Famously First: A Second Chance Romance Page 12

  I raise a hand in a half-ass wave, and my mom’s face lights up like I hung the moon.

  She rushes around the luggage carrousel to hug me like she always does but hesitates at the last minute.

  “Is this ok?” she asks. “Or are you too mad?”

  I look over at my dad, who waits patiently, like any answer I give is ok, and it’s my right to give it.

  “Yeah, it’s ok,” I say, and my mom wraps me in a hug. “I’m still mad, but it’s ok.”

  I’ve spent the last 20 hours on planes or in airports—there were no direct tickets to San Francisco left, so naturally, the quickest way to get here was via Florida—and it’s given me time to think.

  My parents and I are going to need to have a long talk to fully work through this, but we love each other and we’re going to be ok.

  Finn and I? That’s still up in the air. Which means I need to get to the hotel the tour is staying at.

  I check my phone as we head to the car, to see if Bridget answered my question about where I should meet her to give her the flash-drive with the photos.

  But instead of an address, she’s sent me a text saying she’s never seen Finn like this, and using the photos today doesn’t seem appropriate. She still wants the photos but over email sometime in the next week.

  I stare blankly down at the phone.

  I could go to the concert, but if Bridget won’t even tell me what hotel they’re at, there’s no way I’m still on the staff list to get backstage.

  Maybe if I buy a ticket … but a quick google tells me the concert’s been sold out for weeks.

  We pile into my parents’ car, and I stare numbly ahead.

  “Where to, sugar?” my dad asks.

  “One second.”

  I didn’t want to do this over the phone, but that seems like my only option. I don’t even know what city Finn will be in after tonight.

  “How about I just drive us home, and we can plan from there?” my dad says, and I nod without really hearing him.

  I go to call Finn, and my heart skips a beat when I realize I have two missed calls from him.

  One of them is an old one from earlier this week, but one of them is from today, when I was on an airplane.

  I call him back, my heart pounding.

  “So did you have a nice flight?” my mom asks as we pull out of the parking lot.

  “Not now, Mom!”

  “Do they still serve peanuts? I heard they don’t serve peanuts anymore because of allergies,” my dad says, and Finn’s phone finishes ringing and goes to voicemail.

  I hang up and call him again. Maybe he just didn’t get to it before it finished ringing. Maybe he’s in the shower.

  Maybe it’s a billion and one reasons besides the reason it actually is: that his call to me was a butt dial or a lapse in judgement. He’s still mad, and he doesn’t want to talk.

  “Who are you trying to reach, Charlie?” my dad says.

  “Finn. But he’s not picking up.”

  My dad frowns in confusion, “Just leave a message. He’ll call you back.”

  “She’s a millennial,” my mom says. “They don’t do that.”

  “That seems inconvenient,” my dad says. He barely checks his mirror before merging recklessly, looking befuddled when the other driver shoots him the bird. “I wish you’d told me you were trying to get in touch with Finn. I could have passed on a message when I saw him at the restaurant today.”

  “WHAT??!!” my mom and I shout.

  “Well, not at the restaurant. Across from it, in front of his family’s place.”

  “When was this?” I demand.

  “A few hours ago,” my dad says, zooming around the sane person in front of us going the speed limit.

  “Did you see him leave?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he says.

  “TAKE ME TO THE RESTAURANT NOW.”

  I race into Ryan’s Pub like … well, like the love of my life is inside and this is my last chance to get him back.

  Everyone turns to stare at me. My parents shuffle in behind me at a more sedate pace.

  Jim Ryan’s behind the bar, looking the same as ever.

  “Where is he? Where’s Finn?”

  It takes him a moment, but then he breaks into a smile. “Charlie! You changed your hair.”

  “Is Finn still here?”

  “No, he headed off to the concert.”

  I swear and run a hand through my hair.

  My parents exchange glances.

  My mom clears her throat, “Charlie, your dad and I were talking, and we could buy you a ticket, so you can get in to talk to him. They’re a little pricey, but we owe you the chance to have a real conversation with him.”

  I smile tightly, because I know they mean well, but right now I want to scream. “They’re all sold out. And he’s not answering his phone. And I don’t even know what city he’s going to be in tomorrow.”

  I sink into an old wooden chair, suddenly exhausted.

  “You really do love him,” my dad says quietly.

  I bury my face in my hands and nod.

  I’m in love with Finn Ryan. And he doesn’t love me back.

  My dad signals Jim. “Can I have a shot of whiskey please?”

  “I can do you one better. Want to be my date tonight?”

  I look up to tell him to go to hell—I’m sure as hell not going on a date with Finn’s brother—when I see what he’s holding up.

  Two tickets for tonight’s concert.

  “Oh my God. Yes. How did you …”

  “He gave them to me earlier. I was going to catch a bus in a few minutes, if you want to head over together …”

  “We’ll drive you,” my mom says firmly.

  Which is how I end up driving through a rainy San Francisco night, heading to my ex-boyfriend’s rock concert with his brother and my parents, all of them trying to give me romantic advice at once, with brief breaks to yell at other drivers.

  I ignore them all and focus on not puking from nerves.

