Page 68 of Opening Strain

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Are you ready to go to my rental?” I ask Jenna. “It won’t take me long to pack.”

She sighs. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this. Do you think they’ll bother Ma?”

I can only hope they don’t dig into Jenna’s life. “I want to tell you they won’t, but it’s a distinct possibility. If you think it would help, want me to put security on her house?”

Her thumb and pinky rub together. “I hate they can do this. Reporters shouldn’t be allowed to be so disruptive. We’re only trying to live our lives.”

My arm goes around her shoulders. “I know. I’m sorry.” Despite going against every molecule in my body, I add, “If you’d prefer, I can make a big deal out of leaving Aroostook. Reporters will follow me to wherever, and you’ll get your lives back.”

Please say no.

The wait for her to respond is agonizing.

“I don’t want you to leave when your injury is still unhealed. You’ll have to start over with a different physical therapist, which isn’t fair,either.”

Is this a win? She said she wants me to stay, so I’ll take it as one.

“It’s settled then.” I want to hug her but manage to keep my arms at my sides. “Let’s hit up my rental first, since I hope the paps don’t know where I’m staying. I’ll pack and we’ll go back to your house for you to get a bag. I’ve called and we can meet King and Angie at Secluded Rest.”

Her eyes smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

She gathers her paperwork and meets with the clinic’s receptionist, explaining she’s going lie low for a few days until the media attention wanes. The fact we’re going to be together for the next few days doesn’t escape me.

We take the back elevator down to the ground floor and make our way to her car. “I can drive,” I offer.

“No way,” she huffs. “I’m not going to ruin all your progress by making you get behind the wheel. Get in, Mr. Lead Singer.”

She’s never treated me like a famous musician, and her nickname doesn’t sit well with me. I open her door. “I’m just a guy, Jenna. I do a job, but that’s not who I am.”

She tosses her purse in the seat behind her and slides into the driver’s side with ease. Her head tilts up. “You don’t seem to have much of a life outside of the stage.”

Unsure what to do with her observation, I slam her door shut and make my way to the passenger door. Once I’m inside, I say, “I’m always busy, either with UC-related stuff or representing the band at clubs or parties. I think that’s a full life.”

“It is.” She turns on the car. “I apologize. I was out of line.” She doesn’t sound apologetic, rather resigned.

Despite wanting to challenge her further on this, I let it go. After all, why bother to fight when I’m leaving soon?

Story of my life.

As she drives to the front of the building, I drop the front seat down to prone again. “The media are surrounding the car,” she narrates. With the windows closed, I can’t make out whatever they’re screaming, but I can only guess.

After she turns right out of the parking lot, I sit upright and watch the reporters as they begin their pursuit. When we approach a stop sign, I instruct, “Don’t stop, Jenna. Keep on going.”

Looking determined, her right foot presses on the gas. We make several quick turns and lose most of the reporters. A few of the more intrepid ones follow. “So much for being under the radar,” I note as we pull up at my rental.

We fight our way inside and slam the door shut. “Jenna, if it’s like this here, your place is going to be much worse.” We walk into the kitchen. “Impassable.”

She protests, “But my clothes, my things.”

“We can buy new stuff for you.” Her expression falls. “I don’t think we should go back there now. It’ll be a madhouse.”

I can hear Mom from here.This is what you do, mess up everyone’s lives.

“I needed to get a few new pieces of clothing anyway,” she rallies. “It’s fine. I can handle this for a couple of days. Then everything’ll return to normal.”

I complete her thoughts: When I’m gone.

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