“Can you believe Valerie Oppenheim is wearing that same ghastly blue velvet she wore at the party they hosted for the mayor’s swearing in?” Georgia’s mother asked as she straightened the tiny narrow belt of her custom Chanel floor-length gown. “And call me old-fashioned, but I did prefer it when this event was at the Waldorf.”
While Georgia agreed there was a certain je ne sais quoi missing in the glass and chrome of the ultramodern hotel compared to the shabby elegance of the balconied Waldorf ballroom before it was renovated, Georgia didn’t answer. Not least because her mother didn’t really expect an answer, but because sometimes the opulence of the world she’d grown up in left her feeling embarrassed. The wealthy circles her family moved in epitomized the definition of “First World problems.” She’d listened to two gentlemen in the coat-check line pull apart a recent trip made on a private jet, and heard a woman in the washroom tell a friend that her recent Mark Rothko abstract had been a steal at fifty million.
And also because continuing the conversation might prompt her mother to ask about Georgia’s own dress. She would hate to lie and say it was new when she’d in fact worn it to the Stephanopoulos wedding last year, which her parents had been unable to attend because it conflicted with their month-long stay in Monaco. But mainly she remained quiet because her mind was on Lennon.
Yesterday, Lennon had eventually closed up on her, turning back to the playful man with a darkness behind his eyes with whom she was more familiar instead of the more thoughtful man she was also coming to know. “Mercurial” wasn’t a word she’d ever had much use for, but it suited him. His mood changed with the weather, and getting him to talk again once he’d clammed up was as successful as trying to stop the retreating tide.
Her father was up front, bidding loudly on bottle of Domaine de la Romanee-Conti 1990, having already successfully bid on a Cheval Blanc 1947. Her mother clapped politely when he won, even though she knew that if he ever opened it, it wouldn’t be for the two of them. It would be for his cigar-smoking, snobby wine-tasting monthly circle. Older men with a penchant for kiln-dried Spanish cedar humidors who took their gatherings as an excuse to escape their wives every four weeks.
It’s for charity, Georgia tried to remind herself, though for which charity she’d drawn a complete blank. Her mother was involved in so many, it was hard to keep track from one month to the next.
Georgia’s purse vibrated. “I’m sorry, Mother. I just need to check my phone,” she said, grabbing her wrap from the back of her chair. As she stepped away from the table her mother had sponsored for the evening, she pulled her phone from her purse. She wasn’t on call, having booked the evening out months ago when the invitation had landed in her mailbox, but she was worried that Lennon needed her.
Instead she found an e-mail from an address she didn’t recognize.
Dear Dr. Starr,
It’s Dred, Lennon’s friend. Can you give me a call, please? The number’s below. We’re worried about Lennon and don’t know where he is. We’re hoping you might have seen him. The hospital won’t tell us where he is because of patient confidentiality. Is there any way you can help us? I’ve included my number below.
Dred
P.S. Hope you don’t mind, but I scoured the internet for your e-mail address.
How did they not know where he was? She’d assumed that since his friends weren’t in New York, he was somehow keeping them updated. But if he wasn’t . . . was it morally okay for her to tell Dred there was obviously a reason Lennon hadn’t told them, but she couldn’t understand why.
She stepped outside the hotel into the cool late April air. Thankfully it wasn’t freezing, but she tugged her wrap around her shoulders. Deciding to just play it by ear, she dialed the number.
“Hello.”
“Dred?” she asked. “It’s Dr. Starr, Georgia.”
“Thank fuck,” he let out in a whoosh. “Thanks for calling, Georgia. Do you know where Lennon is? Is he okay?”
Panic and relief comingled in Dred’s voice. “I’m confused. Isn’t he communicating with you guys?”
“Sporadically he’ll answer a text with something glib. Or ask how the others are doing with their injuries. And he picked up the phone a couple of times, once for Jordan and another time for Elliott, but he’s dodging telling us where he is, and we want to see him. He’s . . . well . . . he’s . . . crap. He’s had a really shit life, Georgia, and we’re worried.”
