Chapter 34

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

TAM

64 bobas left until they both die …

I put my head in my hand, smiling and waving at the production manager for the drama that I just started filming.

“Good work today, Tam!” she calls out.

“See you tomorrow,” I shoot back, and then Daniel is sliding the SUV door closed just as my lids get heavy and start to droop.

“Shall we go back to the hotel, Mr. Eyre?” Jacob asks from the front seat. I waited four days to tell him what happened with Lake and to let him know that I didn’t believe she’d post online about it, but that I couldn’t be sure. He got our media team—including my mom—to be ready for a scandal. Fortunately, he didn’t tell them what that scandal might be, but now it feels like everybody is looking at me a little differently.

Also, Jacob was so pissed off that he swore he was only going to speak to me in the utmost professional capacity, like we don’t have the same grandparents on my mother’s side.

“Yes, Jake, to the hotel,” I murmur with a sigh.

After months of seeing Lakelynn around, of texting her, of finding her kicking hot dog costumes or hawking popcorn, I’m realizing how shallow my life feels without her. “Absence.” That’s the name of the new song I just dropped, one that I’d pre-recorded a while back. It’s about how absence makes the heart grow fonder.

I already knew that because of my dad but experiencing it with Lake is a whole new ball game.

I’ve never been into a woman the way I’m into Lake. I think about her constantly. Every other thought that runs through my head. No, more than that.

I’m drifting off to sleep when the alarm on my phone goes off, startling me awake. I yank it from my pocket and stare down at the reminder I set for myself two weeks back.

Find her, it says, and I know then that it’s been two weeks since I last saw her. I gave her the space she needed, but I won’t wait any longer.

Once I’m alone in my room, I start making phone calls, looking for a rental car. A flight is too risky. I can’t go to the airport by myself. It’s basically a guarantee that I’ll be recognized, and then everyone will know that I’m flying to Fayetteville, Arkansas for apparently no reason at all.

I’m going to drive the ten hours to where Lake is. I have the address of Frost Family Construction already saved in my phone. If I go there, maybe I can talk to her family and make arrangements to see her in person. If not, I can at least have them let her know that I came.

The first three places I call are sold out of cars. Some convention in town or something. I consider throwing my weight around, letting them know who I am so that someone will make a change in reservations that they shouldn’t.

But then I find a fourth place that looks promising: a vintage car dealership.

“I’ve got a 1972 Pontiac Firebird in red if you can drive a stick,” the guy tells me.

“Oh yeah.” I wet my lips, adjusting the phone from one ear to the other as I pack a bag and leave it near the door to my room. “I can drive a stick.”

My mom taught me when she caught me having a meltdown because Dad was gone, and I was never going to learn to drive a stick from him … She taught me well. I don’t drive much, but I also don’t foresee having any problems with the car.

I leave the man my payment information—he must not be a fan of Tam Eyre because he doesn’t recognize my name or comment on it—and voilà, I’ve just bought myself a vintage ride.

Now, I just have to deal with Daniel.

I shower and change into my gym clothes. Daniel escorts me like he always does, clearing the gym, checking the bathrooms. He locks the door, and then goes straight for the weight bench.

When he’s distracted, I unlock the door and slip out.

Then I start running.

I go to the elevator, down to my room for my bag, and then hit the lobby so I can grab a cab.

The driver looks at me in the rearview three or four times, but says nothing, and I’m dropped off at the dealership. I give the owner my license, sign some paperwork, and then he escorts me over to a beautifully restored ’72 Firebird in bright red with a white leather interior.

I love it.

“Hey,” the man says as he passes the keys over to me. “My daughter and my wife love your music.” He points at his own bemused expression. “I see them staring at your face on their phones all the time.”

I’m not sure if he’s condemning me or thanking me, but I slide the Sharpie from my pocket and leave him with a pair of signatures on two blank pieces of paper.

Then I start some music, and I hit the road in the middle of a late spring night in Georgia.

63 bobas left until they both die …

I brave a drive-thru just to get a bubble tea for myself. Now that I’ve let go of the barriers that were keeping me from connecting with Lake, I’m obsessing over all the things I like about her. The obsession with boba is one of those things, the way she counts down the curse with bobas as her marker.

