Coming into Focus, page 6
He shook his head. “You’re being silly. I’m good at a lot of things, but I am not a mind reader. I can’t magically predict what I’m going to want to eat.”
“That doesn’t… you’d just have… Jimmy, you’d only have to read your own mind. You would just have to ask your brain what you feel like eating and order that.”
“I do ask my brain what it feels like eating, but it’s never sure until the moment is upon us. Now listen to me because I’m getting bored with this.” He sighed heavily. “I’m rich.”
“But—”
“No. Enough. I’m rich. I want the robe, and it’ll be cuter if we both have them, because we’ll be like matching salt and pepper shakers except much posher and more comfortable. I don’t have to decide what I want to eat before I order it because I am incredibly wealthy. It’s crass for you to make me mention it, but here we are. I’m worth…” He paused dramatically. “Well, I don’t have any idea, actually, but loads. Your job is to help me get what I tell you I want. I gave you a nice shiny credit card—use it. The bills go right to Hawk, and he takes care of them, and everything is fine. Of all the things there are to worry about in the world, this is not one.”
He paused. “For example, in your shoes, I might be worrying right now that those cashmere robes are going to sell out while I waste my time worrying over nothing. Should we get the black or the gray?”
Money is only boring if you have a lot, lot, lot of it. So, duly noted. I ordered the robes in black and gray. When he decided the clothes he’d already bought me weren’t enough and we needed to shop for more, I didn’t try to dissuade him.
~ * ~
Those first few weeks, we learned each other’s rhythms and habits. Well, mostly it was me learning Jimmy’s. His main compromise was to agree not to text me 911 unless it was an actual emergency. For me, it was more intense. I learned a certain facial expression meant he needed his notebook because a song idea was taking shape in his mind. They wrote the music together, but the lyrics mainly came from him. I learned how to tell when he was bitchy because he was hungry or when I needed to get him back to the room to decompress. Even the most extroverted extrovert needs quiet time occasionally, and everything went much more smoothly when he got it.
We developed a non-verbal shorthand for interviews. He’d raise his left eyebrow at me when he wanted me to redirect an interviewer into a different topic. He’d start bouncing a knee when he wanted me to cut an interview short. When he wasn’t sure if he should answer a question, a headshake from me would usually convince him to sidestep it. Even Hawk couldn’t find much reason to complain.
So when a radio morning show wanted Jimmy to perform live, I assumed I knew what to expect. I got the guitar he told me he wanted, got him out the door on time, brought him in, made the introductions, then got out of the way.
When they staged it all out, he asked for some adjustments. “Sorry, love,” he said to the DJ. “We need to rearrange a bit.” He asked the woman operating the camera to switch to his other side and asked me to stay in his line of vision, just off-camera. “Okay, that’s better. Thanks, everyone.”
They said they’d be live in five minutes, so I went back to him to adjust his hair and fuss over him a bit like he liked. “You good?” I asked.
“Stage fright.”
“What? Really?”
He shook his head impatiently. “This isn’t just a chat. This is a performance, and it matters. I’m representing the whole band. Of course I’m nervous. A performance isn’t smoke and mirrors. This is the real thing now.”
Once the microphones and cameras were live, nobody would have been able to tell he was nervous. He was witty, charming, and exactly the right amount of outrageous.
Then he started singing.
I was blown away by his voice. Smooth, then just a hint of gravel to it, then easy again. I felt pain, and sex, and love, and loss, and I wasn’t even paying attention to the words. His voice conveyed those things and more. He mesmerized everyone in the room, and it wasn’t based on him being pretty or funny or outlandish. It was pure, raw talent, and I’d never seen anything like it. He disappeared into the song, and it was somehow personal and universal at the same time. Even I fell a bit in love with him when he sang.
When the music stopped, the lights flipped off and the cameras stopped rolling, everything had shifted. I would never look at him the same way again.
“Jimmy. Wow, I didn’t know—”
“Don’t, Willa.” Hurt flashed in his eyes. “That was very clear. You don’t need to point it out.”
We went back to the hotel in silence.
