“No,” she said in a wobbly voice that didn’t sound like hers. “I don’t know.”
“Nell. Please tell me I’m not seeing what I think I’m seeing.” He gestured at the backpack on her shoulder, then around at the room devoid of her things, with an awful, slapped, sickened expression on his face.
Crap. He looked stunned, broken. It wasn’t meant to be like this. He was supposed to be busy, happy. I was just going to slip away. “You don’t need me anymore,” Nell blurted out.
“What? Of course I fucking do.” He stood looking at his hands, as though he didn’t know what to do with them. His voice sounded raw like he might be holding back actual tears.
“You have your band again,” she tried to explain, “and now that your father is—” Their eyes met. “Oh, ever-loving hell, I didn’t mean to say—”
He sounded suddenly very tired as he said, “I do own a mirror or two, babe. I can recognize my own face when I see it, just as well as you can. It’s not like I’m going to be surprised if they ever decide to tell me.”
“But will you be all right when it happens? Because with the two of you on the same stage, I think more people are going to see the resemblance. It’s going to come out sooner rather than later.”
“You say that like you’re still planning to leave,” he said, his voice cracking.
She looked away from him, couldn’t bear to see his eyes. “I don’t belong here. I can’t just give up everything I’ve worked for to tag along with a rock band like a groupie, getting free room and board in exchange for sex.”
“Fuck me.” The agony in his voice forced her to look at him; he sank to his knees in front of her. “Don’t leave me, lovely. We’ll give you a job — you can work security, get paid — you don’t have to share a room with me if you don’t want to. Or live at my house in Seattle, and I’ll come home between concerts, whenever I can. Anything.”
Nell dropped her backpack; it thumped onto the hardwood at her feet. “You don’t have to kneel for me,” she said slowly, and the hope brightening up his eyes was almost worse than anything else, because she wanted that hope, needed it, and felt an answering flare of possibility rising in her to meet it.
“I’d do a lot more than kneel to keep you,” he told her. “I swear I don’t expect you to be a groupie or a bride — just be my ninja woman, my gorgeous independent woman with heavenly tits and a razor-sharp mind, and we’ll figure the rest out as it comes.”
“I don’t know.” She struggled to find words around the ache in her heart. “How can it work between us, when we both have higher commitments to other priorities?”
He shook his head, still on his knees, looking up at her. “You’re wrong, Nell. Those aren’t higher commitments, they’re part of who we are. We can be all in as partners without having to sacrifice what we breathe for, what we do best. I want you at my concerts; I want to be at your tournaments.”
That sounded sweet. Tempting. But was it too good to be true? When the needs of his band inevitably conflicted with the demands of her sport, what would they choose? “Get up, already,” she told him. “I won’t leave right this minute, at least.”
“That’s something,” he muttered, getting to his feet with a sigh. “Could you consider talking to me if there’s a problem, instead of just disappearing?”
“I thought you wouldn’t miss me, now that you’re happy with your band again.”
He gave a short bark of incredulous laughter. “Well, I would. It would fucking break my heart to find you gone, okay?”
It was breaking mine to leave, she thought, grateful for the reprieve, no matter how temporary it might be. “I promise I won’t disappear.”
“Good.” He grabbed her hand and pressed a fervent kiss to the back of it. “I’ll do my best to show you we can make this work.” Then his phone pinged, and he gave her a hesitant grin. “They’re waiting for me. Think you could help me find that pedal tuner, then come down and listen to us jam? If you’d like to, that is.”
That night, Keith Zamarron took a party of thirteen out for dinner at an excellent steakhouse in St. Helena — ten musicians, plus Mandy, Crys, and Nell. “Call me Zam,” he said. “Most everyone does.”
“Thirteen is not bad luck,” Nell had overheard Sally telling Angel, right before they left. “I refuse to come with you just to make up a number. Anyway, I’m not dressed for it, plus Erva and I have plans.”
Sally’s company would have been nice, but Nell understood.
She felt a bit underdressed at the fine restaurant in her grey denim capris and black velour top, but most of the men were in jeans, Mandy still wore her sequins and feathers, and Crys looked like a little girl at a birthday party in a ruffled lilac maternity smock that really didn’t help her appear old enough to be there. At least they were eating in a private wine-cellar dining room that would keep cameras and prying eyes and ears out.
Nell was seated between Eamonn and Joel Bonamour, which was still a bit difficult to get her mind around. “I saved up for a whole year so I could go see you on the Dark Jewelry tour,” she said, and then felt ridiculous for saying something he must have heard so many times. “Absolutely worth it,” she added, taking a gulp of her gin
