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Monday, 8/15: NYC

 

"Is it sexual harassment to comment that you look awfully fancy today?" Thomas said as he passed my desk.

 

I flashed him a too-bright smile. "I'll allow it."

 

"Well, then." He thunked his briefcase down on the four square inches of my desk not covered with crap from the tour, along with various and sundry other stories. He sounded crankier than usual; I wondered if he'd run out of cigarettes on the way here. "You look awfully fancy today."

 

I looked down at my outfit in feigned surprise. "Do I?"

 

The reality was, I was fully aware I looked nothing like the bedraggled urbanite who skulked into the office most days. I was wearing my favorite blue linen shirtdress, the one that made my eyes pop with color, the one whose knotted belt highlighted curves that usually got hidden under wide-leg pants and utilitarian tees when I was here. I had made an extra-special effort to make my hair not look like the nest of a bird with an unaddressed drinking problem. Perhaps most shocking for the newsroom, I was wearing more makeup than the usual strawberry Chapstick and mascara.

 

It had been nine days since I left the tour. Today was the day the Backstreet Boys would be showing up for their follow-up. They were here for three days, with two shows at the Gramercy, before heading out to St. Louis and heading west for two weeks of shows. A grueling couple weeks of travel lay ahead, and I was glad to have dodged that bullet.

 

In the midst of their busy promotions schedule, the four of them had already gotten their photo taken when they hit town yesterday, which no doubt had dismayed the photographer. That meant only two of them would be showing up today to talk with me over lunch. No one had told me who. Until I walked up to the little lunch place across from Bryant Park where I'd made reservations, I had no clue who would be meeting me.

 

My heart had been pounding since the moment I'd opened my eyes this morning. I'd primped for an hour on the off chance Brian was one of them. If it wasn't, well, at least I could trick myself into, for once, feeling like a million bucks on a sticky summer Monday. It was worth the sketchy glances I'd gotten on the ferry.

 

"You make your lunch reservations at the goddamn Russian Tea Room or something?" Thomas was saying.

 

"Nah, just Vic's." I grinned. "Figured I'd keep the expenses down after that surprise room service bill from the tour."

 

"Don't even go down that road with me," Thomas muttered. He picked up his briefcase. "Anyway, what do they care what you look like? They've probably seen you in your pajamas."

 

I sniffed delicately. "Can't I, for once, not look like a homeless person for an interview?"

 

Thomas side-eyed me suspiciously, then walked into his office without another word, closing the door behind him. The moment I heard it click, I exhaled.

 

It had been a long nine days. At times, it felt like I'd done nothing but cry. I'd cried when I walked into my apartment for the first time. I'd cried when Alicia hugged me as she walked in two days later with a Tupperware of homemade lasagna and a magnum of cheap white wine. I'd cried myself to sleep three different nights.

 

For God's sake, I hadn't cried this much since my stepdad died. The reason for it now was barely worth comparing to that tragedy. I'd only walked away from a perfectly imperfect man who was falling in love with me, and I with him, because my stupid career came first.

 

I was heartsick, just like I'd known I would be. Stupid girl.

 

My stupid career was what had put me on that stupid bus in the first stupid place, though. I turned back to my computer, ran a hand through my hair and tried to concentrate on telling the story of that stupid, perfect man and his friends.

 

 

**

 

I emerged from the subway on the other side of Bryant Park from Vic's Delicatessen, the sandwich place where I was taking my two assigned Backstreet Boys - where Rolling Stone was taking them, really. The quick walk through the woodsy, picturesque park calmed my nerves, if only a little.

 

I was a wreck, breathing in heavy sighs, heart threatening to beat its way out of my chest, tapping my fingers against my purse. I had brought only a notebook and my phone as recorder.

 

Panic seized me. I had brought a notebook, hadn't I? I stopped in the middle of the park, rummaged through my purse. It was there. Phew.

 

And at that precise moment, a hand on my shoulder terrified me so completely that I dropped my purse. Here we go, I thought. Three years in New York, and I'm getting mugged for the first time. It was bound to happen sometime.

 

I whirled as my purse fell, fists clenched. Not a mugger. Worse. Or better. Or both.

 

It was Brian.

