Page 25 of If Not for My Baby
Oh, God, I’ve objectified him. “I’d all but forgotten,” I lie. At this point I could draw the contours of his subtle abs from memory with near precision. I’m sick.
“You’re a better man than I, then,” he jokes as he pushes off the wall. “It was nice chatting with you, though. Get yourself some sleep?”
I nod, my heart a little too fluttery to respond in time.
You’re a better man than I.Does that mean he was noticingme?
“Clem?”
“Hm?”
He’s turned around, halfway down the hall. “Best of luck with your fella. Does anyone call you Clem?”
I shake my head. “No, actually.”
His brows raise slightly and he nods to himself. “Good.”
And then he dips around a corner, one hand loosely in his pocket, the other grasped around that journal.
I’m still waterless, sliding my hotel key through the door, when I realize Halloran never managed to track down his pen.
Nine
When we board the busto Richmond, Halloran’s already in his suite, where I’m starting to notice he spends 90 percent of his time, but I’m grateful. It’s not that I regret talking to him last night, or sharing my personal life—if anything, I appreciated his advice and lack of judgment—but I cannot develop an attraction to someone I’m working with for the next seven weeks. Especially not someone I have less than a zero percent chance of ever acting on said attraction with. That would be an exercise in sadomasochism.
It doesn’t dawn on me until I curl up in the front lounge next to Indy and crack open the only book I brought on the road—And Then There Were None—that it may be too late. I’m only three pages into the book, but I’ve looked back at Halloran’s suite door six times and counting. On the seventh, Wren says from the lounger, “You’re gonna give yourself whiplash…What’re you looking for back there?”
I mumble something about my bunk curtain and am lucky Wren doesn’t seem to care much either way.
You do not want him,I tell myself. And it’s true—I’m just curious to see the rest of the band through Halloran’s eyes. What does he think of the way Molly ignores Pete all day, but after one drink snuggles up to him like she’s not the kind of girl to wear spider rings on both hands? Does he actually dislike Grayson or did I imagine that tension between them? Does he find Indy as adorable as I do? And if so…does that irk me as much as I think it does?
Shut it down,inner-me yells. This is dangerous territory. This isn’t a single dad who hits on me at the Happy Tortilla. This is the height of unattainable:Rock. Star.He has his pick of women. My flat chest and bug eyes are not doing it for him. Plus, two a.m. hallway heart-to-hearts aside, I hardly know the guy. This entire thing is fabricated by my hormones and his sinful height and mouthwatering voice. Still, I’ve dog-eared every page in my book just to do something with my hands. Might not be a good sign.
I’m in my bunk watching compilations of the best Tony acceptance speeches when I hear Conor and Halloran laughing through the thin walls of his suite. I press my ear up to the wall—an act that barely requires me to move because I’m essentially in a coffin—and strain to hear what’s so funny. I’m ravenously curious. I want to crawl inside his head and take a look at the machinery. What’s worthy of that big laugh? What makes him feel depleted? How much space is occupied by soil and sunlight and trees and bogs? I just want toknoweverything.
I’ve never had a thought like that before. Not a good sign at all.
—
A few days later I wake past noon in a Charleston, West Virginia, hotel room with “If Not for My Baby” playing in my head. It’s a recent development I’ve attempted to make peace with, like when you binge-read a mystery and dream of the suspects. Molly’s bed is empty, which is no surprise. At this point they should just get her and Pete a room of their own and let Indy and me stay together.
Through the window I watch birds soar over the river that runs through the capital. They flit amid golden sunlight and rows of poplar trees. Though I’ve heard enough road songs to know the negative connotation ofanother day, another city, that part of tour life happens to suit me just fine.
I shower quickly, pack up, and scarf down some minibar lunch (okay, fine, some M&M’s) before giving my mom a call.
“Good afternoon, sleepyhead,” she says on the other line.
I close the hotel door and roll my suitcase down the carpeted hall. “I haven’t said a word yet. How can you tell I’m sleepy?”
“Call it a mother’s intuition.”
I snort, pressing the elevator button. “I think I have permanent exhaustion.”
“When you’re home, we’ll have anX-Filesmarathon for the record books. Levels of couch potato the world has never seen.”
For some reason a pang of disappointment takes hold in my chest at the mental image. I stomp the feeling down until it’s as flat as a pancake, and then I kick it off a ledge. “Sounds ideal.”
“So what’s new? I feel like I never talk to you anymore.”
