Butterfly Weeds (19 page)

             
“Of course. Everybody did, including you. I told you about it last week,” she said.

             
“Told me about what?” I demanded.

             
“That he was going to be on this morning,” she said.

             
“That he was going to be on?” I questioned.

             
I grew completely silent for a second. It’s confirmed. I’m dreaming. This can’t possibly be real. What was she talking about?

             
“Rach, how did this all happen?” I finally continued.

             
“Well, his agent or recording company or something knew somebody who worked for the news station, and…,” she started.

             
“No, I mean, how did this all happen?” I interrupted. “He’s singing, and he has an agent – and he’s singing. Will doesn’t sing in front of people.”

             
Rachel laughed.

             
“Well, he does now, Honey,” she said, with a smile in her voice. “Law school’s really gotten to your head. I told you all of this.”

             
“What? When?” I protested.

             
“I don’t know – months ago, but nothing’s really happened until recently,” she informed me.

             
“What was I doing? Was I studying? Rach, I told you not to tell me things while I’m studying. Things like this happen, where I wake up to Will standing in my living room, and I have no idea how he got there. So, start over. How did all this happen?” I demanded again.

             
“Okay,” she said patiently. “I’ll start from the beginning. Will ran into a recording artist at The Home of Blues in
St. Louis
one night about six months ago. This guy recognized Will from the weekend before when he had filled in a gig for a friend at the same bar. The guy happened to be a recording artist, and he eventually got Will and some other guys to record a demo. Then, a small label signed them a couple months later, and the rest is history, I guess.”

             
“Wow,” I said in a state of nothing but utter shock. “What changed his mind?”

             
“What?” Rachel asked.

             
I knew just enough of what was going on around me to tell that Rachel sounded distracted.

             
“He never wanted to sing like that. What changed his mind?” I asked her again.

             
“Oh, I’m not sure. Hey, Jules, I’ve got to call you back. Rover’s getting into the cat food again.”

             
“Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to you later,” I said, sounding defeated and the most puzzled you could possibly be – all at the same time.

             
I ended the call and let the phone drop to my lap as my attention rushed back to my television’s screen and to the morning show returning from the commercial break. How had I not known? How could I have not known? My mind was in a fury of dizzying thoughts.

             
I watched intently as the camera panned back to the TV anchor, standing to the side of the outdoor stage. She was holding a microphone and gushing over the singer and his band, which was now softly playing in the background.

             
“If you know District 9’s story, you know that they’re a real fairytale of some sorts,” the anchor said enthusiastically.

             
District 9?

             
“Less than a year ago, they were randomly plucked from obscurity,” the anchored continued. “Now, with the help of some great marketing and the release of their first album and one song in particular, they’re here today. The next song they’re going to sing for us is that song. Titled
Let Go
, the ballad rocketed to the top twenty and then topped the charts in a matter of a few, short weeks after the song hit national airwaves. And can you believe that most of the band members, including the lead singer, are firefighters? I guess you could say that they’re all-American heroes,” she said, as she turned away from the camera and back to the stage.

             
“Take it away. It’s District 9,” the suited woman then said to the gathered public as the assembled fans in the background cheered wildly.

             
After a short count, the band began playing. I watched fixedly, still frozen in my place. My heart had sped up by several more beats per minute by now. I listened to the words pour off of Will’s lips as I watched his fingers strum the guitar’s strings. From the looks of things this morning, it seemed as if he reveled in the spotlight. He looked happy up there. That was the only thing that seemed different about him – he looked happy to play in front of people. Everything else looked exactly the same. But I still was not completely convinced I wasn’t dreaming either.

             
Will finished singing the last lyrics of the song, and the crowd erupted into applause and more cheers, which ultimately made me smile for the first time since I had noticed him on my television’s set. The smile was completely involuntary. I had barely even noticed its presence.

             
He was handsome, standing on that small stage with his ivory, acoustic guitar swung across his muscular body. His eyes were a fierce shade of blue, and his hair was just long enough to show off his natural curls. And he was smiling. I had decided that he looked very much the part of a true rock star or should I say, country star.

