Believe Me, It's You Page 7

  “Look, I'm sorry, Cal, but what can I do? He said he doesn't want a party,” she felt like a co-conspirator.

  “I really thought you would care enough to talk him out of it. This is his career we're talking about. At any given time, I have 150 people who depend on Dylan doing his job so they can do theirs and collect their paychecks. Some of them have families to feed, for Christ sake. He can't be an adult and act like a child. He has responsibilities.” His voice was getting loud, now. She sighed, feeling guiltier than ever.

  “Is this party a really big deal? Is it a work thing?” she asked.

  “We have to promote the album that's coming out in December. You can't fall behind in this business. Not if you want longevity. Not if you want a long term career,” he said.

  “I'm sorry, Calvin. I don't know what to say. Maybe he just needed a little quiet time, you know, a break. It's his 21st birthday,” she said.

  “He's had the past two weeks off. He said when he made this book deal, it wouldn't interfere with his work. Now it is,” he said.

  “Maybe I can come out there and work on the book next time. So he's able to take care of his L. A. responsibilities,” she suggested. He sighed, and then grew silent for a moment.

  “Okay, Eva. That might be a good idea. He's in the studio for the next three weeks so it's going to be balls to the wall for a while. Maybe you can fit in a couple trips out here. You can catch him between sessions, in the studio. Like when he's on break. Like you did with Cap,” he said.

  “Okay, sure. I'll talk to Dylan. I mean, it's fine with me if it is with him.” she said.

  “It might just have to be,” he said. She could hear the buzzer now.

  “Cal, I better go. I have stuff on the stove,” she lied. She'd been lying a lot lately.

  “Okay, Eva,” he said. “I don't mean to be tough, you know. I just have to keep his career on track. It's hard sometimes. I have to be the bad guy.”

  “I know. I sympathize, really,” she heard the buzzer ring again. “I have to run now, Cal. You take care.”

  “I guess the party will go on without its guest of honor,” he said and hung up.

  She answered the buzzer.

  “Hey, it's me. Dylan.”

  She buzzed him in. She went to the door and opened it, waiting.

  “Hi, Eva,” he said when he got off the elevator. She went out and took one of the two bags he was carrying.

  “Hi. What's this?” she asked as they carried the bags to the kitchen.

  “I brought some stuff for lunch. I thought I'd cook for you,” he said.

  “You cook? Where's Teddy?” she just remembered-no bodyguard.

  “He flew back to L.A. this morning,” he was wearing a navy blue sweater over a white t-shirt, and soft black pants. Eva resisted the urge to reach out and touch them to see what the fabric was.

  “So you just walked into a supermarket and bought this stuff?” she said, laughing as she took out bread, a couple types of cheese even she hadn't heard of, a great-smelling soup from the deli, a six pack of some kind of beer she'd never heard of, and a gallon of milk.

  “Yeah, why not?” he said, smiling and watching her.

  “You didn't get mobbed?”

  “Nah. In a suburban supermarket in Illinois, most people aren't going to be expecting to see anyone famous. They may do a double take, but then they just go on shopping.” he said. “You only have to watch out if they take out their phones and start recording. Which usually only happens in New York or L.A. Maybe Chicago or in another big city.”

  “Hmm. Interesting,” she finished putting stuff away and turned to look at him. He was leaning against the refrigerator, watching her.

  “Want to sit down and have a beer with me?” he asked.

  “You're always trying to get me to drink,” she laughed. “Okay, give me one.” He twisted off the cap and handed her a beer.

  “Hey, I'm legal today,” he grinned.

  “Well, happy birthday!” she clinked her bottle to his. “I didn't forget.”

  “Seems like maybe you did,” he teased.

  “No, I didn't. Look,” she went to the far end of the kitchen counter and lifted the lid off a cake plate.

  “Oh my god,” he smiled.

  “I told you I'd bake you a chocolate cake,” she said.

  “Is it chocolate inside?” he asked.

  “Yep,” she said. He looked at the cake, turning it around by the cake plate. He turned around to face her. For a few seconds he didn't say anything. He just looked at her with those brown eyes. She felt her knees wobble for a second.

  “Well?” she said out of nervousness still looking at his eyes.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You're welcome,” she turned and walked into the living room, feeling like she needed to sit down.

  She sat on the couch and he sat across from her in the arm chair. He took a drink from his beer.

  “Eva, I'm sorry for drunk calling you the other night. I should have waited until the next morning,” he looked at his beer bottle. “My friends from Indianapolis took me out for my birthday, and you know, everyone was buying me drinks.”

  “I accept your apology,” she said. “It happens.”

  “Does it ever happen to you?” he asked.

  “I don't drink much, but I guess, yeah it's happened once or twice before,” she said. Now she was the one looking down at her beer bottle in her hand.

  “Dylan, do you want to tell me about your family, and growing up in Indianapolis?” she asked.

  “For the book, or for you?”

  “I—for the book, I guess. Both,” she said.

