The Way Back Home (21 page)

“H
EY
,” I
SAY
a week later, opening the front door of my Nashville house for my clearly exhausted boyfriend. “It's almost midnight. I was worried.”

“Sorry,” Adam says as he comes inside. He kicks his boots off and gives me a peck on the cheek before walking to the living room and crashing on the couch.

I can't read his mood, but I remember how hard I worked when we recorded
Wildflower
. Every phrase, every instrument, every lyric and the accompanying tone had to be perfect. It was torture, but then when a song was finished, it all felt worth it. I hope he's happy with what he's recording, but he hasn't wanted to talk about work after work. I sit down on the tiny bit of couch his body isn't occupying; he's sprawled out on his belly like a dead man. I run my fingers over his forehead and around his neck, gently, knowing how tired he must be. He puts his hands around my hips and pulls himself onto my lap, his eyes still closed as I play with his hair.

“We missed you at the movies tonight,” I say softly. “I was a total third wheel with Stylan. Not even Zac Efron shirtless could make up for your absence.”

“The
High School Musical
kid?” Adam asks, opening one eye.

“He's, like, almost thirty now,” I say, flicking him in the head.

“Should I be jealous?” he asks with a lazy grin.

“Of his poster maybe,” I say. “If you keep up these crazy hours, I'm going to need a stand-in.”

He closes his eyes again and squeezes my waist. “They wanted to finish ‘Let Her Preach' since we're off tomorrow and Friday for Christmas,” he mumbles.

“Are you still coming over for the Second Annual Barrett Family Christmas Bash tomorrow night?”

He yawns so big and loud that it's almost laughable. “Definitely,” he finally says.

I don't pester him anymore, knowing how important it is that he rests. Instead I play with his hair and watch the lights on the Christmas tree twinkle red, green, blue, and white. I left my phone on the kitchen counter, so I slip his out of his back pocket to put on some music. He doesn't even move, already knocked out on my lap, and when I slide my thumb across the screen to unlock his phone, I accidentally pull up a text message he hasn't checked. It's from his mom:

I didn't realize a hundred bucks for a Christmas tree was asking so much. You're rich and famous now but can't help out your own mother?

Instantly I know I wasn't supposed to see this. I know I should push the
HOME
button and pull up his Music app like I had originally planned, but it already shows that it's a read message, so that's not what I do. Instead, I read more. Even though it's a pretty big violation of his privacy, I tell myself that Adam and I don't have secrets, or at least I don't. I glance down at his peaceful face to make sure he's still sleeping and then slowly scroll through their text thread, sickened by the things I read. Some messages are full of typos and mean rants where she's clearly intoxicated, some are little updates about him paying her phone bill or rent, but others are just pitiful, begging him to come home more often or call her once in a while. I feel like I'm in the head of a crazy person. His replies are always short and noncommittal, but I don't know how he stays so grounded while being pulled in so many different directions without any support at home. I suddenly feel protective of Adam, suddenly knowing with all my heart exactly how I feel about him.

“I love you, Adam Dean,” I whisper. I bend over and kiss the top of his head, tears filling my eyes. “I love you now, and I always will.”

“So you told him you love him?” Stella asks the day after Christmas. She came over on Christmas Eve, but so did half my extended family, including our boyfriends, so we didn't have time for intense girl talk. I texted her today that I wanted to hang out, just the two of us, and she suggested we go shopping. Why we thought the mall the day after Christmas was a good idea is beyond me, but I'm in disguise and I have security with me, so I'm hoping all goes well.

“Yeah, but he was asleep,” I say.

“And you didn't tell him again?” Stella asks, confused. “Like, you know, when he was conscious?”

I shake my head. “I think I'm going to wait.” I don't want to break his confidence by going too deep into the details about his home life, but I try to explain to my best friend how I'm feeling anyway. “It's like with Adam, he has this wall up. He didn't have the greatest childhood, and he protects himself by being this easygoing, fun-loving guy that everyone likes to be around. I feel like he probably doesn't want to get hurt, so he doesn't invest in many real relationships. Even you've said how our relationship has moved at a snail's pace—”

“So slow,” she cuts in. “I don't see how you do it.”

I ignore her tone, sidestep a distracted shopper, and go on. “And now that he's opening up to me, I don't want to scare him off.”

“I see that, I guess,” she says, looking at a cute phone case at a mall kiosk. “But maybe he's scared to say it first because you're a bigger star than he is and he doesn't want to look like an opportunist.”

“Stella,” I say. “Come on.”

“What?” she asks, walking with me again. “Men can be intimidated by powerful women. I think he's just trying to show you that he's in it for you, not for your connections.”

“Well, I already know that!”

“Yeah, but guys are dumb,” she says, shaking her head and pinching her mouth up. “So dumb. So, so, so, so, so, so very dumb.”

