZ or Radar, but there was no point in drawing attention to it.
She texted,I’m good. It’s tomorrow there, right?
She’d already looked up the time in Sydney, unable to do the math in her head.
The60 Minutesstopwatch ticked in her head. But on his end? Silence. Not even three flashing dots.
Texting was the lowest form of communication—one typo could start a war. She used to send Dylan screenshots of Dave’s messages for a second opinion, though they both spoke perfect English. If someone could make sense of cryptic texts for a living, they’d make serious bank. Maybe they’d work as a cryptanalyst. Or for the Department of National Defense.
Tyler’s phone buzzed. Not Cary.
It was Kim, who’d sent a photo of his fans waiting at Kingsford Smith Airport—wavingi love you carysigns and wearing T-shirts with his face plastered across their chests.
And here, she thought he was in the restroom.
Not long after, her phone vibrated again. It was Cary.
Sorry! Some people wanted autographs. We’re heading to the hotel. I’ll text later. xo
She laughed and liked the message.
The next two weeks at work were a blur. Tyler had reached out to every big-name producer she knew, but none of them wanted to touch the Westgrays. In the end, she settled on a guy based on Vancouver Island. He was insufferably cocky, but his rates were cheaper than the studio her boss was fleecing, and she needed the band far from the Lower Mainland—away from distractions, girlfriends, and bad decisions. Bonus: the producer had played in an eighties glam-rock band, which the Westgrays thought was cool AF.
The situation with Cary had become more intense, at least on her end. They were texting several times a day and the seventeen-hour time difference was challenging, but it didn’t stop them. She’d set her alarm for six a.m. so they could text before she went to work and he went to bed.
Cary had a show that Saturday, so she slept in. That is until her phone vibrated and the screen flashedfedex.
“Hello?” she answered, not expecting a bomb or a package.
“Is this Tyler Robertson?” a woman asked, her voice chipper.
“Yes?”
“Delivery.”
“Come on in.”
Moments later, a knock sounded at the door.Rory jumped off the bed and ran down the hall. She followed him and signed for the box. It was big and bulky, but it didn’t weigh a lot.
“Oh my god,” she said, opening the package. “Look, Rory!” Her dog stared at the gigantic stuffed koala bear but didn’t wag his tail. He seemed apprehensive, a little scared. “What should we call him? I know . . . Aussie!” She hugged the bear. “Welcome home, Aussie.”
Rory gave her a look like,What the fuck?
“It’s okay, buddy.”
She pulled the note hanging from the bear’s ear:wish you were here, cary. xo.
Later that afternoon, Tyler answered a FaceTime call from her bestie. They hadn’t talked much lately—Cary’s tour schedule didn’t leave room for idle chit-chat. It was a far cry from the chaos of touring with the Westgrays, though Kim had admitted it was easier in some ways. At least no one was throwing punches during press appearances.
“Hi!” Tyler waved at the screen.
“Dude, did you get the package?” Kim asked with a hopeful grin.
Tyler pulled Aussie into the frame and kissed the stuffed animal. “I named him Aussie.” She waved the bear’s paw into the phone. “Say hi to Kim!”
“Hi, Aussie!” Kim waved back. “Cary asked me to send it. Like, insisted. I hope you don’t mind.”
