Page 5 of Deliverance

“Thank you.” A pair of green eyes lock on mine and refuse to let go. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her grip is strong when she slides her palm against mine. Strong and a little aggressive. I’m sensing both challenge and interest.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

“Ah, a gentleman.”

My instincts tell me Tina is a shark and ready to bite my head off. Thankfully, we’re interrupted by her publicist, who whisks her away for an interview before she gets a chance to sink her teeth into me. Clair leaves us a few minutes later, and now it’s just Hazel and me, tucked in a quiet corner free of foot traffic and screaming children.

“You look really good,” I say.

“Thanks.” She tilts her head to the side and gives me a small smile, slightly different from the one she’s put on for everyone else. I’d bet my right arm that being in public and around the press still rattles her, but she’s doing it for Justice. Part of the deal when you marry a major celebrity.

The key is not to read the tabloids, because reality is never that simple. It can’t be summed up with a few flashy words in a headline.

Even the people who’ve gathered here tonight hardly know the Hazel I know. I had a front-row seat. I was there for the greater portion of it, bits and pieces of her pregnancy and those three weeks Faith spent in NICU after she was born prematurely. I experienced the same fear my best friend did when I watched him crumble each time the doctors failed to give a positive update.

Suddenly, our disagreements over music didn’t matter. Seeing the struggle of a parent to keep his family whole gave me a new perspective about things. There’s more to life than money and fame. And I needed to figure out what that meant for me.

Two months after Faith’s birth, I packed a bag and left for Argentina.

“You look really good too,” Hazel’s voice enters my drifting mind and pulls me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah, but I’m not the one with two little monsters at home.” I laugh and sweep two flutes of champagne from the tray the waiter is carrying.

“Well, we have Celia,” Hazel whispers, leaning closer. “She’s a Wonder Woman. I have no idea what I’d do without her help.”

“That’s good.” I offer her one of the glasses but instantly realize my mistake. Mrs. Cross is an alcoholic. There’s no such thing as “former” when it comes to substance abuse. Addiction is a disease that has no cure, and it’s not clear how it picks you. Is it your genetic makeup? Or is it your mental state? Or maybe it’s written in the fucking stars. But even long after you subdue the craving, you still want and you still think about the high. Drugs, drinks, adrenaline, sex. Anything to take the pain away and calm down the mind that doesn’t know how to stop racing.

I’ve been there. I tried it all, but the bitch didn’t care to stick to me. It didn’t care to stick to Cruz or Justice either. It stuck to Chance instead. Just like it’s sticking to Hazel now.

What we can do is be there for the people who need help.

“I’m fine.” She shakes her head.

“I’m sorry. Fucking dumb of me.” I glance over my shoulder and set the flute on the nearest table.

“No, no, don’t apologize.” She touches my shoulder softly.

We lapse into a grim silence.

I go first. “Anybody told you your stuff is fucking incredible?”

“A couple of people.”

“I didn’t even know you painted.”

“I took a long break actually.”

“Well, don’t do it again.” I laugh, sipping on my drink.

Hazel throws her hands in the air. “As long as I’m inspired, the art will keep coming.”

“I’m pretty sure your husband is a great muse.” I gesture in the direction of the main hall. “That painting of him out front is something for the ages. I’m just not sure where I want it—in my bedroom or in my studio.”

We share a warm laugh.

“It’s not for sale,” Hazel says in a hushed voice. “But you’re welcome to buy anything else you like.”

I place my palm over my chest. “You’re breaking my heart, Mrs. Cross.”

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