It made sense that they’d be worried. “I’ve seen Lennon every other day at least since he was released from hospital.”
“Really? Is he okay? How is he . . . how is he coping? Sorry . . . hang on . . .” From the muffled sound, he’d put his hand over the receiver. She could hear him reassuring whoever was with him that she’d seen him and to let him ask the questions. “Sorry. Elliott and Nik are here, and they’re worried, too. So, how is he?”
Georgia chose her words carefully. “Dred, I don’t know why Lennon doesn’t want you guys to know where he is or how he is, but I don’t think it’s my place to get in the middle of this without talking to Lennon first. But to reassure you, I’ll say this: He’s coping. He’s seen his surgeon. He’s seen his prosthetics specialist. He’s in an apartment close to mine, and I see him most days.” For some reason, it didn’t feel right to share their fledgling relationship with the band. That would be for Lennon to share when he was ready.
“I get it. I even respect that you’re protecting his privacy like that, but we’re desperate, Georgia. And you don’t know Lennon like we do. He’s . . . damn, he’ll fool you that he’s okay.”
She took a deep breath and sighed. She’d worried about that, the way he could change from open, honest, and hurt to closed off while appearing outwardly happy. “So far, he’s letting me see both sides. He’s sharing his emotions.”
“He sent me an e-mail ten minutes ago telling me that we need to find a new drummer. That he isn’t coming back. That he isn’t coming back to Toronto.”
Dred’s words hit her squarely in the chest. Two thoughts barreled through her at the same time: He’s staying for me. He’s not staying at all. Both scared her, one a lot more than the other. Her heart racing, she stepped onto the curb and flagged a cab. “One second, Dred,” she said and quickly muted her phone before giving the cabbie her address. “Okay, I’m on way over to his place to check in with him,” she said. Why would he send a message like that tonight? It had been four weeks since the accident, nearly two since he’d moved into the condo. She’d thought he was making progress.
“Please, Georgia,” Dred begged. “I know you don’t know us, but we are brothers in every way that matters, and Lennon, well, we know what he’s like. We know he seemed to have a . . . fuck. Most people have a strong visceral affinity for staying alive. Lennon’s is . . . weaker. No, that’s the wrong fucking word. Shit, I’m explaining this all wrong. He’s not weaker. It’s just that what he’s been through is so much worse than what the average person has. I wouldn’t blame him if he wanted to give up, call it quits. Whatever.” Dred’s voice had dropped to a whisper, and tears burned Georgia’s eyes. She’d felt it when she’d held his hand on the bus. Even though the energy from him had felt so full and vibrant, his tone had been pure exhaustion.
She began to shake, and a dampness slithered down her spine, across her skin. Never had she felt more out of her depth. Was it arrogance that had had her assuming she knew what was best for Lennon? Was she selfish to want to be the one to help him? Was she just being plain stupid for not telling them where Lennon lived?
No. That had to be Lennon’s choice.
Right?
“I’m sorry. I know I’m dumping a lot on your shoulders, but what if we came to New York? Do you think you could meet us somewhere? Like if we book a hotel suite or something. Could you get him there to see us?”
Buildings went by in a blur as the driver hustled his way through the city and she imagined tricking Lennon into seeing them. “Let me talk to him, Dred. Let me understand why he doesn’t want you to know where he is. I’ll call you back as soon as I’m sure he’s okay. If I think he’s at risk, I’ll let you know.”
But the words he’d spoken on the floor in the bus, the words she’d tried to ignore, came to her mind. Again.
I’m . . . tired . . . of my life. Just . . . let me . . . go.
When the taxi pulled up at the condo, she threw the driver a fifty and hurried inside, trying not to slip as her heels tapped on the floor. “I’m here, Dred. I’m going to lose you in the elevator. I’ll call you back later.” She hammered the UP button on the old elevator, for once frustrated with its old-world charm. When she got off at his floor, she rushed to the door and hammered on it.