Anyway, the boba isn’t doing a damn thing to keep me awake. I’m yawning and nodding off at the wheel, so I force myself to pull over at a rest area that advertises free coffee.

It comes out of a little thermos with a spigot in the lobby, served in tiny Styrofoam cups with packets of pink Sweet’N Low scattered across the tabletop. I lean my back against one of the beige walls and listen to the overhead speaker talking about all of the tourist options in the area.

It’s two in the morning now, and I have eight hours to go. Eight hours until I might be able to see Lake again. I take a selfie with my coffee, send it to her, and tuck my phone away. I know I’m still blocked, but I’ll screenshot everything I meant for her to see and resend it later.

This must be the worst coffee in the entire world, I think as I frown down at the murky brown liquid in my cup. A few other people come and go, using the bathrooms, taking brochures, pouring themselves coffee. Nobody bothers me, and I bask in the brief anonymity of the rest stop.

I feel like a normal person today, just an American on a road trip.

On my way out, I see a little girl in a Tam Eyre T-shirt, but she doesn’t see me, half in shadow on the other side of the walkway. I sip my coffee as she passes, and then I’m smiling as I climb back into the Firebird, start the engine, and get back on the highway.

I’ve never driven like this before, all night and away from the sunrise. It blazes orange in the rearview while, ahead of me, everything is navy and sitting under a sky of fading stars. The landscape changes as I drive, morphing from urban to suburban to the middle of nowhere.

I see fields with crops, clusters of houses, protected areas with dense woods.

When the day starts to warm up a little, I find another rest stop, buy a water bottle from a vending machine, and pour it over my head to wake myself up. When I shake my hair out and run my fingers through it, I look over to find a young woman gaping at me.

Our eyes meet, and I know that she knows who I am. When she gets out her phone to film me, I walk right up to her and she drops it by her side.

“If I sign your phone, will you wait to post that video? Doesn’t have to be a long time, just a day or two.”

“I …” The woman’s cheeks turn pink, and she tucks her phone away. “I didn’t mean to invade your privacy. I just really love your music. I don’t think I would’ve survived losing my dad without “I Want to See You”.”

My throat is tight, but I make myself smile at her and pull out my Sharpie again. It’s a purple one, today.

“Do you want a picture and a signature? I’d be happy to do that.” I pause. “And I’m really sorry about your dad.”

“Thank you so much, Tam,” she tells me, giving me a hug just before I go. It’s a friendly hug, a polite hug, one that doesn’t step over any of my boundaries. See? Not all of my fans are crazy. “Wherever you’re going, I hope you get there soon.”

“Two hours left,” I tell her, and then I hop in and take off for that final stretch.

On the way to Frost Family Construction, I grab several boba teas—all for Lake, to mess up her days like she asked me to—and then I drive slow so that I can take in the city where she grew up. On the outskirts, it’s almost wild. There’s a lot of nature around here. But inside the city? It’s urban and compact, not at all like I expected Arkansas to look like.

A few blocks from my destination, I start to get butterflies. I feel queasy, but excited. I feel this heavy, warmth in my blood that I don’t know what to do with except to direct at thoughts about Lake. I want her hand on my stomach, fingers spread wide, tracing my belly button. Her mouth, on the inside of my knee. The smell of shampoo on her hair, and freckles across her nose.

When I finally arrive at the address on my GPS, I see that it isn’t a business at all, but a house. A two-story brick house with a red front door, a tree in the yard, and plenty of potted plants on the walkway. I should’ve known a few blocks back when I entered a neighborhood with backyards and driveways that I wasn’t in any sort of business district.

I pull into the driveway beside an old white Buick with a sticker on the back.

Boba is magic.

That’s what it says.

Lakelynn.

I am looking at Lakelynn’s car. It’s the only one in the driveway, but I can’t see inside the garage. It is possible that she’s here. That she’s the only one here.

I turn the car off and then I sit there until the sticky spring heat starts to get cloying. Gathering the three bobas up in my arm, I climb out and head up the front walk. It’s peaceful out here. There are birds, a sprinkler running across the street, and the sound of children playing in a backyard behind one of the houses.

