Dirty Letters

Holy crap.

HOLY CRAP.

This couldn’t be where Griffin worked, could it? He must be employed by someone famous. But who? Someone I knew?

Peeking out of the RV window as we parked on Via Cerritos, I turned to Doc. “This is insane.”

“Is it possible that Griffin is well-to-do and lives here? Based on the company name, I’d assumed we were going to a business, not a residence.”

“I don’t think so, but honestly, I’m so confused. The truth is, I don’t even know if the address on that eBay receipt has anything to do with Griffin at all. It was just an assumption based on the word music.” Now, I was starting to wonder if this entire trip had been a waste of time.

Doc peered out of the window with his binoculars. “It’s probably only a matter of time before we get kicked off this street. We should perhaps inquire as to who that house belongs to before that happens.”

A few minutes later, I spotted a woman exiting the gates of a mansion that was a few houses down from the one allegedly linked to Griffin.

“Should I approach that lady and ask her if she knows who lives there?”

“Can’t hurt,” he said.

I stepped down out of the RV when she got closer to us.

“Excuse me. Hi. Can you tell me who lives at that property over there . . . Twelve Via Cerritos?”

She tugged on her dog’s leash to keep it from moving and narrowed her eyes at me. “What, are you on some kind of sightseeing tour? The residents don’t appreciate your curious kind around here. My boss is one of them. I’ll have you know she’ll call her security if—”

“I’m not on a tour. I’m looking for a friend. Can you just tell me who lives there?”

“That’s Cole Archer’s house.”

“Cole Archer? Is he someone famous?”

“Yes. The lead singer of the band Archer.”

Archer?

“Not sure I’ve ever heard of them.”

An incredulous look crossed her face. “Have you been living under a rock?”

I laughed at the irony of that. “Basically, yeah.”

She looked behind me at Doc, who was now outside of the RV looking up at a tree. “Why does he have binoculars, then, if you two aren’t spying on the rich and famous?”

“He’s looking for birds, not Beyoncé.”

“Well, I suggest you move that RV off this street before someone has you arrested.”

“Thank you for your time,” I said before walking back toward Doc.

He put down the binoculars. “What did she say?”

“She said the person who lives there is named Cole Archer. He’s apparently a famous musician. Maybe Griffin works for this man.” As Doc and I reentered the RV, I said, “You brought your laptop, right? Can we connect to that hot spot?”

“Sure. Are you going to look up this musician?”

“Yes. I need to see who Cole Archer is.”

After he handed me the computer, I pulled up YouTube and typed in Cole Archer. A plethora of results came up. On second thought, I was pretty sure I’d heard of the band Archer, but since my taste in music tended to be less current, I didn’t know anything about them and couldn’t name any of their songs.

The first video I played was titled Archer Live at the Pavilion. Someone had taken professional footage of one of their performances. It looked like a smaller concert venue. The lead singer, presumably Cole Archer, was sitting on a stool and playing guitar while making love to the microphone during a slow ballad. His voice was powerful, hypnotic, and a little bit gritty. He was extremely attractive, exactly how you would imagine the lead singer of a band: thick hair that looked like he’d just had sex, chiseled features, and a great body. A few silver rings adorned his large hands that were wrapped around the guitar handle.

Since this video really wasn’t telling me anything, though, I went in search of another to watch.

The next one I clicked on was titled Archer Interview, Liam Stanley Tonight. The band members were sitting in a row answering questions from the interviewer.

“Tell me how you guys got together.”

Cole answered. “Well, not sure how much time you have. It’s a bit of a long one.”

I immediately noticed that Cole had a British accent.

Wait.

A rush of adrenaline ran through me. It was the first time I considered the unthinkable. No. It couldn’t be. Griffin couldn’t BE Cole Archer. Could he? No way. No how. The accent had to be a coincidence. At least that was what I wanted to believe.

“Have you found anything?” Doc shouted from the corner of the RV.

“Not anything that would lead me to Griffin’s connection to Cole Archer. I have to keep looking.”

I was reluctant to admit to Doc that I suspected Cole could be Griffin. It still seemed too crazy, and I had no evidence to substantiate it.

