Page 71 of Heart Strings
“You don’t look like a tangerine. It was only obvious to me because I know exactly how blindingly pale your ginger ass is.”
“What I’m hearing is, you think I’m a genius with a great arse…” He waggles his brows.
“I said no such thing.”
His flirtation gives way to something more serious. “Tell me the truth. Do you think I’m a sellout?”
“No. You’re an artist up against a corporation that has an entire legal division.”
“I haven’t admitted that to anyone.”
“The spray tans? It’s not a big deal…” I try for a little levity, but I know what he really means. Aidan rolls his eyes. “Those record company executives see the potential for you to blow up, but you don’t need a makeover or a celebrity girlfriend to do that. All you need is a label that’ll show you some respect.”
“If I can just get the right producer—someone I like who is also proven to sell—they’ll back off me. My poor da worked two jobs when Mam had to homeschool Marie. They’ve done so much to provide for us. If this next record is a success, I can pay off their house. Help them retire. The label knows how to make hit albums, Lo.”
With such a modest upbringing, it makes sense that Aidan’s idea of success is directly linked to how well he can take care of his family. I always admired that about him.
“Youknow how to make a hit album,” I remind him. “You’ve already done it once. Your music is special because it’s real, not because a stylist bought you leather pants to wear onstage.”
“Where are you getting this idea that I perform in assless chaps?”
I raise a brow. “If the spiked collar fits.”
“Now I’m starting to believe it’s wishful thinking.”
“Aidan, you can’t control how well your album will do. You just control how well you make it. Fight for it. Don’t let them pressure you into creating something that doesn’t feel right. Your family wouldn’t want that on their account.”
I’ve been better about remembering that not everything is in our control lately. For better or worse. The timing of our reconnection isn’t what I would have chosen, had I any say. Aidan is performing again in New York, so soon after he’d declared he was taking a break. And he’s courting his dream producer, aiming to record his next album in London. He’ll have to tour to promote it. Even if we lived in the same city, he might not physically be around enough to make this work.
If the leukemia is back, I may not be able to stay in school, and if that happens, my educational visa will be pulled. Moving back to the States would be the end of us, right when I lose my health, my purpose, my new home.
Still, my sense of hope flies in the face of the odds. I can’t bear to really consider the possibility that just as Aidan walks back into my life, the rest of it might detonate around us.
“It feels good to be here.” He watches the reflections from the houses and streetlights dance upon the choppy waves, then his focus settles on me. “Home.”
“Nice to have you back.”
This is gonna really hurt if I have to let go again.
Chapter 27
Aidan
“Come on, whenwas the last time you had a real meal?” I ask Lo during our lunch call. Our heart-to-heart at the Long Walk was only the night before last, but I can’t wait to see her again. Today she’s in class, not twelve hours of clinicals, and that feels like the perfect excuse to feed her a proper supper.
“Let’s just say, yesterday I fought Oisín over a beat-up granola bar he found in his coat pocket.”
“How was it?”
“You know, it’s really sexy how you assume I won.”
I move the mobile to my other ear as I rake the garden. Leaves fell around me all morning when I’d worked on songs under the yellowing canopy of a tree. “It’s settled, then. I’ll pick you up after your lecture. Oh, and my mam only serves fish on Fridays, is that all right?”
“Reminds me of home.” Nostalgia tinges her voice.
We haven’t talked about her father, other than my asking if she’d spoken to him since their argument. I couldn’t help butfeel like her anger at him mirrored the anger she held for me. Lo’s afraid of abandonment. Understandably so.
At the end of our conversations,I love youstays lodged in my throat. We’re not there yet. A pause rests in its place where we can both feel its absence. It feels like an unfinished song.
