Page 38 of If Not for My Baby
“Do you…” I search for the right words. “Have friends?”
Those definitely were not the right words. It’s such a rude thing to say I could smack myself with his book.
But his mouth only pulls up at one side. “Back in Ireland, yeah. My best mate’s having a baby in a month.”
“Oh, Halloran. You’ll miss it? For the tour?”
“Tom, please,” he says with a wince. “Nobody in my life calls me Halloran. But yeah. I’ll miss the birth of my godson. Pretty shite, isn’t it?”
My heart twists for him. “You get homesick?”
“Ill with it. You?”
I’m instantly transported back to Cherry Grove, the floorboards of my house creaking underfoot. That warm Southern sunshine freckling my fair skin. Kids bicycling into town, sitting on handlebars and standing barefoot on pedals. But the silence hits me, too. The stagnant quiet of my hometown. Our simple grocery store—the only one for miles. All the dreams there, laid to rest. “Yes and no,” I admit, and it’s like sacrilege.
“There’s a great amount of loss in that feeling, isn’t there?”
I nod, my heart constricting with guilt. “I can’t believe you couldn’t take a few days off from the tour to meet your godson.”
“Jen’s no softie, in case you hadn’t noticed. Schedule’s all her doing.”
“She’s definitely intense.”
“In her defense, she’s under a terrible amount of pressure. The label’s told her if I don’t sign my next contract, it’ll be her head.”
My eyes grow wide in the dim light. No wonder I got the impression Halloran was her meal ticket. “You don’t want to do another album?”
He seems to ponder this for a minute before deciding on “I’m not sure. I’d like to go home to County Kerry…Get back to myself for a while.”
“But you werebornto do this. Your talent, your voice, your brain…”
“That’s kind.” Even in the soft purple glow, I can tell he’s flushed. “I’d never stop writing songs. Makin’ music…I don’t think I could. I’ve been singin’ since I was eight years old. I just don’t know if this way of doin’ it is for me.”
“The crowds. The press. The demon-spawn morning show hosts.”
“Sure, that. And I miss the anonymity. The solitude of home.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” I joke. “You’re too gifted. It’s your duty to share your work with the world.”
His gaze is earnest. “You think so highly of me, but you barely know me, Clementine.”
“I think I’m a pretty good judge of character.”
“I’m missing a great deal in the lives of those I care about. What kind of person leaves their family behind to pursue fame and money?”
“I did,” I admit.
That stops him in his tracks. Halloran waits patiently for me to say more. I realize he’s the kind of person who will never push. I can just tell—if I changed the subject he wouldn’t hammer me about it. I decide I’m going to work on that quality myself.
“My mom is sick. She has this incurable, chronic illness called fibromyalgia. I’ve never left her before.”
He looks stricken. “I’m sorry.”
“I took this job because the money will help her afford a clinical trial for a new medication that could change her quality of life. But knowing she’s back home without me for two months…I feel guilty about it every day.”
“You can’t berate yourself like that,” he says. “You’re doing this for her.”
“And for me.” Another admission that feels like treason. “I don’t think I knew it when I said yes, but each night, onthat stage…I’m living some kind of dream. I’m terrified of how much I’ll miss singing like this when it’s all over. What you’re doing—watching your life’s work come to fruition. Seeing the faces of all those you’re forever changing with your music. That’s meaningful, Tom.”
