He even gave me a tour of his bus, and honestly, it’s nicer than my house. I forget that he’s some super famous guy, because he doesn’t act that way, especially with me.
Sure, his house in town is really nice, nicer than anything I’ve ever seen before, but it’s comfortable too. I don’t know if that’s because his furniture is plain, utilitarian, and simplistic or if it’s because he just doesn’t act like he has the money that I have no doubt he does.
“Who is he, Toots?” he asks after a long moment of assessing me.
I gulp, looking down at my lap, then back up to meet his eyes. “Beaumont Griffin,” I practically whisper.
He hums, leaning back in his rocking chair. “And?”
Smiling, I forget that PawPaw doesn’t keep up with music. If it’s not Waylon, Willie, Cash, Haggard, or King George, they don’t exist. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I move them from side to side, then inhale a deep breath.
“He’s famous, a musician. More rock music than country, but he’s from Gallup,” I explain.
PawPaw snorts. “Famous, pssshh,” he says, lifting a hand and swatting at the air. “He on the radio?”
Nodding, my smile grows. “And television, he plays at big venues when he does a live show. Paparazzi follow him around…”
“Grand Ole Opry?” he asks.
Shaking my head, I laugh softly. “Rock music, not country.”
“Don’t sound like he’s much in my book,” he says, shrugging a shoulder.
Clearing my throat, I lift my feet in the porch swing and I look out at PawPaw’s dirt lined driveway. “We met ten years ago, and we dated for about a year. I haven’t seen him since he went off to Los Angeles, until a couple of weeks ago.”
Saying even the CliffsNotes version of the story makes me feel, odd. Living the story feels way more romantic than speaking it aloud. When I say the words, it just sounds like I’m pathetic, but aren’t I?
I mean I haven’t been able to have a meaningful relationship since Beaumont, a decade. A whole decade with just a few short-term men, nothing even remotely close to love, not until he came in and swooped me up in his arms again did I even feel alive.
“You know when I met your MeeMaw, I was stupid. Saw her and I knew that she was special, but felt like I couldn’t settle for the first pretty girl that caught my eye.”
“PawPaw,” I gasp.
He grins, reaching for his coffee. I watch as he takes a healthy sip, his eyes getting shiny, maybe even glassy as he talks about my grandmother.
“What I’m sayin’ is, thankfully I got my act together right quick, but not all men do that. Sometimes it takes ‘em a while,” he mutters.
Sucking my lips in, I press them together and nod, my eyes focused on the dirt path still, just like his. Though I don’t think he’s seeing any of the landscape, no, he’s seeing the teenage version of my grandmother somewhere in the distance, in his memory banks.
“He went to rehab for drinking,” I admit aloud.
Saying the words, they make me feel funny. They make my stomach clench, and not in a sexy way. It’s the one thing that I fear from him, a relapse and the loss of trust that goes along with that. I can’t be in a marriage like my parents had. I won’t survive it again.
“That scares you,” PawPaw states.
“Terrifies,” I agree.
“Life doesn’t come with certainties, Toots. Sometimes people aren’t an addict and then they become one later in life. Sometimes they overcome an addiction early on. He knows it’s a problem, and he’s working on the solution, right?”
Nodding, I’m unable to speak as tears fill my eyes. Beaumont is definitely working on his demons and he’s also working on me, on showing me how much he cares for me and he is determined to earn my trust and quickly.
“I think that you’ll be all right, Toots. Also, I want to meet this famous man,” he barks.
Shifting my gaze to him, I notice that he’s turned toward me and he’s grinning. “You do?”
“You love him?”
“I’m pretty sure that I do,” I admit.
He shakes his head with a grunt. “Then, I think as the man in your life, I should meet him, get my feel for him and give you my approval… or not.”
“You’ll love him,” I find myself saying.
“Will I now?” he asks.
Standing to my feet, I walk over to the rocking chair next to him and sink down. Reaching out, I take his hand in mine and we drink our coffees with our other hands.
“He reminds me of MeeMaw,” I admit.
“How?”
“He’s kind and considerate. He makes sure I’m fed,” I laugh. “Even before, he always encouraged me, but even more now. He’s quiet, only speaking up when he needs to. He’s homegrown and calm. I don’t know, just everything about him reminds me of her.”
PawPaw nods, his hand squeezes mine and we sit in silence the remainder of the morning. Once our coffees are finished, I get up for the day and clean his house, then make sandwiches for lunch along with some meals to freeze for the week.
I don’t realize until later that night when I’m lying in the guest room that has always been my bedroom here, that Beaumont never called.
Tonight was his third show of the tour and although he’s been really good about calling every day, when he first left, he called three times a day, had things delivered to the shop. Since the first show, he’s only called me once a day.
I wasn’t too worried about the lack of calling, until tonight. Picking my phone up off of my nightstand, I glance down and once again there are no missed calls. Deciding to just bite the bullet, I send him a text.
Thinking of you. At PawPaw’s. Call me tomorrow if you can. x Hutton
I watch as the message appears as delivered, then I wait for what feels like an hour until it finally says read. My heart skips a beat as I wait for those three little dots to appear as he replies.
Except they don’t.
I try to shrug it off as him being busy, but something in my gut tells me that’s not what this is. He read the message, he didn’t reply and I know it has to be for a reason. Naturally, my mind begins to spin as I think of a dozen different scenarios that he might be in.
All of which end in me being completely devastated.
BEAUMONT
The bottle across from me is tempting. Too tempting. I reach for it, but don’t open the top. A couple of women climb into the bus and I lift my gaze to them as Austin and Jesse follow behind.
Anger radiates inside of me at the sight of the bottle and the women. My rules for this tour were pretty fucking clear. Greenroom booze was one thing, but I didn’t want it in the bus. Also, no women back to the bus. It’s just easier that way. I don’t give a fuck what they do, I just didn’t want the party brought back to the bus.
I’m struggling. I knew that I would be, but this is more than I even expected. I need the rules to keep me grounded—to keep me sane.
Picking up the bottle, not giving a fuck about the consequences, I throw it across the bus. Thankfully, it doesn’t hit anyone, but it does smash against the dashboard, almost hitting the front window.