Page 32 of Rumor Has It

“Paisley must be the same way, about music?”

“Nope. She has her favorite songs. But music isn’t in her bones and most of her appreciation for it comes from me being in the business.”

“Daveigh is like that, too. It’s meaningful to her because it is to me, but it’s not innate.”

“What does she do then?” I’m curious.

Jake and Cris both got married after establishing their careers in the industry.

“Daveigh? She’s a veterinarian,” Cris says.

I rear back. “Well, that’s about as far from what we do as it gets.”

A knock at the door announces lunch. Cris tells whoever it is we’ll be out as soon as we set room to rights.

There’s a guitar beside me whose strings I’ve been picking. I place it back on the stand in the corner. Then I collect my notebooks and copies of the sheet music we’ve scribbled on.

As I clean up, it strikes me how easily I convinced myself that marrying my celebrity equal was the right thing to do. What my spouse does for a living shouldn’t matter one way or another. Until Jake brought up a seemingly perfect woman, who didn’t wind up becoming his wife, I’m not sure why I never considered that plenty of artists have spouses who aren’t singers. Most of the ones I’m familiar with met their husbands and wives long before they hit it big. In country music, a lot started out in the same church choirs.

For the last few months, I’ve explored a lot of feelings. It ties me in knots that I married a pop princess, thought the shine wouldn’t wear off, and that we’d make a real go of our golden life.

I walk behind Jake down the hall, toward where their wives have laid the food out. His tall, thin frame moves out of the way. The first person I see is Cassidy and my heart skips a beat. I hadn’t expected her to stick around and suddenly I understand why it matters that she stayed.

On the surface we have nothing in common, but I like her. A lot.

If Cris and Jake made a go of it with their wives, it means there’s hope for whatever is happening between Cassidy and me. It doesn’t need an expiration date. We can see where things take us. I’m not looking to get remarried. I just… Selfishly, I don’t really want to be without her. The hollow part of me—the part that’s desperate to take Monty’s advice—believes I have a right to put myself first.

Cassidy spoons coleslaw onto Cris and Jake’s plates. Her false smile doesn’t make her big brown eyes light up the way they do when we’re alone. I’m next in line. She pretends not to notice me.

“Thank you,” I say, moving along and putting a flaky biscuit next to my fried chicken.

Her polite “you’re welcome” is an almost inaudible squeak.

My ego belly flops from ten thousand feet. Didn’t we fuck this morning? And last night? I was certain we had a great date. Except, now I’m not so sure the evening meant to Cassidy what it had to me.

An older, taller version of Cassidy whispers something in Cassidy’s ear. Cassidy stiffens. The tension coming off her in waves has me turning my head toward the other blonde woman.

“Don’t mind me. I’m just her mom, Keely Cavanaugh.” Cassidy’s mother sends me a smile and extends her hand. “Her father, Colton, is over there, sitting on the couch next to Paisley and Jake.”

Cassidy rolls her eyes. “You know what? I,um,I need to go. I just remembered no one is at the mansion to accept Isaiah’s delivery.” Cassidy drops the serving spoon with a clatter, high-tailing it out of the kitchen. She dodges her father’s question about where she’s running off to so fast, the door practically slams behind her.

My muscles tense. I have a keen awareness that my fixation on Cassidy during her hasty exit is abnormal, as is the ensuing silence in the Sanchez house. I put my plate down, begging the ladies to excuse my bad manners while avoiding the stares of some rather grumpy old men.

Outside, I duck and dart between tree limbs, trying to find Cassidy. Arms swinging, she’s already crossed the access road between the Victorian and the stable yard. I have to sprint to catch up with her.

“Where are you going?” I’m cautious not to yank Cassidy by the elbow.

“What?” she snaps as I fall in stride. “I said where I was going. Go eat your lunch.”

“So, we’re pretending you aren’t upset?”

Casey stops and crosses her arms. The action lifts her breasts in the most unfair way.

“What did I do wrong, Cass?”

“Nothing!” she exclaims, throwing up her hands and attempting again to storm away.

“Then can you at least tell me what happened? You booked it out of there like your pants were on fire.”

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