She just didn’t realize what a strain it would be on her oldest son. Or what a strain she puts on him now, with that all-encompassing love of hers, and the way he struggles to live up to it. I might be the one wrong thing, the one deceitful thing, he’s ever done.
When dusk falls, we link hands again and head toward the hotel. “How long do you have?” I ask. My voice sounds small and childlike. I wish he could stay. I just want one more day with him. It seems like so little to ask and yet I know it’s impossible for either of us.
His hand tightens around mine. “A few hours.”
We stop at a bar on the way back to the hotel. He orders us mussels and frites and two glasses of red wine.
“I could listen to you speak French all day,” I tell him.
He grins. “If you worked at Dooha, you probably would. I promise it wouldn’t seem so exciting then.”
“Pretend I’m your nurse,” I say, tipping my head up and closing my eyes. “Say something.”
“Je pense qu’il y a une hémorragie interne.” His voice is soft as velvet. My nipples tighten under four layers of clothing.
“That sounded sexy,” I tell him. “What was it?”
“I think there’s internal bleeding,” he replies and I laugh.
Our food arrives and we eat quickly, suddenly famished. We’re only half done when the bar grows crowded. The mood is celebratory—it’s not every day the city is unexpectedly shut down. We are bumped from all sides and Josh turns us so I’m seated and he’s standing, blocking the crowd with those ridiculous shoulders of his.
I take a sip of my wine, savoring it the way I did the hot chocolate. His gaze falls to my mouth and my blood heats in response.
“What are you thinking about up there?” I ask.
His eyes drop to my mouth again. “Watching you drink wine is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he says. His nostrils flare a little, as if he’s trying to breathe me in.
I swallow. I need him undressed right now and looming over me. I need those large hands of his palming my hips, pulling them off the mattress to meet his. “Maybe we should go back to the room,” I say breathlessly.
He nods, the check is paid, and the two of us stumble from the bar, walking too close to be graceful. On the street, he presses me against the building’s crumbling stone facade and kisses me, the air biting cold, his mouth warm and needy. I press against him, my hands sliding beneath his coat.
“I want to be so far inside you, you’ll never forget I was there,” he whispers.
You already are, I think, pulling him down the street.
We reach the room and shed our clothes as if they’re suffocating us. And then we are on the bed, deliciously naked, and he’s above me, pinning me down with his heavy limbs, moving inside me like he’d sooner die than stop.
He wrings the first orgasm from me easily, but then demands another. I can feel it building, a tight ball of heat in my stomach, but it’s the sight of him there, trembling on the cusp but refusing to be pushed over as he waits for me, that finally sets it off.
And then he lets go—a desperate, hoarse cry in my ear, his body shaking above mine.
“I’m not going to forget, ever,” I whisper against his skin. “I promise.”
He doesn’t have long after that. He tells me to stay in bed as he gathers his things, so I watch him move across the room, stepping into boxers, tugging a t-shirt overhead.
When he’s dressed and his stuff is gathered, he comes to the edge of the bed and presses his lips to my forehead. They hold there for the longest moment and neither of us says a word.
I will probably never see him again. The thought hits me hard and fast, creating a desperate need to hold on to this moment.
It’s only when the door shuts that I let myself feel the full weight of my loss. My chest aches. I want to cry but it’s as if the tears are stuck there, too painful to be dislodged at all.
When I wake the next day, there’s nothing to open my eyes for.
Very soon—in a few hours, in fact—I will need to pay the price for my defiance and face Davis. I was so brave, so joyful when Josh was here because I was leaning on him, even if I didn’t admit it to myself, and now is when I fall. Now is when the label comes down on me for blowing off interviews, when Davis tells me I’m in breach of contract and extracts concessions to make up for it: extra shows, extra appearances. He will drive me until I don’t know what city I’m in and pass out on stage because I’ve forgotten anything matters more than keeping the machine running.
I get to the airport that afternoon. We travel by private plane when we’re on tour—a luxury, in theory. In reality, it means Davis gets to spend the entire flight bitching at me. I close my eyes and for once I don’t see myself sitting on a bus, alone and frightened. I see myself sitting at Île Saint-Louis with Josh, watching the sunset and feeling absolutely free.
I’d work myself to the bone for that feeling, except Josh was right: I don’t have to. I was born entitled to it. Everyone has a right to be happy, to feel peaceful. And the most successful third album in the history of third albums won’t give me any more of it than I had yesterday.
Maybe it’s time I truly consider getting off this particular ride at last.
When I’m in my room, I grab my phone and text Ben Tate, the attorney Tali’s been on me about. He agrees to meet me in New York when I’m there next month. I write the info down on the hotel notepad, oddly terrified. It’s as if I’m trying to escape a cult.
And as tangled up as all my business dealings are, escaping a cult might be easier.
39
JOSH
I go from snow and Paris sunsets and Drew’s breath mingling with mine to armed guards pointing guns at me in a customs line. And this is the safe part—if there is a safe part—of Mogadishu.
I used to feel like I wasn’t giving up too much coming back here. The work was interesting and I liked my coworkers. Today, though, I’m not interested in the faint pleasures of living within the confines of the camp: getting to know the families, camaraderie with the rest of the staff, the occasional hookup with a cute nurse. The assurance it provided that I’m not like my father is no longer enough.
I want my weekends back. I want a modicum of safety. I want to be able to go to a pastry shop to buy breakfast for the girl waiting back at my place. I want a huge soft bed, where that same girl will be stretched out beside me, suggesting I become a gravedigger.
My shirt clings to my back as I get my first whiff of dust whipping off the dry plains outside the city. The drive to Dooha is the most dangerous part of leaving and returning. I’m normally hypervigilant, looking for signs of trouble, but today I’m just gazing at the picture I took of Drew outside the patisserie—steam rising from a cup beside her face, her sweet, surprised smile.
We are in a shitty, unfixable situation. Soon, she’ll find someone who can actually see her. Who can actually admit he’s with her. Cutting this off now would be easier than reading about her and the guy she replaces me with in a week or a month. But when she texts, I’m thrilled.
It means I still exist somewhere in her world.
I’m also thrilled because she says she’s meeting with a lawyer about getting rid of Davis. I video call her the second I get to my tent, abandoning any attempt at restraint. She’s in her hotel room, smiling wide. I never once saw her smile like that for my brother. “Give me a tour of your tent!” she demands.