 

All the thoughts and fantasies and emotions and regrets and assorted miseries of the last week and a half came flooding back. My heart leaped, then dropped.

 

He smiled tentatively. His voice was quiet. "Well, hey there, Miz Michaels."

 

I was speechless. I wanted to cry all over again. Enough with the goddamn crying!

 

"Dude, you must have been on the same train as us." A.J. reached us and clasped my hand in both of his. Just him - no bodyguard accompanied them. "How's it going?"

 

I smiled, wondering if he had any idea he was going to be nothing but a welcome seawall against the awkwardness today. "Your Southern-fried associate here just scared the living hell out of me, but you know, other than that, I'm good."

 

"Yeah, jeez, I'm sorry." Brian dropped to his knees, trying to help reassemble the scattered contents of my purse. I followed suit, the pavement pressing hard into my bare knees.

 

We reached for my notebook at the same time. His hand covered mine.

 

"Meg..." he began, in a voice just for me.

 

I looked up, caught his gaze just for a moment. His eyes were full of conflicting emotions. In them, I saw us tangled against the wall of that hotel hallway. I snatched my notebook away, too quickly, and tore my eyes away as well.

 

"So, we gonna eat?" A.J. was looking across the street at the restaurant.

 

Brian and I both straightened up, and the three of us started walking.

 

I had to say something. "How are you, Brian?" I asked, formally, my voice full of forced cheerfulness. I didn't dare look at him.

 

"Good. Really good." He cleared his throat. "I saw my son last weekend, so couldn't have been all bad."

 

"That's awesome." My voice sounded like someone else's.

 

I looked at A.J., desperate for help. He shrugged, his mouth forming the word "What?"

 

No one seemed to look up when we walked into Vic's. I'd brought a handful of sources here for lunch; it was a well-kept secret among the famous and the plebes who got to interview them. It was a study in contrasts, white tablecloths and old Dylan records on the speakers, $9 sandwiches that came with chips. We were seated right away, our sandwich orders in within five minutes, the better to get down to business.

 

As soon as the waiter walked away, A.J. stood up from the table. "Well, before we get too far here, I'm going to let my thing down."

 

"Glad to see you're just as well-mannered and gentlemanly as you were two weeks ago," I replied.

 

"Don't hurry back," Brian added. "We want the food to show up." A.J. rolled his eyes and walked away.

 

As A.J.'s footsteps receded, I busied myself looking at the wine list. I could totally rationalize a liquid lunch to Thomas, I reasoned. God knew I needed one.

 

Something seemed to be burning a hole in my face. I looked up to find Brian full-on staring at me, his eyes piercing and earnest.

 

"I can't stop thinking about you," he said frankly.

 

My heart sped up. I dropped my face into my hands, elbows on the table. Sighing heavily, I rested my face in my palms and met his gaze. I could do that. I would not think about his hands around my waist. I would not think about his lips... No. I refused. I was working. How I felt was immaterial. Again. I needed to stop him from going down this road. Again.

 

"Please don't," I whispered. As badly as I'd wanted to see him, I was at a total loss when it came to actually dealing with him. With us. Whatever "us" even meant.

 

He leaned in closer, looking a touch desperate. "I miss you. I'm going nuts. I haven't heard a word out of you since Nashville. You keep actin' like I might as well be a stranger, but you look at me and I know better. Please--"

 

"I can't do this with you!" I hissed, miserable. "Not here, not now. We're in the middle of Manhattan. There are people here who know who you are. Your buddy is coming out of the bathroom any minute. Jesus, can you please at least just wait till the story runs?"

 

"No, I wanna talk about this now. I don't care who else is around." He looked around, but didn't raise his voice. "You hear that? I don't care. Can we just talk?"

 

"What's there to talk about?" I spluttered, still in a stage whisper. "I did something totally out of character with someone I never expected to do it with, at the worst possible time. It just happened. The end."

 

"The end? No, that's wh--"

 

He broke off, his face reddening, as my eyes left his and I saw A.J. emerge from the bathroom. I straightened up and took a drink of water, my own face burning. Brian looked down at the table, visibly composing himself, but the look in his eyes when he looked up told me this wasn't over.

 

A.J. sat down, snapped his napkin formally over his lap with a wry smile on his face. Dead silence. Brian got up without excusing himself, and I watched him walk to the bathroom.

