When Trent Donavan decides to do something, there is no stopping him. A man on a mission, he has our flights booked and the tour delayed within the hour. I barely finish packing my bag before it’s time to leave the bus and head to the airport.
Usually, I hate being the center of attention. The only acceptable time is when I’m onstage. But when Austin, Sean, and even Iz wrap me in hugs to say good-bye with no judgment or anger for canceling tonight’s show, I’m overwhelmed. They really have welcomed me into their inner circle, and I know without a doubt I’ve earned friendship for life.
Bedo. He’s not so understanding, and gives Trent an earful that I overhear from my seat in the chartered SUV. Within minutes, my phone rings and Amie’s name pops up on the screen. Trent glances over and shakes his head no, discouraging me from answering.
Bedo continues to shout through his phone until Trent cuts him off.
“Look, I’d say I was sorry for the change in plans, but I’m not. I’m sorry for the extra work. For the inconvenience to the fans. For the cost. But this is important, Bedo. If it wasn’t, I’d have stayed on tour. Reschedule the shows, because I’m hopping on a plane in the next hour.” He pulls the phone away from his ear. Even though Bedo sounds as if he still has a lot to say, Trent ends the call, clicking his settings to airplane mode. “There. Much better. We’ll deal with everyone later, okay? They can wait.”
I nod and when my cell rings again, I take his advice and send one short message to my mom before powering the phone off.On my way. Address?
I glance up at Trent as the car pulls up to the airport curb. “She’ll text me back before we land. I just can’t talk to her right now. I’m not going for her. I’m doing this for me. That’s horrible, isn’t it?”
“No. Not at all. I’m glad you’re doing this for you. That’s the only person you should do it for.” The driver opens my door and Trent nods for me to get out first. “You ready?”
I’m still not sure I am, but with Trent by my side I’m confident I can handle anything.
The first flight goes quickly, but we’re grounded and stuck in Atlanta for several hours due to storms. By the time we take off again, worry fills my heart, so to keep my sanity, I scribble lyric after lyric in my notebook. I’m not sure any of this will be usable, but it helps me just the same.
We land in San Diego and Trent hails a cab. “We’ll get a rental later. I don’t want to waste the time now,” he decides and I nod, sliding into the taxi that smells of cigarettes and day-old food. Trent gives directions to the address my mom sent me earlier. He argues with the driver about the most direct route to take, but my mind is a puddle. I’m unable to sort through the mess of feelings and thoughts that clutter my brain. Rolling along through freeway traffic at a painfully slow place, I let my gaze turn westward. A brilliant array of oranges and pinks paint the skyline, and my worries are swept away by the beauty of it all.
Time is so fleeting.
I only hope I’m not too late.
“Hey.” Trent rubs the area above my knee where there’s a rip in my jeans. “Whatever happens, however you feel, I’m here.”
I nod, meet his gaze, and exhale a rush of breath. As nervous as I am, as uncertain as to how this plays out, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s not here for anything other than to support me. I’ve never had that before—someone to lean on. As much as my instinct warns me to run, bail, get out before he can, my heart aches with the need to stay. The desire to find rest. To find someone I can always call home.
“Together.” He squeezes my leg and then glances out the front window. His eyes narrow and etch with concern, and when I follow his line of sight a familiar gated neighborhood comes into view. God, I haven’t been here since I was a child.
I can do this. I need to do this.
Those are the words I chant as the taxi climbs the narrow, twisting private drive and pulls up to a broad iron gate. Trent pays the cabbie and I step outside to press the call button.
“How can I help you?” a man says through the speaker.
“We’re here to visit Richie Sands.” Trent says to the invisible gatekeeper.
“Who’s we?” The voice is not so polite.
“Lexi Marx.” I speak and meet the circle of glass that covers the security camera.
There’s a click and the automation of the gate swings it open. “You mother is expecting you. Please come to the front door.”
Trent’s hand rests at the small of my back, and I draw strength from his presence as we cross the threshold. We travel the stone driveway, up to the two-story white stucco mansion. I don’t know what I expect when we walk inside after being greeted by a housekeeper, but it’s nothing I remember. The interior has been renovated, the oversized band photos with gaudy gold-frames replaced with stunning artwork on soft gray walls. No nineties rock star vibe here. The décor is beautiful. It’s a stranger’s house.
There’s also no undertone of sickness or death.
“Can I take your bags? Your mother is in the living room,” The woman who opened the door indicates which hall to take with a nod. Except I already know the layout of this house. I doubt that’s changed.
“Thank you.” Trent hands over our bags.
“Will you be staying overnight? I can place these in one of the guest suites.”
“No, thank you,” Trent answers before I can. It’s a big deal coming to this place, for me to come back to see my father, but there’s no way in hell I’ll sleep here.
Trent captures my hand in his and we make our way down the hall to a barely lit room with the same undraped wall to wall windows I remember from my childhood. What’s left of the sunset bounces off the ocean and casts shadows over the opulent sofas and chairs that crowd the expansive space.
