Page 16 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar
So why can’t I tell Jett Santana?
* * *
Here’s a weird realization: I haven’t written a letter since I was six years old, when I last wrote to Santa Claus for Christmas. That was the year that I carefully wrote a super polite letter, signed it with wobbly kisses and sealed it in an envelope with a pinch of red and silver glitter to give it some festive pizzaz.
That wasalsothe year when my mom’s boyfriend opened that letter in the middle of the trailer and got glitter everywhere, stomping it into the carpet and yelling at me for making a mess.
Yeah, I figured out pretty young that Santa was a con. That glitter wouldn’t vacuum up foryears, too deeply ingrained in the carpet, serving as a constant reminder that there’s no such thing as magic. And beyond Santa, who was there for me to write a letter to? No one.
Now, I agonize over my letter to Jett all-freaking-day, slumped over the crew bus kitchen table and sweating with the effort of writing a few simple paragraphs. Patty swings by every hour or so, bringing me cold drinks and snacks like I’m some kind of endurance athlete, and the other crew members slumpdown beside me now and then to chat and scarf down a quick sandwich.
I hide my letter whenever I have company. If I’m not ready to tell Jett about the new life blooming in my stomach yet, I’mdefinitelynot ready to tell the grizzled, grunting guys that make up the rest of the tour crew.
Eventually, though, as the sun sinks toward the horizon and I have to switch on an overhead light to keep going, I finish up my letter and sign it with my name. A weird urge seizes me—to scrawl a few wobbly kisses and seal my letter away in an envelope with a pinch of glitter—but luckily, I don’t have those craft supplies.
“I’ll make sure he gets it,” Patty promises outside the crew bus, tucking my folded letter into the back pocket of her jeans. She’s dolled up for the gig, with her camera slung around her neck and her eyeliner sharp enough to slit a man’s throat. “And I’ll see you after the show for the load, okay?”
Yup. Wishbone are moving on to a different city tonight, which means the second we get clearance, we’ll be tearing the stage apart and packing the mounds and mounds of equipment back onto the trucks, then piling onto the bus and driving until dawn. It’s gonna be a long, sweaty, exhausting night, and for once I’m looking forward to it.
Knowing that Jett will have my letter… knowing that there are no more secrets between us…
Yeah, I could use the distraction. Even if I’m still dog-tired and dragging ass.
Still, once the gig starts and Wishbone’s music fills the city park, I can’t resist tiptoeing round the back of the stage, nodding at the security guards who know us all at first glance by now. Empty flight cases are stacked in huge piles back here, forming a dark man-made labyrinth, and the roar of the crowd is so loud that my teeth buzz as I weave my way through the darkness.
There are supplies scattered right at the back of the stage. Crates of water bottles; a whole pallet of granola bars; a big bowl of candy bars. Is this the band’s private area? A makeshift dressing room in this open city park? Where did they sleep last night?
Do any of these discarded t-shirts or hand towels belong to Jett? If I picked one up and sniffed one, after all these months, would I recognize his spice and leather scent?
Yeah, that would be a crazy thing to do. Glancing around guiltily, I snatch up the nearest gray t-shirt and hold it briefly to my nose, then fling it away with a sigh.
Not Jett.
But the voice ringing out into the night, the raspy, low voice singing to the stars… that is all Jett Santana. And tucked away down here, right at the back of the stage, this is the closest the two of us have been since the night we met. My nerves endings all tingle at the thought, and my heart thumps extra hard with longing.
He’s here.
He’s close. So close.
Sitting back against a flight case, my eyes drift closed and I focus all my attention on that voice. On the memories of his hands on my body and his lips on my neck. As I listen, my hands creep automatically to my stomach, cradling my tiny bump.
Maybe Jett will want this baby. Maybe he’ll wantme… or maybe he won’t.
But either way, after writing that letter, I’m finally sure: I’m keeping our child.
Peace suffuses my chest, my stomach, my harried mind, even my sore lower back, and as I listen to Wishbone play for a roaring crowd, for the first time in months… I feel hope.
It’s going to be okay. I’m going to be brave.
And no matter what happens after tonight, I’ll handle it.
Seven
Jett
Tonight has been the worst goddamn show of my career. I’ve messed the lyrics up four times, looping back to the wrong verses in songs which we’ve played hundreds of times before. Too distracted to focus, not that the cheering crowd seems to have noticed. My band mates have, though. The guys keep exchanging looks, like they’re worried about me.
Meanwhile, I’ve tossed back bottle after bottle of chilled water, but nothing can soothe the ragged burn of my torn throat after yelling in dismay when Tamsin hung up this morning. When my insides burned to ash, and all the color drained from the world in the space of a split second.
