Chapter Nineteen
Jonathan
I feel ridiculous. But apparently Superman was onto something with his glasses disguise for Clark Kent. A pair of hipster frames with nonprescription lenses, a Red Sox hat, and an oversized hooded sweatshirt means that no one pays me any attention on my flight to Spokane.
It’s been almost two weeks since I saw Gabby, and this is the first time I’m coming to her on my days off between concerts. It’s Tuesday, and I fly to Chicago on Friday morning to play shows all weekend. And a plan is already forming to convince Gabby to fly back with me.
She’d have to skip class on Friday, though, and I’m not sure how she’ll feel about that.
Since she came to see me in Seattle, she’s been much more scheduled. About everything. We text during the day and schedule our phone call or video chat for that evening. If I call outside of those times, she’ll answer, happy to hear from me, but she always keeps our conversations brief. So I try not to call, unless I really just can’t take going any longer without hearing her voice.
I know she needs time to practice, do homework, hang out with her friends. All along I’ve said I want her to have the college experience. I want to support her, help her achieve her dreams the same way she’s supported mine.
But dammit, I hate that I don’t have unfettered access to her the way I did for the majority of the last year. It’s only late October, and I’m already sick of this.
Hopefully our plan to see each other every couple of weeks will make things more bearable. I don’t know what to do if it doesn’t do the trick.
The attractive female clerk at the desk for the rental car does a double take when I pull out my ID. I still use the stage name Jonny B, since that’s how everyone knew me before. But my real name is out there, like on the Wikipedia page about me, and people who pay attention recognize it.
A slow smile curves her red lips as her eyes find mine. “In town for business or pleasure?” She puts special emphasis on “pleasure,” making it clear what she’s interested in.
I smile politely back. “If you recognize my name, then I’m sure you’ve read the interviews where I talk about my serious girlfriend.” Who I wish could’ve picked me up from the airport, but she has rehearsal until five. She’ll come straight to the hotel once she’s done, she said. No need for either of us to attract unneeded attention by creating a scene at airport arrivals anyway.
The clerk widens her eyes and gets back to business, pushing the form across the counter for me to sign and handing me back my driver’s license along with the keys to my rental—a mid-range black SUV. Nothing flashy, but comfortable.
After stowing my small suitcase and guitar in the back seat, I climb in and head toward downtown Spokane. It’s a little weird driving after being driven almost everywhere for the last two months. But the familiarity of my old stomping grounds quickly takes over, and I find myself driving into my old neighborhood, going past the house I shared with Ben.
He and Beth finally got engaged in July. I offered to play for his wedding when he called to let me know. He laughed and laughed at that, then asked me to be his best man, and I happily agreed.
They’re going to have a June wedding, so I’ve made sure to schedule a break for that week now that the date is set.
The house looks basically the same, as does the neighborhood, the maples almost completely bare with Halloween tomorrow.
Will Gabby want to do anything to celebrate? Or will she be content to just stay in with me?
If there’s a costume party somewhere, we might be able to make that work. I could wear a mask, which is an even better disguise than the Clark Kent glasses. She hasn’t said anything, though. So probably not.
I briefly consider getting out and walking around the neighborhood, checking out the jack-o’-lanterns and other decorations people have put up. But a glance at the clock shows that I’ve wasted enough time if I want to get checked in and settled before Gabby arrives. And I do.
Turning the corner, I head back toward downtown where I’m staying in the Davenport. I have a suite in the tower, and I’m planning on a night of champagne and room service. I want to get there in time to get that ordered and ready so it’s waiting for Gabby.
The front desk at the hotel doesn’t bat an eye when I check in, taking my order for champagne and strawberries to pass on to room service even though it’s not technically their job. I let the bellman take my suitcase, but keep my guitar with me.
After tipping the bellman, I text Gabby my room number, unpack my suitcase, put my fake glasses in their case, leaving them on the bathroom counter in case I need them at some point later, and take a quick shower to wash off the travel funk. Once I’m done, I opt to put on a pair of jeans and nothing else. It’s after five and Gabby should be here soon.
Right on cue, my phone buzzes with a text saying that she’s on her way. Nervous energy has me turning the TV on, flipping through the channels, turning it off. Pacing. Checking my phone. I respond to a few things on my social media channels. My PR people handle most of it, but they like for me to respond to some of the questions personally. It makes me seem more accessible, they say. Gives the fans a better experience. And since I like keeping my fans happy, I don’t mind, and I interact on at least a few posts a day when I can. If there’s something special that the PR team thinks should get my attention, they email me a direct link. Otherwise, I just pop on and pick a few that catch my eye.
I jump up at the knock on the door, but it’s room service with the champagne. Just as I’m tipping the guy in the open doorway, I hear movement in the hallway, and look up to see Gabby. My breath catches at the sight of her, and I don’t even pay attention to whatever the room service guy says as he takes the money from my hand.
God, she’s gorgeous.
She lingers in the hallway, waiting until the doorway is clear. I reach for her and tug her inside, wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her hair, taking a deep breath.
Home.
That’s the feeling I get when I have her with me like this. Contentment. Happiness. Belonging.
Her arms go around me, and she squeezes me back. Her fingers dig into the muscles of my back, then rub. She pulls back slightly, and I let her, however reluctantly, but then her arms go around my neck and she pushes up on her toes, pulling my mouth to hers.
