“Nope.”
She gives him a long look. “You must have been planning this for a while. But you didn’t think to tell me you were coming?”
“Throwing myself on your tender mercies seemed a better idea.”
“Mm. You know even if I say you can stay this is only temporary.”
He nods. “Just long enough for me to figure out what I want. To have a taste of ordinary and see if it’s my thing.”
My grandmother’s expression is one of skepticism. I don’t know much about Aaron Porter. Only what’s on social media now and then. He’s about what you’d expect from an award-winning, bestselling, internationally renowned musician. I doubt his plan is going to work. People don’t easily change, in my experience. And he has to be at least a little addicted to all of the attention and public adulation.
“You always said I needed a dose of reality,” he continues. “Less of being surrounded by people who smile and nod at everything I say. Life without all of the money and fame and people doing everything for me. This is sort of mostly that. You can’t really expect me to give up all the money. I worked hard for that shit.”
There are, however, some basic flaws to his plan, as far as I can tell. “What about being recognized by fans?”
“I have a plan.” He sits forward in his chair. “Say something, Audrey, you’re killing me.”
“What exactly does thisordinaryinvolve?” she asks.
“Me fitting in with your life here and figuring out who I am away from the grind of constantly touring and recording and promoting.”
She sighs and then nods.
“I can stay?”
“Oh, I suppose so.” Grandma sighs again. “You did buy me the place. But you’ll have to sleep on the couch. I never got around to purchasing a mattress for the third bedroom.”
“He bought you the house?” My eyebrows reach for the sky. “Holy shit.”
“It’s none of your business, dear.”
“The couch is good,” he says, turning to me. “The couch is a dream. Hey, June, would you do me a favor?”
This is actually my second time cutting hair this week. Which is not to say I know how to do it, but breakup bangs happen. Hopefully just the once because they’re kind of tragic. It’s going to take me forever to grow them out.
Hacking off a ponytail worth of Nash’s hair seems a good place to start. Then I attack the remains of his mane. There’s an intimacy to this. To being so close to him. Hairdressers must get used to it, but fondling someone’s hair is a novelty for me. He’s sitting on a stool in the bathroom, watching me work in the mirror. In theory he’s going to have a few inches worth of light brown hair left all over. But to repeat the obvious, it’s not like I know what I’m doing.
“How much do you think I could sell the ponytail for?”
He thinks it over. “I’d be disappointed if you got less than a thousand.”
Grandma deposits the broom by the door. “Make sure you clean up, Nash. I’m not your housekeeper anymore.”
“But I’m a guest, right?” he asks.
“Guests are invited. You showed up unannounced. And ordinary people pick up after themselves.” With these words, Grandma departs.
Nash just smiles.
“It’s nice that you kept in touch when she retired,” I say.
He winces. “I had my people send her flowers on her birthday and a bottle of single malt for New Year’s. It’s not like I put in any real effort.”
“That you have people is wild.”
“Ihadpeople. I was a company. But that’s all going away now,” he says. “What do you do?”
“Web design. Building websites and online stores for small businesses.”