I was an asshole. It hadn’t occurred to me he’d be as talented as he was. He was pretty and funny with a big personality, and I’d assumed there was nothing more to him. Even worse, he knew it.
In the hotel later, he was quiet. Normally, he was bouncing off the walls, ready for whatever was next.
Not that night.
I decided to tackle it directly. “I’m sorry, Jimmy.”
He gave me a one-shoulder shrug.
“Hey.” I put myself into his line of vision. “I mean it. I’m sorry. You have every right to be hurt or angry, or however you feel. I didn’t expect your performance to hit me like that.”
He wouldn’t give me eye contact. “Obviously,” he said. “You haven’t even made an attempt to learn my music. You’ve never even listened. I’m good at what I do. I work at it. I’m not a joke.”
“Please come here and talk to me.” I was sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard with my legs stretched in front of me. I patted the bed.
He set down the book he wasn’t reading, got in next to me, and put his head in my lap. It seemed like a good sign that he wanted contact, so I continued, “I made a mistake. I assumed someone who has such a big personality wouldn’t also be talented, and it was shitty.” I paused. It made me remember something I’d heard. “Hey, do you know the story about Marilyn Monroe, when she was out with a friend?”
He shook his head. I stroked his hair as I talked. “Marilyn Monroe was a stage name. Her real name was Norma Jean. I don’t remember the exact context, but she was with a friend downtown somewhere, just Norma Jean and a pal. She was already famous by then, but no one recognized her. She wore a scarf over her hair and regular clothes, and she blended in. After a while, she said to her friend, ‘You want me to become her?’ Just like that, she became Marilyn. It was how she held her body, how she walked. She turned into Marilyn Monroe. She put on the persona, became a star, and was thronged.”
“Her wiggle,” he said. “Her wiggle probably had something to do with it.”
“Probably. She had a great wiggle.”
“Preach.”
“You’re like her,” I said.
The bed shook when he laughed. “I don’t wiggle,” he said.
“When you’re Marilyn, you’re incandescent, and nobody can take their eyes off you. That doesn’t mean charisma is all you have. I underestimated you because of your appearance, and I hope you’ll forgive me for it. Your song was brilliant, and you’re an absolutely heartbreaking performer, and I’m blown away by you. Being beautiful didn’t make Marilyn who she was. She was incredibly talented. Part of her gift was making it seem easy.”
He sat with his legs crossed, facing me. “You apologize quite prettily, Willa, but you should know better than to judge someone based only on their looks. You of all people.”
He’d lost me. “Wait, what? Why me of all people? I mean, I shouldn’t have, but why should it have been more obvious to me?”
“Because you’re so cute and little, but I didn’t do it to you! I never even commented on your appearance! I never do. You waltz around being attractive in such a wholesome way, but I don’t comment on it or act like it defines you.”
“What? You literally called me cute, little, and a girl on the first day we met! You said, I quote, ‘Willa, you are cute and little!’”
“Stop making this about me,” he said. “We’re talking about you. Anyway, I don’t remember saying it; therefore, it’s like I didn’t.”
“No, that’s not how it works.”
He was quiet for a few moments and shifted back to serious and thoughtful. “I do it intentionally,” he said eventually. “Flash the Marilyn. People love that version of me.”
“How could they help it? I’m telling you, you can be Norma Jean with me, okay? Relax sometimes. Power down. Have a snack and a cuddle. Read a book. We don’t have to be doing something every moment, okay? You don’t have to charm me. I’m already here.”
“For now,” he said.
I didn’t respond. He was right. Eventually, I would leave. It wasn’t like when my mom left—the musician/assistant bond was not the same thing as a mother/child bond. Nevertheless, I was starting to have an inkling that when I left, it would hurt. I was already in too deep to come out unscathed.
“It’s scary, Willa. People love Marilyn, not Norma Jean.”
“I love Norma Jean. I love her even more.”
He gave me a tight hug. “What a gorgeous apology. I forgive you utterly. But fuck’s sake. Listen to my music occasionally. You’re probably the only person your age in the whole country who’s never heard it.”