  This is going to be fine. This is going to be fine. This is going to be fine …

  16

  Finn

  I’m in my dressing room playing through Charlie’s song one last time. A local band is on stage warming up the crowd. It’s a matter of minutes before someone pokes their head in here and tells me to get on stage.

  I feel scattered, like the way a wave sprays up when it crashes on rocks. I jolt from hope that I’m going to get to see Charlie again tomorrow and everything will be great, to fear that she’s never going to speak to me again. Sometimes I just think about her for a while, and that feels like a delicious treat, to let my mind go where it wants to, which is, always, back to Charlie. To her heat and strength and smile. I run through every memory I have of her, binge-watching all things Charlie.

  Thinking about singing my sappy love song in front of a crowd of thousands is almost a relief. At least that would be a failure that doesn’t involve Charlie.

  Except that it does, because she’s at the heart of the song. She’s at the heart of everything.

  Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. I’m even thinking like a cheesy pop-song.

  I shake out my hand and start marking my way through the chords to our normal opening song, when I hear shouting outside my dressing room.

  “Sir, you can’t be back here!”

  “Where is she? Where is that little bitch De Luca?” It’s a man’s voice, angry and belligerent.

  I charge out of the dressing room, and in an instant I’m backstage, eyes searching the room until I find a man being held back by Owen and a security guard.

  “Get your hands off me, or I’ll sue every one of you,” the man snarls. He reminds me of a used-car salesman gone feral. His suit is rumpled, and his slicked back hair is falling out of place. “I’m just. Trying. To get. What’s. Mine,” he hisses.

  “And what’s that?” I ask.

  “I just want my photos,” he says.

  Owen notices m
e. “Oh good, you’re here. He’s saying horrible crap about Charlie, and he won’t believe us that she’s not even here.”

  “Of course she’s here!” the man barks. “Why else would she leave me, unless you offered her something better? But I hired her first, and those photos are mine.”

  He makes a move to break free. I get a twisted pleasure out of watching him struggle, but I’m worried Owen will hurt his hand, so I motion to Owen and the security guard to let him go.

  They do, and the man tumbles into ground.

  “Let’s try this again. Who are you?”

  “Shaun Coleman. False Prophet. I am a member of the press.” He climbs to his feet, brushing the dirt off of his shins, “Last I checked we still had free press in this country.”

  “That entitles you to write whatever you want. It doesn’t entitle you to trespass.”

  Shaun sighs, and he suddenly looks old. Old and mean. “Look kid. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. Charlie doesn’t want to see me? Fine. But you have her send out her damn photos on a flash stick or whatever. Or I will make sure she never fucking works again. I will sue her into bankruptcy, and ruin her reputation and by the end of it she’ll wish she never heard your name—”

  “Shut up.” My jaw is tight with the effort not to punch him.

  “Oh, you think I don’t recognize you? You’re the dumbass who got seduced by the woman I hired to take you down. And now, what? You’re going to go all chivalrous on me? You lay a hand on me, it goes in the article. You threaten me, it goes in the article. Finn Ryan, Violent Thug.”

  My blood is boiling. This is the man who had Charlie under his thumb? Charlie got rid of Zane for me, but this whole time she’s been dealing with this … this scum.

  “Careful, Finn,” Mariana says behind me.

  Shaun grins. “Face it, Finn. You’re out of options. So you go be a good boy and tell your girlfriend to get me my fucking photos. Or she’ll wish she was dead—”

  I slam him against the wall.

  “Finn!” Owen shouts.

  I lift Shaun higher, so that his toes barely touch the ground. “You print whatever the hell you want about me. But you are done with Charlie De Luca. No more stalking, no more threats, no lawsuits. And if you so much as think about hurting her professional reputation, I will bury you alive. Do you understand me?”

  “Finn, stop!” Mariana says.

  “I said, do you understand me!” I shout at Shaun.

  He grins, and there’s a whiff of alcohol on his breath. “You can’t do anything to me.”

  “Wanna bet?” I shove him up higher, so his feet are all the way off the ground. And then I lean in next to him and I hiss, “You’ve got all your business friends. But I’ve got every musician you ever did a hatchet job on. And I will personally fund every one of their lawsuits. I wonder how many endless lawsuits before that magazine of yours decides you’re just not worth the trouble. We might have to move on to suing you after that, instead of the magazine. How much is your house worth?”

  “You’re a horrible person,” Shaun croaks. But he’s looking at me in fear, which is all I need.

  “FINN,” Bridget says. Apparently, Mariana and Owen brought in the cavalry.

  I release Shaun, and he stumbles sideways as his feet hit the ground, clutching the wall for balance.

  “You’re right. I am a horrible person,” I say. “But I’m her horrible person. So don’t. Fucking. Touch. Charlie De Luca. Understand?”

  Shaun nods frantically.

  I nod to the security guard, who escorts him out.

  I realize my hands are shaking from the adrenaline. There’s a burst of applause, and for a second I think it’s for me, but then I realize the warm-up band just wrapped up their set. They’re filing off the other side of the stage, while the crew quickly flips the setup for us.

