Chapter 21
On the day of Charley’s doctor’s appointment, Dylan had been gone for four and a half weeks. And after three weeks of feeling normal, her mysterious stomach bug had returned with a vengeance. Out of sheer annoyance, she kept the appointment, determined to take whatever the doc would prescribe to shake the crud for good.
Thanks to social media, Charley often felt as if she were on the tour with Dylan. There were constant radio visits, which she could stream online, and lots of pictures popped up on various social media sites. Her favorites were the ones of Dylan onstage. The sheer joy on his face made their time apart worthwhile.
Two quick raps on the exam room door had Charley tucking her phone back into her pocket.
“Good morning,” greeted a chipper doc with a pair of reading glasses hovering on the tip of her nose. “I’m Dr. Robenzie, and you must be Miss Layton?”
“I am.”
The doctor flipped through the chart in her hand with pursed lips. “Stomach bug, huh? Vomiting?”
“A couple times,” Charley confessed. Since the unpleasant experience always seemed to follow greasy meals, she added, “I think it was something I ate.”
With bright-blue eyes and a caring smile, the gray-haired woman said, “That’s one option.” She settled onto the round rolling stool. “Have you had this problem in the past?”
“No.”
“Do you have any food allergies that might have slipped through?”
“I don’t have any allergies that I know of.”
The doc removed her glasses. “How long have the symptoms been happening? Is there shooting pain?”
Charley crossed her ankles. “It’s been more than a month, and I haven’t experienced any shooting pains. There’s been a little heartburn in the last week, but I’m sure the wrong food is to blame for that, too.”
As if contemplating her patient’s response, Dr. Robenzie tapped her top lip. “Miss Layton, could you be pregnant?”
“I . . . What?”
“According to your information, your last menstrual cycle was the end of July.”
“I’ve never been regular with that,” she explained. “I mean, I skip months all the time. It’ll show up.”
The doc tilted her head. “Maybe not for another eight months or so.” Rising from the stool, she said, “I’m going to send Nurse Phyllis in to get a urine sample. A quick test and we’ll know for sure.”
“Doctor, we use condoms,” Charley assured her. “Every time. I mean, every single time. I cannot be pregnant.”
“Technically, there’s a two percent chance you could be.” Patting her patient’s knee, she added, “If it makes you feel better, think of it as ruling the possibility out.”
Ready to leap off the exam table and run from the room, Charley grabbed the doc’s arm. “But there is no possibility.”
Sliding her hands into the pockets of her lab coat, the doctor grew serious. “If you’ve had intercourse since your last cycle, I’m afraid there is a possibility, Miss Layton. You can skip the test and leave now, but that won’t change the outcome if you are.”
Right on cue, Charley’s gut rolled and she dashed off the table to the large garbage can against the wall. Since she’d skipped breakfast, there was nothing to come out, resulting in painful dry heaves. Once the sickness passed, she took the paper towels the doctor offered and wiped her mouth. As the towels fell into the trash, she accepted a cup of water and returned to the table.
“Are you ready for the test now?” Dr. Robenzie asked with genuine kindness.
Charley nodded. “Yes, I’m ready.”
Dylan checked his phone for the fifth time. Still no word from Charley. Her appointment had been that morning, and she’d promised to let him know the results. That had been over ten hours ago. Of course, the radio silence sent his imagination soaring. What if it was something serious? What if they’d rushed her into surgery and she hadn’t had time to call him? Would Matty let him know? Something told him that was a big no.
His intention to stream her midday show online had been shot to hell by a last-minute radio visit Mitch only informed him about thirty minutes before they had to be on the air. The station brought in fans for a meet and greet, and suddenly Dylan’s day had been shot.
“You’re on in five, Monroe,” Mitch reminded him. “Unless you’re telling the fans to get out here for the show, put the phone away.”
“I’m expecting news from Charley,” he replied. “She went to the doctor today.”
“I don’t care if she went to the moon today. You’ve got a show to do.”
