Dirty Letters(42)

She and I sat across from each other at our candlelit table, enjoying an intimate dinner. We dug into our salads while waiting for the main course.

Luca picked at her greens. “Is it weird that I’m actually going to miss the letters?”

“Not a bit. But who says they have to stop?”

“I guess we never discussed it. But I can’t imagine we’ll continue writing handwritten letters now that we’ve met?”

Putting my fork down and reaching across the table for her hand, I said, “I want to stay in touch, Luca. I want to hear from you every day whether it’s an e-mail, a phone call, or a fucking singing telegram from someone dressed as a wiener. I just want to hear from you.”

I could relate to that feeling of impending loss over the letters, though. Our invisible connection was a huge part of us. We would never experience that intimacy quite the same way ever again. I hoped things would be even better now, but Luca’s concerns about my life weren’t exactly unfounded. I just didn’t quite know if I would be able to prove her wrong about whether this could work. I had the will . . . but did I really have the way? My situation was complicated. Actually, it was more like a complete circus.

Our food finally arrived. I’d ordered the filet mignon and Luca got trout in a garlic-lemon sauce.

As I cut into my steak, I asked, “Have you heard from Doc?”

“He called me right before the car came to pick us up. The connection was staticky, so I couldn’t really make out what he was saying, but he sounded so happy. Where did you have the driver take him?”

“I called the zoo and asked if I could rent out the aviary after it closed. That’s where he is right now. He has it all to himself.”

Luca smiled wide. “Wow. He must be overjoyed. Thank you for arranging that. For someone who adopted a minimalist life back home, Doc sure seems to be getting acclimated to your pool house, housekeeper, and all of the special treatment.”

“Well, he’s welcome back anytime. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. I hope you know that.”

“Thank you. Truly. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It’s my pleasure. I owe Doc a lot for helping to get you here. It was a gift. Lord knows how long it would have taken me before I figured out how to tell you about Cole. I’ll always be grateful for him . . . and my little stalker.”

She wiped her mouth. “It was reciprocal stalking if my memory serves me correctly.”

“That it was.”

Our eyes locked. My mind wandered to that amazing blowjob she’d given me earlier. My dick stiffened. I wanted nothing more than to return the favor tonight.

“So when do you leave for Vancouver again?” she asked, interrupting my fantasizing.

The thought of my upcoming trip filled me with dread.

“In about a week.”

“It’s a music festival, you said?”

“Yeah. It’s called Beaverstock.”

“Beaver?”

“It’s a vagina festival.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“I’m joking. The name apparently comes from the urban beavers that dwell in the city.”

“Wow. Okay.”

“This is our second year doing it.”

“When do you go on tour next?”

“The US leg is in about a month. A dozen cities. Then we have a small European tour a few months after that.”

“Twelve cities in a row?”

“Yes.”

“That must be so hectic. Is it nonstop?”

“Pretty much. Sometimes you get a day or two in between, but I much prefer it that way. I would rather get it over with and have a chunk of time to myself again.”

I could practically see the fears swirling around in her head, visions of girls in tour buses, bras being flung everywhere. Booze spilling. Music blaring. Cocaine snorting. Her fear was palpable.

“As crazy as my life can be at times,” I said, “there are lulls . . . weeks at a time where I can go away, do what I please. Things are busy now with recording the new album, but once that’s done and the tour is over, things will calm down a bit.”

That statement was an attempt to try to convince her that my life did contain some small periods of “normalcy.”

“What will you do when you get home, Luca?”

She sighed as if the answer was daunting. “I plan to get started on the book I daydreamed about on the ride here.”

“Do you have to turn it in by a certain time?”

“No. Because I’m way ahead of my deadline, I have lots of wiggle room. I stick to a schedule, but it’s not the end of the world if it changes a bit.”

“That’s brilliant. Tell me about your newest character. What’s his or her deal?”

“Well . . . he’s British.”

“Oh yeah?” I winked. “Inspired by anyone in particular?”

“Well, I’d be lying if I said my interactions with you didn’t influence that decision. But you’re not a serial killer. And he is. So there’s that. That’s the main difference.”

I shrugged. “Details . . .”

We got a good laugh at that, and apparently it faded into my staring at her as I often did, which prompted her to ask, “What?”