He caught the look on my face, ground his jaw, and gave me one nod of acknowledgment. With one arm around Kaz’s shoulders, and his other hand twined with Charlotte’s, he steered them toward the bar.
It took me a moment to realize I’d been left behind.
11
MOLLY
Trinity’s planfor me to keep an eye on the guys had a few fatal flaws. One, it was difficult to mingle as a group of four, and obviously, I was the first who got cut. Two, unless I wanted to awkwardly hover behind the guys, there was no way for me to eavesdrop on their conversations. And three, as the clock ticked closer to midnight, Philo’s party got more and more rowdy, and to my surprise, some attendees were drunk enough to start talking tome.
The fact that all of them were male and apparently single made it clear what they wanted. I guess when women like me—lacking any fame or talent—came to these parties, they generally had a singular purpose on their mind.
Too bad I had no interest in sleeping with moderately handsome B-list musicians who couldn’t handle their alcohol.
Excusing myself from a short-lived conversation that began with a shockingly uncreative pick-up line about whether I fell from heaven, I cast a glance in Kaz and Mason’s direction. They stood about a dozen feet away making conversation with an older man with long hair. For someone who made such a fuss about networking, Kaz seemed to be doing just fine.
My bladder, on the other hand, was in desperate need of attention. I left the guys and went in search of a bathroom. This place was a maze. One dimly lit hall led to a door that seemed somewhat bathroom-like, so I dared to crack it open.
“Sorry!” I yelped and slammed the door closed. A naked couple were tangled amongst black satin sheets, so involved in each other that I didn’t think they even registered the intrusion. Didn’t I see those two at the bar earlier? I shook my head. Call me a prude, but getting it on in the hosts’ bedroom seemed a step too far.
Then again, judging by the size of this house, they were probably in a forgotten guest bedroom no one ever used except on an occasion such as this.
In the next hallway, I discovered a much more pleasant surprise.
The walls were covered with rows of framed stunning black and white photographs depicting Philo at the studio, on tour, and even here with his family in his home.
Forgetting my bladder for a moment, I studied the prints. Whoever took these was exceptionally talented, using each shot to tell a complex story with a combination of great lighting, impeccable timing, and an intimate knowledge of the subject. In one shot, it was as if Philo looked directly into the camera by accident, just as someone told him the end of a joke, and an open smile lit up his entire face.
Goosebumps erupted over the skin of my arms, and an unexpected sliver of longing lodged itself inside my chest. I’ve always told myself my interest in photography is just a whim that would pass. I’d only gotten interested in it in my first year of college, which felt like way too late to discover a true passion. Look at my sister. Even as a child she knew she’d known she wanted to be a musician, and I’m sure it was the same for Mason and Kaz. For Philo, definitely. Music was their calling in a way photography could never be mine. I probably just craved a creative outlet because my normal job had so little creativity involved.
But standing here, looking at these incredible photographs, I experienced a longing so potent it hardly felt like a whim.
I exhaled a heavy breath and rubbed a spot on my cheek.
“That one is my favorite,” a deep voice rang behind me.
I turned and barely held back my gasp. Philo was standing a few feet from me, his dark, muscular arms crossed over his chest, and a few thick gold chains shimmering around his neck. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a sports jersey, but his casual look didn’t detract from his powerful aura. The man was a genius, using his unparalleled lyricism to call out societal issues his contemporaries stayed far away from. He earned awards and controversies like they came hand in hand.
His gaze moved from the photo to me, and his lips turned up into a kindly smile that made me weak in the knees. I was on the verge of some serious fangirling. Instead, I looked back at the picture. “It’s stunning. Who took all of these?”
“My ex-wife.” His voice didn’t betray any emotions on the subject. “I was glad she let me keep them without a bitter battle. Out of all the art in this house, this collection has always been my favorite.”
“It makes sense that it was someone close to you who took them,” I said. “They’re very intimate.”
A flash of surprise colored his face before he pulled it back and nodded. “She was my biggest supporter in the beginning. Would come to every recording session and to every show, even when she was pregnant with our first daughter. I feel lucky I had her to document so many important moments in my life.”
I smiled at him and turned my attention back to the pictures, but the unspoken question weighed down the air between us.
After a moment, he sighed. “She got tired of sacrificing her dreams for the sake of my career. Have you ever sacrificed anything big for someone you love?”
“Yes.”
“Feels good for a little while. You feel like you’re doing a nice thing for them, so you do it again. And again. And then you forget what you wanted in the first place, so years go by and you’re happy. Maybe they forget that you wanted something too. But the things we want—and I’m not talking about a nice purse or a luxury vacation—the things we really want, maybe evenneed,they have a way of reminding us they’re still there. And when that day comes, it becomes a reckoning. One that my relationship didn’t survive.”
A chill swept down my spine. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” A silence settled between us. He ran a hand over his chin. “There are more of these in my daughter’s dance studio behind the pool house. Feel free to wander over there if you want. She always forgets to lock the door.”
“I’d love to,” I said. “I’m Molly, by the way.”