We watched television for a bit, but I was edgy. Restless. He had his songs. His incredible, out-of-this-world talent. My job was to be there to smooth the way for it. Seeing him as an artist, as a creative genius, changed things. I wasn’t answering his emails and washing his clothes only because he was rich.
I was facilitating things for him in order to make room for the gift he brought the world. I loved doing it. I did. What did it mean about me, I wondered. Was I invisible?
I helped smooth the path for his art, but what about mine?
Why didn’t I prioritize my own work? It had been buried underneath caring for Toby. Now I was burying it underneath taking care of Jimmy, which wasn’t going to get me anywhere. The least I could do was work with what I had.
“Jimmy, let’s go take pictures,” I said, tapping his back.
He shook his head. “I’m comfortable. Let’s stay in. We’ll do it tomorrow.”
“It’s perfect light!” I nudged him again. “I’ll put pretty pictures of you on Instagram, and later we can scroll through them and read the comments.” It was a temptation he couldn’t resist.
“People will recognize me.” It was half-hearted; I’d already won.
“I bet I can break your previous record for likes,” I said. “I’m feeling lucky. Come on. We won’t go far. It’ll be fine. Nobody will recognize you here.”
It was the second time I misjudged things in one day.
I got a couple good shots with the band phone. I was getting my proper camera ready when it went off the rails. He was recognized and definitely generated some attention. I mean, it wasn’t like he was The Beatles, but we did not stay off the fan radar.
When we were back in our room with the door safely closed behind us, he raised a brow at me.
“All right. Yes, I get it. You’re talented and famous. I assumed you could go unnoticed and, um, you didn’t.”
“As much as I hate to say I told you so, I sure as fuck did! I told you, ‘If we go out there, people will recognize me, and it’ll go to shit.’ But you refused to listen. You said, ‘Y’all ain’t that famous, come on outside.’”
I’d been putting my camera away, but I stopped and faced him. “What did you just do right now?”
“Your accent.” He smiled smugly, evidently convinced he’d nailed it. He was pleased with himself.
“No. No, Jimmy, you did not. I didn’t say y’all, and I never say ain’t.”
“I wish you would. What is the point of having my own cowgirl if you don’t say ‘y’all?’”
“There are so many things wrong here I don’t even know—I’m not your anything, I’m not a cowgirl, and I do sometimes say ‘y’all,’ just not often.”
“Can you say it more?” he pleaded.
“If you’re good.”
Chapter Seven
I hadn’t talked much to Toby since I left. It was fine, I told myself. It was great. I was giving him some space because I understood and respected that he needed it.
And because he wouldn’t answer his phone.
Jimmy jumped, startled when I slammed my phone down in frustration after leaving Toby a fourth voicemail.
I flopped back on the bed dramatically.
He peered down at me. “Are you worried? Should you call your uncle?”
I sat up and shook my head. “He’s fine. He’s dodging me.”
“But—”
I showed him my phone display. “He’s at Broadway Bean.”
“Your coffee shop? How do you—Willa, did you install stalker-ware on your brother’s phone?”
“Shh,” I said. “I’m going to call there.”
My former boss answered. “Hi, Jenny, it’s Willa. I’m curious, is my brother there?”
Jenny gave me a frosty silence, then she said, “Oh, hi, Willa. Aren’t you busy with your buddy Jimmy Standish?”
“Jenny, please. Is Toby there?”
“She won’t help you?” Jimmy asked, sitting on the bed next to me. “Give me the phone.”
I decided she absolutely deserved what she was going to get for being such a cow to me when I was only worried about my brother. I handed him the phone.
“Jenny, is it? Hi, my name is Jimmy Standish. My friend Willa needs help, darling, and she tells me you’re the only person she can count on. We’re wondering if her brother is there. Could you possibly check for us?” He gave me a wink. “He is? Yeah? Back at his favorite table with the usual suspects, she says,” he said to me. “Jenny, I can’t thank you enough. Willa told me you would get it sorted, and now you have. Oh, yes, please do. Cheers.”
