Chapter Twelve
Haylee
“So I hear we have plans tonight,” Layla says, plopping down in the chair across from me in the lounge of our hotel.
“That’s the rumor.”
“I also hear the male contingent of our band is opting out.”
“Lucky them.”
She squints at me. “You sound super excited about the evening activities.”
I sit up a little straighter. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
“Any idea what we’re doing?”
I shake my head. “I mean, it’s Paige doing the planning, so it could be anything.”
She smirks. “Good point. Well, she said we didn’t have to dress up, so I’m assuming it’s not clubbing.”
“It’s also only seven,” I point out. She’s eyeing the coffeepot in front of me. “You want some?”
“Sure.” She fixes herself a cup, and we sit in silence for a few minutes, people watching. Finally she sighs. “Haylee, why are you doing this to yourself?”
“Doing what?”
She fixes me with that knowing look of hers, the one where she raises one eyebrow and I become convinced she knows every last one of my secrets. It’s kind of scary, that look. “You like Lennon,” she says.
“Of course I like Lennon. He’s a great guy and—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it.”
I sigh, consider arguing with her, and decide there’s no point. She knows me too well. “I really messed it up.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think we should be together. I think it could be a huge mistake for both of us.”
“Haylee.” She sets down her coffee cup and faces me across the table, holding my gaze. “You have to stop punishing yourself for what happened with Randy.”
I try not to wince at the name. “I’m not punishing myself.”
“You are. You don’t see it that way, you see it as protecting people. But all you’re doing is holding yourself back. You’re missing out on so much because you’re scared.”
“Of course I’m scared,” I snap. “It was a terrifying experience. I was practically kidnapped, Layla. He had a gun.”
“I know that.” Her voice is icy, and I have a sudden flash of memory—Layla at the police station, leaning towards me, her eyes wide and terrified. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, closing her eyes for a second. “All I’m saying is that you’re scared of getting close to someone because you think you don’t deserve to be happy. Because of how you handled things after Randy. And that’s just not true.”
“I think he deserves to be happy,” I whisper, feeling tears prick at my eyes. I look away, hating how vulnerable it makes me feel. Even Layla, one of my best friends in the world, is not allowed to see me cry.
“And you don’t think you can do that for him? He’s crazy about you.”
“I think I could hurt him.”
She sighs, reaching for her coffee again. “Shouldn’t he be the one who decides if he wants to risk that? I don’t think you give him enough credit.”
“What are you saying? I should tell him how things have been since… the incident?” It’s kind of funny—even after all this time, none of us knows how to refer to what happened to me. The day my stalker held me at gunpoint doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.
“I think it wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world for him to know how difficult things have been for you since then.”
“No,” I say immediately. “I’m not talking to him about it.”
“Maybe he would understand.”
“How could anyone understand that?” I close my eyes, knowing that the images are coming. The way Randy had looked when he pushed into my apartment, the feel of his hand on my arm. The terror of being trapped there with him for hours, sure he was going to hurt me or—
“It’s okay, Haylee,” Layla says, her voice clear. I open my eyes and focus on her face, reminding myself that I’m safe here. Randy is in jail. I’m safe.
“I just… I just don’t think he could possibly understand what that feels like. To feel so… broken down by something. Like your whole life is controlled by this thing that happened to you. How could I make him understand that?”
“Maybe he’ll surprise you.”
Before I can answer, there’s a commotion at the door. The Ransomes are in the lobby, their bodyguards pushing a swarm of fans away. Soon hotel security joins them, and they manage to get the fans back onto the sidewalk. “Hey,” Daisy says, seeing us in the lounge. The boys join her as she walks over to our table. “How’s it going?”
I hope any trace of tears is gone from my eyes. I know, without looking, that Lennon’s gaze is on my face. “Good,” Layla says easily, nothing in her voice betraying the seriousness of the conversation they walked in. “Just talking about what Paige might have planned for tonight.”
Daltrey groans. “I know it’s going to be something weird.”
“He’s just tired,” Daisy says, stepping on his foot. “They’ve been doing interviews all day.”
Cash collapses into a seat across from us. “Interviews in French,” he clarifies. “Trying to listen to the reporter and the translator at the same time. I have such a headache.”
“Unfortunately you don’t have time to go rest,” Paige says, appearing at our side, Sam and Karen trailing her. “We’re heading out.”
