Page 22 of That Weekend in Paris

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My phone dings. I glare at the screen.

Come backstage. I left word with Mike at the door.

My heart does a ridiculous gallop against the wall of my chest.

I want to.

How could I not want to?

Do I think it’s wise at this point?

No. I don’t.

I stare at the screen for another moment, then type.

Your show was truly incredible. I’m exhausted. I think I’ll catch a cab back to the hotel.

Thank you so much for the incredible seat.

I hit send.

Why don’t you just write a book, Dillon?

I stare at my phone while he types.

Are you sure?

I hesitate, feel myself leaning into the pull to change my mind. Klein Matthews just asked you to join him backstage. What are you doing, Dillon?

Exercising common sense. Reluctant as I am to do so. I really want to be young and foolish. Except I’m not that young. Old enough to know where foolish will get me.

I’m an old fogey. Beauty rest and all that. Good night.

His reply is several seconds coming.

Okay. Good night.

Regret washes over me in an instant wave. I choke it back and stalk down a taxi. It takes several minutes, and when I finally sink into the back seat and manage to murmur, “Ritz Paris,” I don’t even care that the driver gives me a suspicious glare, as if he thinks I’m coked up or something.

I ride most of the drive with my eyes closed, trying not to conjure up that moment at the concert when Klein had directed those lyrics at me.

That night we met

I should have made you mine

Not now, not yet

Like I had all the time

In the world, girl

In the world, girl

I sigh and turn my gaze to the window and the city flowing by. The old me would have accepted that invitation backstage. But the new me is a coward.

Riley

“The tip of the neighbour’s iceberg often looks very nice.”

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