Page 8 of Betsy
Her hand paused on the next bolt as she looked between Drew and Ben. “I was going to select some fabric to make you guys some scrubs for work, but Malachi convinced me you’d appreciate team shirts for your hospital softball team instead. They’re at the screen printers now and should be ready later this week.”
“Thanks, man.” Drew and Ben fist-bumped with Malachi who, as usual, had been content to sit back and enjoy the group silently from his spot beside Jocelyn. He spoke when necessary but hardly ever found words unavoidable.
“For you, Bets”—Jocelyn turned to me—“I found this.” A few yards of folded fabric were placed in my hand. Colorful miniature instruments in a winter palette—glacier blue tubas, coral keyboards, ice white trumpets, yellow guitars—blazed against a black backdrop. “I thought it would make a cute messenger bag for you to carry sheet music or whatever in.”
“I might need a new bag when I go on tour,” I murmured as I took the soft cotton blend.
“What!” Amanda shot forward on the couch, grimaced, but didn’t settle back into Peter’s inviting arm draped along the cushion. “You’re going on tour? With who? Anyone famous? When do you leave? For how long? Where are you going? I have so many questions.”
I met Amanda’s Tigger-level enthusiasm with a measured regard. “I hadn’t noticed.”
She ignored my snark and leaned even farther forward, if that were possible. She was in jeopardy of falling off the couch as this point. “Tell me everything.”
I shrugged like it was no big deal. Probably because it really wasn’t. Not like Bono had approached me to do a world tour with him or anything. I hadn’t even heard of True North until a few hours earlier, and they were a niche band that played worship music. No hate to worship music or anything. The songs were great to sing at church, and I knew a few singles had especially helped Amanda when she’d felt particularly overwhelmed or brought low because of her health.
“There’s really not much to tell. In fact, I still need to call the guy and accept his offer.”
Amanda waved her hands in the air. “Let me get this straight. You were asked to go on tour, which I’m assuming is like being drafted in the NFL, and you didn’t immediately jump at the chance? Even if the singer you’d be working with is the equivalent of the 2008 Detroit Lions—they lost every single game, by the way—it’s still a foot in the door, and you could be traded to another team, er, band or whatever.”
Jocelyn cocked her head as she studied me. “Was it a musician who approached you or a manager?”
“Doesn’t matter.”I’m not following where you’re leading, Jocelyn.
My friends looked at each other. “Musician,” they chorused.
“Is it the spotlight thing? Is that why you have rules against getting close to artists even though you work with them every day?” Peter set down his empty glass. “I could give you some tips on how to deal with the media if that’s the case.”
No doubt his pointers would be more diplomatic than mymind your own stupid businesswould be. I smiled, though it probably looked more calculated than sweet on me. “Nosey paparazzi don’t scare me.”
“No, I imagine it would be the other way around,” Ben said under his breath.
I flashed him another smile, this time showing teeth. If people were afraid of your bark, they’d stay far enough away that you didn’t have to resort to a real bite.
“Whydoyou have a rule against dating musicians? I’ve always wondered.” Amanda tapped the side of her chin with a nail.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone about your health?” I quipped back. “We all have our reasons.”
The second the words were out of my mouth, I realized they’d been the wrong thing to say. Instead of dropping the topic, eyes narrowed in focus. I might as well have thrown a bone to a pack of hungry dogs.
“You’re hiding something.” Molly’s face fell. She’d taken Amanda’s confession about keeping her health struggles a secret all this time much harder than the rest of us. Part of it was her need for everyone to be honest with her and each other, but a bigger part was her caring drive to mother everyone in sight.
“You dated a musician in the past and got your heart broken,” Drew said with certainty.
I snorted. “Wrong.”
His mouth pulled to the side. “You didn’t date, but he strung you along and you got your heart broken.”
I patted him on the knee. “Don’t hurt yourself. My heart has never been broken by a musician or any other guy.”
“There has to be some reason,” he pressed. “People don’t put walls around their hearts unless they’re afraid of it getting hurt.”
My gaze turned to steel as I locked eyes with Drew. “I am not afraid.” I was smart. Big difference.
“Are you singing or working sound?”
The surprise of hearing Malachi ask the question caused me to blink and take a figurative step back.
“What? Why would you think I’d tour as a vocalist?”