He disconnected. One second later, my phone dinged. Jenny sent a picture of Toby, sitting at a table in the back with a group of people I didn’t recognize. He was laughing. He was completely fine.
I burst into tears.
“Oh shit!” Jimmy gathered me into his arms. “Shit. What is it? Should I call her back? Tell me what I can do.”
“I didn’t even know where he waaaaaaas,” I sobbed. “He’s my Toby, and I’m not there, I’m here, and I miss him and I was worried, and he could have been anywhere.”
He rubbed my back. “You had him pinpointed, darling, thanks to your stalker app. Anyway, he’d call you if anything was wrong, right?”
“I don’t know!” I cried. “Maybe he’d have called our fucking mom.”
“I thought your mom—”
“Was a leaver? She is.”
“I had the impression she was out of the picture,” Jimmy said. “From what you said before.”
I took some deep, calming breaths. I used my sleeves to wipe the tears, then I finally answered him. “She was. She is, for me. I guess Toby has a relationship with her now. That’s fine. It’s his decision.”
“Oh, Willa,” he said. “It hurts, right? Because you’re the one who takes care of Toby.”
My eyes filled with tears again, and I shrugged. “I used to be. I guess I’m not anymore.”
His eyes were suspiciously shiny.
“Jimmy, are you crying?”
“You are breaking my heart, Willa. I’ve never heard a woman cry with a southern accent, and it’s devastating!”
Now I put my arms around him. “I’m okay.” I sniffed. “I’m just sad because Toby doesn’t need me anymore. I don’t… taking care of my brother is what I do. I’m not sure who I am without it.”
“You’re the person who takes care of me, and that’s not nothing, right? Anyway, a bit of rebellion is normal for a teenager, yeah? He’s becoming his own man. It doesn’t mean he loves you any less.” He paused but couldn’t help adding, “And you had eyes on him because you are illegally stalking him.”
“It’s not like, illegal-illegal.” I was exhausted from my emotional outburst. I rearranged the pillows on the bed, then settled in. “It’s a gray area.”
“Did you get into bed with your socks on?” he asked. “You’ll bring us bad luck!”
“Ridiculous superstition,” I said. “It’s not bad luck. It’s bad luck for me to take them off because my feet get cold.”
“Stop distracting me. I’m treading carefully because I don’t want you to start weeping again, but does Toby know you put that app on his phone?”
I wished he’d phrased the question differently, so I helped. “Do you mean is Toby aware I sometimes use creative means to make sure he’s okay? It doesn’t matter. I only use my powers for good, so stop with the judgmental face.”
“It seems like it’s crossing a line. To take your blind brother’s phone—”
“He’s not blind. He has one perfectly good eye. What does that have to do with it anyway?”
“No matter how many eyes he has, it seems like an invasion of privacy.” He got up and crawled under the blankets on the other side of the bed. He disappeared under the covers for a minute and tugged my socks off. He tossed them over me onto the floor, then rolled to face me.
I yawned. “Okay, good talk. I’m going to go to sleep now.”
“This talk is not over,” he said ominously.
“Is your phone ringing? Maybe it’s the woman you met earlier at the bar.”
He dug for his phone but then caught on. “You should be ashamed of yourself, but I can see you’re not. Did you put anything on my phone?” He eyed it suspiciously.
I scoffed. “Um, no. Why on earth would I need to? The only place you’re ever without me is the bathroom.”
“Give me the band phone for a minute.” He held out his hand. “No reason.”
“You don’t need it. If there ever comes a time when we are apart, I will answer if you call me. Promise.”
“I want to make sure you’re safe, darling. What if you get kidnapped? Someone could hold you for ransom.”
“You wouldn’t pay it?”
“I definitely would not. It would play right into their hands.”
“You’d abandon me?”
“Never! I would find a handsome, down-on-his-luck detective. Probably someone who’d recently been fired from the force because he was a recovering alcoholic and slipped up one time, and someone died. Probably a kid. He’s so scarred by it. Lucky for him, he’s about to get a second chance, thanks to me and my plucky sidekick. I reckon he’s played by Denzel Washington.”
