Dirty Letters

I’d never heard Hortencia oink so much in my life. After picking her up from the farm she’d been staying at, I unlocked my front door to find that somehow the place that had always been my safe haven felt a whole lot emptier.

It was still early, too early to call Griffin on West Coast time. So I sent him a text, hoping he’d receive it when he woke up.

Luca: Made it home safely.

To my surprise, he immediately responded.

Griffin: Thank God. I was so worried about you in that damn clunker.

Luca: What are you doing up?

Griffin: I haven’t really been sleeping.

Luca: Well, I’m safe and sound.

Griffin: I miss you like crazy. I have a million things to do, but I have no energy. I’m fucking depressed.

Luca: That was how I felt when I walked in here. Home is usually my happy place. It feels different now.

Griffin: You left your Furby here. The housekeeper brought it to me with a confused look on her face.

Luca: If she only knew the half of it!

Griffin: Siiiiiiiigh. Luca, Luca, Luca. I need to see you again.

I wanted to ask him when and if he thought that would be possible, but at the same time, I wasn’t sure he could know the answer. He was just finishing an album and now had to leave for Canada soon.

Luca: Are you all packed for Vancouver?

Griffin: That would be a negative. Like I said, no motivation.

I’d had a lot of time to think during the ride. One of the things nagging at me was the need to listen to the song Griffin had written. The one that I had assumed was about me based on the title. Technically, that would have meant Googling him, which I’d promised not to do.

Luca: I have a confession.

Griffin: Okay . . .

Luca: I had to stop myself from Googling you several times on the ride home. I want you to know I didn’t give in once. But there is one thing I really want to know more about.

Griffin: Alright. What is it?

I could sense his agitation.

Luca: Your song . . . the one called “Luca.”

My phone suddenly rang. It was him.

I picked up. “Hey . . .”

“I was going to tell you about that. I wasn’t sure if you knew. You never mentioned it, so I figured maybe you hadn’t discovered it yet.”

“Well, I saw it online and never had a chance to actually hear the lyrics.”

“Luca . . . listen. When I wrote that song . . . I didn’t know.”

“I know that. It’s okay. I won’t take it personally.”

“It’s basically the musical version of the letter I sent you when I was drunk. A glorified angry rant . . . that happened to sell millions of copies.”

“Can I hear it?”

He let out a long breath into the phone. “Of course.”

“Is it okay if I pull it up on YouTube now?”

He sounded a little defeated. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be right here.”

With Griffin on the line, I opened my laptop, logged in, and punched in Luca Cole Archer into the search bar.

A version of the video that had the words to the song listed as subtitles popped up.

I pressed “Play.”

(Opening Music)

There was Griffin’s gorgeous face as he sang the first words.

The letters were the window to your soul.

Before you left me with a giant hole.

When you disappeared into thin air

And proved you didn’t really care.

Now I see your soul was black.

Because you’re never coming back.

You’re nothing but ink and lies.

A devil in disguise.

Luca, Luca, Luca

Were you just a dream?

Luca, Luca, Luca

You make me want to scream.

Luca, Luca, Luca

Are you happy now?

Luca, Luca, Luca

If so, baby, take a bow.

(Music)

Looks like the joke was on me.

So blinded by love, I couldn’t see.

In the end,

You were never my friend.

The really messed-up part . . .

You’re still living in my heart.

And if I had to do it all again,

I’d still have lifted that damn pen.

Luca, Luca, Luca

Were you just a dream?

Luca, Luca, Luca

You make me want to scream.

Luca, Luca, Luca

Are you happy now?

Luca, Luca, Luca

If so, baby, take a bow.

(Music)

Take a bow.

Take a bow.

Take a bow.

Luca, Luca, Luca.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

(Music Fades)

I must’ve listened to it a hundred times over the next twenty-four hours. While beautiful, the song had a heavy, sad vibe, which totally went with my melancholy mood. One particular part kept replaying in my mind over and over.

Luca, Luca, Luca

Were you just a dream?

Because last week was beginning to feel like just that—like it had been one big fantasy in my dreams. One that was incredible but would forever be just out of my reach. I dragged my ass around like someone had died for most of the day today. I’d managed to write, but I was pretty sure that my characters had caught my blues, and my thriller was turning into a women’s fiction ugly cry.

Since I’d cleaned out my refrigerator before my trip to California, I had no food in the house, and a middle-of-the-night trip to the supermarket was inevitable. The parking lot was almost empty, and I breezed down the aisles without seeing a single person until I got up to the checkout line.

Doris was ringing up a young guy’s groceries and smiled at me. I hadn’t mentioned my road trip to California to her, or anything about Griffin for that matter, which I was glad about now, because the last thing I felt like doing was talking about it. My emotions were all over the place, and I probably would’ve burst into tears telling her how great it had been finally meeting the man I’d crushed on for more than a decade.

