Regrets Only (20 page)

She
snorted in response. He grinned sideways and went on. “Anyway, that festival
turned out to be our big break. Somebody from Nashville reviewed the festival
and raved about us, and he mentioned the hat, so I kept wearing it for the next
few shows. When things start going well, you’re scared to change anything. Like
you might break the spell. Next thing you know, it was like people thought it
was part of me. Girls started coming to our shows wearing camo hats and tank
tops and—”

“And
those itty bitty camo shorts,” she finished for him.

“Really?
I hadn’t noticed those.”

She
had nothing to throw at him, but made a face. “So that’s how it became your
trademark.”

“Yeah,”
he said. “And at first I wasn’t too thrilled about it. I don’t like being
pigeon-holed to a certain identity, and when you’re from the foothills of
Tennessee trying to make it on the national scene, you don’t want people
assuming you’re just a dumb redneck.”

“Not
that anyone would do that,” Suzanne said sheepishly.

“Of
course not,” he said. “But you know what? I find it works to my advantage. When
people don’t think you’re all that smart, it’s easier to stay a step ahead of
them. I went through three business managers before Yvette, all of them trying
to take advantage of me, one of them blatantly stealing. They thought I
wouldn’t figure it out, but I keep an eye on things.”

“I
can actually relate to that,” Suzanne realized aloud. “You know—dumb, helpless
blonde. People treat you a certain way based on their assumptions…”

“And
then you take them to school with your baseball knowledge and poker skills.”

She
raised an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s just the beginning of my résumé.”

His
eyes widened. “Jesus. I don’t know if I’m looking forward to finding out what
that means or not.”

The
flirtatiousness of their conversation seemed to occur to them both
simultaneously. An awkward silence threatened, but Dylan side-stepped it. “Is
it my turn?”

She
gave him a blank look.

“To
ask a question? I get one, right? I mean, assuming my answer was satisfactory.”

“It
was. What’s your question for me?” She couldn’t imagine.

“What
took you away from wanting to be an artist?”

Suzanne
was flabbergasted. Marci and a couple of others knew this had once been her dream,
but she hadn’t talked to anyone about it in years. “What do you mean?”

“At
the High. You told me you always wanted to paint.”

“I
did?”

“Yep.
While I was helping you down those circular ramps. Man, that museum would
not
be good for someone with vertigo.”

Suzanne
laughed. “Well, yeah, I guess I did used to want to be an artist, especially a
painter. But my parents wouldn’t pay for four years at school for that. Art history
was the closest thing I could convince them was actually an investment. They’d
heard of art dealers who weren’t living in their parents’ basements, I guess.
So that put me on the path to the High, and I found event work, and…well, I
just don’t have time to paint these days.”

“Wow,”
Dylan said. “My parents are pretty crazy sometimes, but I can’t imagine what it
would be like if they didn’t support my music. Speaking of which, why don’t you
like my music?”

She
burst out laughing. “When did I say that? I think I said I didn’t
know
your music. But I actually did go out and buy a couple of albums the other
day.”

“And?”

“I
like it,” she said, unsure what to add.

“Well
now,
that
was convincing. That’s what my dad used to say when Mom came
home wearing a hideous dress.”

“What
do you care what I think?” she said. “I’m just the stuck-up Scarlett anyway,
right?”

He
grinned. “Hey, you’re avoiding the question. I thought we were having this
nice, honest conversation out here.”

“Well,
okay. Country isn’t really my genre. Honestly, I’ve never cared for it much,
and I only listen to it when my best friend Marci forces it on me.” She cringed
at the mention of Marci’s name. She’d almost forgotten they weren’t speaking.

“So,
I don’t have any frame of reference, and it’s not exactly my style, but I did
really like what I heard. Truly. You’re very talented. Obviously.” She felt
ridiculous.

He
didn’t seem fully satisfied with this. “Well, if country isn’t your genre, what
kind of music do you like? Classical?”

