December 8
Melody stood at the top of the bocce ball court, the red wooden ball in hand.
This throw would determine whether her team won or lost.
How? How had the onus of demise or victory landed on her birdlike shoulders? Who’d overseen the lineup tonight? She was their weakest player. They usually buried her somewhere in the middle. Her heartbeat boomed so loudly, she could barely hear the Elf soundtrack pumping through the bar speakers, Zooey Deschanel’s usually angelic voice hitting her ears more like a witch’s cackle.
Her team stood at the sides of the lane, hands clasped together like it was the final point at Wimbledon or something, instead of the bocce ball league. This was low stakes, right? Her boss and best friend, Savelina, had assured her this was low stakes. Otherwise, Melody wouldn’t have joined the team and put their success at high risk. She’d be at home watching some holiday baking championship on the Food Network in an adult onesie where she belonged.
“You can do it, Mel,” Savelina shouted, followed by several cheers and whistles from her coworkers at the bookstore. She hadn’t known them well in the beginning of the season, considering she worked in the basement restoring young adult books and almost never looked up from her task. But thanks to this semi-torturous bocce league, she’d gotten to know them a lot better. She liked them.
Oh, please God, grant me enough skill not to let them down.
Ha. If she didn’t screw this up, it would be a miracle.
“Do you need a time-out?” asked her boss.
“What made you think that?” Melody shouted. “The fact that I’m frozen in fear?”
The sprinkle of laughter boosted her confidence a little, but not by much. And then she made the mistake of glancing backward over her shoulder and finding the entire Park Slope bar watching the final throw with bated breath. It was the equivalent of looking down at the ground while walking on a tightrope. Not that she’d ever experienced such a thing. The craziest risk she’d taken lately was hoop earrings. Hoops!
Now she was breathing so hard, her glasses were fogging up.
Was everyone looking at her butt?
They had to be. She looked at everyone’s butts, even when she tried not to. What would make this crowd any different? Did they think her floor-length pleated skirt was a weird choice for bocce? Because it totally was.
“Mel!” Savelina gestured to the bocce lane with her pint of beer. “We’re going to run out of time. Just get the ball as close to the jack as possible. Piece of cake.”
Easy for Savelina to say. She owned a bookstore and dressed like a stoned bohemian artist. She could pull off gladiator sandals and had a favorite brand of oolong tea. Of course she thought bocce was simple.
The crowd started cheering behind Melody in encouragement, which was honestly very nice. Brooklynites got a bad rap, but they were actually quite friendly as long as they were being offered drink specials and strangers regularly complimented their dogs.
“Okay! Okay, I’m going to do it.”
Melody took a deep breath and rolled the red wooden ball across the hard-packed sand. It came to a stop at the farthest position possible from the jack. It wasn’t even remotely close.
Their opponents cheered and clinked pint glasses, the home team bar heaving a collective sigh of disappointment. They probably thought an underdog-to-hero story was unfolding right in front of their eyes, but no. Not with Melody in the starring role.
Savelina approached with a sympathetic expression on her face, squeezing Mel’s shoulder with an elegant hand. “We’ll win the next one.”
“We haven’t won a game all season.”
“Victory isn’t always the point,” her boss suggested. “It’s trying in the first place.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Savelina’s tight brown curls shook with laughter. “Two weeks from now, we have the final game of the season, and I have a good feeling about it. We’re going to head into Christmas fresh from a win and you’re going to be a part of it.”
Mel didn’t hide her skepticism.
“Let me clarify,” Savelina said. “You must be a part of it. We only have enough players if you show up. You’re not taking off early to visit family or anything, are you?”
As a rare book restoration expert, Mel’s work schedule was loose. She could take a project home with her, if needed, and her presence in the store largely depended on whether or not there was even a book that currently required tender loving care. “Uh, no.” Mel forced a smile onto her face, even though a little dent formed in her heart. “No, I don’t have any plans. My mother is . . . you know. She’s doing her thing. I’m doing mine. But I’ll see her in February on my birthday,” she rushed to add.
