Page 25 of Ambiguous
He fidgets under my gaze. “Well, I guess this is it.”
I nod. “Thanks again for keeping me from losing it.”
“I’m happy to have helped.”
I get in the car. As it pulls away, I can see him, even though he can’t see me with the tinted windows.
At home, I go to change my clothes and realize I still have his bow tie in my pocket. I’m starting to build a collection of his accessories.
Like a creeper, I sniff it, and I’m flooded with memories. But not of the panic I felt; of calmness.
Taking it with me, I sit outside by the pool with an old acoustic guitar. I start picking out a tune, just messing around, wishing I could have Sam Stone in my life for more than business.
CHAPTER10
Jules
Afew days later, I’m on the phone with James again.
“How is it going with your brother?” he asks.
“He’s barely emerged from his room. I don’t know what to do except make sure he’s got a roof over his head and food in his belly.”
“He’s always been like that, though. Even I know that.”
“I just wish he would be more open to talking out whatever’s bothering him. When we were growing up, it was just me and him against the world.”
No one but us knows our entire history. Not even Loren. And I’m going to keep it that way. Sometimes, though, I think if only Miss Poole from that horrid place in London could see us now.
Three-story beach house in Malibu, with the most upscale furnishings imaginable. Eight cars in the garage. And this is just one of my houses around the world.
James knows the most, given how long I’ve known him, which is why I trust him. With anyone else, it’s hard to know who likes me for me, and who’s looking for a free party or to get famous by proximity.
“You’re eons away from the care homes.”
“All because I got lucky on a talent show… and he didn’t.”
“I’d hardly call it luck.”
“It was. But I can’t rely on luck to write this next album. I just have to lock myself in the studio.”
“So you’re calling me to waste time?”
I laugh. “I don’t call conversations with my best friend a waste of time.”
“They are when you have a deadline. Go on. Write.”
We hang up, and I do.
After I finish another song, I emerge for a lunch break and find Colin in the kitchen, eating a sandwich and playing on his phone.
We nod at each other. He hasn’t volunteered anything about his wife, and I haven’t wanted to pry. I also haven’t asked him how long he’s staying.
“Are you doing okay, Colin?”
“Fine,” he grunts.
“Anything I can help you with?”
