The Bodyguard (57)

“Huh,” I said.

“I’m not complaining,” Jack said then.

“I know.”

“It’s a great job. There’s freedom. And money. And clout. But it’s complicated.”

I nodded in agreement. “Like everything.”

“People who want to be famous think it’s the same thing as being loved, but it’s not. Strangers can only ever love a version of you. People loving you for your best qualities is not the same as people loving you despite your worst.”

“So,” I said, “until the whole nation has seen your boxer briefs on the bathroom floor…”

Jack gave a decisive nod. “Then it’s not true love.”

I relaxed for a minute and let my swing slow down.

Jack went on. “It skews your perspective, too. Everybody wants to be around you all the time, and they hang on your every word and laugh at everything even if it’s not funny, and you’re kind of the center of every situation you’re in.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad, though.”

“But then you get used to it. You start forgetting to notice other people or ask them about themselves. You start believing your own hype. Everybody treats you like you’re the only person that matters … and you just start thinking that’s true. And then you become a narcissistic asshole.”

“You didn’t do that.”

“I did, though. For a while. But I’m trying not to be like that anymore.”

“Is that why you took a break from acting?”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “That. And my brother died.”



* * *



LOOK, I KNEW I was letting myself get confused.

I just didn’t know how to stop it.

And then one day, near the end of a late-morning jog we took to the river and back, Jack said—no joke: while jogging—“I found your song.”

“What song?” I asked.

“The one you’re always humming.” He took out his phone—still jogging—and pulled up a song on it.

“How did you find it?” I asked.

“I secretly recorded you,” Jack said.

“That’s not creepy,” I said.

“The point is, I solved the mystery,” Jack said. “You’re welcome.”

We were on a straightaway, in our last quarter mile, heading back to the house on the gravel road. Jack held the phone vaguely in my direction as he jogged along by my side.

But as soon as the song started playing, I slowed to a stop.

That song? That was the song I was always humming? I knew that song.

Jack stopped beside me, letting it play.

“Recognize it?” he asked after a bit, a little out of breath.

“Yes,” I said, not offering more.

It was an oldie by Mama Cass called “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” When the song started over, I sang along with the first line: “Stars shining bright above you…” When I was little, my mom used to sing it all the time—while doing dishes, while driving carpool, while tucking me into bed.

“So what’s the deal?” Jack asked.

“It’s just a song I know,” I said.

“How do you know it?”

“My mom used to sing it all the time when I was a kid. But I haven’t heard it in years and years.”

“Except for, like, every day, when you’re humming it.”

I didn’t argue.

When the song ended, Jack put his phone away. It suddenly seemed awfully quiet.

“I think she only sang that song when she was happy,” I said.

Jack just nodded.

“If I’m honest, I can’t remember her singing it—not even once—after my dad left.”’

Jack nodded again, and as I felt the tenderness in the way he was watching me, I also felt a rising pain in my chest—penetrating, like when your hands have gotten too cold and then you put them in hot water. A thawing pain that stung behind my ribcage and then climbed up into my throat.

And I guess the only way that pain could get itself out was to melt into tears.

I felt them sting my eyes.

I stayed very still, like if I didn’t move, Jack might not notice.

But of course he noticed. He was six inches away and staring right at me.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice soft.

I kept still.

“You can tell me,” he said again. “It’s okay.”

It’s okay. I don’t know what kind of magic he infused into those two words, but somehow, when he said them, I believed him. Everything I had ever told myself about being professional and staying on guard and maintaining boundaries just … fluttered off in the wind.

I blame the sunshine. And the long grass. And that endless, gentle breeze over the pasture. I gave in.

“My dad left when I was seven,” I said then, my voice shaking, “and my mom started dating a guy named Travis pretty soon after that, and he…” How to phrase it? “He wasn’t the nicest guy in the world.” I took a shaky breath. “He yelled at her a lot. He picked on her and told her she was ugly. He drank every night—and she started drinking, too.”

Quietly, without even shifting his gaze, Jack took one of my hands and wrapped it in his.