Shutting down the screen, Dylan stuck the cell behind the speakers. “What is your problem with Charley?”
“Women always cause problems,” he grumbled. “This isn’t the time for you to be getting involved.”
Lightning struck. “This was never about some magazine article, was it, Mitch? You don’t want me with anyone.”
Checking his watch, the manager leaned forward to check out the crowd. “Like I said, this isn’t the time. The crowd’s a good size. Better than last night.”
Many concertgoers didn’t bother showing up for the opening acts, often choosing to tailgate in the parking lot rather than watch a performer they didn’t know do a twenty-minute set.
“I don’t give a shit about the crowd,” Dylan snapped.
“You damn well better, boy. This is what matters,” Mitch growled, pointing to the stage. “Those people out there will make or break you, so you damn well better get your head in the game and put your focus where it belongs.”
Tired of the same old argument, he took a step closer to the old man to make his point thoroughly clear. “I can do this and still have Charley. I’ve told you before, Mitch. You have no say in my personal life. We agreed to keep the relationship quiet to make you happy. To give off some illusion that you insisted on. But once that article is out, this bullshit ends.”
The lights dropped, and Easton said, “We’re up, buddy,” tapping Dylan on the shoulder as he trotted onstage.
Shoving past his manager, Dylan followed his guitarist, reaching center stage as the crowd surged forward with a roar.
“Holy shit, Charley. What are you going to do?”
She’d been asking herself that same question all day. “I have no idea.”
“Are you going to keep it?” Matty asked, which was the toughest question of all.
Now she knew how her mother had felt twenty-five years before. And if her mother had made a different choice, Charley wouldn’t be alive today.
“I think so,” she murmured, hugging the throw pillow tighter.
How she’d gotten through her shift, Charley would never know. Years of training had kicked into autopilot, and the five hours passed as if nothing traumatic had happened. As if her whole world hadn’t been turned upside down.
Matty flounced onto the couch beside her. “But how are you going to take care of a baby? And what is Dylan going to say? If that manager of his doesn’t like you dating, he sure as hell isn’t going to like this.”
Mitch Levine was the least of Charley’s worries. “I don’t know what Dylan’s going to say. I don’t even know how to tell him,” she admitted. “I mean, the subject of kids came up one time, and he acted as if I’d suggested we sever his arm and sell it for scraps.”
“But he loves you, right? I mean, that should help.”
“Help?” Charley turned sore eyes to her roommate. “He’s launching a career. Dylan isn’t in any position to be a father, and I’m in no position to be a mother.”
“So you aren’t going to keep it?”
“Stop asking that.” Bolting off the couch, Charley marched to the front window and stared into the pouring rain. Fitting weather for a night like this. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Warm hands wrapped around her upper arms as Matty put her chin on Charley’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“We used a condom every time. I kept telling the doctor that, and she smiled this condescending grin, as if I were being naive.”
“Nothing’s foolproof, right?”
Charley sighed. “Except not having sex at all. Which was working really well for me until Dylan came along.”
“Yeah, well. That’s my current method, and I’m here to tell you, it sucks donkey balls.”
Laughter wouldn’t come. “What am I going to do?”
Matty squeezed her arms. “You need to tell Dylan. This isn’t your burden to carry alone.”
“I don’t want to hurt his career. We made a pact,” Charley said. “He’d never ask me to give up radio, and I’d never ask him to give up music.”
“Maybe no one will have to give up anything.”
Now who was being naive? Something had to be sacrificed. Either she gave up the baby or gave up her career. Even if Dylan came around to the idea of starting a family, he wouldn’t be around. Charley would be on her own, if not financially, then physically. She would bear the brunt of the work. The responsibility.
But even knowing the reality, she couldn’t imagine making a different choice than her mother had.
“You should call him,” Matty said.
“This isn’t the kind of news you give over the phone.”
“Where is the tour right now?”
“DC,” she replied. Charley had the schedule memorized. “They move on to New York City next, for two shows over the weekend.”
