Frankie
“Mr. who?” I turn my head to find him standing right beside me.
“Might I suggest a comparable room, courtesy of your upstanding hotel, on a weekend of her choosing?” he says to the manager before glancing down at me. “Would that satisfy you?” His voice is as satiny and rich as cream cheese frosting on a red velvet cupcake.
I’m sure this is where I should say something, but I’m too preoccupied with his last sentence to form one of my own…until I realize both men are staring at me.
“Oh, um…yes, it would satisfy me.”
Jane and I can have a do-over!
Mr. Harper narrows his eyes at my new advocate and then smiles down at me. “Ms. Valentine, I think that can be arranged. I’m generating a two-night voucher for a complimentary guest room as well as restaurant credits for both days of your visit—for you and a guest, of course,” he says, casting a glance at him.
The thought instantly propels me into fantasyland, and poor Jane is forgotten.
He stuffs the voucher in an envelope and hands it to me. “Just have your original confirmation number available when you make your reservation.”
“Thank you,” I say, tucking the envelope in the front pocket of my duffel.
“Thank him,” Mr. Harper says, his lips curling in amusement as he backs away from the desk, “and make sure he knows he owes me one.”
As soon as he’s gone, the man beside me offers me his hand. “Darian Fox.”
I’m mesmerized by how soft yet strong it is. Tanned and lightly dusted with hair.
“Ms. Valentine?”
And so large it practically swallows mine.
“It is Valentine, right?” he says, giving my hand a squeeze.
My eyes snap to his. “Oh, sorry. Yes, Francesca Valentine.”
Now, let go of the nice man’s hand, Frankie.
Darian Fox is beautiful. Too beautiful. I want to run my fingers through his tousled chestnut hair but think better of it.
Thank you for your help. Do you mind if I touch your hair?
His skin is sun-kissed, a stark contrast to mine. And he’s tall. He towers over me by at least seven or eight inches—and that’s with my boots on. He’s dressed in a black fitted pin-striped suit, a crisp white shirt, and a quirky necktie patterned with little multicolored Flying V guitars.
That didn’t come from Men’s Wearhouse.
My eyes climb from his tie to his upturned lips and continue their ascent until they’re captured by his olive-green stare. My cheeks warm at the intensity, and I quickly lower my gaze back to his hand and to his long, slender fingers gripping and tapping the counter in front of us.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Fox, and thank you,” I say once I’ve pulled myself together. “I’m pretty sure I was on my way to twenty percent off my next visit before you showed up.”
“You’re welcome. And it’s Darian.”
My lips curve into a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Darian.”
The growing crowd drives us from the front desk to the lobby where we sit opposite each other on matching navy suede love seats. I watch Darian curiously as he takes off his suit jacket and loosens his tie. He’s silent for a minute while he fusses with the jacket and then looks over at me.
“I have a proposition for you,” he says.
I arch my brows. “A proposition?”
Darian laughs, and the most adorable dimple appears on his left cheek. “Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best word choice.”
“You’ve certainly got my attention,” I say, smiling.
He returns my smile as he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his long fingers linked together. “I’m staying at The Mendón on Sixth. I booked the entire top floor for myself, which leaves three available rooms. You can have one if you want it.”
Oh. My. God. Mr. Beautiful just offered me a room. The best romantic comedies start this way. But…so do the best horror movies. And probably the best porn.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why am I offering you a room?”
“Why did you book the entire floor?”
“So I could proposition you—clearly.”
Laughter bubbles out of me, but I dial it back.
“I’m kidding,” he says. “I’m here on business. I never know if I’ll need the extra space.”
“What happens if you do need the extra space?”
“I’ll see that I don’t.”
A tingling sensation creeps up my neck and settles in my cheeks, sending my gaze to my lap. “I appreciate it,” I say, suddenly fascinated with the frayed fabric on my duffel strap. “But my friend will pick me up.”