The guy in front of me in line sure did have a shitload of tattoos. When I finally stopped wallowing in my own self-pity long enough to take a good look at him, I noticed he also had safety pins outlining his jaw—actual safety pins just pierced through his skin and clipped right into his face. The two-in-the-morning crowd was always interesting. He caught me staring, and I diverted my eyes, failing at pretending I hadn’t been scrutinizing him and wondering what the hell made him think it was a good idea to do such a thing.

My eyes landed on the candy rack next to me. Trying to look legit, I grabbed a Hershey bar from the shelf and tossed it into the cart. The shelf to the right of the candy held tabloids, so I picked one up and started to mindlessly thumb through. Until I hit page three.

My eyes bugged out of my head.

A picture of Griffin and me walking out of the restaurant.

I couldn’t believe it.

Griffin had one hand held out, making sure the photographers kept at arm’s length, and the other wrapped around my shoulders. My face was turned into his chest, away from the photographer, so it would be difficult for most people to even tell it was me from my partial profile. But of course, I knew.

I’m in the Enquirer.

Oh my God.

I read the caption below it.

Cole Archer and mystery woman get cozy at Mariano’s in downtown LA. Is the crooner missing his old flame Eve Varikova by replacing her with look-alikes?

My stomach sank.

I wasn’t sure what bothered me more—seeing my picture in a tabloid or the mention that Griffin could be trying to replace an old girlfriend. I knew the latter was ridiculous because Griff had told me about her—yet it upset me for some reason anyway.

“Earth to Luca.” I caught Doris waving in my peripheral vision. Looking up, I blinked a few times and realized Pinface was gone, and Doris had been waiting on me while I had an internal freak-out over some dumb magazine.

“Hi. Sorry. I . . . I . . .” I held up the National Enquirer in my hand. “I got caught up in one of the articles.”

Doris leaned over to look at what had captured my attention. “Cole Archer. I don’t usually go for men under forty, but I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers.” She wiggled her eyebrows and whispered, “I’d like to lick the crumbs off that one.”

My eyes widened to saucers, which Doris thought was the funniest thing. Of course, she thought it was because she’d shocked me by talking dirty about a young guy, since she had no clue I’d actually been in Griffin’s bed last week. My cheeks began to flush and I became flustered.

I put the tabloid on the checkout conveyor. “I like to read the articles.”

Doris chuckled, thinking I was being coy. “You and me both, sister.”

For the next ten minutes, I was in a total haze while emptying my cart and chatting with Doris. I couldn’t get over the fact that my face was plastered all over a supermarket tabloid. It gave me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, yet I wasn’t sure why. Being inside the grocery store always made me anxious, but this heightened that feeling. It felt like someone had violated my personal space, even though it was only a photo and no one would likely recognize me from it. At the last second, right as I was about to swipe my card to pay, I turned and grabbed all of the copies of the National Enquirer from the shelf.

Doris’s face scrunched up. “You want to buy all of those?”

“Yes.”

“They all say the same thing, you know.”

“I . . . I got a new bird and need something to line the cage.”

“Oh. I can probably get the manager to set aside some of the newspapers that don’t sell for you, if you want. We just rip off the front page and give it to the delivery guy for a refund credit. The rest goes into the recycle bin.”

“Um. Yeah. Sure. That would be great, Doris. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Doris scanned the tabloids, and I swiped my card to pay. “What’s his name?”

“Huh?”

Her brows drew down. “Your bird. What’s its name?”

God, I was digging myself deep. I said the first name that popped into my head. “Chester. My bird’s name is Chester.”

“That’s a good strong name.”

“Yeah. Chester the bird. He’s something else.” I tossed the last of my bags into my cart, anxious to get out of there. I’d been in such a rush, I almost forgot to leave Doris the items I’d picked up for her. I took a few steps back after saying goodbye and lifted the bag of treats onto the counter. “Have a good night, Doris.”

“You too, honey. I’ll see you soon.”

Once I was safely inside my car, I took out the tabloid again and stared at it. A thought hit me as I sat there with the engine idling—there had been a few photographers, so might I be in other papers, too? Maybe with my head at a different angle so that my face was identifiable? Even though being in the confines of my car usually brought me relief after my supermarket trip, I suddenly felt the same type of panic that I experienced right before going inside.

It was 2:30 in the morning in Vermont but only 11:30 in California. Griffin was a night owl, so I dug out my phone and called him. He answered on the first ring.

“Hey, baby. You’re up late.”

My shoulders relaxed a little just hearing his voice. I sighed. “Hey.”

“Everything okay?”

“I just went to the supermarket.”

“Oh. How’d that go? What crazy shit did you see tonight?”

I’d forgotten that I’d shared with him some of the bizarre things I’d seen during my middle-of-the-night trips. Though the thing I’d seen tonight topped them all. “I saw a picture of me—a picture of us—in the National Enquirer.”

Griffin hissed. “Shit. Damn that Marty Foster.”

“Who?”

“One of the photographers from the restaurant. I had my assistant reach out to the others and buy the photos they’d taken. But Marty wouldn’t return our phone calls. I was hoping it was because he didn’t get a good shot and had nothing to sell. Guess I was wrong.” From the tone of his voice, I pictured Griffin raking his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Luca. I tried.”