Matty turned her around. “Flights to New York can’t be that much. We’ll buy you a ticket.”
The we part didn’t go unnoticed. “I doubt I can afford one on such short notice.”
“Let me—”
“I can’t, Matty. But thanks for the offer.” Charley turned back to the window. “I’m not ready, anyway. I need to have answers before I tell him. Figure out how to make things work. For all of us.”
“All right, then. But don’t forget that you have friends here, okay? And not just me. People at the station love you. They’ll want to help.”
Unless someone could turn back time, Charley didn’t see any way for them to help her now. With a nod, she crossed to the stairs and headed for her room.
At the end of the set, Dylan took his final bow, high-fived several fans in the front row, and trotted into the wings, eager to check his phone. Only his phone wasn’t where he’d left it.
“Hey,” he called to one of the roadies. “Did someone pick up my phone?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask around.”
Which he tried to do, but with the set change in progress, no one had time to discuss a missing anything. Bodies hustled on and off the stage as Dylan hunted, wishing he’d gone with something other than a black case. The speakers were rolled away one by one, leaving an open space on the stage and no phone.
“Did one of you pick up my phone?” he asked the band, but none of them had seen it. Spotting the tour manager, he dodged a tech carrying a bass drum on his way to reach her. “Hey, Fran. Did anyone turn in a lost phone?”
She continued to scrutinize her clipboard. “Not tonight, hon.”
Dylan sighed. “Thanks. Will you let me know if they do? It’s an iPhone 7 in a black case.”
“Got it,” she said, making a note at the top of the page.
Continuing to scan the area, he remembered that he’d been talking to Mitch the last time he’d had it. No doubt the manager had feared it would get lost or swiped and had taken the cell with him.
“Fran,” he called. “Have you seen Mitch?”
“Eight minutes to the next act,” she said into her headset. “We need to move.” Orders given, she finally looked Dylan’s way. “He’s on your bus.”
“Thanks!”
Navigating his way through the mayhem, Dylan hurried toward the back entrance only to be cut off by none other than the headliner himself.
“Another good show out there tonight,” Wes Tillman praised. “Glad we got you on this tour, Monroe. I have a feeling a few months from now, you’re going to be a hot commodity.”
High praise indeed. “Thank you, Mr. Tillman.”
“Mr. Tillman is my dad,” the singer quipped. “Call me Wes.”
“Yes, sir. I can do that.” Until tonight, Tillman hadn’t shown much interest in his opening act, and Dylan had assumed he’d never even watched a set. Maybe he’d been wrong. “I’m honored to be included. As a relative unknown, this tour is a great opportunity for me. I’ve enjoyed your music for years, so it’s a privilege to watch you work.”
“Let me guess,” the older man said with a chuckle. “You’ve been listening to me your whole life.”
Dylan smiled. “Not all of it, sir. But most.”
“I get that a lot. Since we have two days coming up in New York, my wife, Harley, is going to meet me there. Maybe take in some sights.” With a tap on Dylan’s arm, he said, “Why don’t you come out to eat with us one night? Meet the missus and talk music.”
Dumbstruck, Dylan mumbled, “I . . . Uh . . . Sure. That would be great.”
Wes nodded. “Then it’s set. Keep up the good work, and you’ve got a nice, long career ahead of you.”
“Right. I’ll do my best.”
As Tillman walked away, Dylan scratched his head, nearly knocking his hat to the ground.
“What happened to you?” Lance asked, coming up behind him.
“Tillman offered to take me to dinner in New York City. He wants to talk music.”
Lance whistled. “No shit?”
“No shit,” Dylan replied, still stunned. “I’m going to talk music with a legend.”
The bass player gave a hoot. “That’s awesome, man. Welcome to the big leagues.”
As his bandmate walked away, Dylan struggled to remember what he’d been doing before Tillman cut him off. “My phone,” he said, jogging toward the exit. “Charley. I need to tell Charley.”