Darian sinks into the love seat and brings his ankle to his knee, one arm draped over the armrest, the other stretched across the back. “I’m not sure where your friend is coming from, but are you familiar with Austin traffic?” He checks his watch. “It’s nearly eight. This place is about to be a madhouse, and God knows how long it will be before your ride gets here. The room is just sitting there, vacant.”
I scan the bustling lobby, which is filling up fast. I’ll be waiting here for hours.
He smiles. “It’s a really nice room.”
Hmm…go with this stranger who could potentially be a serial killer or take my chances in the Four Seasons lobby? Live a little, huh? The man is seriously hot.
Have you ever watched an episode of The Fall and thought, Yeah, I’d let him murder me? Well, here we are.
“What’s the other why?” I ask. “Why are you offering me a room?”
“I told you, it’s not being…” His expression turns pensive. “You mean, why do I care that you take it?”
I shrug. “Now that you mention it.”
His eyes glaze over with a faraway look. “Because you’re kaput, and it would disappoint my mother if I abandoned you in your state of kaput-ness.”
Heat colors my cheeks. “You heard that, did you?”
“It’s a great word, but no one ever uses it.” He’s quiet for a moment, then clears his throat as his focus returns to me. “Anyway, where were we?”
“The room.” I sit back and drag my fingers over the smooth suede of the armrest. “Can I at least reimburse you for the night?”
Darian pushes off the love seat and stands. “That’s not necessary, Ms. Valentine,” he says formally as he drapes his coat over his arm. “It’s already paid for. Company perk.” He nods toward the window behind me. “If you want it, it’s yours, but we should probably get going before it gets too crazy out there.”
“Please, call me Frankie.”
He takes a few steps toward the door. I start to follow him and then stop and drop my duffel.
His smile is sincere when he turns around. “Francesca, I promise, you’re safe with me.”
The use of my given name is not lost on me. My instinct is to correct him, but I don’t.
It isn’t often I hear it, and when I do, it’s by doctors or bank tellers or the little old lady who delivers my mail. They draw it out in clunky syllables—Fran-chess-ka—as if saying it takes effort.
“Francesca?”
But the way Darian says it, it’s like warm caramel melting on the tongue. Rich and smooth. Effortless.
I shake my head to clear it. “I should let Jane know.”
“Jane?”
“My friend, and…” My words fall away when I notice Darian’s picture displayed prominently on the far side of the lobby. “Wait, who are you?”
“I hosted a small business panel here earlier,” he says.
“And you’re friends with the manager?”
“I had drinks with him last night. I wouldn’t call us friends.”
“You’re telling me I owe my free weekend at the Four Seasons to a couple of cocktails?”
His lips stretch in a grin and he holds out his hand. “Can I see your phone?”
“Sure, uh…hold on a sec.” I bend to rummage through my bag, digging through a week’s worth of clothes as shoes, socks, and bras spill over the side. “I know I…” I pat my sweater, even though it doesn’t have any pockets, and then my jeans. “Voila,” I say, handing it over.
Darian laughs. He snaps a photo of his driver’s license, then hands it back. “Text that to your friend. If you go missing, she’ll know where to look.”
“Thank you,” I say as I slide my phone in my pocket.
He zips my duffel and throws it over his shoulder. “Shall we?”
Darian’s driver—company perk number two—delivers us to The Mendón. We go straight to the front desk where Darian gets me checked in, swapping my name for his on the reservation.
“Thanks again,” I say once we’re inside the elevator. “This is generous. More than generous.”
He adjusts my bag on his shoulder. “It’s no trouble.”
The door opens to a wide corridor that serves as a vestibule of sorts for the four suites that make up the top floor. He stops at the first set of double doors on the right.
“So, I was thinking.” He sets my duffel at my feet. “I’m going to have dinner delivered to my room. Would you like to come over? I mean…would you like to have dinner in my room? Are you hungry?”
I giggle as he stumbles over his words.