“Already?” Reed asks, his normally professional veneer slipping a little. “We’re tired, Paige.”
“Sorry, babe,” she says, kissing his cheek. “We’re on a schedule here.”
“Can we at least eat first?” Lennon asks.
“This is your night, buddy,” she tells him. “So no complaining. Besides, we’re going to eat later.”
“What do you mean, my night?” he asks, something close to panic in his eyes. “Are you going to make me do something weird?”
She crosses her arms. “Like what?”
“Like sing karaoke or—”
Paige rolls her eyes. “Stop being such a worrywart. I picked this especially for you because I knew you would love it. Now let’s go.”
So the boys trudge back through the waiting crowds of fans, Layla and I following. To my relief, she hangs onto my elbow without me having to ask, pulling me through the crowd without incident. We pile into the waiting black van, Paige handing the driver a card with an address on it, and then we’re off.
“This is pretty close,” she says as we crawl through the early evening traffic. “Just have to cross the river.” I stare out the window as the buildings of Paris, so different from anything at home, pass by. It looks like a movie set, a fairy tale.
“You’re doing it, you know,” Lennon says from behind me, leaning over my bench seat.
“Doing what?”
“You’re trying to guess what she’s planning, aren’t you?”
I laugh. “Just enjoying the view, actually.”
“It’s pointless to guess,” he says. “Paige is always surprising.”
But apparently I’m not the only one trying to figure it out. As we slow along the river, Cash leans forward to peer out the front window. “Is this a train station?”
“It’s not a train station,” Lennon says, and it’s my turn to lean over to face him. He’s staring out at the building next to us, his eyes a little wide. Paige is next to him, smiling knowingly. “This is a museum.”
“Oh, God,” Cash says. “A museum. Because I wasn’t exhausted enough.”
Lennon and Paige either don’t hear him or they choose to ignore him. Paige is still watching Lennon, smiling, when he turns to face her. “This is what you picked for me?”
She nods. “I know that you were really looking forward to the art here, and you haven’t had a chance to go to a single museum with all your rehearsing.” For one moment she looks less sure. “I did a lot of research. I know that the Louvre is, like, totally famous. But I did a Google image search, and all the paintings seemed… well.” She clears her throat. “I know they’re, like, classics, and everything, but they didn’t really seem like you.”
He smiles. “They didn’t?”
Paige shakes her head. “They were all… Oh, I don’t know. Old and stuffy. Portraits and religious stuff and… I don’t know. It didn’t feel like you.”
“But the Musee d’Orsay did?”
“Oh, yes. I read that this is the Impressionist museum, and that seemed much more your thing. And the building itself is supposed to be great, all open and beautiful and full of light. Perfect for you.”
Lennon lets out a self-deprecating little snort. “You think that’s me?” His voice is full of laughter. “What’d you say? Beautiful and full of light? That doesn’t really sound like it describes me, Paige.”
Paige doesn’t laugh. She just looks up at him, her face serious. “It describes your heart.”
I expect him to snort again, to make some little joke at his own expense, something about her being overly dramatic, but instead he snaps his mouth closed, swallowing a few times. Then he reaches over and squeezes her hand, and I suddenly feel like I’m invading a private moment. I duck back over the seat and stare out the window at the glass dome of the building in front of us. “Thank you, Paige,” Lennon whispers, his voice very rough.
“You’re welcome. Now are we going in or are we going to sit out here all night?”
He laughs, and I hear the door open. “After you.”
I don’t know how much of that conversation his brothers heard, but I figure they might have gotten the gist of it because none of them says another disparaging word about spending their evening in an art museum as we make our way through the pavilion to the glass door. “Are you sure it’s open, babe?” Reed asks. “Looks pretty empty.”
“Oh, I had the label call the museum,” Paige says easily. “We have it to ourselves tonight.”
“We have the Musee d’Orsay to ourselves?” Lennon asks, incredulous. “Holy shit, Paige.”
She grins at him, slipping an arm through Reed’s, who kisses the top of her head and looks down at her like she just did him the biggest favor. I wonder what that’s about. But then I’m falling into stride next to Lennon, and I stop thinking about his older brother entirely.
“This is pretty cool, huh?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I told you she was surprising.”
“So what’s so amazing about this place?”
