Page 21 of That Weekend in Paris
“I can understand that,” I say, “but you’ve got this.”
“Thanks, Dillon,” he says. He glances off and then back, his eyes direct on mine. “I’m happy we ran into each other here, that it worked out like this.”
“Yeah,” I say, unable to deny the thrill his words send through me. “Me, too.”
Dillon
“Don’t we all wish to be seen? Truly seen?”
—Unknown
I AM AT ONE END of the front row. The ticket price for this seat would have been at least six hundred dollars. I’m surrounded by mostly French teenagers, although I hear some native English mixed in with the conversations taking place around me.
“He is so hot.” And, “What do you think he would do if I threw my bra at him?” Then, “I don’t know, but I might throw my thong.”
I nearly laugh at this one, picturing Klein with a pink thong lassoing his guitar.
I try to remember what it was like to be seventeen and within reach of a star as well-known as Klein. I’m pretty sure I never was, but if I had been, I would not have had the confidence to throw my bra or underwear at him.
But I can certainly understand that level of desire to get his attention.
He’s wearing faded jeans that fit him like they’d been made specifically for him. They hug his hips, his legs in a way that draws the eye to him and demands that it linger. His shirt is light blue, open collar, and is a near-perfect match to his eyes. Even if Klein hadn’t been blessed with a voice that froze a listener into mesmerization, his looks alone would do it.
That’s where I am right now. Klein’s voice is nirvana. I’m pretty sure I could stand here listening to him forever.
The song is one he wrote. It’s one of his number one singles. There’s no mystery as to why it hit the top of the charts. All around me, women are standing entranced, no longer chatting and plotting about ways to get his attention. I imagine they’re feeling what I’m feeling. Complete captivation. And the undeniable wish that I was the only woman to whom he was singing.
He makes it seem that way, even if it’s so obviously not true.
I absorb every word of the song, every note of the melody.
It is utterly beautiful.
Because Top Dog published the song, I know the story behind it. It’s about a first love, and just hearing the way Klein sings the words of heartbreak, it’s impossible to believe it isn’t about Klein’s first love. I feel the loss in his voice, see the longing in his eyes. And I wonder what it would be like to be loved by him, with that intensity, that passion.
The last notes of the song fade into silence. There’s a full, weighted moment in which the floor area is entirely still.
I stare at Klein, and then his gaze swings to me, deliberate, full of something I don’t have the courage to identify.
Surely, I am mistaken. Something in my stomach goes liquid and melts inside me. The woman standing next to me looks at me and says in an awestruck voice, “Lucky you.”
I feel myself blush, hot, and flaming. I force indifference into my voice when I say, “I’m sure that’s all part of the show. Give a girl what she paid for.”
“Ah, no,” she says on a knowing laugh. “I’m pretty sure that one was all for you.”
When Klein finishes his last song, I leave my seat, needing to get outside into the fresh air. I feel as if I have been infused with heat from the very center of my being. I make my way down the aisle to the exit doors, sweat beading between my breasts and across my forehead. I push them open and then all but run down the corridor past the concession area to the doors that lead outside into the blissfully cool night air.
I walk past a couple of teenagers smoking and find a spot in the shadows to lean against a wall with my head back, pulling in a few deep breaths.
What. The. Heck.
It had to be precisely what I’d said. Part of the show. He’d just chosen me as the target tonight.
He should be an actor. That was Academy Award caliber stuff. Totally believable. As in, I had believed it. Bought it hook, line, and sinker.
Good grief. Maybe I’m just lonely. Maybe it’s the rejection of being tossed aside for a younger model that is finally getting to me. A younger, thinner, more up-to-date model.
Is Klein feeling sorry for me? My cheeks flare in new mortification.