“Wow,” he says, a scarlet flush sweeping across his cheeks. “That sounded much better in my head. Hey, would you like to come to my hotel room alone and ‘have dinner’?” He emphasizes that last part with air quotes, and I burst with laughter. “God, listen to me. Let’s try this again. Would you like to join me downstairs in the very public hotel restaurant?”
“I’d love to join you for dinner,” I say, “but the very public hotel restaurant had a very long line reaching into the lobby, and I’m starving. Room service sounds perfect. Just promise you won’t kill me until after I’ve eaten.”
He crosses his heart with both hands as a smile slides over his face. “You have my word.”
“Whoa.”
Darian wasn’t kidding; this is a really nice room. I walk through the foyer to the living area and lean against the honey-colored leather chaise lounge. Plush white carpet, royal-blue damask wallpaper, two massive crystal chandeliers. I could stay here for weeks and never set foot outside the door.
I pick up the remote on the end table and press the button labeled Divider.
No way!
The entire white-paneled wall in front of me lifts to the lofty two-story ceiling, revealing the bedroom hidden behind. Make that three massive crystal chandeliers. The oversized bed, dressed in white down bedding, has so many pillows I make a mental note to allot myself time to remove them before climbing in. The master bath is just as grand with a marble tub so deep I could snorkel in it.
If Jane could see me now.
Oh crap, Jane…
My phone vibrates in my hand the second I take it out of my pocket.
“Frankie! Finally!” she screams in my ear. “My phone must have died as soon as I left Austin. Are you okay? What happened? And why did you text me some hot guy’s driver’s license? Is this a new drunken scavenger hunt you’re trying without me? Because I’d rather you wait—”
“So I assume you’re home? You’re not on your way back to Austin, are you?”
“Not yet, but I’m walking out the door right now.”
“Don’t bother,” I say, failing to curb the smile in my voice. “I’m good for tonight.”
“Good for to—” Jane stops mid-sentence, and I can practically see her eyebrows rocket to her hairline. “Shit, Frankie, did you meet someone…already? Is it driver’s license guy? He’s super yummy and older, though he certainly doesn’t look it.”
“He’s not that much older.” I bring up the image of his ID and try to do the math in my head.
“He’s thirty-six, slowpoke,” Jane says. “Man-aged. And he’s from Miami. I’ve always wanted to go to Florida.”
Me too.
“I think you’re jumping the gun a little. He’s just being nice.” Slouching against the shower door, I give her the CliffsNotes version of the last two hours.
“He’s being more than nice. Swoon. It’s so romantic,” she says, sighing. “Is there an adjoining door? Because I had this idea for our book—”
“Jane…” I step out of the bathroom and scan our adjoining wall. Sure enough, there’s an adjoining door.
“Okay, fine,” she says. “But just so you know, I stashed the box of condoms in your bag.”
“Jesus, Jane. Whatever. How’s my godson?”
“He’s fine. He’s five. Just missed his mommy.” She relaxes her tone. Jane can be a little scattered, but nothing centers her quite like her son. “Go on now. Don’t worry about us. I’ll be here, Googling your mystery man,” she says. “I’m proud of you, but—and please don’t take this the wrong way—you’re rusty.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I just mean…less is more. Don’t talk too much. Avoid spaghetti. Actually, avoid anything with sauce.”
“He hasn’t run screaming yet.” I take a deep breath. “The truth is, I’m a little nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve…well, since I’ve done anything.”
“You know I was teasing, right?”
I shrug, which she obviously can’t see. “I didn’t exactly think this through. I guess I kind of did—for all of five seconds—but not really. That’s not like me, Jane.”
“Nothing you’ve done today is like you. Maybe you’ve changed.” She pauses and I hear Jacob’s sleepy voice call to her in the background.
“You should go,” I say. “Give Jacob a kiss for me.”
“I will. And, Frankie, all jokes aside, you need to be careful. We don’t know him. Stay alert, and don’t drink too much. And make sure you take your Taser just in—”
“Yes, Mom.”
We end our call, and I return to the bathroom to freshen up.
Should I change? No, this isn’t a date. It’s just dinner. In a stranger’s hotel room.
