- Text Size +

"Tomorrow is going to be the shittiest day in the history of days," Nick grumbled as we all shuffled off the elevator.

 

"What do you mean, tomorrow? It's already today." A.J. rubbed his face wearily. "Jesus Christ. Maybe Howie had the right idea cashin' out early."

 

Nick looked at his phone. "It's only 4:45. You could probably grab a nap if you skip showering."

 

"And the guyliner," I added with a deep yawn.

 

"Oh, ha, ha." A.J. cast me a long-suffering look. "And when do you get to leave, Nancy Sinatra?"

 

I grinned lazily. "Flight leaves at 11. Leaving for the airport at 9. I'm going to bed for at least three hours."

 

A chorus of boos greeted my gloating.

 

"Well, jeez, then this is it, huh?" A.J. draped an arm over my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. "Miss Journalist is burnin' out on us."

 

"Awwww..." And the guys surrounded me in a sweaty group hug.

 

I managed to snake my arms out of their tight grip and pat a couple of backs. "Oh, dry your eyes, boys. You'll see me in New York." My voice was muffled by someone's armpit, I didn't even know whose. Three of the Backstreet Boys were accosting me with smelly hugs in a hotel hallway in Nashville at 4:45 a.m. You couldn't make it up.

 

And suddenly I really didn't want to fly home. I wanted to stay here, with my new friends. I felt rather like a kid at summer camp. I'd been dreading this assignment with every fiber of my being, but the truth was, I'd had unforgettably great fun. And now, suddenly, it was coming to an end. A sentimental knot formed in my heart.

 

The guys let me out for some air. Rochelle moved in and squeezed my hand. "It was really nice meeting you, Meg."

 

"Same here," Lindie added, smiling more warmly than earlier. "Looks like y'all have had a good week."

 

I smiled. "It didn't totally suck."

 

The guys crowded around me with their goodbyes.

 

"Well, you take care of yourself, Miz Michaels." Nick side-hugged me, too tall for a decent hug, and I looped an arm around his waist, feeling rather like I was hugging an annoying brother. "Can't wait to read the story. Leave out all the good stuff from tonight, will ya?"

 

A.J. pecked me on the cheek. "Thanks for bein' a good sport this week, lady. You're all right."

 

A sleepy smile crept onto my face as I patted A.J.'s arm. "Well, I could say the same to y'all. I'm probably not even allowed to have this much fun out on the beat."

 

"Well, if you admit to having fun, that's good enough for us." A.J. grinned warmly.

 

With that, A.J., Rochelle, Lindie and Nick all took off down the hall. I watched Lindie loop her arm through Nick's as they disappeared around a corner, and my heart squeezed at the sight of the carefree affection.

 

Brian looked at Bob and cleared his throat. "Bob, maybe you better go make sure Christine isn't waiting to tear us a new one."

 

Recognition dawned in Bob's eyes. "Yeah. Maybe," he said slowly. The undercurrent of the exchange was clear. He gave me a little two-fingered salute. "Meg...you have a safe flight home."

 

I smiled as he shuffled away. "Thanks, Bob. Take care."

 

You could have heard a pin drop in that hallway. My heart was pounding. I wanted to say goodbye to Brian like I wanted to be punched in the face. That was probably what was in store for my heart, I reflected.

 

"Where's your room?" Brian asked quietly.


"607."

 

"I'm down that hallway. I'll walk with you."

 

"Hold on." I turned away from him and fished my room key out of my dress.

 

When I turned back, he was shielding his eyes, but there was a smirk on his face. "Well, that explains why you didn't carry a pocketbook tonight."

 

"Pocketbook?" I echoed as we started down the hall. "Haven't heard that term in a few decades."

 

He slung an arm around me as we walked. "Girl, I don't know what we're gonna do without you and your smart mouth."

 

I could have said the same, I reflected as we reached my door. My heart actually hurt, half from this nonstop pounding, half from the emotions coursing through me.

 

"Well, Scarecrow, I'll miss you most of all," I said lightly. I realized with horror that my voice was shaking a bit.

 

He threw out his arms, hung his head and pantomimed a scarecrow. Then he looked up, eyes warm and searching. "So, we're cool?"

 

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out in frustration with the whole situation. I pasted on a smile. "Yeah, we're cool."

 

He wrapped his arms around my shoulders in a tight, tender hug. I slipped my arms around his waist, face buried in his shoulder.

 

We were silent a long moment, neither one of us moving, relaxing into each other. I inhaled his spicy, linen-y scent, rubbed his back tentatively. I felt his thumb tracing tiny circles on my bare shoulder, felt him turn his face into my hair. I didn't know whether I might burst into tears or burst into flames.

 

"Kinda wanna stay," I heard myself murmur.

 

His lips silently brushed the top of my head. I felt him sigh. "Yeah. That's two of us."

 

I could feel the insistent drumming of my heartbeat in every nerve in my body, and I was sure he could, too. It seemed my very teeth had a pulse, though not as strong as the one in the very pit of my belly.

