“What if I quit the band?”
“I thought you said that was impossible.”
“It’s not impossible, it’s just … complicated.”
“What would you do if you quit?”
“I don’t know.” He turned back to me then, and reached out to finger my bracelet. The cuff he’d given me in Paris. I had yet to take it off. “I’m just tired. I want a break.”
For a moment neither of us spoke. I watched his fingers tracing over the filigree. His movements slow, hypnotic.
“Why did you get into this business, Hayes? What were you expecting from it?”
“I liked writing music. And I thought … I had something to say. I’m a solid songwriter, and I have a decent voice. It’s not one of those once-in-a-generation voices like Adele, but it’s decent. And I knew I had a good face and that was only going to last for so long, but if I grouped it together with a handful of other good faces with decent voices it might be more compelling. I’d have a better chance of getting my music heard.” He looked up then, meeting my gaze. “And it worked. But I’ve no desire to write happy pop stuff anymore…”
“A lot of your stuff isn’t happy. It’s ironic or tongue-in-cheek. Smart.”
“It’s still … safe. I don’t want to be so safe.”
He was quiet for a moment. The sound of the ocean lapping the shore beneath us, another party’s laughter.
“But I also have this opportunity now that I didn’t really foresee, of being able to affect people and hold their attention. And to not use that for some good, for something bigger than just performing songs, would be a bit of a waste. The chance to do something noble. I’m still figuring it out.”
“You know you’re only twenty, right?”
He grinned. “So you keep reminding me.”
“You have so much more time to do whatever it is you want to do. Just enjoy this for what it is, because you’re not always going to have it.
“And you have the rest of your life to redefine yourself, if ever you get tired of being ‘Hayes Campbell, pop star.’”
He smiled, slow, leaning in across the table. His eyes a muddy-blue in the candlelight. “If I kiss you here, are you going to be okay with that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Why don’t you try it and see?”
*
We got back to the house close to eleven. All the indoor lights were off, and so I assumed Isabelle was sleeping.
“So what’s the plan?” Hayes asked, pulling into the driveway, killing the engine.
“I’ll drop her off in the morning, and then I’ll come back up to you.”
“This is rubbish, you not spending the night. You know that? I’m going to be very lonely in that big house all by myself.”
“You’ll manage.”
“Barely.”
I laughed. He leaned over to kiss me, and we went at it for a couple of minutes. It felt a little like being eighteen again, there in the car, his hand pressed to my cheek, the faint taste of alcohol. And Hayes, being Hayes, had one hand up my dress in very little time.
“Don’t.” I grabbed his wrist. “My daughter is inside. I need to go.”
“Just give me a minute…”
“You really like doing that, don’t you?”
“I like just knowing that I can.”
“Tomorrow,” I said, opening the door.
He smiled his half smile. “I like you.”
“I like you, too.”
“Come back to me,” he said.
“Tomorrow.”
*
The house was completely quiet when I entered, which was odd. Typically Isabelle left the television on when she was home alone after dark. Something about the silence put me on edge.
Hayes’s Audi had just peeled away, and I could faintly hear the gears shifting as he descended the hill. Likely driving too fast. Boys and their toys.
I was tiptoeing down the hallway, my shoes in my hands, when Isabelle’s bedroom door flew open without warning.
“Oh God, you scared me,” I started. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“Where were you?”
“What are you still doing up, Izz? It’s late.”
“Where were you, Mom?” she repeated, urgent. She was dressed for bed: a T-shirt, flannel pajama pants, her thick dark hair in a ponytail. But there was something off about her face, her eyes.
“I told you, I had dinner with a client … a couple of clients.” I was trying to remember the story.
“Were you with Hayes?”
Fuck.
“Who?”
“Hayes Campbell. Were you with Hayes Campbell?” She was not asking it gently. She was not being polite. She knew.
And suddenly I could feel the black cod with miso threatening to make a reappearance. “Yes. He’s a client of mine. We had dinner.”
“A client? Don’t lie to me, Mom. I saw you. You were kissing him. I saw you.” Her tears were welling. And I could feel it, her pain, in my knees.
This is not how it was supposed to happen, in the confines of the narrow corridor with the walls closing in and her childhood photos taunting me and me playing defense. Not this way.
“Izz…” I’d begun to sweat.
“Oh my God. Are you dating him?”
“I’m not—”
“You’re dating him? You’re dating Hayes Campbell?!”
“Honey, I’m not dating him. We’re … we’re friends.” God, what a crock! I was standing there with his sperm still swimming inside me, and attempting to convince her otherwise. And my daughter could see right through me.
“Gross. Gross. Gross, Mom.” She was visibly shaking. “That is so gross! How can you be dating Hayes Campbell? You’re old! You’re like twice his age!”
If she’d wanted to hurt me, she’d succeeded.
I reached out for her shoulder, and she pushed me away. Her tears were pouring, and I got the impression that if she could have hit me, she would have.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Were you just not going to tell me?”
“Isabelle … I’m sorry.”
“I love him.”
“You don’t love him, Izz. You love the idea of him.”
She looked at me, her eyes wild with fury. “I. Love. Him.”
“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”
She began to ramble, snot running from her nose, her lips catching on her braces. “I heard the car, because the TV wasn’t on, so I heard the car, and I looked and it looked like him, but I was thinking, ‘No way.’ There was no way that was him, because he was supposed to be in London until later this week when they come for the AMAs, and Ellen, but it really looked like him and I searched it, and there are paparazzi shots of him landing at LAX today. And it’s him. It’s him. And he’s in our driveway and he’s kissing you. He’s kissing you. He picked you. And I hate you. I hate you I hate you…”
The way she’d said it, like it was a competition between us, made me numb. “Izz, I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, crazed. “Did you…? Are you…?” She trailed off, unable to articulate.
I did not know what sordid thoughts she was entertaining. But they were probably accurate.
“Oh God. How could you do this to me? How could you? Oh my God, this isn’t really happening!”
“Isabelle.” I reached for her again, and she recoiled.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. What kind of mother are you?” she spat, stepping back into her pink-and-white bedroom. Ripping my heart.