I decide to stay in my cream cowl-neck sweater, black jeans, and black leather riding boots. I dab my favorite honeysuckle oil behind my ears. I check my nose. I brush my teeth. I twist my long hair into a bun and make up my face, so it looks like I didn’t just make up my face. With my light-blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and super fair skin, it’s a skill I’ve had to master over the years. But I have to be careful. There’s a fine line between tramp and translucent, and my goal is to fall somewhere in between.
I open my adjoining door and only knock once before Darian opens his.
Well, hello there.
He’s changed out of his suit and into a pair of distressed jeans, torn at the knees, and a slim-fit Grateful Dead T-shirt. His biceps press lightly against the sleeves, and I have to fight the urge to touch them.
“I’m glad you came,” he says, closing the door behind me. “I was worried you might have come to your senses.”
An arch smile plays on my lips. “Where’s the fun in that?”
I drop my purse on the coffee table in the living area and sit on the arm of the sofa. Then I feel stupid for not just sitting on the sofa, so I slide down the arm to the cushion, tipping over a little as I land.
That was graceful.
I try to recover by crossing one leg over the other while leaning against the back of the couch, but I’m not quite long enough to do both, so I kind of lie there, stretched over the cushion, like it’s a perfectly normal way to sit.
Darian clears his throat. “Would you like a drink?”
Yes, several.
“Please. Whatever you’re having.”
Needing something to do with my hands, I reach for the remote control on the coffee table.
“Dirty martini?”
“Perfect.”
Darian peers at me through the mirror hanging above the wet bar as he opens a bottle of Tito’s and a jar of olives. “You can play something if you want.”
The room floods with Kenny G as soon as I press the Music button, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from laughing. “Easy listening, huh?” I lower the volume.
A grin spreads across Darian’s face. He scoops ice from the ice bucket, and it clinks loudly as it tumbles into the glass shaker. He pours the vodka over the ice and shakes it. “It’s not what you think.”
“It’s not my place to judge,” I say, setting the remote beside me on the sofa.
His smile converts to a laugh as he divides the mixture between two glasses and garnishes them with olives. He brings me my drink and then nods toward the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a perfect view of the city. “Terrace?”
I follow him outside. He sets his glass on the patio table and slips his hands in his pockets.
“So, what’s your story, Francesca? How did you manage to get yourself stranded?”
“I’m not that stranded. I don’t live far.” I take a sip and struggle to keep a straight face. I think the dirty may be missing from the dirty martini. “I came with my friend, but as soon as we got here she had to leave. Her son’s sick,” I say, setting my glass beside his. “It’s my own fault for not confirming the reservation, especially since I don’t have a badge.”
Darian’s eyes widen. “You came to South By without a badge?”
“If you stick to the smaller day parties, they’re not really necessary.”
“But you miss the best parties, the best concerts.”
“I suppose. But I’ve never had one, so I don’t know what I’m missing.”
Badges are expensive—like a thousand dollars expensive—and they aren’t necessary. I’d much rather put that money toward our room. Or food. Or Barnes & Noble. Jane and I always skip the badge and attend just the free daytime events. But sometimes she gets a wild hair and attempts to sneak us into a badge-only evening showcase, like she did last year.
I pick up my drink and take another sip.
Darian crosses his arms over his chest and studies me. “Hmm…so your friend had to leave, and you decided to stay? By yourself?” He strokes his chin with his index finger and thumb. “That sounds like something I would do.”
“Vacationing solo is new for me, but I’m a loner by nature so I thought I’d give it a shot.”
Room service interrupts the silence that follows, and Darian excuses himself to let them in. I lean over the iron railing with my chest pressed against the beveled edge. Thick lines of people crowd the sidewalks and spill onto the street. It’s dark, and I suspect the evening’s showcases will begin soon.
As I turn to go inside, my phone buzzes a text from my back pocket.
Jane: How’s it going? Mystery man behaving? What did you order?
