Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(63)

“You got it.”





The next night I have a date. With Becky, of course. She’s my entire social life these days. I find her seated already at the trendy new Melrose Mexican restaurant we’ve both been wanting to try. “Don’t look now,” she whispers as I slide in next to her. “Brad Pitt is three tables over.”

“No way, really?” I crane my neck.

“Didn’t I just say not to look?” she hisses.

I can only see the back of his head. I guess I can tell people that I saw Brad Pitt’s neck at dinner. “Did you order the guacamole?”

“A double portion. What do you take me for? And I see that Mr. Muscles got a nice seat at the bar.”

“Good for him,” I grumble, eyeing the margaritas at the next table. I suppose I could break my streak and just order one like a normal person. But Becky would eventually end up drinking it, because even though I know my phobia is irrational, I don’t feel like fighting it right now.

So I order a bottled beer unopened. We eat too many tacos and get a little slaphappy over Becky’s crush on our waiter. It’s all the more amusing because it’s mutual. Over the course of an hour, he checks on our table thirty times.

“Is there anything else I can bring you ladies?” he finally asks, his gazed locked on my assistant.

“Just the check,” I say.

“My pleasure.” He winks and turns away.

“Those dark eyes,” Becky hisses. “So hot.”

“He’s going to slip you his phone number,” I predict.

“He’d better.” She sighs. “I just hope he doesn’t assume I’m someone important.”

“What?”

“Sometimes people are nice to me because I’m sitting next to you.”

I blink. “But there are, like, hearts in his eyes when he looks at you. I don’t think you can fake that kind of attraction.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “But if he has hearts in his eyes and a demo tape in his glove compartment, it will still come up.”

“Well, I hope it doesn’t.” How depressing it is that my success complicates Becky’s life. Fame is paying for this dinner. But it has hidden costs.

“Hey, don’t worry about me. Your bonkers life doesn’t follow me home at night. It’s worse for you. You can’t ever stop being Delilah Spark.”

“Sure I can,” I argue as a reflex. But immediately I think of Silas. He liked me when I was just another failing musician. He liked me when I was broke and scared and had nothing to give but good conversation.

“You’ve got that dreamy look again,” Becky says. “The Silas face.”

“I do not,” I lie, picking up my beer bottle. But it’s already empty.

“You so do. Did he send you a goodnight photo? What is it this time?”

“Since you asked…” I dive into my purse and pull out my phone. Silas’s nightly photos have become the thing I most look forward to. The three-hour time difference means I’m often busy when he’s tucking himself in. So I always get a photo and a nice little note instead of a phone call.

I open my email and there he is. Goodnight from Brooklyn reads the subject line. Becky leans in.

“Hey,” I tease. “What if it’s a dick pic?”

“It won’t be. He’s more romantic than that.”

She’s right. These nightly notes are sweet and PG-rated. Usually there’s a shot of him reclining in bed—shirtless but not naked. Or of him putting a record onto the turntable I sent him, or drinking milkshakes in the kitchen with his roommates.

Tonight’s photo is different, though. When it loads, he’s not in the shot at all. Instead, I see an attractive room with wood floors and fancy old windows set into a brick wall. There’s a view of a bridge outside and sunlight glinting off the glass.

Hey D.

My teammate Dave is selling his apartment, and it’s putting a lot of crazy ideas in my head. For the first time in my life I’ve got the itch to buy an apartment and figure out my life. I’m not buying it, though. There are a lot of reasons to hold off.

But it sure would be nice. Especially if you were here with me.

And before you remind me that I’m not allowed to make serious plans, I get it. I’m not asking you to make big sacrifices for me, and I don’t know what the future holds. But I wanted you to know how appealing it is to me to think about waking up together every morning for the rest of my life. I want us to stand beside each other in this kitchen, making toast while we’re still too sleepy to talk.

You and I can’t make plans. But I still have goals. I’m okay with filing them under “someday.” I’m a patient man.

Sleep tight.

S.





I finish reading the note with a lump in my throat. But I’m not too broken up to take another good look at that photo. I like what I see. Maybe I’m a reckless girl, but I want to stand in front of those windows and plan my weekend with Silas.

“And I’m dead,” Becky announces. “No comment from me, because I have died.”

Someone clears his throat. “Does that mean I can’t ask you out?” asks our ever-present waiter. “Because I totally put my phone number at the bottom of this check.”