There was no answer, so she hammered again, wondering if she should call security to come let her in. It wasn’t her apartment, but surely if she told them what Lennon’s friend suspected, they’d go in, even if they wouldn’t let her join them. As she dug in her purse for her phone, the door swept open.
“Hey, I was just thinking of you,” Lennon said with a smile on his face. “I’ve got a surprise for—Holy shit, you look hot in that dress, angel.”
He looked fine. In fact, he looked better than fine. Better than he had any other day she’d seen him.
Dred’s words snaked through her mind. You don’t know Lennon like we do. He’s . . . damn, he’ll fool you that he’s okay.
Lennon was freshly showered, his hair lying damp. He wore a fitted black Henley and jeans. “Are you okay?” he asked, reaching for her hand, his fingers warm as they wrapped around her frozen ones. “Damn, you aren’t. What happened, Gia?” he asked as he tugged her inside.
What on earth could she say? The rest of your band thought you were going to kill yourself, and I almost believed them? But right now she was stuck for words. She didn’t know how to answer the simplest of questions.
“Come here,” Lennon said, tugging her inside the condo, the door clicking shut behind her. “Let’s get you warm.” He sat down, pulling her down next to him before tugging the folded blanket from over the back of the sofa. He tucked it in around her.
The condo was tidy. There were no dishes on the counter, no pile of stale clothes lying on the floor. Did it feel off? She couldn’t tell. His drums stood by the front door. She hadn’t noticed them when she’d first stepped inside.
“You want to tell me what has you freaked out?” he asked, brushing kisses on the top of her head.
She couldn’t lie to him. That wasn’t what their relationship was built on. “I got an e-mail from Dred,” she said, and Lennon stiffened almost imperceptibly.
His kisses stopped, then resumed, as did the soft stroking down her arm. “He’s like an old woman. What did he want?”
Turning to face him, she placed her hand on his cheek. “They’re very worried about you. Why aren’t you talking to them?”
Lennon sighed and shook his head. “I don’t feel the need to tell them every bit of my life. They all live in one another’s pockets. What am I supposed to do, send them a daily journal update?”
“Did you tell them you want to leave the band?”
He looked at her with a look that said obviously. “I did, because even with great prosthetics or with custom drums, it’s going to take ages to relearn how to play. And Preload is their livelihood. They need to record, and tour, with someone who sounds phenomenal. That won’t be me for a long time. They need someone really fucking good, someone who can organically grow with the band, not a session drummer who just slots in for a while.” He shrugged his shoulders.
She didn’t agree with the assessment, but he’d delivered it so completely calmly. Rationally. Or was it too unemotional? Shit, she was confused. “Did you tell them you weren’t going back to Toronto?”
Lennon nodded as if it was no big deal. “For a while at least. The tour is over. I have an O-1B visa and am allowed to stay. My medical team is here. And so are you.” He kissed her lips.
“I was worried you’d done something stupid, like . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words to him.
“Kill myself?” Lennon finished for her, but he was looking toward the door, to the drum kit. “No. Look, I’ll call Dred in the morning.”
“I said I’d call him back tonight,” Georgia said, feeling relieved and somewhat calmer from talking it through with him.
“Fine. I’ll text him in a minute. But first, I want to take care of you.”
* * *
After he’d finally persuaded Georgia up to her apartment and into her shower, he’d left Dred a text as he’d promised her, and then set about bringing his drum kit to her apartment.
Lennon ran his fingers lovingly over the skin of his Tama snare drum, custom made to his own standard, the surface tension exactly how he wanted it, the perfect springboard for his drumsticks. It was the first time he’d brought himself to open the cases that carried his prize possession, and he could barely swallow from the rush of tears that threatened to spill over as he studied the marks on the surface.
All made by him.
In a hundred different cities playing all their songs.
The thought of someone else playing those songs caused him to simultaneously want to throw the snare off the balcony of Georgia’s upper level and throw himself off screaming for everything he was about to lose.