He holds open the door for me, and we pause in the entryway to greet the museum staff. An associate director tells us that there will be docents milling around should we have any questions and to enjoy ourselves.
“So?” I press as we leave him. “You didn’t answer me.”
“Just wait,” he murmurs, leading me up a set of marble stairs and into a long gallery.
I stare at the room stretched out in front of us. “Oh.” I can’t really think of anything else to say. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” He grins down at me. “It’s pretty great, isn’t it?”
Beautiful and full of light, Paige said, and man, that wasn’t the half of it. “This is a renovated train station,” Lennon explains. The domed ceiling is glass, as are the arched windows stretching up the upper walls. The light and the massive height of the ceiling give the gallery a bright, open feel.
“This is really beautiful,” I say. “Wow.”
“I know.” Lennon sounds happy. “It’s my favorite museum.”
“Did Paige know that?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “She guessed.”
I look up to see a strange expression on his face. It’s almost like he’s happy and ashamed at the same time. “Lennon?”
“Come on,” he says. “There’s so much to see.”
We wander through the main gallery for a while with his brothers, taking in the sculptures. On either side of the main gallery are smaller rooms filled with paintings and more sculptures. At the far end of the museum, Cash and Daltrey stand on a glass floor looking down at a model of a Paris neighborhood. We see Paige and Sam admiring a statue. As we pass, I hear Paige explaining something about the artist. “Is Paige into art?”
Lennon shrugs. “She has a surprising number of hobbies.”
“This is a pretty museum, Lennon. I can see why it’s your favorite.”
His eyes flash. “We haven’t even seen the good stuff yet. Come on.”
He heads up a set of stairs, and I follow. “Could you slow down a little?” I ask, already out of breath after one flight.
“Come on, Hunt,” he calls over his shoulder. “Don’t wimp out on me yet.”
On the third floor he stops, turning to grin at me. “This is the good stuff?” I ask, huffing a little bit.
“The Impressionists,” he says. “Come on.”
My first thought is that the Impressionists must have liked color. On every wall, I see paintings full of color and light. I have no idea what I’m looking at, no idea who any of these are by, but that doesn’t seem to matter so much. They’re beautiful.
“Look around,” Lennon says, his voice soft. “We’ll catch up.”
I nod, not sure where to look next as I wander through the gallery. I come up short a few minutes later. “Oh, wow,” I whisper, approaching two tall paintings of a man and woman dancing. Their clothes are from another era, her skirts long and seeming to sway as they dance. A quick glance at the placard tells me that these are by Renoir, though the titles are in French. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard that name before, and I decide to go ask Lennon if he knows these paintings.
It’s quiet and still in the Impressionist exhibit as I search for him. A docent stands nearby, arms folded over his chest, and he gives me a little nod as I pass. I wander into one of the side rooms and once again come up short. I recognize these, I think, excited. I lean in and see the name Van Gogh, just as I guessed. The painting that caught my attention is a church set against blue sky. The church itself is certainly interesting, but it’s the sky that takes my breath away. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a vibrant blue. I wander down the room, recognizing other paintings by Van Gogh, famous paintings that I’ve seen on posters and on TV. And here I am, in front of the real things. As I reach the end of the room I realize with a start that I’m not alone. Lennon is right in front of me, staring at a portrait.
“I didn’t know you were in here,” I say, coming up to his side. “I just saw the most beautiful painting.”
“Yeah?” His voice sounds far away, like he’s not really here with me.
“Lennon?”
“Sorry.” He turns away from the painting. It’s a portrait of a man, and even I can tell the style is the same as the painting of the church I just admired.
“Is that him?” I ask.
Lennon turns back to the portrait. “Van Gogh, yeah. A self-portrait.”
“Hmm.” Behind the man is a background of blue swirls, not as vibrant as the blue in the church painting, but beautiful in a different, softer way. They make Van Gogh’s eyes even more striking.
“Sorry,” Lennon says again. “You said you saw a beautiful painting?”
“Oh, yeah.” I tear my eyes away from the portrait. “By, uh, Renoir, I think it said his name was.”
“Oh, yeah.” Lennon smiles. “Was it the garden party?”
“No, dancers. They were… I don’t know. They were beautiful. It was like I could feel them moving.” I blush. “I clearly know nothing about art.”
