Page 79 of Heart Strings
“No, this is Emma Kinnane,” I tell him. “But we haven’t been formally introduced yet.”
She slaps a palm to her face. “Sorry. I should have included that bit of information when I said hello, huh?”
“Oh! Thought I recognized you,” he replies. “TheSpinstersshow.”
Extending her hand, she greets him by name. She must be a true fan. With a bright smile that probably gets her whatever shewants, she holds up her mobile. “Aidan, I know you’re busy, but can I get a quick photo?”
“Of course.”
Martin approaches just as Emma is thanking me again and rushing off to watch the next band perform.
“Have I got some news for you,” he says.
“Spit it out, man.”
“Nigel Culpepper wants to meet.”
My stomach tightens. I didn’t know if he’d even notice me, much less give me the time of day. “You’re a fecking miracle worker, Martin, you know that?”
“I do, but I so love to hear it.”
“Okay, yeah, where do I go?” I ask.
Martin shakes his head. “Not so fast. He says he’ll have lunch with you on Monday.”
“I can do that,” I rush. It’s the day after the festival ends, and my flight isn’t until late that evening. God, I can’t wait to tell Cielo.
“Wonderful. I’ve already confirmed. Now, there are some people I want you to meet,” Martin says, leading me farther backstage. “Other bands from the label. They’re having an after-party.”
Chapter 30
Lo
Aunt Sharon’s soycandles smell like ass. My mom spent a small fortune shipping them all the way from Austin because she couldn’t let it go. Even if they smelled wonderful, burning them would feel like a concession to her neurotic grip on my life, so I just glare at the box full of them on my coffee table.
Aidan sent a “good night” text around midnight shortly after his performance finished, but I’d already been fast asleep. It’s comforting to know he’s thinking of me. Our private livestream was scorching hot, but more important, it gives me hope that we can maintain a sense of physical and emotional intimacy even when miles stretch between us.
My clock reads onep.m., but it’s only eight in the morning in New York and he’s definitely asleep, so I don’t bother with a message that might wake him. Instead, I check tasks off my list after getting home from my lecture, including “turn in infectious disease case study” and “pay the electric bill.” One last thing to do: my weekly video chat with my mom to let her know those stinky candles arrived safely.
Changing her ringtone to Godzilla’s roar was Lark’s idea of a joke, but the monster’s battle cry might be more unsettling than humorous. Though switching my mom’s avatar to a giant angry iguana was a stroke of genius.
“Hey, Mom. Thanks for the candles.” I hold one up and try not to breathe in. “They’re cute.”
“You’re welcome. Make sure to call Aunt Sharon and let her know which one is your favorite.”
My mouth stretches into a forced smile. “I’ll do that.”
“I don’t think we ever talked about your annual appointment—”
“Mom, I’m seeing someone.” Not the way I wanted to begin this conversation, but I needed an emergency reroute from that subject.
She blinks and I can practically hear the gears in her head turning in the silence that hangs between our phone screens. “Who is it?”
“Aidan. You met him at the wedding.”
Her expression darkens. “The musician.”
“Yeah, he’s a songwriter. A really gifted one, too.”