 

He drew back, but didn't let me go. His eyes had darkened, grown as intense as I'd seen them anytime this week. Bedroom eyes. He ran a hand slowly through my hair, twirling a curl around his finger.

 

"Maybe we're just really bad friends, Meg." There he went with that private little smile again.

 

I needed to run. I needed to stay. Or maybe I just needed to give up the fight.

 

I gave up the fight. I rose up on my toes and kissed him.

 

He took a small step back, catching me as I all but launched myself at him, but he responded immediately, one hand buried in my hair, the other one sliding down to the small of my back. I clutched at his back, my fingers curling in his shirt. A surprised little sound of pleasure escaped one of us.

 

I rocked back and broke the kiss, catching my breath. Brian's mouth was hanging open in shock, but his hands didn't budge, and his eyes were smoldering.

 

"So, um..." I began.

 

Even if I had known what to say, I wouldn't have been able to finish, because his lips were on mine again.

 

Yes. This was what the entire week had been building up to. This was what might have happened on the bus a few nights ago if Howie hadn't busted us, what certainly would have happened in that rotting church in God's country yesterday - yesterday? seemed like a lifetime ago - if the phone hadn't rung just in time. This was the moment when it had to happen, the moment when it seemed entirely possible I'd never see him again or know a consequence for this incredible, passionate, time-stopping kiss.

 

I was making out with my favorite Backstreet Boy in a hotel hallway in Nashville at 5 a.m. You couldn't make it up.

 

His lips were sweet and skilled and a little demanding, and this second kiss deepened in a matter of seconds. Both his hands were around my waist as my arms went around his neck. The wall was at my back suddenly. It was a good thing, because my knees were simply...gone.

 

Damn, this was delicious and worth every ounce of misery it was sure to cause. That thing I had felt just beginning to stir awake as we danced earlier, it roared to life now. As close as I was to him, it didn't take rocket science to know he felt the same.

 

His arms went fully around my waist, and then my feet were off the ground. Against my better judgment - oh, hell, better judgment had waved bye-bye hours ago - I hooked one foot behind his knee. One of my hands found his hair. He groaned into my mouth. Oh, he was no boy, no nice Southern gentleman, not now. He was kissing me like he wanted to throw me over his shoulder and take me back to the cave.

 

We were at the point of no return. If this didn't end now, it would end naked. Tough call.

 

He must have read my mind, because he broke the kiss abruptly and set me down. I quickly dropped my leg to the ground, though I didn't trust my legs.

 

He rested his forehead against mine, breathing hard, but didn't let me go. I managed to drag my eyes open. Desire was written all over his face. I was sure it was etched in mine, because God, I wanted him like I'd never wanted anything else.

 

"OK." He took a deep breath. "You need to go to bed, or we're going to go to bed."

 

Nothing like using a sledgehammer to get the point across. Those last words - "we're going to go to bed" - would be echoing in my head for days, I already knew. Nothing could have sounded better right now. All sorts of lurid images danced in my head.

 

Instead, reason returning to me - no! not reason! - I drew in a ragged breath and slowly disentangled my arms from around his neck. "OK. I'm gonna go to bed."

 

He nodded, and some of the sexytime cleared from his face. "OK." He sounded as disappointed as I felt.

 

Damn it all, Michaels! that voice inside me screamed. We were gonna get laid, and you ruined it!

 

He kissed my forehead, and I squeezed his arms and pulled myself out of them. My room key had fallen to the floor, and I retrieved it quickly, hands shaking so badly I could barely grasp it. I unlocked my door, not looking at him. If I so much as glanced at him, I was going to jump him.

 

"Meg..."

 

I looked back as I stepped into the dark room. Brian was staring at me, hands jammed in his pockets. The desire was gone completely from his face. In its place was heartache.

 

It was only a mirror of my own face, I was sure. Tears pricked the backs of my eyeballs. This was exactly what I had wanted to avoid.

 

I rested my head against the cool doorjamb. I was out of words, but I opened my mouth anyway, unsure of what would come out.

 

"Oh, Brian, you and I just need to stay away from each other."

 

I regretted the words as soon as they slipped out, but there was no taking them back. The stricken look on his face was the last thing I saw as I closed the door, finally alone with my confusion and frustration and utter misery, the way it was always going to be.

 

 

**

 

The next time I opened the door, a USA Today was lying in front of it.

 

It was probably weightless, being a Saturday USA Today, but I stared at it as if it were a cinderblock of doom. It was the principle of the thing. Why did some geniuses think it was a good idea to drop the newspaper right in front of the door? Suppose it was a Sunday edition, and someone tripped over it? That was a lawsuit waiting to happen.

 

It had been a sleepless, troubled few hours. As soon as I'd closed the door, I'd slid to the floor and sat there for a good 10 minutes, emotions and hormones storming within me. Part of me had wanted to take a nice, hot bath. Part of me had wanted to cry myself to sleep. None of the above had happened, including the crying. I'd been too stunned to do much of anything.