My hands fall to her hips as her tongue explores the seam of my lips. But as much as I love the way she goes after what she wants from me without hesitation, I quickly take control of the kiss. One hand goes to her hair, which she has loose, just the way I like it. Tangling my fingers in the dark strands, I tug her head back, positioning her the way I want so I can devour her mouth, her neck, nip at her earlobes and feel her tremble in my arms.
I force myself to slow down, give her one more gentle kiss, and step back. My eyes rake over her, her tousled hair, pink lips, heavy-lidded eyes. God, I’ve missed her.
She’s drinking me in, her eyes skating down my chest, lingering on the bulge in my jeans. She drops her backpack and strips her jacket off, tossing it behind her, where I notice her purple suitcase and black violin case. Something about the sight of her luggage warms me from the inside. It’s an echo of that feeling when I first wrapped my arms around her when she got here. A sense of rightness. Her luggage belongs in my room. She belongs with me.
Too bad that’s impossible for more than a day or two at a time right now.
Clearing my throat, I gesture toward the living room before she can launch herself at me again. “I got champagne.”
Her eyes finally leave my body, and she looks around, taking in the room for the first time. Lips parted and eyes wide, she turns to look at the sitting area with the dark leather couch, two armchairs, and the flat screen TV mounted on the wall above a fireplace. The champagne rests on the coffee table, two flutes next to it, and a white plate of chocolate covered strawberries beside them. Picture windows take up the wall behind the chairs, looking out over the city. We’re on the tenth floor, high enough up that we have good views over downtown.
“You got champagne? And chocolate covered strawberries?” She turns her wide eyes on me, but then they narrow and a mischievous grin pulls at her lips. “Trying to seduce me? You should know by now I’m a sure thing.”
With a laugh, I step behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, breathing her in again and nipping at her neck. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to wine and dine you and treat you like a queen. In fact, if anything, it makes me want to do it more. Make sure you know how much you mean to me.”
She sags back against me, turning her head to look me in the eye, her hand coming up to caress my cheek. “I love you.”
I press a kiss into her palm. “I love you too. I’m glad you’re willing to stay with me during the week. I know you have classes tomorrow, and I’ll make sure to get you there on time, and—“
Turning in my arms, she presses her lips to mine, cutting me off. It’s a quick kiss, barely more than a peck. “Shhh. I know. You’ve always been awesome about not encroaching on my classes and homework. I do have some tonight, and I need to practice if that’s okay. I brought my practice mute, so it shouldn’t bother the neighbors.”
I shrug. “Let them be bothered. I hate your practice mute. It makes your violin sound so …” I search for an appropriate adjective.
Gabby grins. “Muted?” she supplies.
“Ha. Yes. That. And tinny and shallow and terrible. I love the way you play. I want to hear you. No mute.”
“Okay. But if there are any complaints, you have to handle them.”
I give her a squeeze and lead her to the couch. “Of course. Even if you were the one insisting on playing at full volume, I’d still handle them.” Giving her a fake condescending look, I let out my best snob voice. “I’m the star, after all. They’ll do whatever I tell them to.”
She laughs, accepting the glass of champagne I pour for her. But at my look, her laughter dies away. “Oh my God, you’re serious.”
Nodding, I pass her a strawberry before taking one for myself and sitting back with my own glass of champagne. “Not about the attitude. But them leaving me alone about you playing? Yeah. One of the perks of fame. You can get away with a lot more than the regular folks.”
Another spluttering laugh bubbles out of her, and she shakes her head, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s so weird, you know? I’m just used to you being you. Not this …” She takes a bite of her strawberry, then waves it around as she searches for the right word. “Mega star or whatever.”
“I am still me. The fame thing … it’s … I don’t even know. But the version of me that everyone thinks they know? That’s someone else. It’s a persona, a character, not the real me.” Setting my glass and half-eaten strawberry down, I scoot closer to her, running a hand up her leg. “You know the real me. I’m no different than I was when I hijacked your table in the coffee shop that first day.”
She stares at me, her eyes going back and forth between mine, then she shakes her head slowly. “No. You are different than you were then.”
My hand slips off her leg, and I swallow. “What do you mean? How?”
She tilts her head to the side. “That guy was sweet and funny and nice. I liked him a lot. But you’ve grown. Matured. You’re more driven now, more focused. You know what you want, and you’re going after it. You’ve always been supportive of me, but if anything, you’re more so now than you were then. Which makes sense. You didn’t actually know me at that point. We’d just met. You listened to me blabber about music, engaged me in conversation. But now? Now you care. Deeply. More than I’d ever expect another person to care who isn’t directly involved. More than my teachers, even. Yeah, you’re different than that guy. Better.”
I blink a few times, surprised and a little emotional at her words.
We talk. A lot. Probably more than most couples, just by virtue of it being our only option. But we don’t often talk about our perceptions of each other, how the way we view each other has changed over the last year since we first got together.
“Thank you.” My voice comes out rough, and I clear my throat. “Thank you, Gabby. I do support you. I want you to accomplish all the goals you have, and I’ll always do whatever I can to help you do that. Whether it’s making time for you to practice or helping you make industry connections. Whatever you need, it’s yours. Always. Because you’re the reason I’m better than that guy you met last year. You make me better.”
She smiles, lifting her champagne glass in the universal gesture of a toast. “To us. To making each other better.”
I pick mine up again and bring it to hers. The light chime of the fine crystal rings in the room as we drink, staring into each other’s eyes. But now I’ve had enough talking, enough champagne, even though we’ve barely touched it. I’ve delayed and held off long enough.
Now I just want her.