Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

23. Willow

Chapter 23

Willow

I don’t know what the normal reaction is when you find out your mom has cancer, but I’m pretty sure it’s not going numb and then vomiting up your guts all night like I did. I was so sick that the little sleep I did get was on the bathroom floor.

I feel about as shitty as I look today, despite showering, running a brush through my hair, and putting on a little makeup. I was debating calling off this trip with Riley, but my mom insisted that I go. She jokingly promised that she wouldn’t die in the few days I was gone, which I didn’t find very funny at all. She knew how excited I was for a little bit of normalcy (and to see Riley, whom I’m ashamed to admit that I miss terribly, considering I’ve only met the guy twice) and would not take no for an answer. So, here I am, leaving the hotel and my family and hoping I can hold it together for Riley. I don’t want to ruin his break with my shitty mood.

I walk through the front doors of the hotel and see an old-fashioned, dark green truck waiting for me at the end of the porte-cochère. Riley’s casually leaning against the side of it, facing me with his arms and ankles crossed, talking to Tim, the bellman. As Riley sees me approach over Tim’s shoulder, he offers me an easy smile. Prompted by Riley’s reaction, Tim turns, offering me a smile of his own.

I don’t know if it's from the weight of last night or the strain of the past month, but something about seeing Riley’s casual, boyish grin loosens a bit of emotion from me, and before I know it, I’m picking up the pace and practically running the last few feet to him. He straightens from the truck and reaches for me as I fling my arms around his neck, hugging him way tighter than I probably should.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” I murmur into the space between his neck and shoulder, the tears that never came last night finally welling in my eyes.

Jesus Christ, Willow, get your shit together.

He voices a response as I slyly dab my eyes with my arms still around him, hoping he doesn’t notice. He graciously lets me hug him for as long as I need before I eventually pull away. I look up into his pale green eyes and am again struck by how tall he is—I mean, he makes me feel small.

“You can just stick her bags in the back,” he says over my head to the bellman trailing me with a cart full of my suitcases. “You pack heavy,” he adds, smiling down at me. Realizing we still aren’t more than a few inches from each other, I take a step back.

“I’m high-maintenance.” I shrug, silently begging my emotions to stay at bay.

“I can see that. I have something for you…well, two things.” He reaches into the open passenger-side window and pulls out a bouquet of daisies wrapped in brown butcher paper and a medium-sized box.

“Riley.” I gasp, smelling the flowers. “You really didn’t have to bring me anything.”

“Yes, I did.” He smiles, his dimples alone tugging at my heart. “To pay y ou back for the exclusive Willow-Jordan-designed shirt. I made a ton of money off that on eBay,” he jokes.

“Shut up.” I feel my face morph into a smile, something that seemed impossible just seconds ago. I open the box and see gorgeous, golden, bedazzled cowgirl boots. “Oh my God, Riley!” I squeal, hoping the excitement in my voice sounds sincere. If I wasn’t feeling so hollow, I’d probably be literally jumping for joy right now at both the actual shoes and the gesture. “These are amazing. ”

“I figured you probably didn’t have any boots like that. Plus, I thought you’d like the gold. They reminded me of your Grammy dress. They’re not designer or anything but?—”

“Stop, they’re perfect, Riley,” I interrupt as I kick off my sneakers and tug on the boots. They fit like a glove. “How did you know my size? You never asked.”

“Surprisingly, that’s public information,” he answers as I smile down at my shoes, admiring how the sunlight lights them up.

“Alright, you two are all set to go,” the bellman says, bringing us back to reality.

“Ready?” Riley asks, holding the passenger door open.

“Ready,” I confirm, grabbing his outstretched hand and climbing into the seat.

Once I’m settled in, Riley walks around and gets into the driver’s side. As he turns the key, I remember that anyone could have seen us here together—my thoughts have been so scattered that I didn’t even consider it. People have been gawking at my family all weekend, and even though Riley and I aren’t together and did nothing more than hug, the press blows things out of proportion all the time.

And from the outside looking in, the tight hug combined with the gifts, combined with me driving away with him would seem pretty suspec t. I look out the window anxiously as Riley shifts into drive, scanning the front of the hotel. Thankfully, I only see the two bellmen.

Tim makes eye contact with me and gives a small smile, running his thumb and forefinger across his lips and throwing away the metaphorical key. I return the smile and relax against my seat as we drive away, knowing that no tabloids will be reporting what very well could have been twisted into a cover story.

“How was the weekend with your family?” Riley asks once we’ve pulled away.

“It was…good.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“It was good,” I say more definitively.

Stay strong, I tell myself. Mom’s right. I’ll see her in a few days, and nothing’s going to happen to her in the meantime. I’ve been looking forward to these next few days for a while and moping around won’t help anyone. I just need to relax and stay in the moment. Riley and I will have fun. Mom will be okay.

I add, “It was nice to spend some time with everyone. I haven’t actually seen my family since the last time I saw you.”

“It must be hard to go so long without seeing them.”

“Well, you’re going through the same thing.” But not exactly, I add in my head.

“It’s tough, yeah. But getting to share my music with people is worth it. I’m sure you feel the same, right?”