Frankie: Totally awkward start but better now. Ordered ribs with extra sauce.
Jane: Calling BS on the ribs!
Frankie: Jacob asleep?
Jane: Of course not. We’re about to start book #3.
Frankie: Don’t keep him waiting. We’ll talk later.
Jane: Be safe and text me before 12 or I’m calling 911.
Frankie: K. Love you.
Jane: U 2.
I look up as Darian steps onto the terrace.
“Hungry?” he asks. “I thought we’d eat inside.” He juts his chin toward the street below. “It’s getting pretty loud down there.”
With the doors closed, the noise from outside is completely muted. Darian turns the easy-listening station on low, and “Careless Whisper” drifts through the speakers.
“You’re not going to knock this one, are you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “This one doesn’t count. Everyone loves George Michael.”
“Everyone loves Kenny G,” he says with conviction.
I give him a sideways glance, and he scoffs under his breath as he removes the lids from our plates. A thick wave of garlic hits me, and my stomach rumbles.
“This smells fantastic,” I say of the Texas-size rib eyes he ordered. “And Kenny G doesn’t even love Kenny G.”
Another scoff.
We sit at one corner of the long dining table. Darian picks up a bottle of wine and immediately sets it down. “Shit. I didn’t even think to ask if you were vegetarian.”
“I live in Texas,” I say. “I’m not sure that’s even allowed.”
“Good thing because I think those five green beans they stuck on our plates are meant for decoration.” He pours the wine and hands me a glass. “Should we toast?”
“We should definitely toast.”
“Okay, how about…” He purses his lips and then smiles. “To the Four Seasons?”
A warm, fuzzy feeling blooms in my chest. “To the Four Seasons.”
He lifts his glass to his lips and lets it rest there for a second before taking a sip. “Huh. That’s pretty good.”
“You sound surprised.” I taste it. It’s better than good and nothing like the plum-heavy merlot I usually drink.
He turns the bottle until the label faces me. “It’s a Texas cab. I wanted to try something local, but I’ll be honest, I wasn’t expecting much.”
“Because you’re in Texas?” I tease, cutting off a piece of my steak. I take a bite, closing my eyes as the crispy, salty crust touches my tongue.
Holy Moses, that’s good.
“Well, yeah,” he says. “But to be fair, Florida doesn’t scream fine wine either.”
“Touché.” I twist the cap off a bottle of San Pellegrino, pour a little into my water glass, and pass him the rest. “So, what’s your story?”
Darian straightens. “My story…”
“Just the basics. Are you from Miami, or are you a transplant? And what do you do that has you hosting panels at South By?” My hand flies up. “Wait, one more. If you weren’t working this week, what band would you want to make a surprise appearance?”
His smile is hesitant. “Okay, I’m game,” he says slowly as he cuts into his rib eye. He eats a small piece and then chases it with a sip of wine. “But you go first.”
I lean forward, wrestling my chair closer to the table. “I live outside of a little town called Fisher Springs. I’m a party-planner”—mostly—“and if I were staying, I’d love to see Cross to Bear.”
Darian relaxes in his seat with his elbows planted on the armrests. His gaze fixes on mine, and he grins as if he’s going to tease me, as if I’d said One Direction, not CTB. It’s an annoying assumption but one I’m used to. Their pretty-boy front man garners a hefty preteen following, which doesn’t do their serious fans any favors.
“Your turn,” I say, reaching across the table for the bread basket.
Darian’s grin melts into a lazy smile. “I was born and raised in Miami, I own an independent record label, and I’d love to see The Doors.”
My hand stalls over a dinner roll. “Shut up. Seriously? The Doors?”
“I know. I’m aging myself,” he says with a laugh. “It’s probably not likely. I hear their lead singer’s a bit dead.”
“No, it’s not that.” I grab his wrist, then quickly release it. “The Doors is my all-time favorite band. I’m borderline obsessed.” I take a slow sip of my water, followed by an equally slow breath. “It was something I shared with my dad.”
“Shared?”