Over the next hour, I scoured the internet for any bit of information I could find on Cole Archer. His Wikipedia page did indicate that he grew up in England, which wasn’t news given the accent, but there was no information alluding to anything else that would lead me to believe this man was Griffin.

It wasn’t until I came across the comments section of an article in a music magazine . . . that I got my answer. It was clear as day right in the middle of an insulting jab.

I don’t get the appeal. His voice sucks. It’s like he can’t decide whether he wants to sound British or American. Oh and his real name isn’t even Cole Archer. It’s apparently Griffin Marchese.

My eyes were glued to the word.

Griffin.

Griffin Marchese.

Griffin Marchese.

Marchese Music.

Oh. My. God.

My body completely froze as all the blood in it traveled to my head. My heart was racing. Griffin IS Cole Archer? Cole Archer IS Griffin? Griffin is . . . a superstar? MY Griffin? I kept pausing the video at different spots to see if I could catch a glimpse of the twelve-year-old boy I remembered from that one picture he’d sent. There was one frame that truly sealed the deal. It was the same exact expression from the photo.

“Luca, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

After several seconds, I finally mustered the ability to answer him. “I don’t even know what to say . . . I . . . Griffin is . . . he’s . . . he is Cole Archer. That’s why he lives in a place like this.” I put the laptop down and covered my mouth. “He’s famous. This is . . . unbelievable.”

Doc covered his mouth. “Oh my. Are you thinking this explains why he didn’t want you to know his identity?”

I thought back to the words in his last letter: Sometimes when you follow your dreams, you realize they aren’t free, and the cost is far greater than you’d ever anticipated.

It was a figurative cost he’d been referring to, not a literal one. He wasn’t poor, but perhaps he had paid a price for fame.

“That’s it, Doc. It’s starting to make sense now. He must have thought my knowing would change the way I saw him.”

The reality of this situation was hitting me in waves. Griffin is a rock star.

A fucking rock star.

I could only assume his lifestyle is one of fast cars, sex, and crowds of people. It was likely the polar opposite of my secluded existence. Truly understanding this also meant realizing that we very likely couldn’t ever be anything more than friends. That epiphany was heartbreaking. Could we BE more different? Why am I hearing Chandler Bing from Friends at a time like this?

Panicking, I asked, “What now? This was the last thing I ever expected. What do I do, Doc? I seriously feel paralyzed.”

“We came all the way out here, Luca. Now that you know what he’s hiding from you . . . why not just go to him, tell him the truth, and nip this in the bud? It’s going to come out eventually. I think it would be extremely hard for you to hold in what you know now and to pretend that nothing has changed.”

Doc was right about one thing. This did change everything.

“How do I even access him? There is no way his security will let some crazy girl anywhere near him.”

After I grabbed the laptop again, he asked, “What are you doing?”

“I just need to watch him a bit more.”

I kept scrolling through the videos. I became transfixed whenever I looked into his eyes and realized this man was my Griffin. Come to think of it, the more I watched, the more I could again see glimpses of the face I remembered from that photo all those years ago.

There was one video that showed Griffin—Cole—signing a bunch of autographs in the midst of a swarm of sex-crazed women. He seemed frustrated and tired, yet he signed every single one until there were no more people waiting.

Not to mention, any one of those women would have been happy to stand by his side while he performed the duties of his job. Me? Just the thought of being in that crowd made me start to panic.

I swallowed hard. It felt like I had the heaviest weight on my chest. I was suddenly in mourning, having to say goodbye to the imagined future I had with Griffin. There was no way to make this work. I could totally see now why he felt the letters were all there could ever be between us. Honestly, it might have been better if I’d never uncovered this.

Just when I thought nothing else could surprise me today, my eyes landed on one of Archer’s music videos. It was the title of the song that caught my eye: “Luca.”

What?

Before I could click on it, a loud knock on the RV door startled me. Upon peeking out of the window, I felt my heart fall to my stomach. The most beautiful man I’d probably ever seen in the flesh was standing there with his arms crossed, wearing—a bathrobe?

Oh no.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

“Who is it, Luca?”

Feeling ready to collapse, I looked over at Doc and cried, “It’s Griffin.”