 

I had finally crawled into bed and listened in exhausted silence as the guys left the hotel. Suitcases and duffel bags dragging on the floor, quiet masculine voices. Even Christine's outside voice had seemed somewhat muted. As if they were all miles away. In a way, they already were.

 

And by now, they were probably in Louisville. I thought of Brian, envisioned him hugging his son, whom I remembered he'd be seeing today. I wondered what the boy looked like. Did he have big blue eyes like his old man? Would he hug me if I ever met him?

 

Angry at myself for even wondering, I kicked the free newspaper out of the way. And that was when I noticed it: a tiny, folded square of paper, perhaps an inch across. It must have been sitting on the newspaper.

 

I picked it up. "Read on the plane" was scrawled on the outside in messy script.

 

My heart sped up, and in spite of the instructions, I began to unfold it. But more script awaited behind the first fold: "I mean it."

 

I sighed, exasperated, and stuffed the paper into my pocket as I shouldered my messenger bag and purse, dragged my overstuffed and poorly packed suitcase out of my room, and headed for the lobby.

 

No posh leather backseat this time, no driver with a little sign. I had refused it. A cab was waiting, yellow on the outside, nondescript and pungent on the inside. The driver was playing a classic rock station. I had been previously unaware there was anything but country on FM radio in Nashville.

 

I was aware of a smooth voice singing softly in the cab. And he was just a hired hand, workin' on a dream he planned to try... I slouched against the threadbare gray upholstery, squeezing my eyes closed. Seriously?

 

The note was there, taunting me. I fished it out of my pocket and began again to unfold it, but behind the next fold was more script: "Seriously."

 

"Oh, damn you," I muttered, stuffing the paper back into my pocket.

 

"Problem, ma'am?" the cabbie asked.

I shook my head in the rearview mirror. The song ended, and another twangy Eagles tune began: City girls just seem to find out early how to open doors with just a smile...

 

If that was true, then some city girl I was.

 

The Nashville airport was larger than I'd expected, but I breezed through security. That I was in no mood to be trifled with must have shown on my face, because the TSA agent, a shrimpy, bespectacled man, looked at me as if I might actually shoot him and waved me through without a second glance. Smart guy. If I had been patted down today, I might have punched an agent. I was too tired and miserable for this crap.

 

I hit the gate 45 minutes before takeoff, but I didn't feel like hauling out my laptop. I thumbed through Twitter and a few news headlines on my phone, but I could barely focus on the screen. The note was burning a hole in my pocket. I knew what I was likely to find if I unfolded it, but curiosity got the better of me.

 

Sure enough, "You're not on the plane yet." was written on the last fold. Whoever had written this note - I refused to believe it was who I hoped it was - obviously either was psychic or knew my neuroses too well.

 

That anyone on this tour had any idea how deep my neuroses ran was a testament to how royally I'd fucked up as an objective journalist this week, I reflected as I shoved the note back into my pocket.

 

The flight was nearly full, which made no sense to me because, really, how many people from Nashville could be flying to New York on a Saturday morning? A woman as old as Moses settled into the seat next to mine. She greeted me with only a polite nod, so that was a plus. I was in no mood to make small talk or be called "dearie" today.

 

As I stared out the window at the skyline, close enough to touch, I realized I was actually half-afraid to read the note. It was only after my skyline view had been replaced with fluffy white clouds, after I'd broken out my iPod, that I finally reached into my pocket again.

 

With suddenly trembling hands, I opened the last fold. The note was scrawled on cream-colored hotel stationery in that same messy script. It had been written in pencil, and there were a lot of eraser marks. It took me three tries to get through reading the words as they blurred before me.

 

Meg -

 

You're a hell of a woman. I will never forget you. I can't find words for how much I miss you already. This is so much "bigger" than I expected. I sure hope you're wrong about us.

 

See you in NYC.

 

Your whiskey-drinking friend,
Brian

 

Andrew Bird droned on in my ears. Tears streamed down my face in spite of myself. I felt like my heart had been drop-kicked with steel-toed boots, then tracked down and trampled. I could picture it in my mind, its shape hopelessly dented. By whom? Not him. He was just doing what his honest emotions told him to do. Was it me, then, sabotaging myself and my own feelings?

 

Never in a million years would I have expected a source to make me feel this way, but I knew now, in an instant, crystalline way: this was why I had always worked so hard not to get involved in my stories.

 

But maybe, just maybe it was why I shouldn't bother trying not to. I didn't know what was worse -- being heartsick, or being angry at myself for being heartsick.

 

A handkerchief swam before one eye. I turned my head. The little old lady next to me was holding out a large square of faded white linen embroidered with pink flowers.

 

"You look like you could use this, dearie," she said in a voice wavering with age but warm with comfort.

 

I was so very tired of fighting. I burst into tears.