Clearly we aren't talking about Adam anymore.

“What'd he do?” I ask reluctantly. Then I add, “Broad strokes.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know, I know. Boundaries.”

I sigh. “Stella, I want to be there for you, but it's hard when the dumb guy is my brother.”

“Look at this,” she says, pulling me over to a bench. “This is what Dylan got me for Christmas.
This
.” She pulls a gray hoodie out of the shopping bag she's holding. It says,
Don't follow me, I'm lost
.

I smile. “That's so you.”

Stella's mouth falls open. “Are you serious right now?”

Immediately I realize I've reacted in the wrong way. I try to backtrack. “No, not like ‘
That's
so you,' because I know you don't really wear that type of clothing—”

“Bird,” she interrupts. “It's a lace-up hooded tunic made out of sweatshirt material.”

I think it looks comfy, but I know it's not her style. I screw my face up and hope it's the reaction she wants.

She blows air through her bangs and shakes her head. “I'm bummed because I spent a lot of time thinking about what to get him. I found a local artist to turn a selfie from the night of our first kiss into this gorgeous oil painting,” she explains. “It was really special and thoughtful, and then he gets me this sweatshop piece of crap that he probably waited until a couple of days ago to get because he forgot.”

I nod along, trying to stay neutral, but I know Dylan, and in his mind stores like Aeropostale, Abercrombie & Fitch, and Hollister are high-end. “Right, so you don't wear a lot of sweats—”

“Any.”

“—and I can see where the lace-up sides are a little much—”

“A corset on a sweatshirt? That should be illegal!”

“—but I can also see how, for Dylan, it was a sweet gesture.” I can't help but defend my brother a little.

Stella looks at me like I've personally betrayed her. “Never mind. Let's get a pretzel.”

She stands up and starts walking away so that I have to chase after her. “Stella, seriously,” I say. “Dylan loves that store, and I know he didn't wait until the last minute because I saw my mom wrapping it for him over Thanksgiving break. And it actually
is
thoughtful, because on tour it's like, Stella, seriously, you know you never know where we are. And you are a terrible navigator. Remember when we drove around Seattle trying to get to the Space Needle, which was so big that we were all like, ‘It's right there!' but Google Maps kept telling you to circle the block and we wasted, like, twenty minutes driving around it?” She breaks a little, softening. “See? It brought back that good memory for me, so I can see where he's coming from. It's funny. I know it's not romantic or sentimental, but to be honest, you're not exactly dating a romantic or sentimental guy.”

She sighs and looks down at the offending gift, her lip curled up on one side.

“I told him it was the wrong size,” she says.

“So return it,” I say. “His feelings won't be hurt.”

She looks around the mall, at the throngs of people hurrying to capitalize on sales and exchange unwanted Christmas gifts, and shrugs. “I'll come back another day. Besides, even in that baseball cap and sweats, you're starting to get some stares.”

“‘Stars—they're just like
us
!'” I say. “‘They return Christmas presents with their besties!'”

Stella laughs and links her elbow through mine. “Let's go, superstar. I want to get my nails done.”

“Look at these sketches,” Stella coos once we're back on tour after New Year's. My styling team handles the pieces of card stock as if they are ancient scrolls that could crumble at our touch. Tonight is Miami, our first show back from break, and Anita sent over a FedEx today with some Grammy dress options. Even though “Music's Biggest Night” is a little over a month away, planning for the big event has been in high gear over the past couple of weeks, and I've got a huge binder full of ideas and designs.

“The pleats here are perfection,” Amanda whispers. My head stylist, who is impressed by very little that life has to offer, looks like she might faint. “Oh, and this one with the intricate print.”

“Right?” Stella agrees. “And I just can't with these swatches. Feel this fabric, Bird.”

“I like that one best,” I say, pointing to a coral, form-fitting, floor-length gown with a high neck.

“That's my favorite for you, too,” Stella says immediately. “Your body shape is perfect for this.”

“I absolutely agree,” Amanda says. “And I adore the way the fabric falls around the back, almost like a cape but also giving the illusion of fuller sleeves. It's genius.”

“How do you think they'll want your hair?” Tammy asks as she puts the finishing touches on mine.

“I think we should go bold with the makeup for your actual performance,” Sam chimes in. “But if that's the dress you go for on the red carpet, we should keep it sweet and natural with maybe a statement lip.”

I stare at myself in the mirror and zone out as they buzz around me: Tammy fussing with a stubborn curl in my hair, Sam preparing his pouch for touch-ups throughout the show, Amanda steaming my opening dress, and Stella finally putting my sketches away as if it pains her to do so. They get back to dressing me, their doll. I think about the other celebrities who will be at the Grammys, the same ones at so many of my events, all of us contemplating how we will look and all of us parading down the red carpet, exactly like a string of paper dolls.