The Perfect Love Song (13 page)

“It’s a little embarrassing,” he said.

“I bet you’ve slept ten minutes every night.”

“Well, if y’all would quit dragging me out every night, it might be better.” He laughed, but he knew that he could stay back in the bus. But the two nights he’d stayed in, he’d felt the loneliness he didn’t want to feel. But he forgot what he already knew—that you can ignore your feelings, but they’re there anyway. They stay. And stay. Ignoring them does not make them go away—like a stubborn child.

“Yeah, we’re really draggin’ you.” She laughed. “And we don’t have to get up for the 6:00 a.m. interviews. Not that I’d mind.”

“Good. Tomorrow morning you can be me.” He smiled.

She snuggled back into the chair, curling her legs underneath her. “I don’t think they’d believe me.”

So,” Jimmy said, sticking his phone into his back pocket, “tell me about your family. You haven’t told me anything about who you’re missing.”

“Oh, that’s boring.” She stared out the window. “Oh, Jimmy, look. It’s starting to snow.”

Together they stared out the window and talked and laughed until the bus pulled into the stadium in Raleigh, and the whole party started again. And that is what this had all become—a party. What started as one thing became something else. And this is what happens when we aren’t careful, when we aren’t watching—what starts as one thing becomes something else entirely. Now it was a big party all about Jimmy’s fame and adorableness and how many singles of “Undeserved” were downloaded in a day. What began as an expression of love was fast becoming an expression of identity. Jimmy was becoming “the song.”

Ellie was correct—there were lines of girls waiting at every stop. The backstage passes went from children and families wanting to meet Rusk and Hope to girls in white tank tops and cowboy boots just dying to meet and touch Jimmy Sullivan.

He stepped off the bus and signed autographs, shook hands, smiled for the cameras. He posed with Santa Claus in a fake sleigh onstage, as if the sleigh were real, as if Santa were real, as if the fame were real. Of course, none of it was, but he did not yet realize it. Not yet.

—MAEVE MAHONEY TO KARA LARSON

 

 

 

 

T
he paperboy rode his bike through the frigid streets of Palmetto Pointe, throwing the plastic-wrapped newspaper over his shoulder with the same move he used for his fastball on the baseball diamond—this is how he practiced and made cash at the same time. He hated this time of year, not only for the cold but also for having to dodge the Christmas decorations people put in their front yards, the strings of lights and wires that caught his bicycle tires in the predawn dark. When he reached Charlotte’s house, he threw the paper, not
knowing he was delivering news that should have come another way, that should have come from that ole Jimmy Sullivan himself. If he’d known, if the paperboy had known what I knew, he would’ve skipped her house, avoided the neighbor’s silly lightbulb red-nosed reindeer, and gone on to the next driveway. But he couldn’t know, and I couldn’t stop him.

The announcement in the Palmetto Pointe morning paper was splashed across the front page: “Palmetto Pointe’s Own Jimmy Sullivan to Sing at Radio City Music Hall on Christmas Eve.”

Charlotte was already standing in the kitchen holding a cup of coffee and staring out into the beginning of the day when the thump of the newspaper hit her front porch. She opened the front door and grabbed the paper. Her mind on anything but the news, she unwrapped the paper, stuffed the rubber band in the junk drawer—just like every morning. The paper flopped open on the countertop, and she read the headline twice before she understood, before the words held any meaning. Then her hand shook; coffee splattered across the counter.

She hadn’t spoken to Jimmy in three days, and now she knew why: He was off in his own land now. He was gone from her; she’d felt it, and now she knew it.

The article remained unread, the coffee soaking through
the print as Charlotte walked into the living room. Really, why did she need to read the article? The headline told her everything she wanted to know. He’d moved on with this new life. He didn’t care enough to tell her he was singing in New York City and he wasn’t coming to Ireland. Of course he wasn’t. He couldn’t be in New York City and Ireland at the same time. She plugged in her prelit, perfectly decorated, but fake Christmas tree. She turned a key for the gas fireplace, threw in a match, and then sat in the threadbare lounge chair, the one she’d been meaning to re-cover but had not yet because she loved the old faded chintz on it now. She exhaled and stared at the tree, at the fake gas fire licking the fake logs, and wished it were all real: the fire, the logs, the tree, Jimmy’s love. But they weren’t. And maybe none of it ever had been.

J
immy awoke to his cell phone ringing. He groaned. God, he’d never been so tired. He glanced at the screen, but the leftover whiskey fogged his mind and his eyesight. He answered without knowing who it was.

