By Penelope Ward
I stayed close to the door as Tristan sifted through some stuff. There were a bunch of papers with handwritten words scattered on his bed. A leather jacket lay over a chair. He’d lit a candle on the bedside table—smelled like vanilla. This scene was a little different than I might’ve imagined in here. Much more Zen.
He zipped open a bag. “I guess you didn’t realize wrangling drunk assholes was part of your job?”
“Thankfully, it’s not, usually.”
“I kind of feel guilty now,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”
“What do you mean? The condoms weren’t for you…”
He froze for a moment. “Condoms?”
“That’s why I was over here. To drop off condoms for Atticus.”
“What a jackass.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, what I meant was, you were nervous about taking this job to begin with. I told you nothing bad happens on tour. And then you ran into that situation tonight. I was the one who told Doug to hire you.”
I nodded as understanding dawned. “Thank you for putting in a good word, by the way. I wasn’t sure you remembered me. We haven’t spoken since the tour started.”
“Don’t take it personally. Tour’s just been crazy. I’ve been meaning to say hello. Just under different circumstances.”
I nodded. “Why did you tell them to hire me? You don’t even know me.”
“I liked that you didn’t know who I was. That was the first time in a long time someone’s looked me in the eyes and seen a normal person, not some musician they’ve made a million incorrect assumptions about.”
“I saw more than your eyes in that bathroom, unfortunately.”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. I’m just kidding. I was the idiot who walked into the men’s room. Served me right.” My eyes traced the ink at the base of his neck, just peeking out from his white T-shirt. “Anyway, I probably would’ve recognized you from the Internet if you hadn’t had that long beard.”
“That’s exactly why I had the beard. I grow one every recording season when we don’t have to perform. It helps me not be recognized in public. I hated having to cut it before the tour.”
“Makes sense.”
Tristan opened another drawer and finally pulled out the ibuprofen. “Ah! Got it.” He handed me two pills and a bottle of water.
“Thanks.” I cracked open the bottle and took a sip before downing the meds. “I’m surprised you’re alone tonight.”
“Why is that?”
“I’ve heard you guys have a different girl every night on hotel stops.”
“Wow.” He scratched his chin. “A different girl every night. I think my dick would fall off. Where are you getting your information?”
“I don’t disclose my sources.”
He shrugged. “Some nights I just want to be alone. I do have to write music at some point, rest my voice, get sleep.”
I nodded. Now the papers scattered over his bed made sense. “You write a lot on the road?”
“I write whenever inspiration strikes, but being on the road is actually when I’m most creative. Late at night on the bus, when everything goes quiet? That’s what I like best about touring. That’s my favorite time to write.”
“That’s my favorite time of the day lately, too. There’s something so relaxing about staring out at the moving darkness.”
He cocked his head. “What do you do?”
“On the bus? Read or listen to podcasts…”
“Sorry, I meant in general. What do you do when you’re not held captive by a tour for four months?”
“Not much of anything, actually. I’m trying to find my place in the world at the moment. I just graduated from Nevada State University.”
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-two.” I’d googled his age but asked anyway. “How old are you?”
“Almost thirty-eight. Old as fuck, right?”
“You don’t look thirty-eight. I would’ve guessed, like, thirty.”
“What did you study at Nevada State? Blowing smoke up people’s asses?” He winked.
I laughed. “It’s true. You look younger. But I majored in communications.”
“Nice.”
I shrugged. “Well, it’s been challenging finding a job with such a broad degree.”
“You’re in a good position,” he assured me. “I envy you.”
“Envy me?” I drew my brows in. “Why?”
“You’re a blank slate with your whole life ahead of you. Some days I wish I could go back and start over.”
“Why would you want to do that? You’re a huge star. If you did even one thing differently, you might not be where you are today.”
“Where I am today isn’t all it’s chalked up to be.” He sighed. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m very grateful for it all. But there’s always a price to pay for fame. Like giving up your privacy.”
“Yeah. I’m seeing that. You guys can’t go anywhere without being mobbed.”
“You clearly don’t give a shit who I am, though. I need that sometimes.” He smiled. “Your innocence is refreshing, Emily.”
Innocence? “I may be young. But I’m not innocent.” I scoffed.
“I don’t believe you. I can see it in your eyes. You’re innocent as hell.”
“You’re not a good reader of people, then.”
Tristan crossed his arms. “Tell me the worst thing you’ve done, and I’ll believe you.”
No one had ever asked me such a direct question before. And something about looking into this man’s eyes made me want to answer honestly.
So I did.