This was his big surprise for Georgia, just like he’d promised in the hospital. He was giving her his favorite tour drum kit, his prize, his baby. His fucking “precious” that he would go insane without. But he couldn’t bring himself to play, couldn’t bear to hear what it would sound like.
His gut told him Georgia would look after it for him. That she’d care for it.
Like she does you. His phone buzzed, chasing the thought away.
If you’d answer your fucking phone, I wouldn’t have had to bother Georgia. Look, I didn’t mean to scare her, but you are scaring the fucking crap out of us. Will you just fucking call me instead of this texting shit?
He couldn’t. Not yet. He’d spoken to Elliott, and that had been hard. Jordan had been even harder. But Dred was the one who could convince Lennon that giving it all up would be a mistake. Dred would tell him that he didn’t care what they sounded like as long as they were together, that they’d wait as long as he needed. But Lennon couldn’t do that to his friend. Dred deserved every second of the success he was chasing, as did the others. There was no way he was going to let all of them suffer financially or otherwise for something that had happened only to him.
I can’t. Not yet. He needed more time to get his head around it. More time to convince himself he was okay with it before he spoke to someone who had the power to convince him that he wasn’t.
Petal misses you. Can you at least send her a fucking picture or something?
Dred’s message cut him deeply. He missed Petal something fierce. But he couldn’t tell Dred that, at least not in so many words.
Low blow. And yes. Now fuck off.
The dots bounced his screen, which meant Dred was ignoring his request to be left alone.
I love you. We all love you.
He looked up at the ceiling, feeling tears threaten again. Shit, he was turning into a fucking pussy.
Yeah.
His phone pinged again, this time with a picture of Petal asleep in her crib, the jewelry box he’d bought her last Christmas clutched to her chest. It had to be uncomfortable for the sweet little thing, but she held onto it with a steadfast grip.
With his heart firmly in his throat, Lennon stood and wandered over to the large greenhouse, filled with bonsai trees. It was obviously old. Suddenly feeling displaced and dizzy, he placed his forehead against the glass. He’d never been into the upper level of Georgia’s home, and exploring would give him something to focus on instead of the need to call Dred and have him reassure Lennon that everything was going to be okay. He focused on the solid outline of Central Park, stark in its darkness in contrast to the lights of the skyscrapers that surrounded it. He focused on the illuminated pathways, imagining who was currently down there. He could only imagine how much better her view of the park was than his own during the day.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shelf full of vinyl records and an old record player. Curious, he made his way over and began to flick through them.
Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, Dizzy Gillespie. Names he’d heard. But others he hadn’t. Thelonious Monk, Charles Mingus, Mary Lou Williams.
Jazz.
A long way from metal and quite a stretch from his favorite music to listen to by choice. But that seemed to be the sum of what was on the shelves.
Plus, he hadn’t listened to music much since leaving the hospital. It had been a great shield while he was in there. He could put his headphones on and blast music so loud that it shut the rest of the world out. But maybe this was far enough removed from metal as to be . . . well, safe.
He pulled an album from the shelf. The Dave Brubeck Quartet. He looked at the back-cover art. Holy shit. There were a billion words on there, explanations of each song. Pretty cool idea. Maybe he could convince their marketing team to allow them to do something similar. His heart vaporized a moment later when he realized he wouldn’t be part of that process anymore.
Tucking the album under his stump, he allowed the vinyl to slip out into his hand and then placed it on the old turntable. Hoping it was set up for the right play speed, he placed the needle on the vinyl. The piano kicked in, and Lennon lay on the rug near the turntable. Once he was comfortable, he began to read the cover.
“Blue Rondo à la Turk plunges straight into the most jazz-remote time signature, nine-eight, grouped not in the usual three-three-three but two-two-two-three,” Georgia said as she walked over to him. Her wet hair was pulled up into a bun. She was wearing a pale pink Henley with plaid pajama bottoms in pale pink, ivory, and brown that made him think of Neapolitan ice cream. She looked equally good to eat. “Did I get it right?” she said, tapping the cover as she lay down on the floor next to him.
