Chapter Twenty-Two
Jonathan
“You almost ready?”
I stand in the doorway of the bedroom, watching Gabby rub sunscreen into her arms. She looks up at me. “Almost. I just want to put on sunscreen before we go.”
“Good idea. I should do that too.” She passes me the bottle, and I squeeze a glob into my palm, rubbing it into my forearms and face. I shake my head as I do it. “I still can’t believe you’ve never been to Disneyland.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Well, since I’ve never been to California, how could I have? Not everyone grows up a stone’s throw away, you know.” She bends to rub sunscreen onto the leg she’s propped on the edge of the bed. “Besides, I’ve been to Six Flags a billion times.”
“A billion times, huh?”
Shrugging, she does her other leg. “Okay, fine. Maybe five. Still.” She grins at me and steps closer, reaching her arms around my neck. “I’m glad we’re doing this. It seems like it’d be a shame to come all this way and not go. Especially since, according to you, not having gone to Disneyland is tantamount to growing up in a cave or living in the Third World.”
I laugh, my hands settling on her hips, pulling her in close so I can kiss her. The kiss lasts longer than I planned. That happens a lot with Gabby. But I break it off before we get carried away. “We should go so we have enough time to get to all the cool stuff. I splurged and got us the pass that lets us skip to the front of the lines since we only have today.”
She grins up at me. “Oooh, look at you, Mister Fancy Pop Star. Throwing your money around already.”
“Oh, yeah. You know it.” We both laugh as I flex my fingers on her hips and release her, but my laughter is tempered with the knowledge that once I am a genuine pop star, I won’t be able to take my girlfriend to Disneyland for a normal trip to the park. Not like this. Already I’ve noticed more paparazzi when I’m going places. Nothing like when that video went viral. Things have been pretty calm. But the prerelease PR push has started, so my name is getting tossed around on music blogs and other industry places. That means the gossip media will start getting interested again. Especially once the upcoming interviews and photo shoots hit newsstands. And then there are the radio shows. The buzz will push sales, both of the singles and the full album. Which will also help ticket sales for the live shows. But I’m all too aware that the little bubble of normalcy we’ve lived in for the last few months will pop. Sooner than either of us are ready for.
But those are problems for another day. Today is about being with Gabby. We’ve both been so busy lately that we’ve mostly spent our time together in the apartment hanging out and watching TV. Well, that’s not all we’ve been doing, but we haven’t gone out and had fun in a while. This is her vacation. We need to go out and have fun. Before we can’t anymore. Both because it won’t be so easy for me to just take my girlfriend out for a good time, and because she’ll be leaving all too soon.
It feels like she just got here last week, but it’s been almost a month and a half. August is right around the corner. Things will only get busier and crazier, and before I know it she’ll be boarding a plane to Dallas. And I won’t see her again for weeks, maybe months. Probably months.
That thought makes me want to tackle her onto the bed and spend the day there instead of Disneyland. But I promised her a day of fun and sunshine. And while a day in bed meets the fun criteria, the sunshine is distinctly lacking in here.
So we’ll have to save the bedtime fun until after we’re back.
Gabby grabs her backpack, and I follow her into the kitchen. She stuffs a couple of bottles of water into it and slings it over her shoulder, smiling widely at me. “Ready when you are.”
I grab her hand and tug her along behind me. “Then let’s go. Disney awaits.”
Several hours later, we’re walking hand in hand through California Adventure. We hit the must-do rides early—the teacups, and I even let her drag me on the Small World boat, insidious earworm and all. My goal now is to take her to all my favorite places in both parks—the Haunted Mansion, the Grizzly River Run, and the interactive, behind-the-scenes stuff. We’ve made it through Disneyland, and just crossed over to California Adventure, but we’re getting tired. The lunch on the go we grabbed at a quick stand isn’t lasting. My nutritionist and trainer would hate me for all the crap I’m eating today, but I don’t care. I’m having too much fun. I’m allowed a cheat day every now and then. Even if I do have another photo shoot for a magazine coming up next week.