 

Now it was A.J.'s turn to stare at me, though his words were far less touching. "Dude, what the hell?" he said.

 

I looked down at my plate. My face was still hot. I couldn't find the words to explain this nicely.

 

"You don't know?" I said quietly.

 

I heard A.J. make a humorless sound. "Oh, every one of us knows. Not the dirty details, but the fact you two are into each other is hardly a secret. You were both super shitty at hiding it."

 

I rubbed the spot between my eyes, which was starting to pound.

 

"I guess I just wasn't prepared for you two to be so painfully awkward today," A.J. continued. "Sooooo whatever happened before you got on the plane last weekend had to have been good." He chuckled a little, but there was no mirth in the sound. "No wonder he's been so wound up today. I thought I was gonna have to put Xanax in his coffee."

 

"I really don't wanna talk about it, A.J." I looked up, letting my helplessness show in my eyes. "Just help me get through this interview. This is the last time I ever have to see you guys for this assignment."

 

The waiter brought our drinks - water for me, Cokes for the guys - and A.J. waited for him to walk away before responding. He looked a little sad. "I'll help you, because I like you. But so help me God, you two need to figure your shit out, because I think I like you together."

 

He glanced up with a forced smile as Brian returned to his seat. "All right, let's do this and get out of the nice lady's hair."

 

The past week had been just as eventful as the rest of the tour. Rochelle and Lindie had ended up changing their flight back to LA, renting a car and driving to Louisville to accompany the guys to another stop, much to Christine's chagrin. The last week's just-barely-Midwestern stops had brought out nice crowds. The bus had held up, more or less. So had the guys, more or less.

 

The conversation flowed reasonably well over our delicious sandwiches, though always with the sense that we were working at it. Gone was the ease of our long chats two weeks ago. And the three times I risked eye contact with Brian were as painful as popping a pimple.

 

Soon enough, we were walking through the park to the subway again. A hand on my shoulder stopped me. Brian was shooting me that same look from the restaurant - our conversation there was far from over, it said.

 

"Hey, A.J., I'll catch up with you," he said.

 

My heart sank. Bloody hell. I was in no shape to have this conversation today. Maybe ever. I glared at Brian, but he pretended not to see me.

 

A.J. turned around, not even bothering to mask the surprise on his face. "OK, dude." He doubled back and hugged me briefly. "Miz Michaels, great to see you."

 

"Thanks for everything, A.J." I patted his back.

 

"Figure your shit out," he muttered in my ear, and I knew just the brief contact of our hug was enough to tell him my heart was pounding.

 

As A.J. walked away, I looked up at Brian, my heart thudding. His face bore the marks of heartache again.

 

"The end?" he said, as if our conversation while A.J. was in the bathroom had simply paused.

 

I rubbed my face wearily. "I don't know what you want me to say, Brian. I think we just made a mistake." And I knew as the words left my mouth that it had been a mistake. A mistake to give him even an inch on this spark between us, a mistake to flirt with him that last night in Nashville, a mistake to kiss him. A mistake to take this assignment. A mistake to think I could deal with him neutrally.

 

"A mistake?" he repeated. "Oh, that didn't feel like a mistake to me. A mistake is something stupid you didn't mean to do. That didn't feel stupid to me, and it didn't feel like something you didn't mean to do." His eyes radiated hurt, like a finger slammed in a car door, pulsating with pain and heat. "You really think that night was stupid?"

 

"Well, obviously it wasn't smart, because it's just brought us nothing but heartache. The whole thing that week, whatever it was, has been nothing but heartache." I shrugged helplessly.

 

"Aha!" Brian pointed at me, vaguely triumphant. "So you felt something there, too."

 

"I told you, I never said I didn't feel anything." My voice was rising. "It doesn't matter if I did or do or didn't or don't. I had a job to do. I still have a job to do." I turned away from him, pacing back and forth to try to blow off my misery in some way besides raising my voice. "And even if I didn't have a job to do? It still wouldn't matter. It'd never work between you and me. You do know that, don't you?" The words were spilling out now. "I'm a bitchy New Yorker, you're a nice Southern guy, neither of us is going anywhere, we both have completely crazy jobs, you have a kid, and hi, Brian? You're famous." I ran my hands through my hair, still not looking at him. "All I want is a happy, simple life with a normal guy who's going to be there. How can you and I ever hope to make that happen? How can I possibly have a decent relationship with a guy who's anything but normal who lives halfway across the country?"

