Page 86 of If Not for My Baby
“And his,” I add.
“Yeah, but you know Halloran. Does it seem like he cares much about money?”
I shake my head, wondering where my expensive dress has gone. Likely in a heap somewhere.
“You and Molly were right. He hates all of this,” I admit. “Hates being famous. Hates doing press. I think he’d rather make music back home in Kerry.”
Indy tips her head, thinking. “But he still does it. He records in LA and in Nashville. Sings to thousands of people every night. Goes on the podcasts and morning shows and makes the artsy music videos. Collaborates with superstars like Cara.”
I don’t like the seasick way her name makes me feel.
“At the end of the day,” Indy says, “he’s doing the damn thing. He’s making great money and sharing his music with the world. If he hated it that much, he’d stop. But he doesn’t.”
“That’s fair,” I admit. And she’s right: people can talk all they’d like, but they generally do whatever it is they were always going to. There’s a strange peace in that. A release of control. The heart wants what the heart wants, and Tom’s wants to keep sharing his music with others. “I just want him to be happy.”
Indy quirks a brow. “I thought you were just banging.”
“We are. I mean, we’re friends, too. He took me to a show tonight. And dinner.”
“And you messed around this morning. I have the eye bags to prove it.”
Guilt I can’t comprehend creeps up my spine. “Actually we just went to the park. And laid in the grass. And…talked.”
Indy rubs her temples. “Oh, brother.”
—
“She’s a genius.”
I closeAnd Then There Were None,spine creased and pages weathered, still in a daze. The afternoon sunshine reflects off Lake Michigan from Halloran’s suite window and casts his entire body and all our mussed bedsheets in pools of light. He puts down his notepad and pen, and beside some scribbled stanzas I can just make out a rough sketch of a tree in a meadow. Some round fruit hangs from its leaves. “They didn’t dub her the Queen of Crime for no reason.”
I stretch in the pleasant coziness of his bed, my toes up by his hips. We’ve been lounging like this for hours and I could stay in the same spot for a hundred more. “I just love how all the loose ends come together perfectly. Nothing left up to chance or fate.”
“How very Clementine.”
“And what does that mean?”
“I see why you like them, that’s all.” Halloran picks up the guitar that’s been lying by his head. He’s been strumming new and old chords all morning. “My methodical lover,” he croons.
My snort sounds through the room. “Doesn’t have the best ring do it.”
“I think it sounds like bliss,” he says.
I try to swat at his thigh with my foot, but get caught in all the extra fabric of his Trinity sweats. Even though I’m swimming in them, I’ve taken to wearing his pants around the bus on lazy afternoons between stops such as these. Tom and I have been surprised to discover what an enormous relief it is to have our fling out in the open. Nobody’s seemed to care much at all. Our friends are happy for us—color me shocked.
“If you’re going to write a song for me, wouldn’t it be about my eyes?” I bat my lashes like a cartoon character. “Irish musicians love brown eyes.”
“And how would you know that? You’ve a plethora of Irish suitors I dunno about?”
“ ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ by Van Morrison, of course. And in that U2 song, doesn’t he say he meets a girl with brown eyes?”
I sing the line in question and Tom strums the following notes. The masculine veins on his forearms flex with his movements and my jaw goes slack.“Ain’t love the sweetest thing,”he sings softly.
The atmosphere in the small room expands and lightens as he begins the next verse. The stripped-down acoustic melody and Tom’s angelic voice is revelatory in comparison to the eighties percussive rhythm of the original. His words are clear and honeyed above the rumble of the bus. The look in his eyes is piercing—dark woods bathed in sunshine.
I join him, allowing my voice to blend with his. The simplemelody whirls through my lungs. His voice has an ethereal richness that’s heightened by the intimacy of the moment. Just us, him bare save for his briefs, me clothed in his sweats and big T-shirt. Each curve of his wrist and bend of his fingers, the dip of his collarbone, the hairs on his chest.
His smile warms as his hands stop their strumming. “When you sing to me with that voice of yours…” Tom presses his hand against his heart and tips his head back, and I suppress a giggle. “You shine when you’re performin’, Clem. As if it’s a part of you that can’t be kept buried any longer. Indulging in the music brings out something of a romantic in you. Outrageously beautiful.”
