by Sarina Bowen
I’m so confused right now. And heartsick. I want to go home to L.A. where my bunny slippers are waiting. I’d bail on this concert if it wouldn’t make Brett irate. I can’t afford that right now.
I’m worried about Silas. I’m worried about my career. But I’m smart enough now to realize nothing will be settled tonight. “Can I have the check?” I ask.
“For a beer?” Danny waves a hand. “It’s on me, Delilah. And if I see Ralph, I’ll tell him he’s an asshole.” Danny smiles, like we’re sharing a joke.
If I’m lucky, we are.
An hour later I’m sitting on the hotel bed, eating overpriced mini bar snacks like they’re going out of style. There’s a candle in the trashcan in the bathroom.
This is what wallowing looks like—peanut M&M wrappers and bad TV.
My phone rings, and I grab it with the desperation of a Titanic passenger diving for a life preserver.
But the call is not from Silas. It’s from Brett. I drop it on the silky white hotel comforter and let it go to voicemail.
He leaves a message. I manage to ignore it for a few minutes. But I’m a girl who’s desperately in need of some distraction. And it’s not like he can ruin my night. That’s already been accomplished. So I mute the TV and play the message.
“Hey Delilah,” he says as a breeze scrapes past the microphone. “I’m on the beach, looking at the stars. And I have regrets. Big ones. I know you’re not very happy with me. Losing you is something that I haven’t handled very well. I know that’s all my fault.”
He heaves a sigh that’s very unlike him.
“But I’m standing on the beach where it all started, and I want you to know that I’m done trying to hold on to something I already wrecked. Let’s release your album next month, okay? Meet me for a drink tomorrow and we’ll pick a date. We’ll put Becky on speakerphone so she can get all the details.”
My mouth falls open. But the message isn’t quite finished.
“I just want you to know that I’m sorry. And your new album is going to do amazing things. And I hope someday you can look back on this and remember some of the good times we had. Goodnight, Delilah. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
The message ends. My heart is beating double speed. Brett is finally giving me the thing that I want most in the world.
Except it’s no longer the thing that I want most, is it?
Only a diva would still be upset right now.
I guess I’m a diva.
Silas
I end up flying to California one night later. But the thrill is gone, because Carl still hasn’t given me the go-ahead to tell Brett to fuck off.
So instead of finding Delilah, I’m sitting at my mother’s kitchen table, a glossy brochure spread out in front of us. “The security system works by registering the opening and shutting of doors and windows in your home. The contacts look like this.” I point at a photo of a small device mounted in a doorjamb.
My mom wrinkles her nose.
“If you’re home alone and a door opens, there’s a little beep to alert you. If you think it’s an intruder, you can hit the panic button, and the cops will be notified immediately. And if you’re not home, you’ll get an alert from an app on your phone. The system even has its own backup power source. So it works when the power goes out.”
I’m sure my mom has seen the same movies I have. Everyone knows the bad guys always cut the power first.
Mom reaches out and folds the pamphlet closed again. “Sweetheart, I really don’t think this is necessary. I don’t want to live like a prisoner in my own home.”
“You won’t be a prisoner,” I argue. “And hopefully none of this is necessary. But I would feel better if you were protected.”
“Because then you’re going to tell Brett Ferris where he can shove it, right?”
Have I mentioned that my mom is awesome?
“I haven’t decided what I’m doing yet.” Not that a second punch to Brett’s face isn’t tempting. “Carl Bayer is still gathering information about Dad, and about Brett’s rationale for threatening me.”
She gives me a sad smile. “Brett Ferris and your father have a lot in common.”
“What? How do you figure?” One of them is an ex-con with violent tendencies. The other one is a rich snake in preppy clothing. I really don’t see the resemblance.
“They’ve both got us sitting here, looking at overpriced home-security systems, trying to stay out of their way. And you and I have done nothing wrong.”
She has a point. But that doesn’t make this easier.