The look of wonder and sheer joy on Gabby’s face when she met Ariel and Cinderella, her favorite Disney princesses, makes the lecture I know I’ll get from everyone for today’s indulgences worth it.
“There’s an Italian restaurant in here that’s good. You hungry?”
“Thirsty more than hungry. And my feet are killing me. I don’t think I’ve stood this long in ages.”
Reeling her in by our attached hands, I wrap my free arm around her back and pull her tight against me. “Let’s go eat, rest a little, get recharged for the rest of the park. Sound good?”
She nods and smiles, her face relaxed. I’m glad we did this today. We’ve both needed this chance to unwind and enjoy ourselves. I bend my head for a kiss, pressing my lips softly to hers. She presses against me, and I’d like to deepen it, but we’re surrounded by families with little kids running around. So instead, I pull back, feather one more soft kiss on her mouth, memorizing her slightly parted pink lips, closed eyes, and dark, even brows, the look of bliss from our kiss and spending the day with me having fun.
Her eyes flutter open, full of love and happiness, and she sighs. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
People are flowing around us, families on vacation and groups of teenagers out for a day of fun. In the middle of summer, there’s not a quiet corner anywhere. Between the rides and the people, it’s like being surrounded by a perpetual motion machine. If one thing stops, something else starts to take its place.
So it’s strange that something in my peripheral vision catches my attention. Lifting my head, I look more closely.
A man on the other side of the street has a fancy camera pointed in our direction.
Maybe it’s just a hobby photographer taking pictures of the park. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Releasing Gabby, I get us moving in the direction of the restaurant, not letting on that I’m paying attention to the photographer. He follows us, his camera still pressed to his face.
Dammit. It’s starting again already.
Most of the coverage has been local so far, but I’ve been getting more media attention. The gossip rags must’ve noticed—at least one of them, anyway.
I was hoping we’d have more time before the paparazzi made days like today impossible.
I don’t say anything to Gabby, but she must sense the change in my mood, because she looks at me with concern on her face.
“Jonathan? What’s wrong?”
Casting a glance over my shoulder, I catch the guy again, now using a longer zoom lens.
My nostrils flare as I face forward again, picking up the pace slightly. Gabby trots along beside me, working harder to keep up on her shorter legs.
“Sorry. There’s a photographer following us.”
Craning her neck around, she starts looking for him, and her eyes widen when she catches sight of him. She lets out a frustrated breath. “This again, huh?”
“Yeah. This is just the beginning, you know. It’s not going to get better this time.”
She presses her lips together. When she answers, her voice is quiet. “Yeah, I know.”
I want to press her about that, but this isn’t the time or the place. She doesn’t seem happy about the prospect. Neither am I. But this is the choice I’ve made. The thing is, she doesn’t have to deal with it if she doesn’t want to. She could choose to stay away from me. Even though I don’t hold it against her, I can’t repress the thought that she’s run once before. Broken up with me. To save herself from future pain.
Well, the future is upon us. I’ve graduated. I’m starting a new career. And there’s no reason for her to come along, except that she’s decided she wants to be with me. Will the press, the paparazzi, the intrusions into our life together be enough to make her change her mind?
God, I hope not.
Instead of saying any of that, I squeeze her hand and say, “I’m sorry.”
She looks at me, her gaze sharp, her brows furrowed. “For what? You didn’t call someone and tip them off that we’d be here so they’d follow us around, did you?”
“God, no.” The vehement denial is reflexive, my disgust undisguisable. “I would never do anything like that. Ever. They’re parasites, and I think we’d all be better off without them.”
A tiny smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Yeah, I figured. It’s not your fault that he’s following us. Do you want to go, though? If he’s here, are there likely to be more of them?”
I consider her question, but shake my head. “No. Whoever he works for won’t want to give away a scoop, so there probably aren’t any more of them. And I’m not about to let one lone photographer end our day early.”