“Who cares?” he asks, his eyes steady on my face. “I like art because it makes me feel things, not because I’m some expert. I haven’t studied any of this.” He makes a sweeping gesture of the room. “I don’t need to know the textbook part to enjoy it.”
I smile, taking a step closer. There’s something about him when he talks like this, when his brothers aren’t around and he isn’t worrying. He’s so captivating.
“So what does this one make you feel?” I ask, nodding at the portrait. “You were staring at it pretty hard.”
He turns back to the painting, and his entire demeanor changes. “Uh, actually, I was thinking about the artist. Van Gogh.” His voice sounds strained. “He was mentally ill, did you know that?”
I swallow, my skin feeling colder for some reason. There’s something in his tone that I don’t like the sound of. “I thought you said you didn’t know a lot about art,” I say, trying to lighten the somber tone.
He flashes me a little smile before turning his gaze back to Van Gogh. “I know a bit.”
We stand there in silence for a minute, and I stare into those blue eyes of Van Gogh’s. So very different from Lennon’s dark eyes. What does he see there? Is that pain in the artist’s eyes? Does Lennon find it familiar? I remember that first day we met back in LA, how my very first thought about Lennon Ransome was that he looked broken.
“Strange to think about him being so depressed,” Lennon says softly. “When he made such beautiful paintings.”
“Did he ever get better?” In the moment’s silence that follows, I regret asking. I know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth.
“No. He killed himself.”
The air suddenly feels very cold. Those broken eyes, I think. His brothers’ protectiveness. The accident this summer.
“Lennon.” I barely recognize my own voice. How is it so calm? “Is that something you have experience with?”
He blows out a gust of air while I hold my breath. “Yes,” he finally whispers.
“Your accident?”
“It wasn’t an accident.”
I want to throw up, and I want to grab him and hug him, and I want to force away the pain and shame I hear in his voice. But instead I reach over and take his hand in mine.
“You crashed on purpose?”
He nods.
“You wanted to kill yourself.” The very thought of Lennon giving up like that makes my throat close up. Don’t cry, I order myself, swallowing desperately. That’s the last thing he needs.
It wasn’t really a question and I wasn’t expecting an answer, so when he breathes out a yes, I start. “And I’ve never admitted that to anyone. I’ve never even said that to myself.”
“Your brothers don’t know?” I cry, before slapping a hand over my mouth, the sound echoing in the silent museum. “How is that possible?”
“They know it wasn’t an accident.” He sighs and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Then he laughs, a short, depressing sound. “I’m so fucked up, Haylee.”
I don’t consciously decide to tell him. It just feels like the most natural thing to do in that moment. “Remember that party, before the tour started? We talked about my… experience with that stalker?”
“Yeah?” His eyes snap to my face, sharp and focused. If he thinks it’s strange that I’m interrupting his confession with a random conversation point, he doesn’t mention it.
“So that guy, Randy. He was a fan. Someone who followed us from day one. He came to all our shows when we were within driving distance of Detroit. We thought it was cool, you know? That we had a real fan. Sometimes we let him come out with us after the gig. Bought him a beer. Stuff like that.”
I take a deep breath. “When we started touring, we would see him in other cities. That’s when it started to seem a little weird. Like he was following us, you know? And then he started to focus in on me.” I swallow, trying not to remember how scared I started to get when I would see him in the crowd. “Well. He started to do the normal stalking stuff, I guess. Sent me letters. Followed me around. Called all the time. Waited outside venues. We reported it, got a restraining order. I was scared, but I told myself he couldn’t hurt me, that he was just a little off. But then he managed to get into my house one day.” Don’t think about it. “I guess you know the rest.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you. I can’t imagine.”
“He didn’t hurt me,” I say quickly. “Didn’t even touch me. But he had a gun, and he threatened me, and it was… well, it was terrifying.”
“Of course it was.”
“I haven’t done the best job healing from that. I have a lot of nightmares, and I barely ever sleep and… I drink way too much so I don’t have to think about it. And sometimes…” I sigh. “You saw what happened in Glasgow. I freak out. I remember seeing him in the crowd, before everything got so bad, when he was just a normal fan, and I freak. I panic and I can’t deal. I ruined our last tour, nearly ruined the band. The label is giving us one last chance, so we’re pretty much on our last legs here. And it’s all because I’m fucked up, and I can’t seem to get better.”