“He passed away six months ago.”
“I’m sorry.” Darian’s eyes grow dark and distant. His smile falters. “Were you close? Shit. Sorry, that was really—”
“It’s okay,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “We were very close. I’m an only child…or was an only child.”
“Your mom?”
I shake my head, and he nods in understanding.
“What about you?” I ask.
“I was an only child too.” He spears a green bean with his fork and moves it around his plate. After a few rotations, he sets the fork down and looks over at me. “So, Francesca, kindred only child, what’s your favorite Doors album?”
I tap my finger against my chin. “Hard to say. It depends on my mood. Being a Texas girl, I favor the blues over the psychedelic stuff, but I love them all. I tend to waver between Morrison Hotel and L.A. Woman. What’s your favorite?”
“Hands down, Strange Days.”
“Ahh…the melancholy album.”
His brows knit together. “The melancholy album?”
“Just as Waiting for the Sun is the romantic album.” I stab my fork in a piece of steak and dip it in butter. “Comparatively speaking, of course.”
“Then I suppose you’re right—comparatively speaking.” He leans over the table, resting his chin on his palm. “So, you’re a Cross to Bear fan too?”
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you’ve heard of them considering your line of work, but they’re not what you think. They’re not some boy band.” I take a bite of the buttery steak.
“I’m mildly familiar,” he says, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile, “but I guess I’ll have to pay more attention.”
“Jane and I have been fans for years, but we’ve never seen them live. They never come to Texas. You should check them out. They’re in Miami all the time.”
He glances down as he takes a sip of water, his smile curving above the lip of his glass. “Maybe I will.”
After dinner and a final glass of wine, Darian walks me to my room—the long way, all thirty seconds of it. “The suite’s at your disposal all week, if you’d like to stay.”
Thank you. I’d love to. The words itch to leave my lips. “Thank you, but no,” I say instead. “Jane will be here tomorrow.”
“I should warn you. I’m going to try to change your mind,” he says, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “Just try not to leave too early?”
I pull my key card out of my purse. “I expect her around eleven. She’ll want to avoid traffic.”
“Eleven,” he repeats. “I can work with that.”
I can’t quite figure him out. He refuses to call me Frankie, favoring Francesca for reasons unknown to me. He’s bold and demure. Confident but not self-absorbed. And he’s beautiful. Have I mentioned that yet? On the surface, it’s his boyish features—his long, heavy lashes, the tiny dimple that only appears when he laughs, his smile.
But it’s what’s lingering beneath the surface I’m most attracted to. There’s a vulnerability there, a sadness I can relate to. I feel it each time I look into his eyes. They contradict his youthfulness, like they’ve seen more than his years suggest. And, staring into them now, I get the strangest feeling something big happened tonight.
“Thank you for your company,” Darian says after a short span of silence.
“You’re welcome. I mean, thank you.” I feel my entire body blush, and I don’t know if it’s the wine or the confinement of the corridor or the fact that he’s standing so close to me. Maybe it’s all three. “I had a good time. I felt very safe.”
He laughs, and his eyes hold mine for several seconds. “I hope I’m able to do it,” he says. “I hope I change your mind.” He slips his hands in his pockets and leans back against the wall by my door. “Besides, it would be a pity for you to waste a vacant suite and such charming company.” His attempt at smug is foiled by reddening cheeks and a shy smile.
I close my fist tight around my key card as I fight the urge to cave. “So, I’ll see you in the morning then?”
He shrugs. “If I succeed.”
“Goodnight, Darian.”
“Goodnight, Francesca.”
My phone buzzes a text from Jane the second the door closes behind me. I check the time—eleven fifty. I have ten whole minutes before she calls in a SWAT team. I use half of them to brush my teeth and change into a nightshirt and the other half to clear my bed of pillows.
Frankie: I’m home Mom. Had a good time. See you when you get here.
Jane: Check your e-mail.
