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Her apartment is tidy, for starters. Not a thing looks out of place. Even her mail is neatly stacked on the table inside the door, arranged with the largest pieces on the bottom and the smallest on top. As she passes by the table, she drops her keys in a small ceramic dish that also holds some coins and a few pieces of jewelry.
I carry Kaci’s groceries into the kitchen and set them on the counter. When I turn around, she’s standing a few feet away, nervously fiddling with the hem of her shirt as she watches me. My eyes meet hers and a blush rises up her neck.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t mean to gape at you.”
“It’s okay,” I say.
“No, it’s not. It’s rude.” She continues to fiddle with her hem. “I’m just confused, I guess. What are you doing living here? Wait. No. Forget I asked. It’s none of my business.”
“It’s really okay,” I say. “I don’t mind talking about it, if you want to know.”
She nods, encouraging me to go on.
I lean back against the counter. “To make a long story short, things haven’t been going well with the band for years. We finally agreed it was time to go our own ways. It was an amicable split, but it was still tough for me to wrap my head around. I thought it would be good to have a change of scenery. Something completely different than my life in LA. One night, I was looking at a map, and something about Peach Ridge beckoned to me.”
“So you just moved here? And randomly decided to move into this apartment building?”
I nod. “It was the first place I saw when I drove into town. Seemed as good as any other.”
My explanation hasn’t seemed to clear up her confusion. Which is fair. Why would a musician from a big rock band want to move into an apartment building in some random small town?
“This town, and even this building, reminds me of where I grew up,” I say. “I guess that had something to do with it, too.”
“Oh,” she says, soaking in that information. “You grew up in a small town?”
“Yep. In California. My mom raised us on her own.” I glance at the carton of milk poking out of her groceries. I pull it out and hand it over to Kaci, since she’s standing in front of her fridge. She looks a little surprised at my action, but she puts the milk away. When she turns around again, I’m holding the carton of eggs out to her.
“You’re really going to help me put my groceries away?” she asks with a little surprised laugh.
I smile and shrug. “Seems that way.”
With another soft blush, she takes the eggs from me and puts them in the fridge. “So you said your mom raised you on her own? How many of you were there?”
“Three,” I tell her. “I’ve got two brothers.”
“Wow. Three boys? I hope you guys went easy on her.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t know how she handled us. But she was great. Always there for us. And supportive of whatever we wanted to do—sports, music, whatever.”
“Are your brothers musicians, too?”
“Nope. One’s a civil engineer, and the other teaches at a community college.” I take out a can of soup from the grocery bag and turn it over in my hand. It’s roasted red pepper and tomato soup. “Nice choice. I get this type, too. Where should I put it?”
“In the corner cabinet. Thanks.” She peers at me as she reaches into the grocery bag. “Do you shop at the Main Street Market?”
“Not in person. I get everything delivered.” I let a beat pass. “Going out in public is…yeah. I don’t know. I hate to gripe about being recognized, because our band was what it was because of the fans. But when people are watching you like that, it makes it difficult to enjoy yourself.” I shake my head. “I don’t know why I thought I’d be able to be anonymous in a small town.”
“I think you’d have to go to a town where music is banned if you don’t want anyone to know who you are,” she says. “Also…I have to disagree with what you just said. You guys made incredible music. That’s why you’ve done as well as you have.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously. All of your albums are amazing. Not to be a total fangirl, but I’ve listened to them more times than I could tell you. I basically had Lightning Strikes on repeat the entire year I was eighteen.”
The last word of her sentence drops like a stone in my gut. It’s yet another reminder that my best work was over a decade ago. All of the band’s subsequent albums also went platinum, but none of them ever did as well as that one.
“I loved your last album, too, though,” Kaci says. “Honey Lips was my favorite song.”
I look up at her. “Really?”
