Page 29 of If Not for My Baby
“I know.” I had been excited. Before this conversation, at least. My eyes follow the even pace of the rotating ceiling fan, and the little pulleys that clink below each time it spins. “But this is her dream.”
I can hear the frown in Indy’s voice as she says, “What about your dreams?”
And it dawns on me then how few people in my life have asked me that. Not Everly, when she essentially thrust this tour on me. Not Mike, when he suggested we get backtogether. Not even my mom. But there’s no malice to the realization. I don’t blame any of them. It’s my own fault—at some point I decided it was easier to be a dreamless person than a disappointed one.
Except somewhere along the way, I became both.
Ten
It’s the dead of nightwhen my alarm serenades me with a jarring, electronic jaunt. Molly’s practically comatose and I’m pretty sure there’s a beefier lump from Boston beneath her covers, too, but I don’t squint to further investigate. I shower with my eyes closed and nearly fall asleep against the tiles before a shoddy blow-dry and some very rudimentary concealer. Regret nearly hollows me out: I should not have stayed up until three rehearsing with Indy. I may know this duet like I wrote it myself, but I also just put my shoes on the wrong feet.
The hotel lobby has a coffee maker from the 1800s so I whip up a watery makeshift latte before jogging out to the waiting town car. Outside, the sky is glowing behind the clouds. Swaths of gray backed by gold and sunrise nectarine. I’m so tired I almost forget that I’m about to sing a duet on live television with one of the most influential singer-songwriters of our generation.
That wakes me up far better than the hot sludge in my to-go cup.
I pull out my phone to text my mom:
Clementine:If you’re awake at six put on the Morning Show with Joe Jennings!
Then I swing open the town car door and find one very bleary-eyed Irishman.
“Good mornin’ to ya,” he says, as I scoot in beside him and buckle my seat belt.
I try in vain not to memorize the broadness of his jaw or the way his dark hair has a slight reddish tint to it when the first rays of sunshine slip through the car’s open window. We’ve never been this close: only the empty middle seat stretches between us. He smellsdivine,like showering in forest rain. His eyes are the green of a sea under generous sunlight, and just as breathtaking.
I must shiver, because he rolls up his window in courtesy and then leans forward to ask the driver to blast the heat.
Before I can thank him, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Mom Clark:Is my BABY going to be on TV??????????
I can’t help my snort as I write back to her.
Clementine:More question marks please, I can’t hear you
Clementine:(yes!)
Halloran scrubs his face in exhaustion beside me. I wonder if I’ve annoyed him somehow.
“That was my mom,” I announce for no reason.
Though he doesn’t say anything, he breathes out evenly as if my words have actually soothed him, rather than irritated.
“She’s very excited about the morning show,” I add. “Thank you again. For the opportunity.”
“As I said, it’s you I should be thankin’.”
His face is immaculate this close up. My eyes roam the thick widow’s peak at his hairline. The few freckles dotting the bridge of his nose. His pale skin practically glows in contrast to the beard that sweeps down past his ears, over his full lips, and across his chin.
“What’s she like?” he asks. “Your mam?”
A much-needed shove back into reality. My mom. The person I’m doing this for. The reason why I cannot and should not get loopy over Halloran.
“She’s my best friend. And the greatest person on the planet.”
Halloran’s eyes warm. “That’s really sweet.”
“I’m not even kidding. I miss her a ton. This is the first time we’ve ever been apart.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I regret them. I sound like a freak. “Not in a weird way, or anything.”