“Oh my God. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not your fault. I can’t believe you bought the other photos. I didn’t even realize you could do that.”

“Money buys pretty much anything in this town. Paparazzi don’t care who buys their work, only that they get paid. Plus, I offered them more than they’d fetch with the tabloids, so the other three were happy to sell them to me.”

“It’s so sweet that you did that. But really, it’s not necessary. I don’t want you wasting your money on stuff like that.”

“Anything I spend that might make you happy or less stressed is a good use of my greenbacks, Luca.”

That anxious feeling in my chest settled a little bit more. “Thank you, Griffin.”

“No need for thanks. Just trying to look out for my girl.”

I took a deep breath in of my girl and exhaled out the National Enquirer. “So did I wake you? What were you doing?”

“Nah. I have some company tonight. The guys in my band came over. We’re celebrating wrapping the album this afternoon. We were slated to finish tomorrow, but we were able to knock it out a day early.”

“Oh wow. Congratulations. That’s amazing. You must be so happy.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty stoked about the way it came out.”

“That’s great. But I’ll let you go. I didn’t realize you had company. It’s so quiet in the background.”

“I stepped out into the backyard when I saw your number come up. I’m sure I’ll get a good ribbing when I go back inside.”

“What would they tease you about?”

“They’re calling me whipped.”

“Whipped?”

“As in pussy whipped. Apparently that’s a popular expression in America. It means your woman has you on a tight leash.”

I laughed. “I know what it means. I was just asking why they would call you that?”

“Oh. Normally, when we end a tour or wrap a recording, we have a wild party to celebrate. But I wasn’t up for wild tonight. So I told the guys they could come over, but no women allowed. And now I’m on the phone with you.”

“You didn’t want their girlfriends to come?”

“They don’t have girlfriends, Luca. Their idea of a party is booze, a bunch of groupies, and a few strippers.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway. It’s just us blokes tonight.”

“I should let you get back, then.”

“Nah . . . rather talk to you than listen to their stories. I’ve heard every one of them ten times by now. Shit tends to get repeated when you spend months traveling on a bus with the same people.”

I smiled. “I bet.”

“So tell me . . . how did you handle seeing your face in the tabloids for the first time?”

For the first time. “I might have hyperventilated a little.”

“It gets easier.”

I’d been so caught up in how I felt seeing my face plastered in print that I never stopped to think about what it must be like for Griffin. The tabloids only took my picture because I’d been with him. This was just a small taste of what he must go through every day. “How do you handle it?”

“You learn to ignore it. The worst part isn’t even the pictures. It’s the shit they make up about you to sell a story. I once touched the belly of a very pregnant fan while signing an autograph. She’d told me that her baby was a superfan and jumped around during my concert. She swore every time she put on one of my songs, the little bugger would start to dance in her belly. Her husband was standing next to her and said he thought it was true, too. So I leaned down and started to talk to her belly as a joke—see if the baby would start to move around. And when it actually did, they told me to hold her belly and feel it. It was pretty cool. But the next day, photos were plastered on the cover of every tabloid with stories of how the woman was carrying my love child, and her husband had come to the concert to beg me to allow him to adopt my soon-to-be son.”

“That’s crazy. They need a verifiable source to print that stuff.”

“Some celebrities have sued and won to make a point. But the payout on the occasional lawsuit is less than they earn selling papers, so it doesn’t stop them. The only people who win in that mess are the lawyers.”

I sighed. “I guess.”

“Anyway . . . I was doing some thinking tonight. We have the festival up in Canada the day after tomorrow, and some appearances lined up after that to start to promote the new album. But if it’s alright with you, I’d like to see if I can move things around and come down to Vermont for a few days.”

My heart started to race. “I’d love that. When?”

“I’m not sure yet. My schedule is pretty packed, but I figured I should be able to work it out with my publicist and assistant to rearrange things and clear a bit of time. Maybe next week or the week after?”

“That would be great.”

“Are there any particular days that are better for you?”

“No. Anytime, really. One of the few perks of being a reclusive, agoraphobic writer who works from home is that my social calendar is pretty empty.”

Griffin laughed. “You think you’re making your life sound bad, but every time you talk about it, I get a little more jealous of how much freedom you have.”

“That’s funny. I feel like freedom is the opposite of what I have. Most days I feel like a bird locked in a cage because of all my fears.”

Loud voices started to shout in the background. “There you are. Who you on the phone with, Mr. Pussy Whipped?” Griffin chuckled. “I better get going. The natives are getting restless with me not inside.”

“Okay.”

“Are you okay now?”

I thought about it. Talking to Griffin had really relaxed me a lot. “Yeah. I think I am. You calmed the savage beast.”

“See. We can totally do this together, babe. You’ll see. We got this. But be careful driving home.”

“I will. Have fun with the guys.”

I swiped my cell off and sat in my car for a few more minutes. God, I hoped Griffin was right—that we could do this. Because at this point, it was going to hurt like hell if we couldn’t.