“Go find your girl,” Mom says, covering my hand. “It’s not like you to back down from a fight.”
“Oh, I’m not,” I promise her. Although I’ve learned to pick my moments. “But I can’t go in with guns blazing. Last time I lost my cool at Ferris, it changed everything.”
“For the better, maybe,” Mom says. “You love hockey, and you love Brooklyn. Tennis was such a lonely sport. All that pressure and nobody at your back.”
“Who’s side are you on here?” I joke.
“Yours, baby boy.” She beams at me. “But you were born a goalie—always the responsible one, making sure everyone else is okay.” She gives the security-system pamphlet a shove. “You’re allowed to look out for your own needs, you know. Be selfish. Take more than your share. Your mother will be just fine. I still keep a baseball bat under my bed. And I’m not afraid to use it.”
The idea of my mom fighting off an attacker with a baseball bat makes me want to hurl. She and I are definitely going to talk about that security system again soon.
“Now go find your girl. Or go see Danny at the bar. He’s a co-owner of the place now. He and his dad are in business together.”
“That’s cool. I guess I could go see Danny. Maybe it will take my mind off everything.” I can’t deny that I’m drawn to the idea of visiting Roadie Joe’s again. It was in that bar that I fell in love for the first time, even if I never called it that.
My heart knew, though.
“You want a ride?” my mom asks. “I assume you’ll have a few beers. You could Uber home. It’s pricey.”
I’m sure I could afford it. But if my mom wants to give me a ride into Darlington Beach? I’m not turning that down. “You’re the best. Let me just change my shirt.”
By the time I order my mojito, it’s already nine thirty. The young stranger behind the bar reaches for the superfine sugar and the pile of mint leaves without looking at me.
“Sorry, man,” I say. “I know there are easier drinks to make. I used to have your job.”
He looks up. “Really? You don’t mean here.”
“That’s exactly what he means!” booms my friend Danny’s voice. He comes up behind me to clap me on the shoulder. “The famous one returns to visit the little people he left behind.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes. But I don’t mind his humor. Walking in here tonight felt like walking into my past. I was so angry at the world last time I worked behind that bar.
My mom might be right about a couple of things. Hockey—after a rough start—has been good to me. And I need to lighten up a little.
“Tell me everything,” Danny says. “What was up with that first-round elimination? What was up with your patchy playoffs beard? I have so many questions.”
The kid behind the bar is looking at me differently now. I’m no longer the guy who ordered a time-consuming cocktail, but rather someone he ought to recognize.
Sorry, kid. I’m not really that interesting.
“Enough about me,” I say, patting the bar stool next to me. “I hear you’re a businessman now. Did drink prices go up? Do people have to kiss your ass now?”
The bartender snickers.
“Yes, and yes.” He sits down next to me. “Life is good, Ralph. But I never wanted out of Darlington Beach, like some people.” He nudges me in the elbow. “I like it here. My hours kind of suck, but it’s like hosting a party all year long. And I don’t have t
o cook my own food.”
“Unless the chef calls in sick, and then you have to cook everyone’s food,” says the kid. His name tag reads: Dick.
“Let me take a wild guess, here,” I say. “Your name isn’t really Dick.”
The kid grins as he squeezes limes into my drink. “So you really did work here.”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re the hockey player, right? I heard about you. Quit before the dinner rush one night because you got called up to play.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “That’s what I’m famous for? Leaving the bar unattended? I suppose it could be worse.”
“Yeah,” Danny agrees. “But we’re going to have to revisit that summer in a second, okay? Let me just make sure the kitchen is still on top of things, and I’ll be right back. Pour me a beer, Dickie.” He zips away, the way a restaurateur having a good night should do.
As my drink lands in front of me, I pull out my phone to check my email. There’s a new message from Carl waiting, so I open that sucker right up.
He’s a man who says a lot in few words.
