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Garrett
Ilead her out to the parking lot, but instead of stopping at the Land Rover, she keeps going to the sidewalk.
“I guess we’re walking to our destination,” I say as I fall in step with her.
“It’s such a nice night, and I like to walk,” she says.
“I remember.”
She slides her eyes to me. “You remember a lot more than I thought you would.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess I assumed your whiskey-soaked mind would have blocked out the details of this small town and me by now.”
Ouch.
“My whiskey-soaked mind is completely intact,” I assure her.
“If you say so.”
“It’s not like I’m a lush, Ansley. I enjoy myself from time to time,” I tell her.
“Oh, I’ve heard. Drunken police chases, illegitimate children, and all kinds of enjoyment.”
“First of all, I don’t have nor am I expecting any children. Those allegations are false and just a money grab. I’ve taken a paternity test to prove that. And yes, I got a DUI. That was a one-time mistake. I was trying to outrun cameras and made a poor judgement call,” I explain.
She gives me a skeptical look.
I raise my hand and make a cross motion over my heart.
“I swear. That’s the truth.”
She smiles.
“I guess being famous has its challenges, huh?”
“You have no idea,” I confess.
We fall into a comfortable silence, and I walk as close to her as possible without freaking her out to block the chilly night air.
A Balsam Ridge patrol car passes us, turns around, and slowly drives by again.
Ansley nervously waves when she notices the car. The deputy inside doesn’t look pleased as he gives her a curt two-fingered wave in return. We go approximately four blocks and hook a left. I can see the lit building in the distance and hear the faint sound of dance music.
“Where are we? The library?” I ask.
She nods as she picks up the pace.
I follow her into the parking lot.
“Why are we at the library?” I ask.
“We’re here for the fundraiser. They’re raising money for next year’s budget. There’s food, dancing, a silent auction, and I hear the main attraction this year is some famous country music star,” she says as she skips toward the entrance.
I stop and glare up at her as she ascends the brick steps to the double glass doors.
“This is not a date, is it?” I ask after her.
She looks over her shoulder. “Nope. It’s a favor. You owe me,” she states.
“For what exactly?” I ask.
“Breaking my heart.”
“How long will I be paying that debt?” I ask.
“Until it doesn’t hurt me to look at you anymore,” she says before opening the door and walking inside.
I take a deep breath and follow her. Public appearances are the bane of my existence. I’d rather spend a thousand hours in the studio or on a stage than have to make small talk with overly emotional fans and smile for photos for hours on end. It’s the most exhausting but necessary part of the responsibilities that accompany fame.
Don’t get me wrong; I adore my fans. It’s just hard to be poked and prodded at by the overly aggressive ones—and there are always overly aggressive ones.
We get exactly ten steps in when a gaggle of teenage girls spots us and comes running.
“Hi. You’re Garrett Tuttle, aren’t you?” one excited girl asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.
I look over her shoulder and catch Ansley grinning at me.
“Will you sign my iPhone case?” another girl asks as she shoves a Sharpie in my face.
“Sure thing,” I agree with a wink.
The poor girl almost faints on the spot. It’s amazing really. If it wasn’t for the fact that I sing songs for a living, these young ladies wouldn’t look twice when I walked into a building, but instead of seeing the regular man standing before them, they see the personification of all their adolescent daydreams. I used to eat this attention up until I saw it for what it was—a fantasy. Like a movie in action. They don’t adore me. They don’t know me. They adore the thought of me, and those thoughts all differ. In one mind, I’m a dashing, charming prince, come to sweep them out of their mundane lives. In another, I’m a stud who will guide them into womanhood. In another, I’m the door to their own fame and fortune. If they knew the real man behind the music, they’d see a man much like their own fathers and brothers. A man who enjoys fishing, old cars, eating at his mother’s table, and picking at an old, scarred guitar. Nothing to faint over.