“That’s right. She always comes to New York for your birthday.”
“Right.”
Mel did the tight smile/nodding thing she always did when the conversation turned to her mother. Even the most well-intentioned people couldn’t help but be openly curious about Trina Gallard. She was an international icon, after all. Savelina was more conscientious than most when it came to giving Mel privacy, but the thirst for knowledge about the rock star inevitably bled through. Mel understood. She did.
She just didn’t know enough about her mother to give anyone what they wanted.
That was the sad truth. Trina love-bombed her daughter once a year and once a year only. Like a one-night sold-out show at the Garden that left her with a hangover and really expensive merch she never wore again.
Melody could see Savelina was losing the battle with the need to ask deeper questions about Trina, probably because it was the end of the night and she’d had six beers. So Mel grabbed her kelly green peacoat from where it hung on the closest stool, tugged it on around her shoulders, and looked for a way to excuse herself. “I’m going to settle my tab at the bar.” She leaned in and planted a quick kiss on Savelina’s expertly highlighted brown cheek. “I’ll see you during the week?”
“Yeah!” Savelina said too quickly, hiding her obvious disappointment. “See you soon.”
Briefly, Mel battled the urge to give her friend something, anything. Even Trina’s favorite brand of cereal—Lucky Charms—but the information faltered on her tongue. It always did. Speaking with any kind of authority on her mother felt false when most days, it seemed as though she barely knew the woman.
“Okay.” Mel nodded, turned, and wove through some Friday night revelers toward the bar, apologizing to a few customers who’d witnessed her anticlimactic underdog story. Before she could reach the bar, she made sure Savelina wasn’t watching, then veered toward the exit instead—because she didn’t really have a bar tab to settle. Customers who recognized her as Trina Gallard’s daughter had been sending her drinks all night. She’d had so many Shirley Temples she was going to be peeing grenadine for a week.
Cold winter air chilled her cheeks as soon as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The cheerful holiday music and energetic conversations grew muffled behind her as soon as the door snicked shut. Why did it always feel so good to leave somewhere?
Guilt poked holes in her gut. Didn’t she want to have friends? Who didn’t?
And why did she feel alone whether she was with people or not?
She turned around and looked back through the frosty glass, surveying the bargoers, the merry revelers, the quiet ones huddled in darkened nooks. So many kinds of people and they all seemed to have one thing in common. They enjoyed company. None of them appeared to be holding their breath until they could leave. They didn’t seem to be pretending to be comfortable when in reality, they were stressing about every word out of their mouth and how they looked, whether or not people liked them. And if they did, was it because they were a celebrity’s daughter, rather than because of their actual personality? Because of who Melody was?
Melody turned from the lively scene with a lump in her throat and started to walk up the incline of Union Street toward her apartment. Before she made it two steps, however, a woman shifted into the light several feet ahead of her. Melody stopped in her tracks. The stranger was so striking, her smile so confident, it was impossible to move forward without acknowledging her. She had dark blond hair that fell in perfect waves onto the shoulders of a very expensive looking overcoat. One that had tiny gold chains in weird places that served no function, just for the sake of fashion. Simply put, she was radiant and she didn’t belong outside of a casual neighborhood bar.
“Miss Gallard?”
The woman knew her name? Had she been lying in wait for her? Not totally surprising, but it had been a long while since she’d encountered this kind of brazenness from a reporter.
“Excuse me,” Melody said, hustling past her. “I’m not answering any questions about my mother—”
“I’m Danielle Doolin. You might recall some emails I sent you earlier this year? I’m a producer with the Applause Network.”
Melody kept walking. “I get a lot of emails.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do,” said Danielle, falling into step beside her. Keeping pace, even though she was wearing three-inch heels, her footwear a stark contrast to Melody’s flat ankle boots. “The public has a vested interest in you and your family.”
“You realize I was never really given a choice about that.”
“I do. During my brief phone call with Beat Dawkins, he expressed the same.”