We’re both still facing the painting, not looking at each other, but Lennon squeezes my hand, and I feel like I can picture exactly what his face would look like right now. Calm and still, those eyes of his understanding and unflinching, holding my gaze. “I’m not saying I understand what you went through,” I continue, my voice stronger. “Or what you’re going through now. But I do understand feeling fucked up. Like you’re broken and you can’t figure out how to just get over it. I get that. So you don’t ever have to be ashamed of that, okay? Not around me.”
He releases a huge breath, and it’s my turn to squeeze his hand. “I’ve done things to, uh, hurt myself,” he mutters, and despite what I said, the shame is palpable in his voice. “Over the years, a few times. I just get… really overwhelmed by certain things, by this shit in my brain and I…” He swallows a few times. “I want to turn it off. That’s the best way I can describe it. And I told my brothers this accident was the same way. That I wasn’t consciously trying to do anything except to turn that shit off.”
“It was more than that though,” I guess.
From the corner of my eye, I see him nod. “This time I wanted everything to stop. I wanted to stop.”
“But you didn’t.” Thank God, I think.
“Because I got lucky.”
“What about now, Lennon? Do you still want to… stop?”
“No.” His voice is fierce. “I don’t.”
“And you have people helping you?”
He nods. “I was in a hospital, and I talk to my doctor every day.”
We both stand there, letting the quiet build back up around us. A part of me feels faint with fear at the thought of him acting on those feelings. But the other part, a bigger part, is strangely calm. Like now that the words have been spoken, they won’t have the same power. For either of us.
One thing is for sure—out of anyone else in this world, Lennon Ransome is the one person who might actually understand what it feels like in my head. Our experiences haven’t been the same—I have no idea what could have driven him to feel like he needed to end things. But we both understand being broken. And we both understand what it’s like to desperately want to be fixed.
“Okay,” I finally say, breaking the silence.
Only then does he turn to me. “Okay?”
I nod, meeting his eyes. Just like I thought, they’re unblinking. Calm. Whatever horrible things exist in his head, they’re not controlling him now.
“Just okay?” he presses.
I shrug. “It seems to cover it.”
And then he laughs, and I’m pretty sure it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. Because he can still laugh, even after telling me all of that. “Okay then,” he says.
“I want to show you something.” I pull on his hand, and he follows me back down the wall to that first Van Gogh painting that caught my eye. “Look at this church. Isn’t that the most gorgeous blue you’ve ever seen?”
He nods, but when I look up at him, his gaze is on my face, not the painting. The pain of the last few minutes doesn’t disappear; I know as well as anyone that life doesn’t work like that. But it does lessen a little bit. And that’s something.
“Okay, your turn,” I say. “You have to find something gorgeous for me now.”
He grins. “Challenge accepted.”
We wander through the gallery for another hour. Eventually his brothers, Levi, and the girls come upstairs, and we pass them, sometimes stopping to admire the same painting. But I never let go of his hand, not even when Reed’s eyes narrow when he sees us.
He shows me Monet’s water lilies, and I show him the Renoir paintings I’d found before. He shows me the garden party one he mentioned, and I decide I like that even better. We look at Degas’s dancers and Seurat and Matisse. So many amazing paintings, and like Lennon said, it doesn’t matter that I don’t know what I’m looking at. All that matters is that they make me feel something. And what I feel, standing there next to Lennon, my hand in his, looking at the most beautiful paintings I’ll ever see in my life, is hopeful. For the first time in ages, I feel hopeful.
When the docent tells us our time is almost up, Lennon takes me over to a clock that dominates an entire wall. “This is the back of the clock you can see from down on the street,” he says as we peer through the glass at the lights of Paris below us. The city stretches on and on as far as I can see. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing at a white church way off in the distance. Even though it’s tiny from here, I can see that it looks almost like a wedding cake.
“That’s Sacre Coeur. It’s up in Montmartre. I’m sure Paige is planning an afternoon up there.”
“Good.”
We stand there for a few more minutes, looking out at the city, and that feeling of hopefulness grows in my chest. “Hey, Lennon?” I finally say.
“Yeah?”
“You know what I said about us being friends?” He turns away from the city to look at me, and all I can think is that he’s once again showing me something amazing. “I think I was wrong,” I whisper. “I think we should be a lot more than that.”
When the grin breaks over his face, I know that I’m taking the most beautiful thing in this museum back with me.