  “Off the record. My mother took me to live with my grandparents and then she died of a drug overdose six months later. My grandparents raised me and they were the nicest people you could ever meet. They made sure I had everything I needed—new clothes, books for school, plenty of good food, a nice roof over my head. Lots of love. And they let me sing, gave me a guitar, and drove me to talent shows. I wouldn't be who I am if it weren't for them. I might be dead. I owe them everything.” He looked up at her.

  “Were your parents good to you?” he asked.

  “Yeah, they were very good. I had everything I needed. I was probably a little spoiled, but when they died, I wanted to make them proud, so I tried to be a better person. More like them,” she said, missing them, especially after the appearance they'd made in her dream last night. He was watching her.

  “I—I don't want to work today, Eva,” he said. “I want to spend time with you.” She didn't know what to say.

  “Why?” she asked, sincerely wanting to know. He studied his hands, picking at the label on his bottle.

  “I like you. I told you that the other night,”he said.

  “Yeah, but you were drunk,” she said. He smiled.

  “I still meant it. I just said it out loud because I was drunk,” he said.

  “Why? What does that mean?” she leaned back and regarded him, a little buzzed herself.

  “Hmm?” he looked up at her face. “Why do I like you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “God, how much time do we have?” he smiled.

  “All day, I think. It's 12:45 now so...” she said, and he laughed.

  “Okay, well let's see...you're smart and you write really well. You listen to me, but you don't bullshit me. You look me in the eye when I talk to you. You're not pretentious. You're just so....gorgeous. I like everything about the way you look—your eyes, your hair, your mouth when you speak..” He was silent and then he looked up at her. She was watching him, not believing she was hearing him right. She felt her cheeks flush.

  “I don't want to scare you, Eva. I know we're supposed to be working on a book,” he looked down again. “I just—well, you asked.” She started to speak, but when she opened her mouth, nothing was there.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “We can work on the book. We can do whatever you want, I don't care.”

  �
��I like you, too,” she said. He smiled at her.

  “What do you like about me?” he asked, trying not to grin. She sat back and thought.

  “I like your smile. I like your eyes. I like the way you're kind to me. I like it when you say my name,” she looked him in the eyes and he held her gaze.

  “I need to eat,” he smiled. “I feel dizzy.”

  “I'm sorry!” she said.

  “It's okay. I'm going to make us grilled cheese sandwiches and soup.” He got up and went into the kitchen.

  “Is that okay?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Do you cook a lot?” She followed him into the kitchen. She felt like she was floating.

  “Sure. I make grilled cheese sandwiches, microwave mac and cheese, ramen noodles...” They both laughed. “What about you? Do you cook other things, besides chocolate cake?”

  “Yep. What do you like? I can make it,” she bragged.

  “Really? Wow. I like lasagne, spaghetti, gnocchi..fettucine Alfredo's my favorite.”

  “I can make those,” she said. “Italian, huh?”

  “Well, my father's Italian. My mother was Irish. I guess I inherited his taste for good food,” he said.

  “You're hair is light for an Italian,” she observed.

  “I got some distant relative's hair I guess. And my dad's eyes,” he said, working at the stove, flipping the sandwiches.

  “You must have been a cute baby,” she said, picturing his eyes and smile on a baby.

  “I was pretty cute. Do you like babies, Eva?” He turned to look at her while the other side of the sandwiches cooked.

  “Yes, I do,” she said. “Very much.”

  “How come you didn't have any? You and your husband, I mean.” He was turned to the stove again.

  “Well...he didn't want children. With me,” she said. He turned to look at her.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “He has a child with someone else. He didn't want one with me,” she was telling both him and herself the truth.

  “He's a real idiot,” he said.

  “Yeah, that's what they say,” she laughed.

  “Well, what do you say?” he asked.

  “I thought it must be something about me, for a while,” she said, thinking. “Like he knew something about me that I didn't.”

  “He doesn't know anything about you, Eva,” he said. “he must be an ass.”

  She got up and went to the bathroom. While she was in there, she checked her face. I can't believe he likes me, she told her reflection.

  Dylan had set the table and was spooning the soup into two bowls, one for her and one for himself.

  “Do you want another beer?” he asked.

  “Sure, why not,” she said, smiling up at him from her chair at the table. He went to the kitchen and came back with two beers.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, watching her take a bite.

  “It's awesome,” she said. “It may be the best grilled cheese sandwich I've ever had.” And she meant it.

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  After they cleaned up, she went back into the living room. This time when she sat down, Dylan sat next to her. “What do you want to do now?” he asked.

  “We're really not working, then?” she asked.

  “Nope,” he smiled.

  “Dylan, I'm not sure how your book is going to get written if you don't talk to me about your life,” she said. “On the record.”

  “I want you to get to know me,” he said. “I don't want this to be like an interview. God, I've done millions of those. I want this book to be real, you know what I mean? One day, I want you to be able to sit down and write about me because you know me.” She thought about this for a minute.

  “Okay, I get that. You don't want it to sound contrived and formulaic,” she said. “So you don't have a time frame in mind?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No time frame, no deadline. When we're ready to write it, we will.”

  “Okay. That's fine,” she said. “Oh, I should tell you. Calvin called before you came.” He turned to look at her.

  “What did he want?” he asked.

