Page 32 of That Reunited Feeling

Her brow crinkles into deep, puzzled lines. “On a map?”

“No. In person.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Is she pretending to avoid the question? “I mean, come with me, Hannah.”

“What? No. Why?”

“Because I value your opinion. And because looking at bands is more fun not alone.”

“No. I’m still not sure about living under the same roof as you, never mind working for you. So I’m certainly not going out scouting bands with you too.”

“Did you have fun organizing the evening?”

“Yes.”

“Working for me isn’t so bad, then.”

“The work is fine. It’s the ‘for you’ part that bothers me.”

“When was the last time you went out for the evening? To a bar. With music. And beer.”

For a microsecond, she looks like she’s struggling to remember, then snaps out of it. “Irrelevant.”

Her defiance, her independence, her fuck-you-for-breaking-my-heartness is intoxicating. And now I want to stand in a dark, sticky bar drinking beer and critiquing musicians and singers with her more than I want to take my next breath.

“If my last effort at getting myself to the right place at the right time is anything to go by, I’m not sure I can be trusted to even get to them by myself.”

“I’ll book you a driver,” she says, as if she’s always been around people who drop cash on a private chauffeur whenever they want. She’s taken to this job like a duck to the pond at the end of Maggie and Jim’s enormous garden—when it’s not frozen over, that is.

Maybe honesty would be the most effective tactic. “Okay. The real reason is that I’d appreciate your input, your thoughts.”

“Uh-huh.” She tips her head. “Suuuuuure.” She smears the word with skepticism.

“Truly.” I hold my hands out wide. “It was you who got me into music, remember? It was you who played me your dad’s Bob Dylan and Ramones albums and taught me the difference between blues and soul.”

Her face softens around the edges. She can’t deny the truth. But, unwilling to give in completely, her mouth and eyes remain steadfastly firm.

“Seriously,” I continue. “I might not have ever started the business if you hadn’t gotten me interested in all that.”

She shakes her head, like that’s a ridiculous suggestion. “Oh, I doubt that very much.”

Looking down, she plays with the hem of her shirt. Another of those signs that she badly wants to do the thing she says she doesn’t want to do.

When was the last time anyone praised her for her work? For her ideas? For how goddamn brilliant she would be at anything she turned her hand to if only she’d been given the chance?

“And it’syouwho should have been in the music biz. It’s you who should be in one of the bands I’ve signed. Or as a solo artist.”

“Pfft. Sure.” She blows out a breath. “Having a kid with a dad who disappeared faster than an ice cube in hell, then a boyfriend who liked me to stay home, wasn’t exactly conducive to a career involving late night gigs and travel.”

What the hell does she mean, the last guy liked her to “stay home”? “Why did he like you to stay home?”

She folds her arms tight across her chest as if attempting to form a wall around herself, and all the joy that was on her face when she entered the room fades. “I came here to tell you I’d gotten you in to see Divine Justice.” Her voice is deflated, her eyes downcast. “It wasn’t easy. I had to stretch the truth a little.” She digs her socked toe into the rug. “And that I’ve found acouple others for you to see to make the most of your time. That was all I came to talk about.”

Shit. I must have crossed a line I didn’t know was there. The line right in front of the reason why her last relationship ended so suddenly.

“I wouldn’t ask you why your wife left you,” she adds.

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