She tugs at my hand to get me to slow down. “Then where’s the fire? Let him take pictures.” She puts her free hand over her mouth, her eyes wide in mock horror. “Oh no. We kissed in public. It’s not like that’s the first picture of us kissing anyone’s ever seen. And I’m sure it won’t be the last. In fact …” Planting her feet, she turns me to face her, slides her hand to the back of my neck and pulls my head down to hers, going up on her toes to kiss me. She teases the seam of my mouth with her tongue, then nips at my lip before whispering, “Might as well give him a show.”
With a chuckle, I pull her against me and kiss her again, still keeping it PG. This girl. She’s always full of surprises. This wasn’t the reaction I’d anticipated. When the paparazzi invaded our lives before, she seemed like she just wanted to hide and not let them take her picture at all. The ones of us kissing provoked especially dismayed reactions.
I guess I shouldn’t worry so much about her freaking out and breaking up with me after all. Not if she’s wanting to give a show to the photographer tailing us today.
After a minute or so, she drops back down, smiling up at me and biting her lower lip. Then she gets me moving in the direction we were heading before. “I’d drag you to the restaurant, but I have no idea where we’re going. I’m starved, though, so let’s go.”
“Me too.”
At least my shorts are loose, because I’m hungry for a lot more than just lunch after our little show. I force my thoughts to politics and crime statistics to deflate the growing chub in my boxers.
By the time we reach the restaurant, it’s past lunch time, so we manage get a table without a long wait. Once our food arrives, we eat in silence for a few minutes, except for Gabby’s usual appreciative moans over her food.
“This is really good,” she says around a mouthful of her pasta.
I grin at her reaction. “I’m glad.” Eating with Gabby, especially when she’s trying a new restaurant or a new food, is always entertaining. She’s very vocal about her food, whether she likes it or hates it. At least when we’re alone she is. I’ve noticed she’s not that way when we have dinner with my family.
Pushing aside the possible implications of that, I ask, “So how’s your piece coming along? It seems like you’ve been working on it a lot more since you met with Stefan.”
Her eyes widen, and she holds a hand in front of her mouth as she answers. “Oh my God. He gave me a lot of cool ideas. Yeah, I’ve added quite a bit to it in the last few days.”
“Have you decided what it is yet?”
She shakes her head as she swallows. “No. Not really.” Her head angles to one side, and she reaches for her soda. “I feel like, even though Stefan gave me a lot of new information, that I don’t know enough to know what to do with it. Or do it justice. You know?”
“Yeah,” I say around a mouthful of my salad. I force myself to chew and swallow it before continuing. “I know exactly what you mean. That’s been my problem for years. But pop songs have a much simpler structure than classical music. You pretty much just need verses, a chorus, and a hook. The challenge then becomes to come up with good lyrics or interesting chord progressions within the framework of that simple structure.”
Her face turns thoughtful as she takes that in. “Hmm. I’ve never really thought about that part of it. I know my theory professors talk about how simple popular music is a lot. And they always say it like it’s a bad thing.” She gives me a rueful smile.
“Yeah. I’m familiar with the music department’s stance on popular music. It’s not new or original to them. And they’re right. A lot of it is simple, both in terms of song structure and chord structure. But people like it, and it works, so …” I shrug, taking another bite of my food.
She considers that, but seems unsatisfied. “So …?”
“So, people pay for things they like. Catchy tunes, simple chords. They buy the albums, and then people who can play a little might buy the sheet music for your top forty hit. Play it for their friends. At their weddings. Simple songs pay the bills.”
Her brows come together. “But what about art? What about intellectual stimulation? Doesn’t that matter?”
I sit back in my chair, considering her. We’ve talked a little about the differing musical ideologies. I once accused her of snobbery in the middle of a fight. But we’ve mostly danced around the subject of pop music versus classical music, operating under an unspoken agreement to support each other. “Are you saying my music isn’t art?”