Jane isn’t one to cut corners. Her e-mail resembles a modern-day War and Peace that includes hyperlinks, JPEGS, and a spreadsheet. It’s flagged urgent, and the subject line reads, OMG.
Her flair for drama brings a smile to my face but does little for the tightness in my chest. I darken the screen, set my phone face-down on the nightstand, and climb into bed. I’m leaving tomorrow, and after that, I’ll probably never see Darian again.
A heavy sigh fans the hair from my eyes.
I’d like to see him again.
I lie on my side, burrowed beneath a mountain of covers, and stare at the upside-down phone as if I expect it to do something. It just sits there, taunting me like it holds the secrets of the universe.
It holds a spreadsheet, Frankie.
Ten long minutes pass before it lights up and vibrates across the glass tabletop.
Jane: Can you believe it?
Jane: Wait, how far did you get?
Jane: R U asleep?
Frankie: I’m awake.
Jane: Well?
Frankie: A spreadsheet? Really?
Jane: OMG just Google him then!
“Fine,” I say, folding like a cheap suit. “I’ll just Google him then.”
My conscience weighs heavy on my shoulders as I open my browser. Typing Darian’s name into a search engine just feels wrong.
Like you said, you’ll probably never see him again.
And he owns a record label; surely, there’s no harm in checking out his company. Pushing the guilty feeling aside, I scroll through the hits on my screen. There are more than I expected, and when my finger stills over an actual Wiki page, my curiosity gets the better of me. After that, I can’t click through the pages fast enough.
Darian Fox is founder and CEO of Fox Independent Artists, Inc., a thriving indie record label he launched in his late twenties. Prior to that, he was lead singer and guitar player in a moderately successful rock band based in Miami, called For Julia.
My face breaks into a grin. I was rescued by a rock star; no wonder Jane was so insistent.
There’s a wealth of information on the label—bands signed, awards won, upcoming releases, upcoming tours. There’s even an editorial in Rolling Stone. I browse through the bands on his website, and I recognize many of them, not the least of which is Cross to Bear.
I bark out a laugh. “‘Mildly familiar,’ my ass.”
There’s much less on For Julia. I find a feeble attempt at a fan site—iheartjuliaforever.com—with a few promo shots of the band. My gaze goes straight to Darian. Despite his boy-next-door features, he looks like a rock star. His presence is commanding, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s joined by three other guys.
Cute and sexy, I think as I navigate the site. Don’t see that every day.
For Julia had a devoted regional following and was expected to skyrocket to stardom. They found success through a handful of national singles, but their breakout hit was “Halcyon Girl.”
I wonder if I’ve heard it. Probably not, considering I was ten when it was released, and at ten, if it wasn’t on American Idol, it wasn’t on my radar.
I open another web page and search for the song, but I have no luck. I can’t even find lyrics.
That’s odd. How does a song just disappear?
I return to the fan site and learn For Julia disbanded following the death of the band’s namesake—Darian’s wife.
Holy shit.
My head starts to pound. I Google For Julia and death and…
MIAMI-DADE COUNTY, FL (AP)—FOR JULIA FRONT MAN, DARIAN FOX, LOSES FAMILY IN MYSTERIOUS PLANE CRASH OFF THE COAST OF MIAMI
Caribbean Air Flight 356, bound for Nassau, Bahamas, plunges into the Atlantic Ocean shortly after takeoff from Miami International Airport Sunday afternoon, killing all 88 passengers and crew. For Julia front man Darian Fox’s wife, four-year-old daughter, and parents are among the casualties. The cause of the crash is unknown.
Is this…no, it can’t be…
My stomach roils as I push up against the headboard. With a trembling finger, I scroll down to a picture of Darian and Julia, and then—oh my God—I inhale a sharp gasp as my eyes land on an image I know all too well.
“Anabel.”
It is. This is that crash.
My mind jumps back almost ten years to that miserable Sunday in May, exactly one week after my twelfth birthday.
I was lying on the couch, half-reading Harry Potter, half-listening to reruns of Laguna Beach on MTV, when the story broke. Dad sat in his recliner and turned up the volume, drawing my full attention to the television.