Daddy is now a holy roller. Clean prison record the last ten years. Started their prayer group. Joined a megachurch in Florida the day he got out. Bags groceries for minimum wage. Living with his sister. That’s all we can learn from afar. I don’t rate him as a big threat.
But Brett is a mess. His business unit is failing. He’s in default on the loans he took out to partner with MetroPlex. His other artists aren’t bringing in cash. Delilah is all he’s got. The guy can’t afford to sit on D’s album. Don’t know why he’s still doing that, unless he thinks she’ll blink first.
I’m doing a little more digging. Hang tight for tonight.
“Hey.”
I look up as Danny sits down beside me again and takes a swig of beer. “Hey yourself. Crazy night? The music festival is kicking in already?”
“Yeah. These next six weeks are going to make my year, though.” He beats on his chest with one fist. “I’m ready! Bring it, drunk music lovers! I am here for you!”
I laugh, because Danny hasn’t changed since our high school days.
“You could put on an apron, you know,” he says. “Stop drinking sissy drinks and help a guy out. I think you still owe us at least a shift.”
“I’m on vacation. I’m supposed to be having fun.”
As if I could, though. Delilah is somewhere in this town right now, and I’m supposed to be beside her.
“Here’s what I need to know, then.” Danny sets his beer down on a cocktail napkin. “Why was Delilah Spark sitting right where you are and asking me about you last night?”
I actually stab myself in the chin with my straw as I lift my drink. “What? Really?”
Danny gives me a look that suggests I’m as pathetic as I feel right now. “I must have looked familiar to her, because she asked me point blank if I’d heard from you.”
My flinch is swift. “Yeah, that’s a long story I’m still trying to sort out. We’re kind of a thing. Or I hope we’re a thing.”
“Dude.” The young bartender gapes at me. “That’s even cooler than being a hockey player. She’s hawt. Little weird to order your beers unopened, but…” He shrugs. “Stars gotta be a little eccentric, right?”
I sigh.
Danny clicks his tongue. “Somebody looks bummed. Did you two fight?”
“Like I said, it’s complicated. And it’s been that way since I met her three years ago right here.” I pat the glossy wood surface of the bar.
“Nothing comes easy to you,” Dicky says. “And I mean you specifically. Always gotta fail spectacularly before things start looking up.”
That sounds accurate.
“Gotta say, she looked pretty sad, too,” the chatty bartender offers. “Her bodyguard kept trying to get her to leave, but she stayed a while before settling up. Good tipper, though.”
Goddamn it. I hate the image of her sitting here alone, wondering why I stood her up.
“Does this have anything to do with Brett Ferris?” my oldest friend asks. “I heard they broke up, and he’s not happy about it.”
“Sort of,” I admit, looking over my shoulder just in case. Darlington Beach is a really small town.
“Now that dude is not a good tipper.” The bartender grins. “Not a half hour after Delilah Spark left with her bodyguard, that asshole comes in. Sits down right there.” He points at a barstool. “Orders a club soda.” He rolls his eyes. “Leaves me fifty cents because he’s too lazy to pick up his change. And then? He takes a stack of cocktail napkins and tucks them into his pocket, like somebody’s grandma.” The kid mimes this part. “Like he’s too cheap to buy his own. Rich people are the weirdest.”
Danny chuckles, and I sort of chime in. But my mind is stuck on something he just said. Cocktail napkins. They’re pretty much useless, unless you want to advertise your bar, and catch the condensation that rolls off your beer glass.
Or if you want to be a creepy stalker and terrify someone.
My body goes totally cold. I set my half-full cocktail down carefully. “Did he leave after that?” I ask, and my voice sounds tinny.
“Yup.” The kid mops the bar. “Good riddance.”
I’ve heard enough. “Danny, I think I have to go find my girl.”
“Aw.” He claps me on the back. “Would you please come in for lunch tomorrow, though? I can take an hour off to hang with you.”
“Sure,” I say absently. “Sounds great.” I pull my wallet out as I get to my feet.