“Right.
It’s either honky-tonk or Mozart. You do see things in black and white, don’t
you? Actually, I like a lot of things—folksy stuff like Joni Mitchell, Carly
Simon, James Taylor. I still listen to a lot of the same stuff I loved in
college, like Midnight Oil and
obviously
R.E.M. You couldn’t go to the
University of Georgia in the 90s and not love R.E.M. It probably sounds lame,
but my favorite songs haven’t changed in a long time.”

“Why
would that sound lame?” he asked. “I’m the same way. So what’s your all-time
favorite?”

“Ugh!
I hate that question. It’s too hard to choose.” She heard voices from behind.
The day had grown bright around them and the house was waking up.

“Just
choose for right now.
Vanity Fair
won’t hold you to it.”

“Okay,
but you can’t laugh.”

“Fine.”

“I’ve
always loved ‘Fire and Rain,’ by James Taylor. Ever since I was a little girl.
I think it’s because it has my name in it. You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

Footsteps
sounded on the planks behind them. Dylan turned slightly and muttered something
under his breath she couldn’t hear. She glanced back and saw Misty, wearing a
tight white t-shirt and tiny pink pajama shorts. “Dyyyyylan,” she whined. “I’m
hungry. Where have you been?”

“Right
here,” he said.

“With
her?” Misty said accusingly at Suzanne.

“No,”
Suzanne said immediately. “I just got here a minute ago.” She picked up her
coffee, and the cold cup belied this statement.

Misty
seemed to appraise her briefly, and then turned back to Dylan. “Baby, I want
breakfast. Let’s go get pancakes.”

“I
don’t want to go to town today. There’s cereal in the kitchen,” he said.
Suzanne wanted to get out of there, but Dylan was looking in the other
direction, and after their long conversation it felt odd to just vacate the
deck without saying anything else to him.

“Please?”
Misty put her arms around his neck and hoisted a bare, tan leg over him to
straddle his lap. Suzanne saw that her shorts had “JUICY” written across the
back. She began kissing Dylan’s neck, imploring him between each kiss. “Please,
baby, please? I really want pancakes. I’ll make it worth your while.”

Awkward
did not begin to describe it. Dylan kept his hands resolutely on the arms of
the chair as Suzanne stood frozen, knowing that the only reasonable thing to do
was to walk away, but unable to go. She felt as if she was gaping at a traffic
accident: she wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

“Misty,
stop,” Dylan said as she nibbled his ear. “You’re being rude.” He did not look
at Suzanne.

Now
Suzanne wished more than anything that she had already walked away because
Misty turned to her and spoke. “I’m sorry, Susan,” she said lightly, thrusting
her hips downward as though giving someone a lap dance in front of a stranger
were a perfectly ordinary thing to do on a weekday morning in the mountains.
“But unless there’s anything else you need? I think Mr. Burke and I would like
some privacy right now.”

“Of
course,” Suzanne heard herself say, and then made her way numbly back to the
house. She met Kate in the kitchen.

“Hi,”
Kate said, unmistakably glowing. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,
I’m fine,” she said. Then, without having planned it, she continued. “Listen,
Kate, something’s come up and I need to get back to Atlanta a little earlier
than I’d planned. I think I’ve…seen what I need to see here. Can we wrap up by
phone later?”

“Sure,”
Kate said, taken aback. “But you’re not leaving now, are you? Everyone is going
down to the river to go inner tubing.”

Suzanne
had an image of Misty straddling Dylan, except soaking wet in a bathing suit. “I’m
so sorry, Kate. I just can’t. We’ll figure everything out, though, please don’t
worry.”

The
girl’s eyes filled with tears, stopping Suzanne’s progress toward the door.
This family was going to be the end of her. “Kate, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.
I’m—please don’t judge me, but I need to tell you—”

 “Oh,
honey,” Suzanne said gently. “I know about the baby. And, believe me, I am the
last
person to judge you. It will be fine.”

