“I assume you can’t post pictures of yourself here because you don’t want the public to know where you are?”
“Yeah, but also, I’m not supposed to be posting anything at all. Like I can’t let the public see that I’m happy and having fun when I haven’t truly addressed all the scandalous stuff I’ve done.”
That sounds like a load of unfair bullshit to me. She didn’t actually do anything wrong, and she shouldn’t have to punish herself for imaginary crimes. But I’m not sure it’s my place to comment.
Gazing up wistfully at a sunflower that’s taller than her, Riley says, “But it would be nice to have some pictures for myself to remember this.”
The way she looks directly at me then, like she’s peering straight into my soul, makes me wonder if she might be leaving something unsaid there. If maybe she wants to remember being here withme.
“I can take pictures of you,” I offer. “That way you’ll have them in case you want to post them at a later time.”Once you’ve left me and gone back to your real life.
Her face lights up in delight. “Do you mind? I know it’s lame.”
“It’s not lame.” Anything that makes her smile like that isn’t lame.
She hands me her phone, and I set down my basket of strawberries so I can start snapping pictures. Lots of pictures. Different poses, different angles, all featuring a beautiful, smiling, Riley Rowland.
If you told me a year ago, right after my divorce, that I’d end up here, in the middle of a farm in Mayweather, Massachusetts, playing photographer for a country star, I would have assumed you were crazy.
But here I am. And I’m not mad about it.
Riley’s dress is yellow, matching the sunflowers. I’m pretty sure it’s thesame one she was wearing the first time I saw her, although why I can remember that detail, I don’t know. Everything is all earth colors, yellows and greens and browns, with the bright pop of red from her cowboy boots.
And, of course, her hair. The sun is reflecting off it in a way that makes it glow, and I hope the photos can truly capture how perfect she looks right now.
When I hand her back her phone, she says, “Hold on,” tugging at my wrist to prevent me from stepping away. And before I can question what she wants, she’s pulling me in even closer to her and turning to stand directly beside me. Then she holds her phone up in the air and tells me to smile as she snaps a few selfies of us.
My heart soars at the confirmation that she does want to remember being here with me. I’m tempted to ask her to send me the pictures, but I don’t. I have a feeling that I won’t be forgetting any details about this after she leaves. She’s already left a hell of an impression on me, and I’m not sure I’ll want a physical reminder of her too. It might be too depressing.
Eventually, we make our way back to the store, where I buy a couple tiny jars of jam from Mrs. Shaw before we leave.
In the car, Riley tells me about all the other stuff the farm does. They host Mayweather’s fall festival every year, with a pumpkin patch, corn maze, and haunted hayride.
“One year, when I was a kid,” she says, “I got separated from my parents in the maze, and I was so lost, I started crying. Connor and his friends ran into me, and Connor left them to help me find the way out. That might be where my crush on him started, though it didn’t hit full blown obsessive status until high school.”
“You never dated him, though?”
She shakes her head. “No, he’s a few years older than me. Which wouldn’t matter now, but when we were teens, that felt like a huge gap. I wrote so many songs about him, it’s embarrassing. But those songshelped me land my first record deal, so I guess it worked out. Honestly, if someone flat out gave me the choice back then, either get the guy or make my dreams come true, I would’ve chosen my dreams anyway.”
“And now?” I ask, wondering if now, after having huge success in music and not much success in relationships, her priority is still music. If it always will be.
She’s quiet a little too long, then she says, “I already told you that even after all my failed relationships, I still believe in love.”
That didn’t answer my question.
“If you were forced to pick between your career and love?” I try.
She frowns. “I’m not sure how much of a career I’ll have left for me by the time I go back to Nashville. So it might be pointless asking me to choose.”
I’m not sure why she seems to be avoiding the question, and I’m also not sure why I care so much to hear her answer it. It’s a random hypothetical. And coming from me, someone who thinks love is for suckers, I don’t even know what kind of answer I have the right to expect.
I can’t stop myself from pressing her, though. Pulling into the parking area at the inn, I shut off the engine and turn to face her. “Riley. If it came down to making a choice, if you could only have one...?
The look on her face suggests that it might be painful for her to contemplate it, only getting to have one or the other. And again, I wonder what the heck I’m doing. I’m not trying to hurt her.
Finally, she says in almost a whisper, “I really don’t know.”
Well, all right.