“Your money is no good here,” Danny says.
I toss a twenty onto the bar. “That’s for Dick-who-isn’t-really-a-Dick, then. See you boys tomorrow.”
And I run out of there and into the salty air of Darlington Beach. I need to find Delilah. Right away. I know which hotel she’s staying at, of course. It’s about a half mile away.
I break into a jog.
Delilah
“Charla is not going to like this,” Becky points out as I slip on my shoes. “She wouldn’t want you to negotiate anything without her.”
“I won’t,” I insist. “And I’ll use her as an excuse if he pressures me.” I tuck my hotel key into my clutch. “But I think Brett needs to release Lucky Hearts. Maybe he can’t afford to wait any longer. And if he can save face by meeting with me in person instead of dealing with a snarling manager, then I will throw him this bone.”
Becky flops backward on my hotel bed. “He wants to throw you a bone, all right. His.”
“Not happening.” I run a Chapstick over my lips. “Doesn’t this outfit say, ‘casual but not offering anything’?” I look down at my plain black top and unassuming jeans.
“Sure. But that man doesn’t read signals very well. Please text me if you need backup of any kind.”
“Don’t worry so much. I can handle myself, you know.”
“Call me when you’re back. We can watch some bad TV together and not think about tomorrow at all.”
My stomach dips at the thought of opening the music festival without Silas. I want him in the first row, and I want my surfing lesson.
There’s a tap on the door. “Car is downstairs, miss.”
For fuck’s sake, we could just walk. Everything in Darlington Beach is walkable. I miss walking places without the hulk in the hallway. “Coming,” I say, because you have to choose your battles. “Bye, Beck. Find us a movie.”
“Will do,” she says with a sigh.
Five minutes later we pull up at the Ferris beach mansion. My phone has buzzed twice during the short ride. But I don’t check it. Not yet. I want those calls to be from Silas. And if they’re not, I’ll be heartbroken all over again.
I don’t have time to be heartbroken. I need to focus. So the calls can wait.
Mr. Muscles opens the car door for me, even though I could do it myself. “I’ll wait outside, miss.”
“Thank you. This shouldn’t take all that long.” I walk up to the big oak door and knock, hop
ing that Brett’s parents aren’t around. They never liked me very much, and I’m sure they like me even less now.
When the door opens, it’s just Brett standing there, looking a little sheepish. It may be the only time I’ve ever seen him without a perfectly confident expression on his face, honestly.
I square my shoulders. This bodes well for me. “Hi,” I say in as friendly a voice as I can summon.
“Hi, sweetheart. It’s good of you to show up. I know I haven’t been easy lately.”
Somehow I rein in my desire to agree with him. “I’m not always the easiest, either. But I’m excited to talk about the release.”
“I’ll bet you are.” He runs a hand through his hair, and it sticks up on top when he’s done. It makes him look like a little kid and oddly vulnerable. “Come through to the sunroom and we’ll compare calendars. How does your September look?”
“It looks great if we’re going to release an album. I was going to do some more collaborating, but that can all be pushed back. I can make myself available for promo.”
“Good, good,” he says, leading me into his parents’ sunroom. The last streaks of pink light the sky. If it were still daylight, I would be able to see their million-dollar views of the beach from here.
I used to be so intimidated by this house and this family. That must be part of why I let Brett snow me for so long. I believed the lie that says rich people have the most value.
But it isn’t true. I’ve been dirt poor and filthy rich. And I’ve been the same person the whole time.
We sit down on different parts of the L-shaped sofa. I take out my notepad and a pen, but then rest it on my lap. “How’ve you been?” I ask, playing nice.
“All right. Can’t complain.” He clears his throat. “You?”
“Working. Busy. You know me, I’d rather write songs in my bunny slippers than do practically anything else.” I’m a liar, though. I’ve spent the whole summer believing that there was something bigger on the horizon for me. Something better than just success.