“The way Melody took her to task . . .” Octavia stared off into the distance, a bemused smile on her face. “That was something to see, wasn’t it? You were both off-key in the second verse of ‘Rattle the Cage,’ but nobody noticed. And I didn’t post about it on the message boards.” She scratched her eyebrow. “That definitely wasn’t me.”
“Right.”
“It was me.”
“Yes, I know.” He tapped a finger against the open file. “Can we discuss these applicants now?”
“One more thing. I gathered during my many hours of Melody viewing today that she’s very nervous about this bocce match tomorrow night.” She gave Beat a pointed look. “Perhaps she could use some moral support.”
The very idea of Melody nervous about anything made Beat want to sink down onto the floor and never come up. Still . . . “She doesn’t want that from me right now.”
“Oh, darling.” Sympathy shone in his mother’s eyes. “Didn’t I mention? She’s not being subtle about her feelings, either. Friends shmends.”
“It’s complicated,” he said, hoarsely.
“Are you in love with her?”
His heart answered for him, pounding behind his jugular. “Yes.”
Tempered joy flooded Octavia’s expression. “Then perhaps you should uncomplicate it.”
*
December 18
The following night, Beat walked into his friend’s party, handing over the bottle of champagne he’d brought—and he tried valiantly to pretend like the entire proceeding didn’t screech to a standstill at his appearance.
“Beat . . .” Vance greeted him at the door looking like he’d seen a ghost. “We . . . I . . . you’re here? I didn’t expect you to come.”
“Really?” He leaned in for a backslapping hug. “I RSVP’d in November.”
“That was before you were a worldwide sensation.”
Vance’s eyes widened as the associate producer, Steve, ducked into the apartment, further drawing the attention of every guest in the room. “Sorry to interrupt, folks, but I’m going to need everyone to sign a waiver. If you choose not to be on camera . . . what’s wrong with you? But okay. I’ll need your name and the official diagnosis. Just kidding. But seriously. I’m sure everyone here is excited to be on the live stream. Please step this way and sign the waiver, one by one. As quickly as possible, please, so we can get filming.”
Beat’s top layer of skin was on fire, head to toe. This shit was manageable when Melody was around. They were in it together. But doing it alone made him feel like a clown. “I’m sorry about this,” he said to Vance. “I tried calling you to explain . . .”
“Shit. I’ve been running around for the last few hours. My place was an actual pigsty until about ten minutes ago. No bullshit.” Vance gaped as the line of guests formed, his gaze swinging back to Beat. “I have ten thousand questions. And I’m not going to ask you any of them.”
Beat’s breath escaped like helium from a balloon. “Thank you.”
“But someday you’re going to get drunk and tell me everything.”
“Sure. I’m going to sing like a canary.”
Vance laughed, studying his face closely. “No, you’re not.” He opened his mouth, closed it, and started again. “I always had this weird intuition that I didn’t know the real Beat Dawkins, you know? Now I know it wasn’t just a feeling. It’s true. After seeing you with Melody . . .” Someone across the room called both their names and Vance turned to wave, Beat following suit even though his arm suddenly weighed a hundred pounds. “You’ve kept a lot of yourself hidden, haven’t you?”
Any other night, Beat would have pretended not to see the hurt and confusion in his friend’s eyes, made a joke, and veered the conversation into a different lane. But Vance was the second person to call him on his behavior in the space of thirty-six hours . . . and Beat couldn’t run from the accusation anymore. Had he taken his quest for privacy way too far? Was he now driving people away by keeping his hopes and fears and secrets buried under the surface?
It seemed so. His friend was looking at him like he barely knew him.
Melody wasn’t standing at his side where she belonged. And yet she guided him now, her voice in his head, always revealing herself with such bald honesty. No pretense. No fear. God, he wanted to be more like her and holy shit, he missed her so much his bones ached.
“It’s habit, you know?” Beat coughed into his fist. “I had to keep things to myself growing up to maintain Octavia’s privacy. Later on, I sort of realized that when I spoke about my life to other people . . . my advantages became very obvious. I guess I just started keeping things to myself out of habit. I didn’t mean to be . . . hidden.”
Vance nodded slowly. “And with Mel . . .”
“With Mel, it’s like we’re both . . . in the same hiding spot. Together.”
His friend visibly suppressed a laugh. “I have terrible news, man, you’ve been doing the opposite of hiding.” He squinted an eye. “How drunk do I have to get you to find out—”
“The attic? There isn’t enough alcohol in New York City.”
“Had to shoot my shot.”
“But did you?”
That was their last private moment before friends and acquaintances joined them, having finished signing the waivers. Ernie fired up the camera, the red light blinking, lens trained on Beat as he made forced small talk with friends of friends who obviously wanted to ask him about Wreck the Halls and the status of the reunion . . . and Melody.
What was she doing right at that moment? If she were here, he would trade a knowing look with her, because she would understand how everyone he spoke with wanted to pry and was valiantly holding themselves back. How he felt like not enough on his own, not enough without the juicy information about his famous family. How they were hoping Beat would offer a tidbit without them having to ask. He and Melody had performed these steps since they were children and in a short space of time, he’d gotten used to dancing with her, not without.
Half an hour into the party and Beat was no longer hearing the conversation around him. His gaze continually strayed to the window facing east—toward Brooklyn. Melody’s bocce match would be starting right now. He’d called Danielle this afternoon to ask about the security they planned on providing and she’d been cagey, mumbling under her breath that the network was working with the NYPD to control the expected crowd.
Thinking about tiny Melody in the middle of all that mayhem caused a bead of sweat to roll down his back. She was dealing with Magnificent Melody Mania while he was in this private apartment without any need for security. She’d asked for space, but this was just wrong. Even if they’d hired enough security to protect the pope, no one could care for her like Beat.
“Excuse me,” Beat murmured to the couple telling him about their first concert in a crystal-clear effort to broach the subject of Steel Birds. “I have to make a call.”
That wasn’t true. He’d just reached his breaking point. He’d made it thirty-six hours without watching Melody’s live stream and that was all he could handle.