She had. Down to the last word. “A closet jazz fan?” Lennon said, raising his eyebrow.
“No closet about it. I love jazz. These were all my grandfather’s. But I tend to listen to it on my phone more now when I am on the go, like in my car or when I’m working out. I guess I don’t have the time to lie up here too often and listen to this. There’s something terribly nostalgic about the crackle of vinyl, don’t you think?”
Lennon put the album cover down and took her hand in his. From their position, they could see out through the wall of glass and beyond the greenhouse. Stars flickered brightly. It was almost fucking romantic. He turned his head to look at her. “Where were you tonight that had you looking so fucking hot?”
“A charity thing my mother is involved in. I couldn’t wait to get out of that dress. I felt like I was stitched into the damn thing.”
He laughed. “Don’t spoil the image I have of you in it. It looked . . . effortless. You looked beautiful. Tell me about your grandfather.”
“Clyde Starr was a force to be reckoned with,” she said, turning to face him. “He rebelled against joining the family construction firm to become a neurosurgeon. He smelled of peppermint, had a green thumb like you wouldn’t believe, and was a frustrated jazz musician.”
Did she realize how wistful she sounded when she spoke of him?
“What did he play?”
“Piano.” Quiet fell between the two of them as the jazz continued. “Will you tell me about the band? Dred said you were brothers? You told me about Adam. But Dred, Elliott, the others.”
Lennon swallowed hard. He should have expected the question at some point. “Nik’s the oldest. He’s the glue that kept us together as a family. Our social worker, Maisey, always said that seeing as biological families don’t get to choose their families yet somehow make it work, so should we. And Nik’s past . . . well, I guess he took it to heart and became the patriarch. Dred is the brains of the band, and the one most passionate about our music and careers.” Lennon swallowed hard, hoping to avoid a hint of emotion in his words. “Elliott is the mom of the group. Maisey says he has a way with broken kids. Guess Jordan and I would agree with that. Jordan is the soul.”
“So what are you?” she asked, letting go of his hand and rolling close so she was on her side, her head on his shoulder.
“The annoying little brother,” he said. Georgia smacked him playfully across the stomach. He automatically went for her hand to hold it against him but couldn’t reach. Fuck.
“I don’t believe it for a second,” she said as she gripped his chin and turned him to face her. “They’re expressing too much love and concern for someone who is simply an annoying little brother. You did let them know you are okay, right?”
“I did. Wanna check my phone?” he asked, then sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Gia. I have this habit . . . of pushing people away.”
“Why?” Georgia asked, moving to her knees in front of him.
He couldn’t help but look up at her.
“You are lucky that people worry about you, Lennon. They love you, like genuinely, with their whole hearts. If anything happened to me, my father would care only about the implications for his neurosurgery legacy and who I would leave this place to in my will.”
The words bounced around in his brain. He wanted to ignore them, wanted to let them fall into the cracks between the two of them, but he couldn’t. Because they came from her, he felt compelled to hear them. And because he was listening, like actually paying attention to every word that fell from those pretty lips of hers, he heard the hurt. Heard the loss behind the boldly spoken statement.
She was lost, like him.
“I’m going to hire a physical therapist to start coming to the condo every day and a personal trainer to kick my ass into gear,” he said suddenly. Perhaps if he jump-started his own life, she’d copy him and jump-start her own. “But I’m only going to do it if you agree to make some changes in yours.”
“Lennon,” she said, those pretty eyes studying his intently, “you have to do this for yourself, not because of me.”
“I know,” he replied. “But what’s wrong with a little motivation between friends? You need to stop more often, let more into your life than being a superstar neurosurgeon. I know you thrive on it, I know you love it. Happiness can come from so many different places, I think we both need to learn that. And I don’t want you to do it for me. Don’t you want it for yourself?”
Georgia sighed. “I do,” she whispered, the weight of those two simple words hitting him squarely in the chest. Because in another life, in another time, he could imagine her saying them to him in a completely different setting.
