Mom sat back, looking suitably chagrined. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Stella said with a wave of her hand. “I had a niece who made a total mess of her life for a while. Ended up pregnant and deserted by the father. She lived with me for a while.”
“Kayleigh!” I said. She and I had been friends after her baby was born and she lived with Stella. Then I’d moved away for college, and we lost touch.
“She’s had two more since then,” Stella said. “They figured things out.”
“I’m so glad,” I said. Kayleigh getting jilted by her fiancé was something we had in common, although her baby had been just fine.
“Well, I didn’t know what to do with this one,” Mom said.
Stella shifted near us both. “There is only one thing to do to a child who is impossible, distant, in trouble, and pushing you away.”
We both turned to her as she took one of our hands in each of hers, forming a bridge between us.
My mother sounded wary when she asked, “And what’s that?”
But I knew what she would say before she said it. Stella had said it many times in our group, about wayward husbands and family members and friends and coworkers and all the people who were hurtful to us after our losses, whether intentionally or by accident.
But still, the words resonated as she said them one more time, the wind whipping her thinning hair.
“You forgive them.”
Chapter 17: Jenny
Chance was doing so super great.
I sat outside the radio station recording room, watching him talk to a DJ through a mike that came down from the ceiling. He had headphones on, which made him look dashing and important.
My heart surged with pride.
My phone buzzed and I glanced down. Mom had sent an image of Phoenix lying on her belly, holding her head up. Man, she was growing fast. Mom was good about sending pictures when we were apart, although I had to admit I might not be the most anxious of mothers when I was away. Mom probably took better care of her than I did.
The broadcast version of the interview was piped into the waiting area through speakers. The delay was more than I expected, a lot longer than on live TV. Everything I was hearing was stuff he had said thirty seconds ago. It was particularly noticeable when he made a broad gesture with an exclamation in the room but the words over the air were calm and measured. I felt like we were in some weird time warp.
But it was exciting.
I took a quick picture of him through the window and sent out my millionth Tweet, watching for interaction. I was a hotshot at social media already, and I was milking this moment for Chance for all it was worth. Dylan Wolf’s camp had already retweeted it, as I had asked, and so it was rapidly spreading. I posted links to the unreleased demo and set up an account for amateur concert footage for people who wanted to feel like they were getting in on his discovery.
Over four hundred new followers since the broadcast began.
I suppressed a little squee. With me on his team, we should give him the best possible launch for his upcoming album. I cared a whole lot more about his career than some overworked publicity specialist at the record label.
A couple young twentysomethings, probably college interns, based on their backpacks and animated conversation, came in and crossed in front of me. They had to be buzzed into the back room, so they weren’t regular employees. They brought with them the smell of the wet chilly outdoors, plus something else. Something light and easy. Inexpensive shampoo and strawberry lip gloss. Trappings of youth.
I envied them for just a second, then reeled it back in. I was in the position to be envied. Married to an up-and-coming musician, a new mother, watching my man be interviewed on the radio. So much ahead of us. This was just the start.
The show went into commercial. A woman entered the back of the sound studio. The DJ waved her into a seat. He had his headset cocked off one ear.
My anxiety prickled. This woman was gorgeous. Tall, stacked, skinny, dressed in skintight glossy black pants and a shimmery top that showed tons of cleavage.
I pressed my hands against my boobs self-consciously, aware of their uneven shape since Phoenix had been favoring one over the other. If I tried pressing them together enough for cleavage like that, I’d be a milk fountain.
The woman reached to shake Chance’s hand, then leaned in to kiss his cheek. My face flamed. Who was this person?
She sat down and everybody put their headsets back on. The DJ pointed at the sound engineer in the corner, and their conversation resumed. The broadcast was still in commercial, but quickly, the station’s call letters came back and the jingle for the show returned.
I had a hard time listening to their past conversation while winnowing out what was happening in real time due to the delay. The woman could not keep her hands to herself, reaching over to touch Chance every time she spoke or laughed.