I move up the front step, and then I lift my fist to knock. Hesitate. Exhale. Knock, knock, knock.

“It’s unlocked!” someone shouts from inside. Lakelynn. My body lights up, the sound of her voice knocking my heart into a frantic motion that hurts my chest. I adjust my grip on the boba cups, all of them wet with condensation and dripping.

It’s unlocked. Does that mean come in? I assume that it does, and then I open the door.

I step into a house with a decent sized foyer, a staircase, and a living room on the left. It’s big, but well-lived in. I can see the worn track in the carpet, the dips in the sofas, the scuffed chairs at the dining table. But it’s clean and cozy. It feels like people—a lot of people—live and love in here.

I think about the hotel rooms I’ve been staying in, these cold but palatial expanses where I sit alone. Every single night. Alone.

Not here. Lakelynn doesn’t spend a lot of time alone here, I don’t think.

This … could be her parents’ place maybe? I slant my gaze to the right to see a family photo with two dozen people in it. Does she live here with her parents?

A figure moves into the dining room and pulls out a chair, gaze on her phone and not on me.

“You better have brought me back a boba,” she murmurs as she sits down, engrossed in something on the screen. It’s Lakelynn, of course. I nearly drop the teas in my arm, turning to look at her and feeling this impossible want that consumes my entire sense of self. “And you better explain to me where you’ve been going—” She looks up and that last word cuts off in a choking cough that she clears as quickly as she can before surging to her feet. “You’re not Joules.”

“Thankfully not,” I reply, and then I wet my lips. “Are you alone?” Lake nods, slowly. I smile back. “For a while?” She nods again, even more slowly. I start toward her, but she shakes her head, pointing back at me.

“Lock it,” she commands, voice edgy. “If Joules walks in and finds you here, it won’t be pretty.”

I turn back to the door, locking the dead bolt and the chain. Then I face Lake again, moving slowly across the foyer, into the living room, and to a spot that’s maybe a little too close to her for normal conversation.

“I’m not Joules, but I did bring you boba. Screwing with your final number of bobas once again. How many until we both die now?”

“Don’t do that,” she whispers gently, but she does move aside so that I can set the teas on the table. She thinks I’m teasing her and maybe I am, a little bit, but mostly I’m just trying to hold back. Does she have any idea how much I want to touch her?

Probably not.

“Can you take a seat for me?” I ask, and she hesitates, but then she moves to sit in the dining chair again. “Wait. Not that one.” I put my hands on her shoulders and guide her to a cushioned chair in the living room. This one’s a much better height.

“Tam …” Lake starts, gaze shifting to the side. I get down on one knee in front of her, and her eyes swing back to mine.

Our gazes clash. They tumble right into one another, messy but sticky, too. So heavy. I lean in toward her, and I notice the way her fingers curl around the edge of the chair’s cushion, tense fingertips making divots in the blue-and-white plaid.

“I gave you two weeks to yourself, but I don’t want to wait anymore.” I keep staring at her, and she stares right back, unafraid. It goes without saying that she never posted anything about me. Didn’t film us in private. That when she came to me, she genuinely came looking for a soulmate, and I should’ve responded in kind, to see if we’d fit together. “I know what it feels like to crave privacy and be denied; I couldn’t do that to you.”

Lake hesitates, but she doesn’t look away from me.

“My family never gives me privacy; I don’t even know what that is,” she whispers, and I feel my lips twitching into a smile. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from her face.

“I’m sorry that I snapped at you that night, that I trapped you into doing something like that with me before either of us was ready.”

“I was ready,” she says, and her voice is husky and warm. She’s angry with me—that’s obvious in the tense set of her shoulders—but I think she wants to touch me, too. I remember the way she asked me for permission, and my own body goes hot and tense, like I should maybe grab Lake and find her bedroom. “I just wanted you to be ready, too.”

“I’m still sorry, and I want to make it up to you.”

I go down to both knees and put my palms up near her hips. She shivers, but I don’t touch her. Not yet.

“Can I touch you?” I ask her, and her breath catches.

All she can do is nod. I’ll take it. I grip her hips in two hands and drag her warm body to the edge of the chair.