* * *
“What are we doing here?” Georgia said as she stepped into the elevator of New York’s luxurious Mandarin Oriental hotel holding a small overnight bag. She straightened the hem of her black Valentino cocktail dress. With its tie neck, bead-embellished bodice, and flared skirt, it was one of her favorite pieces. Whatever they were doing here, she was treating it as their very first date, even if Lennon didn’t realize it yet.
Lennon adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder. He looked more like the rock star she’d only seen in videos. His blond hair stood at all angles yet somehow fell in such a way that it framed those eyes of his perfectly. Silver-rimmed aviators gave him an air of mystery, while the black leather jacket hugged him like a second skin. And as much as he protested about the effort it took to pull on jeans, the way the pair he was currently sporting hugged his ass made every second it took to fasten them well worth it. He leaned forward and brushed his lips with hers. “All in good time, Gia,” he said. Then he smiled, but she’d bet dollars to donuts that it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He had dimples. He’d shaved, and she could see them clearly. While they were sexy as all hell, they did make him look younger. She hadn’t really considered their age difference too much before but one smile from him had her immediately forgetting all about it. He radiated . . . something. Charm. Charisma. Energy. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but their limo driver had noticed it when she’d lingered over his handshake, as had the three ladies waiting for the valet at the front of the hotel. They’d given Oscar-worthy hair-flicking performances as he’d walked by. So had the very polite Melinda, who had checked them in and fumbled giving him the room key without ever actually asking him to identify who he was.
Maybe he’d simply begun to find his way. After all, he’d had PT today and was now wearing a compression sock like he was supposed to, and he had seen a trainer. He’d also confessed that the two combined had knocked him out, leading him to spend most of the afternoon asleep on the sofa.
“When you said I need to do more outside of work, is this what you had in mind?” she asked playfully.
Lennon had been exuberant when she’d returned from the hospital. He’d told her she had an hour to get ready and to pack for a one-night stay. When she’d complained about the work she’d planned to do on Sunday, he’d kissed her senseless, then reiterated that he’d see her in the lobby in an hour.
“Promise me you’re game to try anything,” he said as the elevator continued to climb. His look turned heated, and warmth pooled between her thighs, a sweet reminder of the time they had spent in bed together.
“As long as you don’t spank me and expect me to call you “sir,” because I am so not down with that dominant shit.”
He placed his hand on her cheek. “Angel, I could get you to call me Santa if I wanted.” Firmly, he pressed his lips to hers. “And I’ll only spank if you ask me nicely,” he whispered. He stepped back with a grin as the elevator opened.
“Welcome home, for the next twenty-four hours at least,” he said as he led her through the hallway into the opulent Presidential Suite. Giant windows lined one wall of the sumptuous living room. It was dusk, with enough light in the sky for it to be blue, but the lights of the city were still bright in contrast. A red rug sat on a wide-planked dark-wood floor. Sofas decorated with coordinated silk cushions sat around a low wooden table with a beautiful Asian-style bowl on top.
“Lennon,” she said. “This is too much.” It wasn’t that she hadn’t stayed in places like this before, but for someone else to pay for somewhere like this was too much. She didn’t want to sound ungrateful, though, because she wasn’t.
Lennon slid his bag from his shoulder and repeated the action with hers. “I wanted tonight to be special. So far, you’ve only gotten to see the side of me that’s”—he shrugged—“me after all this. I wanted to spend the night with you like me. I want to forget everything about the last month except you. Because you are hands down the silver lining to this cloud.”
Georgia placed her hands on either side of his face and went up onto her toes to kiss him softly. “I’m happy to take you as you are, but if you need to forget for tonight, I can do that too.
There was a subtle cough to their left, and Georgia stepped away quickly. A sharply dressed man in a black suit stood near the dining room.
“Mister McCartney, Doctor Starr. My name is Wayne and I’ll be personally assisting you this evening. May I take your bags and coats, please?”
Lennon assisted her in slipping out of her black Burberry trench coat and handed it to Wayne. “I’m Lennon. This is Georgia,” he said, shaking Wayne’s hand.
