Owen nods. “Andrew’s got a skeleton crew in the guys’ dressing room now, capturing that behind-the-scenes idea you had.” He looks atGeorgina. “The band is expecting you. I told them to allot forty-five minutes. Is that enough time?”
“Double what I need, probably. The special issue will be focusing a lot more on Dean, individually, than the full band, so we only need a quickie with all four.”
We head off toward the dressing room, at which point Owen leans into me and whispers, “Wow, boss, this is quite a ‘purely professional relationship’ you’re having.”
Inside the dressing room, we find all four guys of Red Card Riot, as expected, plus their usual entourage, plus, a skeleton crew for the documentary. And, last but not least, there are several PAs flitting around the room... including, to my delight, the little waif who walked in on Georgina and me backstage at the Rose Bowl, when I was camped between Georgina’s naked thighs.
“You remember Georgina?” I say to RCR. And all four of them—Dean, Clay, Emmitt, and C-Bomb—immediately come over to greet her. But nobody more enthusiastically than C-Bomb—Caleb Baumgarten—who strides over, hugs Georgina with fervor, like she’s his long-lost lover.
As small talk ensues, I steal a glance at the little PA from the Rose Bowl to find her looking at me like she’s a mutt at the pound who just took a crap in her food bowl. I smile at her reassuringly, but it’s no use. She’s terrified of me. Not at all happy to see me, to put it mildly.
When I return my attention to the band and Georgina, they’ve already moved to a nearby sitting area, so I follow them and take a chair behind Georgina, where I’ve got a direct line to C-Bomb.Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
C-Bomb asks Georgina—but not me—if she’d like a drink. Georgina declines, explaining, “I drank too much champagne on the flight here. It’s my first time in New York, plus my birthday week, so I went a little crazy with the bubbly.”
C-Bomb looks like a shark smelling blood. “Your first time in New Yorkandyour birthday week? This calls for celebration. Come to our party after the show tonight, and we’ll make you our guest of honor.”
Motherfucker.
“Oh, that’s sweet of you!” Georgie says. “But I’ve already got plans tonight.”
C-Bomb is undeterred. “How about tomorrow, then? We’re notleaving New York until Wednesday. I’ll show you all the tourist spots by day. And take you for the best pizza you’ve ever had by night.”
I’m a hair’s breadth away from launching out of my chair, grabbing C-Bomb by his mohawk, and dragging his tattooed ass out of the dressing room. But, quickly, it’s clear there’s no need for me to intervene. My baby’s got this.
“Thanks for the offer,” Georgina says sweetly. “But I’m here with my boyfriend. He knows New York really well. I’m sure he’ll be taking me to a great pizza place.”
Oh, how I love this brilliant, gorgeous woman. And, oooooh, how I love seeing Caleb look like he just got punched in the balls.
“Cool,” Caleb says. And that’s it. He sinks into his chair, looking defeated.
“What are you and yourboyfriendplanning to do while you’re in town?” Clay, the bassist, asks, and it’s clear his question is only designed to razz his drummer.
“Oh, the usual tourist things,” Georgina says. She rattles off everything we’ve talked about doing during our stay, and then adds, “Plus, we’re going to visit family.” I’m assuming her comment refers to our planned detour to Boston, until she says, “My boyfriend’s mother lives in Scarsdale and he always visits her when he comes to the East Coast.”
My heart stops.
No.
How did I not see that one coming?
Georgie has made it clear she wants us to “come clean” with each other—to trust each other “completely,” as she keeps saying. And, of course, I’m fully on board with that plan. But only in regard to stuff thatdirectlyaffects Georgina. Noteverythingabout me.And certainly not about my mother. I’ve spent my entire life lying to people about my mother! Literally, myentirelife. And I can’t suddenly stop doing it, just because I’ve fallen head over heels in love.
When I was in grade school, I remember telling classmates my mother was a firefighter who worked crazy hours down at the station, which was why my nanny, Amalia, and not my mother, was the one who showed up for school functions. Also, why I had to be so quiet during the day—so my mother could sleep at odd hours. Looking back, it was aninteresting choice of profession for her, but my undeveloped brain thought it was a stroke of brilliance at the time.
By middle school, I’d grown savvy enough to realize my mother’s slight frame made the firefighting story wholly unbelievable. So,voila,she became the US Ambassador to France.
After that, during my first year of high school, once I’d started living at that horrid group home, I remember telling the other kids both my parents had died in a plane crash. Which, in my mind, was a whole lot better than admitting I was in foster care because my mother was in a mental facility and my father in prison for bilking innocent people out of their life savings, and all my relatives had decided I was too big a pain in the ass—my anger issues way too difficult to manage—to deal with me. Not to mention, they’d all figured out there was no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow for anyone who took me in.
Granted, lying about my father’s death in high school came back to bite me in the ass a few times, whenever I happened to be talking to a kid who followed current events, and therefore knew all about my notorious father. But, mostly, my lie that I was an orphan worked out just fine, especially in relation to my dead mother. Which was good. The fewer questions about her, the better.
After my father killed himself during my first year of college, I abruptly stopped telling people Mom was dead. Instead, she became the mother of my current lies. The one living her best life. The one who does yoga and paints and plays Scrabble like a boss. And that’s the mother she’s going to remain, even with Georgina. Especially with Georgina. Because, now that I’m truly happy and in love for the first time in my life, the only thing I want to do, more than ever, is lookforward, not back. Why would I want my relationship with Georgina to get dragged down by the shit that’s always dragged me down my entire fucking life?
I take a deep, calming breath. It’s fine. I’ll simply tell Georgina my mother isn’t available for a visit this time. I’ll say she’s got a friend staying with her. Or that she’s out of town, visiting a friend in Paris. Or Toronto. And on our next visit to New York, I’ll make excuses that time, too. And then, again and again. And if Georgina starts asking me why shestillhasn’t met my mother, down the line, I’ll deal with it then. Who knows? Maybe I’ll feel ready at some point to tell Georgina the truth.Maybe one day I’ll tell her about all the tragedies that have left my mother irrevocably broken. The tragedies sitting like an elephant on my chest every day of my life. But today isn’t that day.
Everyone around me chuckles, drawing me out of my thoughts—and I realize Georgina is in the midst of a raucous interview of RCR. I watch her for a moment, marveling at her confidence and charisma. At how obviously she’s charmed each and every one of them. Not just C-Bomb.
After a moment, my eyes drift to that PA, the one who walked in on Georgina and me. She’s sitting in a far corner, watching the interview. And when her eyes happen to land on mine, she flashes me a pitiful look that practically screams,I swear I didn’t tell anyone what I saw! before quickly looking away, her face flushed.