“Definitely.” I nod candidly. “I don’t know what I’d do without fashion. It’s been my passion for as long as I can remember.”

“Have you ever thought of designing your own line? I mean, that shirt was incredible, not to keep bringing it up. I’m just so impressed. ”

“Maybe one day. You know, like when I’m thirty and thus an old lady as far as runways are concerned.”

He looks sidelong at me, his wavy golden hair tousled by the wind flowing through the open windows. “I don’t think runways would ever get tired of you.”

“So you’re saying that at eighty, people will still want me walking in their shows?” Despite myself, I stifle a laugh at the mental image.

“I really think they would,” he says. “Maybe at that point, you’d have your own seniors-only line to model.”

“Sure, and you could open the male show for my line.”

“I don’t think I’m model material,” he says.

“What, is modeling too feminine a profession for you?” I half-joke. You’d be surprised how many men actually believe that.

“Not at all.” He shakes his head. “I just don’t think I have the look they want.”

“You’re right. No one would want a tall, fit, blond, green-eyed, symmetrical man. I guess you’d be more of a burden to my show than anything.”

“You know, nowhere in there did you say I’m attractive.” He grins in a way that makes my stomach flip.

“Do you want me to?”

He shakes his head in disapproval. “Well, now it just feels like pity.”

“Isn’t the entire internet obsessing over you enough?”

“Nope.” He smiles, looking at me again. His eyes are the same earthy green color as the marsh we’re driving past. I find myself thinking that if I were a painter, he’d be something I’d like to paint, especially with this background. “But nice to know you pay attention to who obsesses over me or not.”

“You’re reaching.” I smile, rolling my eyes playfully.

“Wishful thinking. ”

“So, you still live with your parents?”

“It’s sort of complicated. When I graduated college, I had no clue what I was doing with my life…my music career had taken off in a small indie way, but not in any real way. So I started apartment hunting in Charlotte, planning on rooming with Ethan and getting a job in business. I mean, at that point, I had a degree in communications, and my music minor wasn’t paying the bills.

“But then, before we could settle on a place together, one of my songs went semi-viral on the internet, and the next thing I knew, I had a record deal. So, I had to quickly scramble to get a place to stay in Nashville while I wrote and recorded my first album. And then I only had a month or so between the release of my album and the start of the tour….anyway, long story short, I have my own small, temporary place in Nashville. But yes, I live with my parents when I’m home in North Carolina.”

“I sort of do the same thing. I keep small places in London and Paris, but when I’m in LA, I stay with Aspen, and when I’m home in New York, I stay with my parents.” Realizing the path I’ve started down and quickly pivoting the subject, I throw the conversation back to him. “Do your parents know I’m coming?”

“Of course.”

“But do they know I’m coming?”

“They didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell. I didn’t know if you’d want them to know. I don’t think they’d recognize you, so it’s up to you.”

“Hmm,” I say, watching my hand float along in the wind through the side mirror. “If it doesn’t come up, I don’t see why I’d tell them. But I won’t lie either, if they do somehow recognize me.”

“Sounds like a plan. ”

“Do you live close to Nash, Ethan, and Waylon?” I ask.

“Nash and Waylon, yes. Ethan, no. He lives about two hours away, near Charlotte. “Why? Do you want to meet them?”

“Maybe. Is it weird that the person I most want to meet is Nash’s sister? I feel like she knows more about me than I know about myself.”

“Not at all. I was going to take you out to this bar in town one night. We could invite them. It’d be fun.”

“So, you don’t listen to your own music in the car?” I ask, changing the subject and taking note of the George Straight quietly flowing through the speakers. I’m slightly impressed with myself for recognizing his voice.

Riley laughs. “What? No, that’s ridiculous. It’s like how nobody likes to listen to their own recorded voice played back to them.”

“Wait, you genuinely don’t like your own voice?”

“I can acknowledge that I can sing well without actually liking to hear recordings of myself singing. I mean, I guess I don’t dislike it…it’s just weird. And anyway, I’ve been singing those songs ad nauseam on tour. I think it would do me well to go a week or two without hearing them.”

“Interesting,” I murmur, looking at his side profile.

He turns to look at me. “Do you know people that listen to their own songs?”

“I don’t personally know many musicians very well, but I once briefly dated this rapper who exclusively listened to his own music.”

“No way.” Riley gapes. “Who?”

“Arm$trong.”

“ You dated that guy ?” He laughs himself into a fit.

“Hey! Don’t make fun. I was seventeen, and to be fair, his music is pretty good. ”

Riley keeps laughing so hard I don’t know how he’s staying in his lane. “Willow,” he croaks out.

“What,” I say, laughing—really laughing—at the sight of him laughing.

“Nothing, I’m just learning a lot about you,” he says, finally gaining some semblance of composure.

“What, just say it,” I insist.

“It’s just…that guy is like one-hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet and covered in full-color tattoos.”

I shrug.

“You’re not even going to try to defend it?” he laughs again.

“How can I?” I chuckle. “He’s ridiculous. But his music is pretty good. I stand by that.”

“Apparently, he thinks so too.”