  Mariana hands me my guitar, then slaps me on the back. “Ok. Enough heroics. Time to get your head back where it belongs. Don’t forget to make that signal clearer at the end of Owen’s second solo.” Then she pulls out her drumsticks, cracks her neck, and strides on stage to adoring applause.

  Owen gives me a thumbs up, but it’s a little nervous, like maybe he thinks I need anger management counseling. But, also, like he supports my journey and would personally drive me to each counseling session.

  I glance over at Bridget, but she just raises an eyebrow. “Add an extra zero to the year end bonuses you’re giving me and your P.R. agency, because you just made our jobs ten times harder. You’re lucky Sienna’s the best.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you disapprove. I got it,” I say, looking out at the stage.

  “I never said I disapproved,” Bridget says.

  I snap my head over to her.

  She gives me a small smile. “What? I do not approve of Miss De Luca lying to us. That doesn’t mean I don’t hope it works out for you. And it certainly doesn’t mean it wasn’t satisfying to watch you dispose of that toadish man.”

  I grin. I guess I’m not the only one who’s feeling a little more honest today.

  I take a sip of water, roll my shoulders back, bounce on my toes.

  And stride out into the roar of the crowd to play the most terrifying concert of my life.

  17

  Charlie

  We get stuck in traffic, a situation aggravated by my dad’s distrust of Google Maps, and arrive a few songs into their set. No one will let Jim and me anywhere close to backstage, so we file into the stadium.

  “We’ll catch him afterward,” Jim says, trying to cheer me up.

  I’m also realizing, as I look around at other women in makeup, or in cute outfits, or hell, just recently showered, that I’ve been traveling for over twenty four hours at this point, and probably look like hell. I’ve got day-old make-up, and my leggings and sneakers aren’t exactly attire that makes men swoon.

  At least my leather jacket makes me feel tough.

  We find our seats, which are dead center, about twenty rows up from where Finn’s light guy is running the projections.

  Jim looks around in wonder. “These people are really here to see him.” Jim looks down at me. “Can you believe it?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, as Finn steps up to the mic. “It’s Finn.”

  Jim rolls his eyes. “There’s an unbiased opinion.”

  “So, uh, I’m going to play something new tonight,” Finn says into the microphone, and the crowd cheers.

  “I wouldn’t cheer yet. You haven’t heard it.”

  There’s some good natured laughter, and Finn grins, before letting his voice get a little more unguarded. A little more sincere.

  “Seriously, this one might sound a little different than what you’re used to. I wrote it for this woman, who’s, uh, way out of my league.” More good natured laughter. “And I used to care about that. But now, frankly, I don’t give a fuck. I just want her back. So, naturally, you have to suffer through acoustic guitar.”

  There’s some murmurs from some of the die-hard fans, and I frown in confusion. Finn never plays acoustic in concert. It’s what he writes on, but he never brings it out on stage anymore.

  Finn starts playing, and the arena hushes. It’s a beautiful tumbling of golden notes. It wraps around me like a song I already know, and then I remember: this was the song he was playing by the window, in the hotel, after we had sex for the first time in ten years.

  I don’t know what he’s done to it, but it feels more hopeful. Fragile, yes, but hopeful. His voice is rich and strong as he begs this woman for another chance.

  But it’s not just the beauty of the music that has my throat aching and my heart racing. He’s filled the whole song with us. Every line laced with memories and jokes and promises. It sounds like typical artsy lyrics to everyone else listening, but to me it’s a description of the first place we kissed, of my favorite song, of the first time we said I love you.

  It’s beautiful.

  It’s like he’s highlighted every lyric with a
note: This song is about you, Charlie.

  It’s a gorgeous ode to everything we were, and I feel my eyes heat with tears.

  But then Finn keeps going. He doesn’t stop at the past. He’s singing about now. About my photo stopping him dead on an ordinary day, about seeing me in the airport, about fighting in the streets of New Orleans.

  About falling for me and trying not to. About realizing he was still in love with me, and not saying it, because he didn’t want to scare me off. When he gets to the part about thinking I was playing him, that I didn’t want him at all, his voice pierces the silence, and I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the pain.

  I think the song is going to stop there—where we stopped—but he’s still singing.

  And now my heart is pounding with a new weight. Because it feels like he’s asking me something. Something big and important and real.

  You said I had until dawn

  And I grabbed what you gave

  But here’s the thing about dawn

  It comes every day

  Give me chance after chance

  Until death do us part

  It’s always a lie

  If I say you don’t have my heart

  Here’s the thing ‘bout ‘till dawn’

  It can come every day

  The guitar notes fade a second before his voice does. And for a moment the whole arena is dead silent.

  And then everyone erupts in cheers.

  The applause is so loud, Jim has to lean into my ear to yell, “You know that was about you, right?”

  I nod, choking back tears.

  Finn loves me. He really loves. And I think maybe he always has. And always will.

  He can’t say it to my face, because it’s Finn. But he can tell a crowd of thousands.

  “Anyway, thanks for putting up with that. I wrote most of it today. I’m flying out to tomorrow to see her.” Finn gives the crowd a wry smile. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Why doesn’t he look happier?” I shout to Jim. “They loved his song.”