Page 123 of Dream On

Stevie

Two nights later, I’m seated on the balcony of Lex’s high-rise condo, pretending I’m on the roof of my old house. I’m not sure why I haven’t sat out here before. Probably for the same reason I haven’t peeked inside his bedroom or toured the other empty guest rooms. This feels like his space, and I’m the outlier in his territory.

But tonight the balcony drew me in, so I grabbed a cardigan and shuffled out to the two-person terrace, adorned with a pair of chairs.

The stars called to me. I needed the glow.

While I was gone most of the day for a series of interviews—one on a popular morning show—I returned to an empty space. Lex told me he had errands to run, people to meet, so he’d be home late. It’s after eleven, and he’s still not back yet.

Drinking in a breath, I pull out my phone and notice a missed call from my mom. I immediately call her back.

She picks up, sounding groggy. “Stevie?”

“Hey, Mom. Sorry I missed you.”

“Honey…I called four hours ago. It’s after one a.m. here.”

Crap.I forgot about the time-zone difference. Wincing, I bite my lip. “Oops. I didn’t mean to wake you. My phone was on silent all day for my interviews.”

Rustling sounds in the background, and I imagine her pulling off the coversand traipsing out of the bedroom. “It’s so good to hear your voice. I don’t even care that I was dreaming about Harrison Ford.”

I snort. “My guilt is now tremendous.”

“Have you met him yet? If you do, please put in a good word for me.”

“You know I will.”

Water starts running, and my mind runs along with it, recalling the outdated bathroom I know she’s standing in. The porcelain pedestal sink, chipped and stained. A vintage glass mirror, always smudged with fingerprints and the residual spray of daily teeth brushing. The gaudy mauve bathtub and pale-pink wallpaper.

Innocence and childhood.

“How were your interviews?” she asks, footfalls shuffling across creaky floors. “We saw you on that morning show at breakfast. Your father cried.”

“Oh God.” My face heats, and a chuckle falls out. “Did I do okay?”

“You looked like a Hollywood star to me. Where you were always meant to be.”

My stomach pinches. A feeling creeps across my skin, heavy and invading. “Thanks,” I murmur, leaning back in the chair and scanning the inky stretch above, settling on the brightest star. It twinkles and beams, begging for a wish. “Hey, Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“What was your dream?”

She hesitates, the echo of heavy breathing filtering through the speaker. “What do you mean?”

“Your dream…when you were growing up. Did you always want to be a housewife, living on a farm? A librarian?”

I listen and wait, my heart rate doubling. I’ve never asked her this before.

Mom sighs before responding. “No. I didn’t want any of those things.”

“You didn’t?” Her answer tugs at me. “What did you want?”

“I wanted to travel the world. I yearned for independence. I wanted to be a singer, a solo artist, and I wanted to spread my wings and fly.” She pauses. “But then I met your father.”

My eyes glaze over, the stars blurring together. “At that concert.”

“Mudstock. 1994.” She makes a humming noise. “Feels like centuries ago. But I still remember that moment. It was so small, so brief, but so life-changing.”