Page 89 of Rumor Has It

“Nope. Sober for going on eleven years,” he responds, biting into his sandwich.

“I didn’t know that. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Miss Cassidy. Some days are harder than others. But it’s worth it.”

“I make a mean mocktail. Any flavors you prefer?”

Some evenings, if Aria goes to bed early, I have an extra few hours on my hands and whip up snacks for after the show. I’ve worked in a kitchen since I was a teen and think I’m conditioned to make appetizers.

“This lemonade’s just fine. You don’t have to dress it up. I like nothing fancy.” He lifts his cup.

We’re on a two-day stop, camped overnight outside an arena. I underestimated how close cities were in the northeast and how many country fans lived above the Mason-Dixon line. Isaiah has performed multiple consecutive shows in several states, mostly over the weekends, but there’s always the exception. A Tuesday or a Wednesday at a coliseum or at the field house at a large university. Flying to Texas or Tennessee on Isaiah’s off days doesn’t make a heck of a lot of sense. In between, we sneak in and out of rural America where folks do double takes, shaking their heads that an Isaiah Roomer lookalike is in their small town. Sometimes they approach him bewildered and ask for an autograph, but overall it’s more likely our presence goes unnoticed and we’re a random couple out with their baby.

I’m not alone in my road-weariness and I’m cautiously optimistic about the upcoming reprieve when we arrive in Nashville. Although my fingertips prickle with unease at the thought of sautéing at Isaiahs’ house there. It feels like we’ve traveled non-stop as Dillon navigates at the head of the caravan of buses through Boston, New York, Philadelphia and Baltimore. I’m glad I don’t have his job. The congestion on the highways scares me.

At this location, there’s a mammoth Whole Foods nearby. My hair pulled under a baseball cap and a blanket draped over the baby carrier on my chest, Monty pushed the buggy while I went a little nuts shopping. Lunch today is peach and Prosciutto sandwiches on crusty baguette loaves with melted white cheddar, leaf spinach, sliced tomatoes and a tangy mustard dressing. My mouth is watering and I can’t wait to eat, but I have to fix a basket of food that’s going inside and the last batch of homemade potato chips is in the air fryer.

I don’t cook every day for Isaiah’s entire entourage, nor do I feed them every meal, but I enjoy the days that I do. It keeps me busy, and it makes me feel useful. Everyone from the bass guitarist to Dillon has offered their gratitude, so that helps. My cooking is one less meal they have to eat that comes out of a greasy fast food bag.

Maybe I’m also trying to win them over. Aside from Isaiah’s viper, no one is unkind to me. But someone took our sweet moment, when Isaiah brought the baby with him and surprised me with his new song, and tipped the press off. I’ve had my privacy invaded. Under a microscope, every fissure is my fault. When I set foot outside of the bus, the media circus makes the weight of posing as Aria’s mother daunting. I’ve had to reassure my parents that I know what I’m doing by not speaking up and correcting the assumption that Aria’s my child and not Isaiah’s, like we led them to believe. I’ve had to remember I was never the other woman because the real issue is there was another man. I love Isaiah and how protective he is of Aria and me. Except, I don’t think I’d have the stomach to lie if I didn’t love her so much. If I didn’t want to protect her from the ugliness out there so that she grows up healthy and with a strong sense of self.

When we’re alone, it feels like I expect having a family would.

When we’re alone, my mind wanders, wondering if she’ll be front toothless in her first grade picture and if I’ll drop her off at dance class or gymnastics or if she’ll prefer riding horses.

Aria is playing in the hallway. She climbs in and out the lower bunk with ease, scattering her toys in front of the closed bedroom door. The familiar thumps, clicks and jingles let me know she’s okay. The tactile crinkle sound of a stuffed dog she likes to chew on catches my attention.

“Mmm,”She hums, with the dog dangling by its ear gripped between her tiny pearl teeth.

Everything goes in her mouth, especially when she’s hungry. And almost always it’s the same toy. She’s pulled herself up to standing and is using the bunks to maintain her balance as she cruises toward the banquette. Her proud smile around the fabric is adorable and makes my heart swell.

“Are you ready for lunch, too?” I kneel far enough away for the baby to be daring and close enough that Isaiah won’t miss her first steps and hold my hand out to her.

I worry about her first hard tumble when she starts walking. Inevitably, that morphs into her first skinned knee. Learning to ride a bike. Suddenly, I’m jumping the hurdle of helping her mend her first broken heart.

Aria’s first birthday is so close. Isaiah and I plan to keep it small. Outside of the people the baby sees daily, we’ve only invited Rhiannon. My cousin is photographing Aria with her smash cake. I’ve pulled the exact Chantilly cake recipe I want to use from the Benita’s box. I’m keeping the frosting white and dying two of the layers pink to make a checkerboard pattern, and intend to decorate it with strawberries and bananas, which are Aria’s favorite fruits. I’m not sure how I’ll top her birthday cake next year and I know thinking about her next birthday is getting too far ahead of myself.

The longer I pretend to be her mother, the more I want to believe Aria will always be ours. Some days I’m hopeful and other days worry about who will care for her and keep her safe stops me from eating.

I lift her to my hip, offer her a homemade chip in exchange for the dog, and check the remaining time on chips still baking. Aria squirms, pointing her chip at the container of cajun ranch dipping sauce that belongs in the picnic basket. I spoon out a bit on a plate and let her poke her chip into the creamy puddle.

“She sure is a healthy baby. A healthy eater.” Dillon says.

“I lucked out. Aria’s not picky.”

“Were you?”

“I’ve never asked my mom. I’m apt to say I wasn’t, since I’m all about food now.”

“What about her father?”

My natural inclination is to say Isaiah is a member of the clean plate club. Between his workout regimen and two-hour performances multiple nights a week, the man eats non-stop. But biologically, there’s no connection. “I don’t know. Her father hasn’t been a part of her life.” Through murky shades of gray, I tell the truth.

When Dillon nods, I feel like I’ve dodged a bullet. We’re in our driver’s company a lot. Dillon is a nice guy who lends a hand whenever I need it. There’s a level of comfort I have with him around that mirrors the comfort I have with Monty and Steve. Except, knots form in my stomach over this humble exchange. Was Dillon prying for information about my relationship with Isaiah, attempting to get me to admit we were involved before Kylie passed?

Aria’s seat is ready at the table. I keep her in my arms and push the under-the-counter trash back into place with my foot. The barrel is brimming from food prep and I used the last of the sandwich wrap. The long rectangular box keeps popping the cabinet open. I offer another chip for her to suck the dip off of. It’s surprising what you can accomplish with a baby glued to you.

The door to the bus opens and Ben trudges up the stairs.

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