Kate’s
relief was palpable. “You know?”

“Well,
yes. My best friend”—the name stuck in her throat—“Marci is pregnant and I
recognized the symptoms.”

“Congratulations,”
Kate said. Suzanne nodded numbly. Nearly two weeks had gone by since she’d
talked to Marci, which was unprecedented in their relationship, even during the
years when Marci lived thousands of miles away. She wanted desperately to talk
to her best friend, but her shame and anger had been holding her back.

Suzanne
had no idea where to start with Marci, but at least calming the bride-to-be in
front of her was a doable task. She took Kate’s hand and used her best motherly
tone. “Listen, Kate, don’t be so hard on yourself. You certainly won’t be the
first blushing bride to walk down the aisle with a little passenger on board.
There are way, way worse things in life than putting the cart a tiny bit before
the horse.”

Kate
gave her a shy smile. Suzanne went on, “And as for the wedding, we can totally
work with it. We’ll get sparkling grape juice for the champagne toast and make
sure you’ve had plenty to eat so you’ll feel good walking down the aisle.”

As
small and demure as Kate was, Suzanne was still caught off guard when the girl
threw herself at her in a sudden, forceful hug. “Oh, thank you, Suzanne!”

When
she got in the car and found her way to the highway, Suzanne called Marci’s
phone and it went straight to voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message—it
was too weird to apologize via recording. She was about to dial Jake’s number
just to make sure Marci was okay, when she suddenly remembered where they were:
Marci had mentioned weeks ago that they were going to Arizona State for Jake to
do some filming for their spring athletic programs, and that his parents were
coming along to make it a family mini-vacation. They wouldn’t be back until
Friday. She had completely forgotten.
Marci’s right,
she thought bleakly.
I
am
totally self-absorbed.

After
that, Suzanne drove with her phone off and the windows down. She stopped only
once for gas and water and barely noticed the four-hour car ride, she was so
absorbed in her thoughts. For the first fifty miles, she flipped restlessly
through the scattered radio stations, eventually turning the damn thing off
when two of the three stations she could get were playing Dylan’s songs. What
the hell was going on?

This
is crazy
, she
told herself.
You’re Suzanne Fucking Hamilton. Pull it together. This world,
this celebrity garbage—it isn’t real. You’ve dealt with famous people and
attractive men before. Just calm down; do your job and live your life, like
always
.

On
a whim, she took an early exit once she arrived in Atlanta, stopping by an art
supply store. For the first time in years, she needed to paint.

#

For
the next two days, Suzanne stayed locked in her condo in sweats and a t-shirt,
paying no attention whatsoever to time. She painted, she slept, she ordered
takeout, she painted some more. While she painted, she put Dylan out of her
mind and thought about William Fitzgerald instead.

Her
father had introduced them the summer after she graduated from college. She was
trying to break into the art world and he was clerking at her father’s firm.
They didn’t start dating for another year, because Suzanne kept deflecting his
advances. He was attractive, but she saw him as a symbol of her father’s
continued need to control her life. He couldn’t force her to be a lawyer, so
maybe getting her to marry one was the next best thing.

Still,
William did have his charms. He was smart, funny, and had a strong sense of
right and wrong Suzanne found admirable. He had a quiet persistence, too, which
finally paid off at a Fourth of July barbecue at the country club. They were
both several beers into a long holiday weekend with their parents when they ran
into each other in the hot dog line. They had started out arguing about condiments,
and ended up on a deserted hillside near the seventh hole, sharing a contraband
flask of bourbon.

Until
William, Suzanne had consistently chosen men who were either unattainable or
unsuitable in the eyes of her family. Her picks were all about the challenge—from
the punk band leader with a nose ring to her married art history professor in
college. She had taken pleasure in defying expectations, but she had never
considered what would happen if she tried to meet them instead.