chapter fifteen

 

I have to keep my phone on me at all times during this tour in case anyone in the band or crew needs to get a hold of me. When my text notification sounds just as I’ve collapsed into my bunk in the back of the bus, I immediately fish my phone out of my pocket with just a hint of frustration. Who wants what now? I just want five minutes of peace after a complete whirlwind of a day.

When I look at the screen, though, that frustration melts immediately away.

Vivian: Today’s numbers are in your inbox. I included some details about those new security measures. IT is launching the new application tonight during off-hours, so I might have questions tomorrow as I start to access data.

I consider the three-hour time difference between our current locations clear across the country from each other. It’s just after midnight here, which means it’s just after nine where she is.

Me: I’ll be available until about noon EST time tomorrow.

It sounds so...boring. Professional. I don’t want her to feel like I’m brushing her off, so I add an afterthought.

Me: You can text me any time after that, too, but I might not be able to answer questions right away if I’m not on the bus.

Vivian: Understandable. I think I’ve got most of it handled, but we’ll see what the new system looks like when I get in tomorrow.

Me: I wish they would’ve scheduled it a few days earlier so I could be in a better position to help.

Vivian: Me too, but I’ll make it work.

Me: Thank you. I know you will. It’s tough to do it from the bus.

Vivian: What’s it like?

Me: The bus?

Vivian: The bus. The tour. All of it.

Me: Exciting. The energy is incredible. Also exhausting to run around taking care of a thousand little details.

Vivian: Do you like it?

Me: It’s my first night sleeping in a bunk with nine other guys surrounding me. Ask me tomorrow.

She sends me a laughing emoji and it warms my cold heart a little. She just doesn’t strike me as an emoji kind of girl, yet there it is.

Vivian: I’ll be curious to hear the answer tomorrow.

Me: Me too.

Vivian: Goodnight, Brian. Hope you get some sleep in your bunk.

Me: Goodnight, Vivian.

I stare at our conversation for a few beats, reading it back as I remember the single night when I held her in my arms. That can’t be it for us, can it? Just one night?

This conversation tells me she’s thinking about me, and not just because I’m technically her boss now and she has to report back to me. I just wish we could’ve gotten past the professional barriers when we had face time, because trying to figure out what she’s thinking from a series of text messages will only leave me even more baffled.

 

* * *

 

I realize after exactly one night on the bus there’s a reason why my brother is the rock star in our family and I’m not. I imagine he started in a bus similar to this and moved up in the world. Now he has his own bus he shares with his wife and—on this tour at least—his child.

Meanwhile, I’m stuck in the back of a moving vehicle someone else is driving. I’m trying to get some sleep for the arduous and labor-intensive day ahead of me as I listen to a variety of heavy breathing scaling all the way up to snoring that could rival the sound of a freight train from eight of the nine bunks around me. The tenth bunk belongs to the driver, who sleeps when we’re off working. At least the bus is typically empty then.

I slide earbuds in, and while it masks the sounds around me, I’m just not used to sleeping with music blasting in my ears. It’s going to be a long six weeks, but it’s what I agreed to. I’ve already realized, though, that bus life is not for me. I do much better in an office environment where I have control over everything, a private bathroom connected to my office, and, of course, a large bed waiting for me at home.

It’ll just take some getting used to.

We pull into New York City a little after five. I haven’t gotten much if any sleep, and it seems useless to keep trying, so I get up quietly. We’re parked in a bus lot, and I just want a hot cup of coffee and a hot breakfast. I’m probably up early enough to get both plus a New York souvenir before I need to get started on my duties.

I step off the bus and into the chilly NYC morning, and I’m met with air that’s distinctly New York. I love this city and its energy. I’ve been here many times, usually on business, and every time I’m here I want to stay longer. I want to come here on a vacation where I get to act like a tourist instead of popping in and out because I have to get back to work.

I wish I had time on this tour to do some sightseeing, but in the little free time we have between shows, Keith keeps pretty busy.

I walk the quiet streets. The city that never sleeps seems to be sleeping, at least where I’m at. The sun isn’t up yet, but lights blink on buildings around me. I find my way to a sidewalk and see a smattering of cars here and there, taillights burning red as cars slow for a stoplight. These streets will be packed in another hour, but for now, the walk is quiet and pleasant and oddly refreshing after being crammed in a bus overnight.

I find a diner with a flashing OPEN sign in the window and make my way in. One old man sits in a corner booth with a newspaper and a cup of coffee, and I get the feeling he’s a regular. This seems like the kind of place that caters to their regulars and thrives on their business.

I sidle up to the counter, where I have my pick of stools. I plop down on one in the middle.

“What can I getcha, sweetheart?” the older woman behind the counter asks. She wears an abundance of make-up on her wrinkled face and her gray hair is done up in some complicated hive thing, and she reminds me of a grandma. Not my grandma, per se, but just one of those people who would send you a dollar on your birthday and bake a tin of your favorite cookies just for the hell of it. Her kind eyes look on me with a smile.

“A cup of coffee and a menu,” I say.

“You got it.” She turns around and grabs a coffee mug then walks over to the pot. “What brings you in this morning?”

“Just wandering around and found your place.”

“Where ya from?” She sets the cup in front of me and walks to the other end of the counter to grab me a menu.

“Chicago originally. Then Vegas. Now Los Angeles.”

“Visiting?”

“Working,” I say. “I’m on tour with a band playing the Garden tonight.”

“Oh, how neat.” She slides the menu toward me. “Are you a musician?”

