Page 104 of Once Upon a Boyband
“Yeah.”
She smiles at Dolly as she crouches down to say hello. “That’s why you named her Dolly,” she says. “You already knew she’d wind up being yours.”
I narrow my eyes at Laney. It’s too early in our relationship for her to be reading my mind.
She sets a Lawson Cove Library tote bag on the coffee table and nudges it toward me. “These are for you. But I need to tell you about them first.”
I still have no idea what’s in the bag, but I let Laney tug me onto the couch anyway. We’re sitting side by side, knees angled in so we can still face each other.
Laney reaches over and takes both of my hands in hers.
“This is going to sound a little absurd, so brace yourself,” she says, “but this morning, Sarah and I figured out that I knew your mom.”
I frown. “You—what?”
“Not in person,” she quickly qualifies. “But I knew her online. She moderated a fan group that I was a part of, and we talked all the time. Weekly, at least, sometimes even daily. I didn’t know she was your mom, obviously, but I do remember how much she loved Midnight Rush.”
I don’t even know how to begin to process what she’s telling me. Laney knowing my mother is hard enough. But Mom moderating a fan group? I had no idea she ever didanythinglike that.
“Are you sure?” I ask, because how do you even figure out something like that?
“Absolutely sure,” Laney says. “Your mom’s username was @DollyDaeDreams. Dae, spelled D-A-E.”
“Her middle name,” I say, and Laney nods.
“And it was what? A fan group?”
I listen closely as Laney walks me through it. Explains the website. The concept of small group communities inside a larger fanbase. Then she details all the ways my mom followed my career and celebrated what I was doing with other fans.
It doesn’t add up. It’s not that Mom wasn’t supportive of Midnight Rush. She always encouraged Sarah and I to forge our own path and do what made us happy. But the year before her death, our relationship was strained. She wanted me home and grew frustrated when I didn’t seem to have the power or freedom to make that happen.
I could have. Ishouldhave. I should have walked sooner, made demands, put pressure on the label to pause the tour long enough for me to be with her when she passed.
How could Momnotbe frustrated when my priorities were so far off what they should have been?
“Did you—” My voice breaks, and I clear my throat andtry again. “Did you know when she died? Did the group know?”
Laney shakes her head, sadness filling her eyes. “Two or three months before the band broke up, she stepped down as moderator, said she was going through something personal and she needed to focus on her family. There were only twenty of us who were still active by that point, and she wrote personal notes to each of us as a goodbye. Then she signed off, and we never heard from her again.”
“You got a personal note from my mom,” I say.
“I did,” she says. “And lucky for you, I was a highly devoted, borderline creepy, extreme Midnight Rush fan. So I documented my years in your mom’s fan group by making a series of scrapbooks.” She tilts her head toward the bag on the coffee table. “The note from your mom is in the middle one with your second album cover on the front. And other comments she made are woven through all three. Please don’t judge me for how much glitter I used. Also don’t laugh at all the different MASH games. I saved every one that resulted in me marrying you.”
“I don’t understand. You saved her comments?”
“It’s more like I savedeveryone’scomments. I’d print out screenshots of our conversations. Not all of them. Just the fun ones. Lists of our favorite songs, favorite lyrics. Stories we told about concerts we attended. There are also pictures and ticket stubs and magazine articles. All kinds of stuff. But if you look for your mom, you’ll find her in there.”
I reach for the bag and pull out the top album. It’s navy blue, with the Midnight Rush logo across the front in bright yellow.
“I can’t believe you made these.”
“I know it’s a lot. But that group of fans—they were friends when I didn’t really have them anywhere else.”
“No, I’m not judging,” I say quickly. “This is amazing. And my mom is in here?”
Her expression softens. “Yeah. She is. Andshewas amazing.” She reaches over and squeezes my knee, then stands up.
“Wait, where are you going?”