             
Wow. My friend’s conversation had left me with so many unanswered questions. Like, when had he seriously contemplated becoming a professional musician? And, he was still a firefighter? As far as I knew, that’s what he still had done, and the anchor had said it too. But how had he balanced it all? And how had he gone from playing melodies for me on his quiet back porch to playing songs for millions of screaming fans on my television screen? It was perplexing and amazing all at the same time, and I was mystified and so, so puzzled, to say the least.

             
“He did it,” I whispered in amazement, still trying to convince myself that all of this was real. “He had done it,” I said again, allowing it to sink in.

             
“But what was it that made you change your mind?” I whispered aloud to the handsome, blue-eyed signer inside my television’s screen, as I leaned back and allowed the back of the chair to catch my fall.

             
I
was in the process of bringing up another load of dirty clothes to the laundry room when my phone, resting on the coffee table, burst into
my favorite melody. As I walked toward the glass table, I shifted the plastic laundry basket onto my right hip and reached for the phone.

             
When I saw the familiar number, I flipped the cell open and continued again on my path to the small laundry room.

             
“Hey, Rach,” I said into the phone.

             
“Hey, sorry I had to go so quickly. Rover gets sick if he eats the cat’s food,” she explained.

             
I snickered.

             
“It’s fine,” I said.

             
“So, you saw him? I can’t believe you didn’t know,” she exclaimed.

             
“Yeah, me neither. But next time I don’t respond to that big of news like you think I should, say it again,” I said.

             
“I thought it was odd, but I know you’ve got your own stuff going on over there on the other side of the world. I just thought maybe you weren’t interested in us cowpokes anymore,” she said, with a smile in her voice.

             
“Rachel,” I scolded playfully.

             
“I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Next time, I’ll be more aware of your unawareness,” she chided.

             
“Thanks,” I said, laughing.

             
“He looked really good though, didn’t he?” she asked.

             
“You’re engaged, Rachel,” I reminded her teasingly, countering her exaggerated enthusiasm.

             
“Girl, I know that, and happily engaged, but you’re not,” she jokingly jeered back.

             
“Rachel,” I reproached again, shaking my head, but continuing to smile.

             
“I know, I know. You’re with Mr. Perfect. How is Mr. Med School, by the way? Isn’t he coming to see you soon?” she asked – a hint of mischief mixed with excitement filled her voice.

             
“He’s doing great,” I said. “He’s been pretty busy lately, but then again, so have I. And, yes, he’s coming in fourteen days.”

             
“I see you’ve got the countdown going already,” Rachel said, pausing only to laugh. “Hey, I know you’ve got Mr. Perfect and that you two are going to get married and live in a big, beautiful mansion and have the whole, white picket fence and two-and-a-half-kids thing, which means you probably don’t want to talk about Mr. Firefighter and Big-time Music Star, but…”

             
Rachel paused for dramatic effect before going on.

             
“But,” I said.

             
“But,” she continued, “I would be doing a major injustice to you if I didn’t at least tell you that I think he’s still got a thing for you,” she confessed, as if she had been holding the secret in a little box in her mind for ages, and now, she couldn’t possibly bare to hold it in any longer.

             
“What?” I questioned puzzlingly. “Rachel, we’ve been through this a million times. That was high school. Everyone’s moved on from it by now – except for you.”

             
The whole soliloquy had elicited a grin from me because I half knew where it was all going. I, by now, had also gotten all of the clothes stuffed into the dryer from the previous washer load and had swung the lid closed. While using my shoulder to balance the phone against my ear, I turned the dryer dial to the
normal
setting with one hand before starting the machine with the other.

             
“No, no, I know, but I’m serious,” she continued. “I talked to him at the reunion, which by the way, you are not weaseling out of in another five years. I am not going to another one of those without you. Janette Smith was unbearable. All she did was talk about her accountant boyfriend, who was just hired by the bank here in town and how he’s so successful and blah de blah, and Will was sitting right there. I don’t think she had any clue of what he had done or what he was about to be. Hey, kind of like someone else I know.”