 

"What are you trying to talk yourself out of, Meg?" Now Brian's voice was rising, too.

 

"What do you want me to say?" I threw my hands in the air. I could feel tears of frustration behind my eyes.

 

"Say it wasn't a mistake." He stepped closer to me, his eyes searching mine, his voice pleading. "Say you felt what I felt in that kiss. Tell me what you're feeling. If it doesn't matter either way, then what's the harm in saying it? Please, tell me I'm not-"

 

The words burst out of me before I could stop myself from even thinking them. "Yes, I'm in love with you!" I shouted, taking a step back. My voice broke. "And I HATE IT!"

 

The park seemed to fall silent. A flock of pigeons abandoned the hot dog bun for which they were jockeying, their wings flapping as they fled. Nearby, a hobo sacked out under a tree lifted his unkempt head in mild interest.

 

And there it was. The words I'd refused to even say out loud to myself, I'd said to him. No going back now.

 

Brian took a deep breath, but before he could speak, I went on. "I hate feeling like this. I feel like a goddamn teenager." He blurred before my eyes as tears welled up and spilled over. "One minute I don't want anything to do with you because you're just another musician, the next I just want you by my side all the time because you'll never be just another musician. I can't stand the thought of never seeing you again, but I know it'll be so much easier if I never see you again. I just want my life to go back to normal, and there's no such thing as normal with you. I am so. Fucking. Sick. Of all this heartache and misery and wondering about you constantly. I just wanna do what I do best, writing, working, and living my little life."

 

It's a sad little life indeed, and you know it, that little voice in my head said. I ignored it.

 

I wiped my eyes. "I can't make room for you in that life. And what makes you think you have room for someone like me? Jesus, I wouldn't be able to bear it when you got sick of me because you need somebody who can keep up with you."

 

"I need you, Meg!" His voice was rough. I thought I saw a lump working in his throat. "I never thought I'd need a person again like I need you. I never thought I'd meet someone like you. I could look all over the world and never find someone like you, and now I know I'm not the only one who feels like I do." He took another deep breath, anguish in his eyes. "And you really wanna walk away from that?"

 

It was a do-or-die moment, but I'd said too much to take back. Whatever this was would die here, in the middle of Bryant Park. I couldn't stand the thought, but there was nothing for it.

 

"I just..." I sighed miserably. "I'm not gonna do this with you, Brian. I'm sorry. Please just leave me alone."

 

I turned to walk away, fists clenched at my sides. Yes. This was the high road. I couldn't let myself go down the other. I wouldn't. His words on the bus about pride and stubbornness ruining his marriage sounded in my head; I pushed them away.

 

"Meg?"

 

I couldn't stop myself from looking back. The look on Brian's face was one of those sights I knew I'd never forget, like the deer lying dead in front of my crumpled car when I was 18 or my mother crying in my childhood living room the day she lost her second husband. But it wasn't pain I saw on his face. It was something worse: the absence of emotion.

 

"I think you're afraid of being happy," he said.

 

Every word was a bullet. I should have fallen dead where I stood. Instead, I walked away without another word, tears drying on my cheeks, my heart breaking a little more with every step.

 

 

**

 

I made it through the rest of the day on autopilot mode, utterly numb, my brain shut off except for essential job- and life-related functions. Get on the subway. Get off the subway. Walk upstairs. Transcribe the interview. Finish the story. Walk downstairs. Get on the subway. Get off the subway. Get on the boat. Get off the boat. Walk home. Walk upstairs. Boil water. Cook pasta. Eat pasta (although misery had crowded hunger out of my stomach). Go to bed. Get up. Walk to bathroom. Wash face. Squeeze toothpaste onto toothbrush.

 

No sooner had I squeezed toothpaste onto my toothbrush than my phone buzzed with a text. "Your buddies are on Z100!" Alicia had written.

 

I nearly tripped over my own feet sprinting to the bedroom to turn on my radio, scrolling away from WNYC and onward to Z100. I was 18 again, squealing over "Backstreet's Back" on the obnoxious Top 40 station back in Quincy. Howie's voice filled my ears.