I shake my head as I pick it up and glance at it. It’s all photos of the breakfasts with a short description. “My brother is. I’m helping with the tour.” I point to the lumberjack breakfast.

She nods. “How do you want your eggs?”

“Scrambled. Wheat toast and bacon.”

“You got it, honey.” She turns around to put my order in, and I pour cream and sugar into my coffee mug. I remember Viv doing that in Miami when I bought her one, and it’s with a twist in my gut as I realize I can’t do something as simple as make a fucking cup of coffee without thinking about her.

“You know of any good souvenir shops around here?” I ask.

She nods out the window. “There’s what my late husband would call a shit shop right across the street.”

“I’m sorry,” I say automatically.

Her lips thin as she presses them together. “It’s been a lot of years, sweetie, but thank you.” She ducks her head and changes the subject. “You looking for something in particular?”

I lift a shoulder. “Just something that represents New York City.”

“When my daughters come visit or buy souvenirs for other people, they love all that I-heart-N-Y stuff. T-shirts, coffee cups, Christmas ornaments. They’d sell all that over there at the shit shop.”

I chuckle. “Where do your daughters live?”

“All over. Two are up in Syracuse. The closest one is in Jersey and my oldest moved to Florida a few years ago.”

“What keeps you here if they’re all spread out?” I ask.

“This place.” She gestures around her.

“You’re the owner?” I ask.

She nods. “It was my husband’s dream to own a diner. Even though he’s gone now, I can’t seem to give it up. My two sons help me run it.”

“Sounds like you raised some good boys,” I say.

She winks at me. “I think your mama did, too.” The bell over the door jingles and she greets another couple of regulars and starts tending to them.

I take the opportunity to mull over her words. She thinks my mom raised a good boy. I’m not sure if she did. I don’t know if I’m actually a good person. I know I wasn’t in the past, but I also think I’m fighting against that part of my past. I’m trying to overcome it. I’m trying to do the right thing, even if it isn’t the easy thing.

I just don’t know what the right thing is. I guess it’s respecting the fact that she’s married, yet here I am purchasing souvenirs for her at every stop on our tour.

I want to be good. I want to be better.

And I never felt that way until a certain annoying rose-scented woman stepped into my life.

I leave Gladys, the owner, a huge tip and thank her profusely for the fantastic breakfast and even better conversation. She was right—the shit shop across the street has the perfect souvenirs. I end up with a I-heart-N-Y coffee cup and a deck of cards with an image of Madison Square Garden on the front, and with each purchase I make, I feel a little more hopeful we can somehow find our way back to each other.

If we don’t, I’m going to have a bunch of souvenirs for myself from this tour.

When I get back to the bus, everyone is still asleep. I log onto my computer to check what’s going on with IT’s new security measures at Ashmark, but it’s still updating. I email Vivian a few tips I remember from the last time IT did an update, and then I look over my upcoming tasks for the day to see if there’s anything I can get started on since I’m up and at ‘em so early. I’m surprised when a text comes through from Viv at seven-thirty.

Vivian: Thanks for the tips. Looks like the update isn’t finished yet.

Me: What are you doing up so early?

Vivian: I get up every morning to run.

I vaguely remember her mentioning that in Miami, but I thought it was just a Miami thing.

Me: Have a good run.

I try not to picture her wearing just a tight running bra and short shorts, but it’s an epic fail. It’s not right for me to be picturing Vivian like that when I’m stuck on a bus with nine other people and no privacy to take care of the ache in my balls at the thought of her.

It’s probably also wrong for me to be picturing some other man’s wife half-naked, and my heart drops at the harsh reminder.

Vivian: Thanks. I’ll be in touch once I get into the office.

I climb back into my bunk and watch a movie on the small television mounted to the wall, the sound coming through my noise-cancelling headphones. I must drift off to sleep, because I’m jolted awake when my phone starts vibrating on my chest where I left it as I watched the movie.

I grab it and check the screen. Vivian.

I glance up at the time, too. I slept for almost three hours.

“Hello?” I answer softly in case anyone is still asleep. My voice is deep and groggy. I move to sit up and fail when I hit my head on the ceiling. “Ow, fuck,” I mutter.

“Are you okay?” Her voice warms my ear, and suddenly I’m fine.

“Yeah. Short ceiling in the bunk. It’ll take some time to remember where I am.” I rub my head where I hit it.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Nah. I need to get up anyway.” I glance out my bunk and see the rest of the crew guys are up. Their curtains are open and the bus is quiet.

I lie back down and listen to her voice in my ear as I fire up my laptop, which I store on a shelf just above the little TV screen in my bunk.

“The update finished and I found all the data, but we have to figure out a new way to extract it to get it into your spreadsheets. I’ve been in touch with IT and they think they have the solution, but I wanted to get your go-ahead before I start manipulating it.”

“What’s the solution?” I ask.

“All the details are in the email I just sent you.”

“I’m just pulling it open now. I look it over and reply right back to you so you have my approval in writing.”

“Thanks, Brian.”

“No problem.” I’ve got the email open and I can start looking at it, but I’m not ready to hang up. I sort of want to ask why she called when she could have texted, but I don’t think I could take the answer if it’s anything other than what I wish for it to be...that she simply wanted to hear my voice. “Anything else?”

She clears her throat. “Yeah, one more thing.”

“Anything,” I say softly, and I hear her breath catch on the other end of the line.

“Uh...just—have a great day.”

“You too, Vivian.” I hang up because it’s the end of our conversation, but I get the distinct feeling she wanted to say something else—something I wanted to hear.