Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
We head out into the sunshine. I, of course, take the coffee first. Neither of us says a word, until we’ve passed the hair salon next door. Sabrina is busy inside with a customer. Which reminds me, I need to get my bangs straightened. It’s a miracle Nash’s hair wound up okay. And it likely has more to do with how thick and gravity defying it is than any talent on my part. He’s wearing the same pair of jeans, boots, and a matching black tee. Very country slash rockstar.
“Can you believe that kid?” he asks in a disgruntled tone.
“You haven’t forgotten we’re actually fake, right?”
“Of course not. But hitting on you right in front of me like that…the balls on him.”
“Okay,” I say. “I was wondering if varying your wardrobe might be helpful as part of your disguise.”
He looks over his clothes. “Could be a good idea. Let’s do it.”
“So you have barista skills.” And it’s the truth—there’s no taste of bitterness. He didn’t scald the beans. This is an excellent cup of coffee. “Tell me about that.”
“Having a proper coffee machine was on my rider,” he says. “That’s the list of demands you give the place where you’re performing. I didn’t want another person following me around but I did want fresh coffee, so I learned how to work it. Though I really don’t know how to cook. Your ex and I have that in common. Caffeine just always seemed more important than food. That and trying different restaurants is one of the highlights of touring.”
“Did you really go to morning meditation?”
“I really did. We sat in a circle around this big maple in the park and pondered our existence.”
“That actually sounds relaxing.”
“Yeah. Then I went in search of coffee and they needed a hand, so…” He pauses outside the art gallery. And his gaze goes discreetly up and down the street. “People keep staring at me.”
“Thought you were used to that sort of thing.”
“I am,” he says. “But I don’t like it.”
“It may not be what you’re thinking. We caused a lot of gossip last night. And, not to objectify you, but you’re a handsome specimen.”
He gasps. “June, are you hitting on me?”
“Not even a little.”
“Thank goodness for that. Your grandma would be outraged and I’d get the stick.”
“Nash, my friend, I’m simply stating a fact. We can’t help any fans from thinking you look familiar. You’re just going to have to do your best to act ordinary.”
“I don’t even know what your definition of that is,” he says. “Ordinary for me is signing things and having people crying on me and telling me they love me and saying they like to have sex to my music.”
My brows are so high. I don’t know if they’ll ever come down. “It’s weird, because many of us have sex to music, but it’s not like we make a point of sharing that sort of thing with the musician. Just because they made the tunes doesn’t mean they consented to hearing about our sex lives.”
“I definitely need to know now what music you play though.”
“None of your business,” I say. “What do you even say when people tell you stuff like that?”
“Smile and nod and keep moving.”
“Sounds sensible.”
“Parasocial relationships are so strange,” I say. “The idea that you believe you know a complete stranger because you watch their films or listen to their music.”
“Fame as a whole is wild. How you’re portrayed in the media doesn’t necessarily have a hell of a lot to do with who you are as a person.” He sighs. “The more they talked about me, the less I recognized myself. It’s like every think piece and social media post chips away at you.”
“That sounds incredibly hard.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad you’ve gotten away from it for a while.”
“My face feels so weirdly bare.” He stands with his arms crossed over his chest and his hands stuffed out of sight beneath. Like he’s bracing for something or trying to make himself smaller. Neither of which are good options.
“Turn this way,” I say, facing the street. “Close your eyes and tilt your head back.”
“Okay.”
“How does the sun feel?”
He smiles and doesn’t move for a minute. And the light on his skin, how relaxed he seems, makes me want to take a photo or two. Which would most probably definitely be a weird thing for me to do. “Good,” he says. “It feels good.”
“This coffee really is excellent.”
“Simple pleasures, huh?” he asks. “Our lives should be made of them.”
“You’re right. I listened to the birds as I walked into town. Such a pretty and relaxing sound.”
“Yeah. I like the hiss of the espresso machine,” he says. “So many good connotations. What else have you got?”
“Looking at the stars and spending time with people who don’t drain you. Both of which relate to you in a way.”