She drops her eyes, and the pink in her cheeks seems more like a blush than the effect of sun. “No. I’m not …” She glances all around, like she can find the words she wants written on the restaurant walls.
With a deep breath, she meets my eyes again, setting down her fork and placing her elbows on the table, her hands clasped in front of her face. “I’m not talking about you or me right now, okay? Just music in general.” She waves her hands a little, as though to encompass a wider world.
I give a slow nod. “Okay. For the purposes of this conversation, I won’t consider anything you say as reflecting on me personally.”
She studies me for a moment. “I like popular music. I think you know that already.” She waits for my nod before continuing. “But I also like other music. ‘Classical’ music, if you will.” Her fingers come up in air quotes, and I know it’s because she dislikes that term for being inaccurate. That is a conversation we’ve had before, because her high school orchestra teacher always growled at them for it. And her music literature class last year cemented it. The Classical era is a specific time period in music history—largely in the 1700s. Gabby tends to use the term “art music,” which I chafe against, because it makes it sound like my music isn’t art. And that is something I strenuously object to.
“Music written just for the sake of art,” she continues. “It’s beautiful and moving and …” She trails off when one of my eyebrows arches up, slumping in her chair as though her argument is already lost.
I lean forward, pitching my voice low. “Let me ask you something, Gabby.” Her face is open and vulnerable as she waits for me to continue. “I am going to talk about something personal now, but I think it’s a good demonstration of my point. In January, when you finally clicked on that link your brother sent you, and you listened to me sing a song, would you say you were moved?”
Her eyes move back and forth between mine, and she nods, uncharacteristically silent.
“I believe you called that song beautiful. Didn’t you?”
She nods again, this time quicker, but she doesn’t stay silent. “But that’s different.”
“How?”
Her hands come out in front of her like she’s pleading for something. “It just is. It’s a different kind of music.”
“Yeah. I won’t argue about that. My point is that one isn’t necessarily better than the other. It’s all art. It’s all beauty. And money is the bottom line for both popular music and ‘art music’ or ‘classical music’ or whatever you want to call it. Because I know you want to eventually get a job playing music. And composers of music for orchestras want to get paid for their work, too. Right?”
“Well, yeah. Who wouldn’t want to get paid to do something they love? That they’re good at?”
“Exactly, Gabby. Exactly. It’s just different. Popular music isn’t better or worse than your music. And saying otherwise is just snobbery. I got enough of that in the English department to be able to recognize it from miles away. If it’s not literary fiction or poetry, then it’s not worth the paper it’s printed on, according to some people. But you know what books sell the most? Genre fiction. Mysteries. Thrillers. Romance.” I tap the table with my index finger to punctuate each word. “That’s what pays the bills so publishers can keep putting out literary fiction that barely sells. Some of the literary fiction is beautiful. The writing will move you and make you weep. It’s good that people write that. Just like it’s good that people write classical music. We need both. We need high art, and art for the masses. Because sometimes you want something that makes you a better person, that makes you think. And sometimes, you just need something that makes you happy. That moves you and makes you weep because it encapsulates your emotions and gives them a voice, no matter what they are. That’s what art does for us, whether it’s music or literature or whatever else. That’s its purpose.”
Her lips part as she stares at me, her eyes never straying from mine. After a long moment, she straightens up, breaking eye contact and clearing her throat. “That’s … that’s a good point.” When she meets my eyes again, she gives me a small smile. “It doesn’t help me figure out what to do with whatever I’m writing, but it’s a really good point.”
I laugh, sitting back in my chair again. “What did Stefan suggest?”
“Taking piano lessons and enrolling in composition classes, though he did say I might have to get through another year of theory before I can do that.”
“That sounds like good advice. Keep working on your song. It’ll turn into whatever it’s supposed to be. Just let it flow.”
Her smile this time is happier, more relaxed than her last one. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”