Page 126 of Dear Rockstar (Dear Rockstar 1)

“What are you running from?” John asked.

“Nothing. Everything.” I sniffed. “I guess it’s more about what I’m running to.”

“Tyler Vincent?” John shook his salt-and-peppered head, a bemused smile on his face. “What do you think is going to happen? Are you planning to follow his tour bus? Be a groupie?”

“No.” I scoffed at the idea. “Of course not. If I wanted to be a groupie, I could have done that already.”

“So what then?”

“Living in Maine… I’ll be close to him. It’s still his home town. I’m sure, if he met me… we could… I don’t know… be friends.”

Even I knew how ridiculous it sounded. I rolled the edge of napkin, a nervous habit like chewing my nails or licking my lower lip.

“You know, when he was teaching music at the University of Maine back in, oh, I think it was in 1967—”

“It was 1966,” I corrected.

John looked at me, startled.

“I read a lot about him,” I replied sheepishly.

John went on. “I think you’re right, because Dale was born in 1967. He started teaching the year after I did. We were some of the youngest folks on staff, so it was just natural we became fast friends. Back then, if he’d met someone like you, he probably would have been thrilled. Now though? Tyler Vincent isn’t a person anymore. It’s a brand. A household word. Even if you’ve never picked up one of his CDs or seen a movie. Everyone knows who he is. And people change. Fame changes almost everybody. He’s not the same person he was back in ’66... but I suppose none of us are.”

I had forgotten how to breathe, my mouth dry, so dry it felt filled with cotton.

“You know him.” At first it wasn’t audible, just a quiet hiss, like a leaking balloon.

“You know him,” I repeated, just a bare whisper. “You know him.”

“Of course.” He frowned, cocking his head at me, the same thing I’d seen Dale do a hundred times. “I thought you knew?”

“No…” I put my head in my heads, closing my eyes. It wasn’t real. I was dreaming. This couldn’t be real.

“How else do you think Dale could get you front row tickets?”

“I thought he knew someone…” I looked up at him, shaking my head in disbelief. “At Ticketmaster… or…”

You must know someone.

That’s what I’d said.

Yeah, I know someone.

He had known someone all right. Only Tyler Vincent himself!

“Well…” John sat back, tenting his fingers. “The plot thickens…”

“Tell me.” My voice was hoarse. “How did you meet?”

“Teaching, of course. We got along well, and his wife and mine became fast friends.” John had a faraway, nostalgic look in his eyes. “But Tyler—his name isn’t really Tyler, you know. It’s Dennis. Dennis something… I can’t remember anymore. Tyler Vincent is a stage name. But he always wanted to be famous, even then.”

“How long did you know him?”

“As long as I lived in Maine.” John’s expression changed, his brow knitted. “We moved to Seattle—I got another teaching position—about four years ago I guess.”

“So you kept in touch?”

“Still do. When my wife and I were still married, he’d invite the four of us out to his summer home for a week or two.”

---