When in Rome(12)

I groan and snatch my keys off the counter. “Get the pies out when the timer goes off and then shut off the oven. Lock up on your way out.”

“Uh…I have a job, you know?” he says to my retreating back.

“Funny. Didn’t seem like it five minutes ago when you were helping yourself to coffee and a chat.”

I hear him chuckle. “Fine. But I’m taking a pie with me when I leave!”





Chapter 5


    Amelia


Turns out, impulsive decisions really do look different in the light of day. Correction: not different—bad. They look very, very bad.

I am in a strange house, in the middle of nowhere, with a broken-down car, zero cell service, and my only somewhat-kind-of-friendish person left me with a note explaining who to call to get my car fixed, but no other guidance. I guess that’s better than nothing. This is a completely new experience for me, though. Usually I have strange men climbing my gate to get into my house with me, not clearing out before I’m even awake so they don’t have to see me.

“Okay, Amelia, you can do this,” I say out loud, because it seems talking to myself is my new MO. It is completely ridiculous that I would be nervous to call an automotive shop, but it’s been a while since I’ve done…well, anything for myself. I usually leave all scheduling up to Susan or Claire. I haven’t made a single appointment for myself in ten years, and if that’s not bad enough, I don’t even drive myself to them.

Fame came swiftly for me. One day I was normal—a high school student posting a video on YouTube of me singing one of my original songs at my piano. The next, I was an internet sensation. I posted daily videos of my original songs as well as popular covers and people went nuts over them. Back then, when the term “going viral” was still new, I felt like an anomaly. Even before I ever released a professionally recorded album, people knew who I was from my YouTube channel. I was praised for my mature sound—a soulful voice that belonged to a thirty-year-old even though I was only sixteen.

I remember getting booked for weddings and special events for two hundred dollars and thinking I was filthy rich. But I didn’t care about the money. It was worth it just to finally play my music in front of others. And then when I was seventeen years old, a manager (Susan) reached out telling me she thought I had something special and wanted to help take my career to big places. And she was right. It all happened so fast after that. Susan helped me land a record deal that made me internationally famous, and nothing could have ever prepared me for how completely it would change my life. How it would ruin my relationship with my mom.

Those first few years were pretty thrilling, and my mom and I were still close. Fame was deliciously satisfying…until it wasn’t. I gained all these celebrity friends, who I quickly realized would never be anything more than surface level. You know, the kind that asks how are you? and you say great! even if your life is falling apart. Definitely not the sort of friends you can text an SOS from the bathroom at a party, admitting you accidentally clogged the toilet and need a getaway car.

From the outside, people would think I have it all. Rae Rose is strong, talented, poised, and oh-so-successful. She owns any room she walks into and her confidence behind a microphone will make your knees buckle. The problem is, even I am not Rae Rose. I don’t run my social media, I don’t choose my outfits for events or interviews, I want to call my mom more than anything but our relationship is crap so I don’t, and most of the stories I tell on talk shows have been finely tuned and vetted by my PR team first. Rae is nothing but a character I hide behind, because I learned from a young age that faking confidence is the only way to make it through this business.

But the more times I have to put on that facade each day, the more I feel myself slipping away. I miss Amelia. I miss the days when playing music and singing was what it was all about. These days, I’m nothing but a maxed-out credit card that everyone keeps swiping.

And at this moment, I would trade my celebrity confidence for basic social skills in a heartbeat. Because I have to make a simple phone call and my hand is shaking. What do I even say when I call? I lift the ancient dinosaur phone from the receiver, and it’s so heavy I’m going to count it as my upper body workout for the day. In my other hand, I clutch Noah’s note like a lifeline. His handwriting is beautiful. I trace my thumb across the bubbly swoops and slashes of each letter, realizing how rare it is for someone to write in cursive these days. Somehow, these letters perfectly match the man. Intriguing. Commanding. Precise. And yet…there’s a softness to them.

When I bring myself to stop fondling Noah’s note, I steel myself and punch in the phone number. And, wow, that’s the most satisfying thing I’ve ever done. Do people know these old phones are the equivalent of a fidget popper? My smartphone is going to be a horrific letdown after using this thing. I’m momentarily calmed by these satisfying buttons, but when the line starts ringing, my anxiety jumps up again.

Would it have killed Noah to give me a tad more direction? This note—however beautiful and frameworthy—is severely lacking. I’m told to Ask for Tommy. He’ll tow your car and fix it for a good price. Well, I hate to sound like a snob, but I’m not exactly worried about the price. In fact, I’d love to pay this Tommy a million dollars if he’ll assure me I won’t be abducted by him or anyone else in his automotive shop.