My phone buzzes.
Delilah:Just helped a man apologize for gambling away his vacation fund.
Levi:...I need the full story.
Delilah:Lucky Susan. That’s all I’ll say.
Levi:I’m somehow more confused now.
I’m typing a response when Harper plucks the phone out of my hand.
“Hey!”
“You’ll get it back after the meeting.” She tucks it into her bag. “Consider it motivation.”
“Give that back.”
“After the meeting.”
The car servicetakes us straight from the airport to the hotel, one of those sleek downtown places where every surface is glass or marble and the lobby smells like money and eucalyptus. The girl at the front desk recognizes me. I can see it in the way her eyes widen slightly before she schools her expression into professional neutrality.
“Mr. Cole. Welcome back. Your suite is ready.”
“Thanks.”
“If you need anything during your stay, anything at all, please don’t hesitateto ask.”
There’s something in the way she says “anything at all” that makes me want to take three steps backward. I’ve gotten used to it over the years, the looks and the implications, the assumptions about what rock stars want. It never stops being uncomfortable.
“I’ll let you know,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
Harper steers me toward the elevator before I can get trapped in conversation. It happens sometimes, fans who want to chat, or worse, people who want something like a selfie or an autograph, a piece of me they can take home and show their friends.
I don’t mind the fans, usually. They’re the reason I get to do what I do. But today I’m tired and distracted and all I want is to check in, shower, and get this meeting over with so I can go back to Twin Waves.
Twin Waves and Delilah.
When did that become home?
The suite is ridiculous. Two bedrooms, a living area bigger than my rental house, a view of the city that must cost more per night than most people’s monthly rent. There’s a fruit basket on the coffee table with a card from the label. “Looking forward to reconnecting!”
I toss the card in the trash. The fruit can stay.
“You’ve got forty-five minutes,” Harper says, checking her phone. “Shower. Change. Try to look like someone who wants to be here.”
“What if I don’t want to be here?”
“Then fake it. You’re good at that.”
She’s right. I am. Years of interviews and red carpets and performing when I felt empty inside have made me very good at pretending.
I just don’t want to pretend anymore.
I shower, change into clothes that Harper probably pre-selected for exactly this meeting, dark jeans and a button-down that says “I take this seriously but I’m still a rock star,” and stare at myself in the mirror.
I look tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep.
But when I think about Delilah, her laugh, her terrible car, the way she looked at me on the pier, some of the tiredness lifts.