“Hey, bro! What is going
on
?” Jack’s voice bellowed.

“Hey, I’m sleeping. I’m finally getting some shut-eye. Can I call you back?”

“Ah, have you seen the front page of the
Palmetto Pointe Times
?” Jack asked.

Jimmy’s irritation rose as it does for all of us when fatigue clouds every emotion into one. “How would I have seen the front page of the
Palmetto Pointe Times
when I’m in Raleigh and I’m asleep?”

Jack’s answer was silence, but it really wasn’t silence at all. It was an accusatory hissing sound that Jimmy heard in his ear as disapproval.

Jimmy exhaled into the phone. “I’m guessing you want me to ask you what it says, right?”

“Oh, I’m thinking you already know what it says.” Jack’s voice was low, rough as sandpaper, and Jimmy knew Jack was mad. A brother knows these things.

“Why don’t we quit playing this stupid game and you just tell me? If it was important enough to wake me, then just tell me.”

“Seems you’re singing at Radio City on Christmas Eve. Singing your perfect Christmas song.”

Jimmy rubbed his forehead, wished he hadn’t had that last shot of whiskey at the bar with Ellie. He groaned. “Damn, I was gonna call you this morning, Jack. I was.”

“Okay.”

“Milton said yes for me, and how could I possibly turn it down? This could change everything for us. For me. For
you. For our band. It’s nationally broadcast . . . ” Even Jimmy heard Milton’s words coming out of his own mouth.

“It’s nationally broadcast, and, oh, by the way it’s also my wedding.”

Jimmy of course knew this, but sometimes the saying of something is worse than the knowing of it, and this was one of those times. “I’m sorry,” Jimmy said. “Of all people, you understand, right? I mean this is for both of us. For all of us.”

“I don’t think so.” Jack’s voice was quiet now, the anger gone. “Have you talked to Charlotte?”

“I’ll call her right now,” Jimmy said and sat up. Charlotte. He hadn’t told her. His head spun and nausea rose.

“Good idea.”

“Jack?”

“What?”

“Man, I’m sorry. Please try to understand. Please. Let me talk to Charlotte, and I’ll call you back in a while. I’ll meet you in Ireland on Christmas Day night; I’ll be there in time for the party, just not the ceremony.”

“That’s just great, Jimmy. Always in time for the party.”

Jack hung up without a good-bye, and Jimmy slumped back into his bunk, felt around for the water bottle, and chugged it before dialing Charlotte’s number. It rang what
seemed endlessly before her voice mail answered. Jimmy didn’t leave a message because he had no idea what to say.

C
harlotte heard her cell phone in the kitchen, but she didn’t rise.

Kara was there now and sat across from Charlotte, holding her own mug of coffee. “Aren’t you going to see if that’s him?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No. I won’t say anything nice right now, so I think I’ll just let it ring.”

Kara stared out the window at the morning so bright it looked as though the sun came in through cut glass, sharp and intrusive. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I don’t know what else to say.”

Charlotte twisted in her chair. “No, Kara. Do not be sorry. Not you. Listen, I knew what I was getting into loving a singer-songwriter who traveled and lived on a bus. I knew and I chose it anyway. It was sweet . . . Now it’s sad. But listen, this will not change your wedding or my excitement for your wedding even one teensy-weensy bit.” Charlotte leaned across her chair and looked directly into Kara’s eyes. “This is absolutely and completely going to be the most beautiful
Christmas we’ve ever had. I can’t wait to get to Ireland. I can’t wait to see Galway.”

Kara smiled and reached across the space between them, taking Charlotte’s hand. “You are amazing.”

Again the phone rang, but this time it was Kara’s. She glanced at the screen. “Jimmy,” she said.

Charlotte shook her head, and Kara hit “Ignore.” Together they sat in silence, sipping their coffee and listening to the morning begin.

Losing a love somehow felt like finding one in this way—falling. She felt as though she were falling, but this time into an emptiness, into an echoing sadness.

—MAEVE MAHONEY TO KARA LARSON

 

 

 

 

I
t was December 22 when the plane hovered in the sky with the miracle of flight that Charlotte did not want to spend too long thinking about. She settled back into her seat and flipped through the movie choices. None sounded appealing. It was an all-night flight, and she knew she should sleep; they’d land in Ireland at six in the morning and have a full day ahead, but her thoughts and mind spun around themselves like tangled threads that had become knotted and useless.