  “He wants me to come to L.A. so you can concentrate on your studio time. He wants me to hang out and catch you between sessions, during breaks..”

  “Does that sound like something you'd want to do?” he asked.

  “Sure, I mean if it's not distracting having someone hang around,” she said.

  “No, when I'm recording, I'm all business. I'm just singing. Nothing distracts me. I was just thinking you might be bored if you're waiting around for me all the time.” He looked at her.

  “I don't know. I'd have my laptop with me. I could write my own stuff while you're recording,” she said.

  “You're writing something else?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I'm working on something, but...” she trailed off, looking for the words.

  “Fiction?” he asked.

  “Yeah, it's a novel, but I've had a really bad case of writer's block...I just feel like deleting it every time I try to work on it,” she said.

  “Why? Because the block aggravates you, or because you're not into it?” he asked.

  “I'm not into it,” she said. “I never felt that inspiration, you know?”

  “I know exactly what you mean. The magic. I need to write ten songs and I have nine. I can't force it. I just have to wait until I have a tenth song. I have to have the magic,” he said. “Delete it.”

  “I don't know... I have seventy pages,” she said.

  “If it's seventy pages of uninspired crap, delete it,” he said. “You're not gonna get anything else until you do.”

  “Maybe you're right” she laughed. “God, it would really be a relief to delete it and start fresh.”

  “Go do it now,” he said. “I'll wait.” She laughed.

  “Seriously?” she got up. “I'm going to delete it.”

  “Go,” he said.

  When she got back from the spare room, she felt like she might have a chance to write something real, now.

  “Gone!” she said.

  “How's it feel?”

  “Great. Do you want your birthday cake?” she asked.

  “Duh, yeah! Of course I want my cake,” he said.

  She went into the kitchen and got two plates, two forks and a knife. She stuck the “21” in the middle of the cake and looked for some matches. After she lit the candles, she yelled into the living room, “I”m going to sing to you now. Don't judge me, because I can't sing,” she said.

  “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” she sat the cake in front of him on the coffee table.

  “You're right, you can't sing,” he laughed.

  “Thanks, I told you not to judge me.” She sat down on the floor, across the coffee table from him. She handed him the plates and a knife. He blew out the candles and took them out, licking the icing off.

  “Oh wow. If the cake tastes as good as the icing...” he said, cutting them both a piece. “Eva, this is the best cake I've ever eaten.”

  “No,” she said.

  “Uh yeah, it is,” he said.

  “Told you so,” she laughed.

  “Aren't you going to ask me what I wished for?” he asked, leaning back on the couch.

  “A Grammy?” she asked.

  “I have one of those already,” he said, looking smug.

  “Umm...a bestselling book?”

  “I'm not worried about that,” he said.

  “I give up,” she said.

  “Maybe I'll tell you someday,” he said.

  “Okay,” they sat quietly, finishing their cake.

  When they were done, she cleaned up and he helped her.

  “Too bad you can't take your cake to L.A. with you,” she said. “I really don't need the rest of it hanging around tempting me.”

  “I planned on taking it back,” he said, rinsing the dishes.

/>   “I don't think you'll get through security with a half-eaten chocolate cake.”

  “I don't go through security. I charter my own plane,” he said. It hit her then-this isn't the boy next door. This kid's so out of your league, Eva.

  “I'll charter you a flight when you come out,” he said.

  “No, I don't want you to. I'll fly commercial,” she said.

  He turned to look at her.

  “Why? I want to,” he said. “You'd like it. Then we can go by our schedule and not the airline's.

  “No, Dylan,” she was getting upset and she wasn't sure why. “I don't want you to.”

  “Well...okay,” he looked confused. “It's your choice.”

  “That's right. It's my choice,” she said.

  “Forget it, then. Commercial's fine,” he said. “When do you think you'll come out? I have to be in the studio Monday by noon.”

  “I can probably come Tuesday or Wednesday,” she said. “I need to take care of some personal business. I still need my court date for my divorce and I...I have a few things to do. Are we going to work on the book while I'm out there?”

  “Sure, we'll work on the book,” he said. “Are you pissed at me?” She thought for a minute.

  “No, I'm not mad. I just, I don't know...” she said.

  “I wanted to do something fun with you tomorrow,” he said. “I don't have to leave until seven.”

  “What?” she was curious. He'd planned her Sunday.

  “It's a surprise,” he smiled.

  “What? I hate surprises. Please tell me,” she said.

  “No, you'll find out tomorrow,” he said.

  “Oh god. Well what time and what should I wear?” she asked.

  “I'll pick you up at 11:00. Just wear old clothes-jeans, t-shirt, whatever,” he said. Now she was mystified. He walked over to where she was standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “I'm going to go to the hotel now,” he said.

  “I didn't mean for you to leave,”she said, feeling bad.

  “Maybe you just need time to yourself,” he said. “Maybe you'll be inspired to write tonight, if I leave you alone.” I've spent the past year alone, she wanted to say, but she didn't.

  “Maybe...” she said.

  He called his driver and arranged to be picked up.

  “I'll see you at eleven,” he said. She walked him to the door and opened it to let him out. He turned to look at her.