Georgia did the same as Lennon removed his jacket. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Wayne,” she said.
“May I get you started on the 2004 Louis Roederer Cristal Rosé as per your request when I return?” Wayne asked.
Lennon looked to her, and she nodded. Two of her favorite words: “Cristal” and “rosé.”
As Wayne disappeared into what she assumed was the bedroom with their bags and coats, she wandered to the left of the large wood-paneled room, where a table was set for two. Round wicker mats, beautiful crockery edged with gold, chopsticks and cutlery, multiple glasses, and the most stunning floral arrangement with citrus green and orange flowers complete with white candles graced the table. A silver-colored menu sat on each place setting with the heading MR. L. MCCARTNEY & DR. G. STARR.
Underneath ran a list of seven delightful courses.
“As first dates go,” Lennon said, slipping a hand over her shoulder, “how is it?”
It was as if he’d read her mind.
“It goes perfectly, Lennon,” she said, even though the words didn’t come close to explaining how special he’d made her feel. It left her a little breathless that he’d gone to so much effort for her.
A loud pop sounded from over her shoulder, and she looked in the direction of what she assumed was a small kitchen. A moment later, Wayne reappeared with two glasses on a silver tray, offering one first to Georgia, then Lennon. “Your dinner service is scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes. Does that still work for you, Mister McCartney?”
“It’s Lennon, please, and yes, that’s perfect.”
Georgia bit back a grin. “I might not be able to get my head around “Sir,” but I could totally get my head around calling you “Mister McCartney,” she whispered so as not to offend Wayne.
Lennon grinned and clinked his glass to hers. “I’ll drink to that, Doctor Starr. Let’s go sit down,” he said, taking her hand.
It seemed rude to tell him that she actually wanted to go exploring, so she followed.
An hour later, Georgia was looking at the half-finished fifth course, her hand on her close-to-full stomach. Bison with blueberry compote. “I promised myself I was going to pace myself so I could enjoy every course, but everything has been so good that I’ve cleaned my plate every time.”
Lennon laughed and sipped his wine, the delicious Syrah that Wayne had opened much earlier in their meal to allow it time to breathe in a beautiful wide-bottomed decanter. “It gets a lot lighter from here on out,” he said, studying the menu. “Dessert, then after-dinner drinks and coffee.”
“You know how you said when we arrived that you wanted to forget the last month?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed. “We aren’t talking about anything that happened in April.”
“I know,” she said, cutting another piece of the tender meat. “I just wondered if you would be comfortable sharing what happened to you. Why you ended up in foster care? If it’s not too painful,” she added hastily.
Lennon chewed his final mouthful of food. She couldn’t decide if he was stalling for time.
“I don’t want to pressure you,” she said when he didn’t look up.
“I gotta be honest. Normally, I’d blow that kind of question off. But I think I want to tell you. I just can’t decide if now is the right time.”
Georgia placed her hand across the table and reached for his, grateful when he took it. “It can wait.”
“I’m glad you get me, Georgia.”
“I’m glad I get you too.”
The rest of the meal passed in more playful conversation, and by the end of the dinner, Georgia felt quite inebriated. It wasn’t her usual state, but it was liberating to shed a layer of her usual reserve. Wayne had cleared the table, and retired for the evening leaving them with wine and glasses. Music was playing from Lennon’s phone through the speakers, and it made her smile. He’d picked jazz, even though he wasn’t a huge fan. Count Basie was singing about the key to the highway. Her body began to sway in time to the music.
Before she could process what was happening, Lennon had spun her and taken her in his arms. There was something about the way their bodies lined up while she was wearing her tall heels that thrilled her.
“I like this dress,” he said as they circled their way around the living room.
Georgia sighed, placing her forehead against his shoulder. “I like this,” she said quietly. She caught sight of their reflection in the glass, her rough and ready rocker with ink down his arms, holding her close. But it was the look on his face that shocked her the most. He’d never looked so torn.
“I was found abandoned in the toilets of Jane Street subway station,” he said.