Melody’s feet basically stopped working. The air inside of her lungs evaporated and she had no choice but to slow to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Beat Dawkins. She heard that name in her sleep, which was utterly ridiculous. The fact that she should still be fascinated by the man when they hadn’t been in the same room in fourteen years made her cringe . . . but that was the only thing about Beat that made her cringe. The rest of her reactions to him could best be described as breathless, dreamlike, whimsical, and . . . sexual.
In her entire thirty-year existence, she’d never experienced attraction like she had to Beat Dawkins at age sixteen when she spent a mere five minutes in his presence. Since then, her hormones could only be defined as lazy. Floating on a pool raft with a mai tai, rather than competing in a triathlon. She had the yoga pants of hormones. They were fine, they definitely counted as hormones, but they weren’t worthy of a runway strut. Her lack of romantic aspirations was yet another reason she felt unmotivated to go out and make human connections. To be in big, social crowds where someone might show interest in her.
It was going to take something special to make her set down the mai tai and get off this raft—and so far, no one had been especially . . . rousing. A fourteen-year-old memory, though? Oh mama. It had the power to make her temperature peak. At one time it had, anyway. The recollection of her one and only encounter with Beat was growing grainy around the edges. Fading, much to her distress.
“Well.” Danielle regarded Melody with open interest. “His name certainly got your attention, didn’t it?”
Melody tried not to stumble over her words and failed, thanks to her tongue turning as useless as her feet. “I’m sorry, y-you’ll have to refresh my memory. The emails you sent me were about . . . ?”
“Reuniting Steel Birds.”
A laugh tumbled out of Melody, stirring the air with white vapor. “Wait. Beat took a phone call about this?” Baffled, she shook her head. “As far as I know, both of us have always maintained that a reunion is impossible. Like, on par with an Elvis comeback tour.”
Danielle lifted an elegant shoulder and let it drop. “Stranger things have happened. Even Pink Floyd set aside their differences for Live 8 in 2005, and no one believed it was doable. A lot of time has passed since Steel Birds broke up. Hearts soften. Age gives a different perspective. Maybe Beat believes a reunion wouldn’t be such an impossible feat after all.”
It was humiliating how hard her heart was pounding in her chest. “Did . . . did he say that?”
Danielle blew air into one cheek. “He didn’t not say it. But the fact that he contacted me about the reunion speaks for itself, right?”
Odd that Melody should feel a tad betrayed that he’d changed his position without consulting her. Why would he do that? He didn’t owe her anything. Not a phone call. Nothing. “Wow.” Melody cleared her throat. “You’ve caught me off guard.”
“I apologize for that. You’re very difficult to get in contact with. I had to dig quite a bit to find out where you worked. Then I saw a picture of your bocce team on the bookstore’s Instagram. Thank goodness for location tags.” Danielle gestured with a brisk, gloved hand to the general area. “I assure you, I wouldn’t have ventured into Brooklyn in twenty-degree weather unless I had a potentially viable project on the table. One that, if done correctly, could be a cultural phenomenon. And it would be done correctly, because I would be overseeing production personally.”
What was it like to be so confident? “I’m afraid to ask what this project entails.”
“That’s why I’m not going to tell you until we’re in my nice, warm office with espresso and a selection of beignets in front of us.”
Melody’s stomach growled reluctantly. “Beignets, huh?”
“They piqued Beat’s interest, as well.”
“They did?” Melody’s breathless tone hit her ears, cluing her in to what was happening. The tactic that was being employed. “You keep bringing him up on purpose.”
Danielle studied her face closely. “He seems to be my biggest selling point. Even more than the money the network is willing to pay, I’m guessing,” she murmured. “If I hadn’t mentioned his name, you never would have stopped walking. Surprising, since the two of you haven’t maintained any sort of contact. According to him.”
“No, I know,” Melody rushed to blurt, heat clinging to her face and the sides of her neck. “We don’t even know each other.”
And that was the God’s honest truth.
Fourteen years had passed.
However. Beat was a good person. He’d proven that to her—and he couldn’t have changed so drastically. The kind of character it took to do what he’d done . . .