 

"...happy to be back in this city," he was saying. "New York's always been pretty good to us. You guys remember when they had us on TRL for, like, two hours that one day back in, like, '98 or '99?"

 

Chortles all around. "Man, that's hard to forget," Nick snickered.

 

"What was it, that one girl called Kevin 'Mr. Body Beautiful' in front of God and everyone," Brian said. My heart leaped into my throat.

 

"Any chance Kevin'll be performing with you guys tonight?" the morning show guy asked as I brushed my teeth with a shaky hand, listening intently.

 

A chorus of "nah." "Can't rule it out that he'll join us on tour in the future, but, uh, not tonight," Nick said. "He's busy down the street, tearing up the boards."

 

"And again, we're here with the Backstreet Boys...Backstreet's back!" the DJ quipped. "Playing tonight for a second night at the Gramercy Theatre -- I think there are still a few tickets left. Guys, you wanna give us a preview of tonight's show?"

 

"Well, uh, yeah, actually, we wanna send something out to a good lady friend of ours who was right there with us on the tour this first week," A.J. said.

 

I stopped brushing.

 

"Yeah, uh, we had an extra someone on the bus with us this week," Brian said. His voice was warm and a little uncertain. "She put up with a lot, and for sure I'd call her a good friend of mine. Whether she agrees is another story." He cleared his throat. "And, uh, I think I speak for all the guys when I say that."

 

"We have it on very good authority that this is her favorite song by us," A.J. said. "So, here we go."

 

I heard a faint, familiar drumming on a tabletop, and then Brian started singing:

 

Lookin' at your picture from when we first met
You gave me a smile that I could never forget
And nothin' I could do could protect me from you that night

 

My toothbrush hit the floor with a little clatter.

 

Wrapped around your finger, always on my mind
The days would blend 'cause we stayed up all night

 

I'd heard this song just a couple times on the tour, with Nick leading off, as he did on the record. But the words meant something totally different in Brian's voice, something unmistakable that stopped my heart. My mind's eye saw us sitting in the hotel room in Atlanta, drinking whiskey, laughing. It saw us sitting on the bus in the middle of the night, his hands holding mine as I tried to process what he'd told me about his broken heart. It saw us dancing in the honky-tonk, his voice crooning a gorgeous Eagles song in my ear. It saw that reckless kiss in the Opryland hallway in the gray area between Friday and Saturday. It saw that emotionless look on his face in the park yesterday, before I walked away from him for good.

 

Yeah, you and I were everything, everything to me

 

I was blushing from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet. God, I was stupid.

 

And then the others joined in:

 

I just want you to know
That I've been fighting to let you go
Some days I make it through
And then there's nights that never end
I wish that I could believe
That there's day you'll come back to me
But still I have to say
I would do it all again
Just want you to know

 

A.J. started singing the bridge, but I could barely hear it for my heart pounding in my ears. Tears were pooled in my eyes, perilously close to falling: oh, not again. One hand was clapped over my mouth, and I had swallowed a mouthful of toothpaste to keep myself from dissolving into a sobbing mess.

 

So, there it was, on live radio for 15 million people to hear, what that week had meant to him. He just wasn't giving up, for whatever insane reason. And I had done nothing but rebuff him at every turn, for what suddenly seemed like a very small, petty reason. There was more to life than work. His own divorce proved that in spades. I saw myself alone in 10 years. In the next instant, I saw myself with him in 10 years. I saw everything fall into place, and I knew: God, I was stupid.

 

I heard the buzz of my vibrating phone back in the bathroom. Not the tinkling piano of Thomas' ringtone, thank God, but the gritty saxophone of everyone else's. Surely not one of the guys? I stumbled to the bathroom, hardly trusting my own legs, and picked it up.

 

Alicia's voice was incredulous. "Oh, Peggy Jo, what did you do?"

 

Chapter End Notes:

All right, I have to give credit here to the most unforgettable passage from one of my favorite books, Election (yes, the book the Matthew Broderick movie is based on):

"My red gym bag was resting on the front stoop, one of those sights you know you'll remember for the rest of your life, like fire coming out of an upstairs window of a house down the block, or your mother sobbing in an airport."