Page 50 of Betsy
I rubbed at my temples, then tapped my phone screen to check the time. Amanda and Peter should be here to pick me up any minute. I’d broached the subject of Jocelyn’s engagement party on the drive from Las Vegas to Bakersfield. It just so happened that the party was on one of the few days the band had a break in their schedule. Amanda had said she’d detour on the way up to Malachi’s ranch to pick me up and would drop me back off the next day with plenty of time to set up and do a thorough sound check before the concert.
Peter’s old truck crawled through the campground’s pebbled loop. I hopped off the weathered picnic table and slung the backpack I’d crammed with an extra change of clothes and my toothbrush over my shoulder.
The door to the bus opened behind me, and I turned my head enough to see Asher exit.
There went my secret getaway.
Peter’s truck rolled to a stop and the engine died. I should’ve told Amanda to tell Peter to slow down enough that I could hop in the bed all fugitive-style, then gas it and get me as far away as fast as possible.
The way Asher was around me now—polite to a fault, studious but not engaging—made me feel like some sort of criminal. It would have been better if he’d yelled. Gotten so upset that he’d lost his temper. Maybe then some of the guilt weighing on my chest, pushing down until, at moments, I found it hard to breathe, would be lifted.
But he hadn’t done that. He hadn’t so much as raised his voice. The echo of his words, that I see him how he sees me, spoke through every look he gave me. Mostly, he seemed to be waiting. Like a steadfast sea anemone in a tidal pool. I couldn’t tell if I was the rock he clung to or the crashing waves trying to rip him away. Maybe I was both. I didn’t know. All that seemed certain was the longer I was forced to be so close to him while so desperately trying to keep my distance (I loathed that bus. Asher seemed to be right there every time I turned around—his smell, his presence, his voice), the more I wanted to toss my hands up in the air and recklessly throw myself into his arms and try to make the impossible happen—a relationship in which no one got hurt and everything worked out in the end.
Both the driver and passenger doors opened, and I sprinted toward the truck. “No need to get out. I’m ready. We can go.”
Amanda gave me a quizzical look before ignoring me altogether. She stepped around me and smiled. Presumably to Asher, although I didn’t turn around to find out.
“Nice to see you again, Asher,” she said. “This is my fiancé, Peter Reynolds.” She danced her fingers in Peter’s direction.
Asher reached out and shook Peter’s hand, no recognition on his face.
Interesting. Either Asher knew how to keep his cool around celebrities or he lived under a rock and had no idea that Peter was one of the most talked-about players in the NFL.
I parked myself in front of the truck’s open door and smiled tightly. “Well, we should get going, don’t you think? Long drive and all.”
Amanda’s long ponytail swept over one shoulder as she propped her chin on the other to stare at me.What’s wrong with you?she mouthed.
I kept my brittle smile in place.
Asher rocked back on his heels. He gave me his lopsided grin, though it didn’t hike as high on his cheek as usual. “Have a good time, Betsy. The bus won’t be the same without you.”
His eyes gleamed, and I blinked. Had it just been a trick of the light? The sun glinting of his irises, or had he…
That stinker!
His being right there every time I turned around, the brushing of our bodies when we needed to pass each other in the narrow aisle of the bus, the way his scent seemed to linger when I was trying to fall asleep. Those things hadn’t been accidents at all. He’d planned every single one of them.
I spun on the ball of my foot and climbed into the truck. A few minutes later, Amanda and Peter got in, shut the doors, then we drove away.
“What was that?” Amanda twisted in her seat to peer at me in the back of the cab.
“A campground. I’m sure you’ve seen one before.” I reverted to sarcasm.
Her eyes narrowed. “As lovely as it was, I’m not talking about the campground. I’m talking about you and Asher. You texted and said not all musicians were bad and there were some worth getting to know better. Excuse me if I’m wrong, but we all thought that meant you’d finally gotten your head out of your butt and something romantic was happening with Asher.” She faced forward again and crossed her arms over her chest.
Peter met my gaze in the rearview mirror. He didn’t say anything but let go of the steering wheel with his right hand and comfortingly rested his palm on Amanda’s knee.
We were all used to shocking things coming out of Amanda’s mouth, but it had only been recently we’d learned that when she said those things it was in an effort to deflect our attention from the pain she was experiencing because of her autoimmune disease (which she’d named Delores because doctors had yet to name it with a proper diagnosis themselves).
“Delores giving you a hard time?” I asked gently.
She put her face closer to the side window. “Maybe. But right now, one of my best friends, named Betsy, is too.”
I pressed my lips together. I knew my friends would ask. Pester me even. But I was prepared. Maybe each of them had cracked and confessed their feelings during one of our sewing nights when they’d had trouble with love, but not me. They couldn’t make me talk if I didn’t want to.
* * *
I’d never been more wrong in my life. The CIA should hire Molly, Jocelyn, Nicole, and Amanda as their new interrogation officers. Waterboarding I could’ve handled, but being surrounded by their concern-filled faces while they relentlessly offered me support without the need for any explanation was becoming my undoing.