About a month after they’d met in that humid television studio, she’d passed through the gates of her Manhattan private school, expecting to walk to class alone, as usual. But she’d been surrounded by buzzing girls that morning. Had she seen Beat Dawkins on TMZ?
Considering she avoided that program like the plague, she’d shaken her head. They’d cagily informed her that Beat had mentioned her during a paparazzi ambush and she might want to watch the footage. Getting through first period without exploding was nearly impossible, but she’d made it. Then she’d rushed to the bathroom and pulled up the clip on her phone. There was Beat, holding a grocery bag, a Dodgers ball cap pulled down low on his forehead, being pursued by a cameraman.
Normally, he was the type to stop and suffer through their silly questions with a golden grin. But this time, he didn’t. He halted abruptly on the sidewalk and, to this day, she could still remember what came out of his mouth, word for word.
I’m done talking. You won’t get another word out of me. Not until you—and all the similar outlets—stop exploiting girls for clicks. Especially my friend Melody Gallard. You praise me for nothing and disparage her no matter how hard she tries. You can fuck right off. Like I said, I’m done talking.
That day, Melody hadn’t come out of the bathroom until third period, she’d been so frozen in shock and gratitude. Just to be seen. Just to have someone speak up on her behalf. That clip had been shared all over social media. For weeks. It had started a conversation about how teenage girls were being portrayed by celebrity news outlets.
Of course, their treatment of her didn’t change overnight. But it slowly shifted. It lightened in degrees. Bad headlines started getting called out. Shamed.
And shockingly, her experience with the press got better.
Melody was so lost in the memory, it took her a moment to notice the smile flirting with the corners of Danielle’s glossy mouth. “He’s coming to my office on Monday morning for a meeting. I’ve come all the way here to invite you, as well.” She paused, seemed to consider her next words carefully. “Beat won’t agree to the reunion project unless you are comfortable with it moving forward. He made your approval a condition.”
Melody hated the way her soul left her body at Danielle’s words. It was pathetic in so many ways.
Beat Dawkins was eons and galaxies out of her league. Not only was he blindingly gorgeous, but he had presence. He commanded rooms full of people to give speeches for his mother’s foundation. She’d seen the pictures, the occasional Instagram reel. His grid was brimming with nonstop adventures. Equally glamorous friends were pouring out of his ears. He was loved and lusted after and . . . perfect.
Beat Dawkins was perfectly perfect.
And he’d taken her into consideration.
He’d thought of her.
This whole Steel Birds reunion idea would never fly—the feelings of betrayal between their mothers ran deeper than the Atlantic Ocean—but the fact that Beat had said her name out loud to this woman basically ensured another fourteen years of infatuation. Sad, sad girl.
“You mentioned money,” Melody said offhandedly, mostly so it wouldn’t seem her entire interest was Beat-related. “How much? Just out of curiosity.”
“I’ll tell you at the meeting.” She smiled slyly. “It’s a lot, Melody. Perhaps even by the standards of a famous rock star’s daughter.”
A lot of money. Even to her.
Despite her trepidation, Melody couldn’t help but wonder . . . was it enough cash to make her financially independent? She’d been born into comfort. A nice town house, wonderful nannies, any material item she wanted, which had mainly turned out to be books and acne medication. Her mother’s love and attention remained out of reach, however. Always had—and it was beginning to feel as though it always would.
Melody’s brownstone apartment was paid in full. She had an annual allowance. Lately, though, accepting her mother’s generosity didn’t feel right. Or good. Not when they lacked the healthy mother-daughter relationship she would gladly take instead.
Could this be her chance to stand on her own two feet?
No. Facilitating a reunion? There had to be an easier way.
“At least take the meeting,” Danielle said, smiling like the cat who’d caught the canary.
The woman had her and she knew it.
To be in the same room with Beat Dawkins again . . .
She wasn’t strong enough to pass up the chance.
Melody shifted in her boots and tried not to sound too eager. “What time?”