MTV ran a clip of the Fox family at the beach. The heartbreaking sobs of a little girl with brunette ringlets and big brown eyes echoed loudly in our small living room. She was inconsolable after a large wave leveled her sand castle. Her mom giggled at her dad’s desperate attempts to calm her.
“I’ll build you a new one,” he said. “Even bigger.”
It didn’t work; she only cried harder…
That night was the first time I dreamed of the sobbing little girl on the ill-fated plane as it spiraled out of the sky. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get the image out of my twelve-year-old head. The nightmares lasted for months and resulted in my fear of flying. I was in college before Jane convinced me to go to Cancun for spring break, and I only fly now with the help of Xanax or a cocktail or six. How does Darian do it?
How does Darian do anything?
My throat grows thick with tears. I had time. I knew my dad was sick. I knew the end was coming. Darian had no warning, no chance to say goodbye. They were all just…gone.
His entire family.
Dad was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s at fifty-seven. I was only sixteen. We had four precious years together before his disease took me away from him. After the fifth, it took him away from me.
“Frankie, I want you to stop fussing over me and sit down. I have something I need to say to you before it’s too late.”
“You’re being dramatic, Dad. You’re fine. You had a bad spell, and now you have a prescription.”
“Frankie, stop. It’s Alzheimer’s, not the flu. Yes, I’m fine now, but you heard the doctor. These ‘spells’ are going to keep happening, and they’re going to get worse. Now, sit down.”
His tone made me flinch. I moved to stand beside him at the table, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit.
“One of these days, my mind will go, and when that happens, I don’t want you spending every waking minute at my side. It won’t do either of us any good.”
“Dad—”
“Frankie…” His voice splintered around my name, causing the backs of my eyes to sting. “You are a bright, beautiful girl. You have your whole life ahead of you; don’t waste it. Come out of your shell, conquer this flying thing, and see the world. Live a little.”
He pushed back from the table, wildly flapping his arms, and I smiled through the ache in my chest.
“What have I always told you?”
“Be the butterfly.”
“Yes. Be the butterfly, Frankie. Spread your wings and fly.”
My phone buzzes in my hand, pulling me back to the present. I dry my eyes on my shirtsleeve and force a smile, determined to remember that day as a happy one.
Jane: You OK?
Frankie: It’s so surreal.
Jane: Are you going to tell him?
Frankie: No way. That crash gave me nightmares but it destroyed his life.
Jane: I think it did a little more than give you nightmares.
Lying down once more, I draw the covers to my chin and open my browser. Anabel’s smiling face stares back at me from the screen.
Julia was Darian’s high school sweetheart. He married her right after graduating from the University of Miami, and their daughter, Anabel, came nine months later. After the accident, he dissolved the band and launched the record label.
There are several reports chronicling the crash as well as speculation on his subsequent inheritance. Nothing else personal has been reported since.
Frankie: She was his daughter. My nightmares were about her.
Jane: I know.
I imagine Darian in his twenties, happy and loved with a young family and a promising career. But in one disastrous moment, everything was ripped from him. The son, husband, and father became orphaned, widowed, and childless overnight.
Losing my dad was devastating, but it was inevitable. Children are supposed to bury their parents, not the other way around and not their whole family all at once. I can’t begin to wrap my head around it.
Frankie: I feel connected to him somehow.
Jane: You are in a way.
Frankie: It’s weird though. I felt it earlier, before I knew.
Jane: What are you going to do?
Frankie: He asked me to stay.
Jane: Just be careful.
Frankie: I have my Taser.
Jane: That’s not what I mean.
I set my phone on the nightstand and turn off the lamp. My eyes burn the second I close them. My chest feels hollow. I was so young when it happened, so consumed with the cries of a four-year-old girl and the nightmares she gave me, I never once thought of her father.
Her father.
But he’s all I can think of now, and as I drift into what will surely be a fitful sleep, my heart breaks.