Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(35)

“That’s for you. This is for me.” I pluck a sealed bottle of orange juice off the tray. “And this is for you.” There’s another glass, this one with a paper hat as its only cover. “Fresh squeezed.”

He looks from his juice to mine. “Still opening all your own bottles?”

“Habit,” I say, popping the lid off of mine. Although we both know that phobia is more accurate.

He watches me take a sip, but he doesn’t say anything more about it. He sits down on the sofa with his glass, and pats the cushion beside him.

“Can’t believe I have to fly out this morning. I’ll have to leave here in forty-five minutes.” I put a hand on his knee and squeeze. Not like it’s easy. His leg muscles are like iron.

He covers my hand with his. “What’s your least favorite airport?” he asks. “Let’s compare notes.

“Boston!” I say immediately. “And Fort Lauderdale.”

“I dislike Chicago, myself,” he says. “Bagel?” He hands me a plate with an easy smile.

And I fall for him a little harder.





Delilah





On the flight home, I’m all keyed up inside.

“I say this with love,” Becky starts from the generously sized seat beside mine. “Stop tapping your heel or I’ll throw those shoes into the first-class toilet.”

My feet go silent for a minute or two, but then start up again when I return to thinking about Brett and his stupid meeting.

I have to get my songs back from that man. I just don’t know how.

“For the love of God,” Becky hisses, pressing down on my wiggling knee. “You’re not behaving the way someone who had sex three times last night should behave.”

“Wait.” I rotate in my seat to face her. “Who told you that?”

She bursts out laughing. “You did—just now. And I do appreciate it.” She tips her head back onto the headrest. “Wow. Three, huh? Does he have any friends? That is some serious stamina.”

“Shh.” I rise up and peek into the row behind us. But the octogenarians in 2a and 2b are both asleep. And Mr. Muscles is back in the main cabin, because I didn’t upgrade him like I did for Becky.

“Tell me everything,” Becky whispers. “Is he good with his hands? Do goalies do it better?”

Her question makes me picture Silas’s hands, which have always fascinated me. And my face heats just thinking of all the places he put them…

Becky laughs again. “Your face says it all. And nobody deserves a fun night like you.”

“Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome!” She beams. “Look, there are a few things we need to talk about before we get back to California. Some are more fun than others. I have a few business items for you, and then today’s Sparkle. It’s the best one ever.”

We have this silly tradition. Becky deals with a lot of bad news—gossip pieces and other bullshit in my life—so every night she gives me something good. It might be a fan letter, or it might be a video of a kitten being rescued off the median of a highway. It’s always something worth cheering over. We call it the daily Sparkle.

I fucking love Becky.

“We still have this meeting with Charla Harris, right?” I ask first. The whole point of a morning flight was getting back in time to see a manager in the late afternoon. Of all the names we reached out to, Harris was the only one who said it would be tricky to “squeeze me in” this week. Though she has a great reputation.

“Yep,” Becky says. “I emailed her your existing contract with Ferris. But last night she asked for a royalty statement, and I balked. I didn’t want to send her any dollar figures without talking to you first.”

“Wow. She needs to make sure I’m worth the money, so she knows whether to cancel the meeting?” I’m only twenty-six years old, and already I have a jaundiced view of the music industry. Music is beautiful, but its business people are all sharks. Most days I think I should just go live on a mountaintop somewhere with my guitar.

“You can give her the royalty statement this afternoon, if it still seems like a good idea,” Becky says.

“Okay. What else?”

She makes a grim face. “Two items. Neither is very nice.”

“Spit it out already.”

“A news thing.” She sighs. “Just a stupid gossip column about you and Brett. I just want those stories to die.”

“Where? What does it say?”

“The Post has a shot of you walking into his office building yesterday. And there’s a snarky line about how you were done with Brett Ferris because he already gave you your big break.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s the typical misogynistic bullshit. Men deserve all their successes, but women probably sleep their way to the top.”

“The joke’s on them,” I grumble. “I only wanted him to love me.” Or anyone to love me, really. I was such a needy little thing. And Brett knew that. He spend three years doling out affection with an eyedropper, and I was always waiting there, needing another hit.

“Someday the record will be set straight,” Becky says. “Brett Ferris is a weasel, and the world will know.”

I feel another rush of love for Becky, who—in spite of trading in gossip for a living—still believes in justice and happy endings. She’s twenty-three, exactly the same age as I was when I met Silas but then started sleeping with Brett. It’s an age where you still believe that anything is possible.