Page 2 of Rocking the Receiver (Austin Troopers)

CHAPTER 2

LEAN ON ME

Rupert

“Thank you for granting us the pleasure of your presence, given your busy schedule, Your Grace!” Tim bows before me in the middle of the train station parking lot.

The train ride from Marseille to Orange wasn’t that bad, but overall, it’s been a long ass-trip since I boarded the plane in Nashville. My eyes are itchy from the A/C, I’m tired, and I must reek. Nevertheless, the corner of my mouth quirks up. Despite the light breeze, it’s still hot for this time of the day. Not as hot as Nashville, though.

“Will you stop it already?” I slap his bicep for good measure. His praise of my so-called musical stardom has been constant since he witnessed people pointedly staring at me when I got off the train.

“What? I’ve never been asked for autographs myself, so…” He trails off and looks at his feet, probably overthinking the fact that Romain, one of the four brothers, is a somewhat renowned science fiction novelist who also gets what my best friend calls “the royalty treatment.” However, Tim is the prodigal son who his dad chose to run the prosperous family business by his side and someday inherit. I make a mental note to ask for his autograph while we’re having coffee or lunch in a public place this weekend.

“Yeah, small world.” I’m not a star, mind you, but we happened to run into a couple from Colorado who saw me, along with The Whiskey Barrels, at the US Music Festival less than a month ago. What were the odds, right? We stroll up to his BMW convertible, and my witty self comments, “Nice car.”

He thanks me, unlocking it. “It’s funny, though,” he eventually says as he starts the car, fumbles with his phone to find a playlist, then starts lip-syncing to The Beatles.

Damn, I hate The Beatles with a passion.

Not that I’d tell him that because Tim worships Paul McCartney. His voice. His music. His bands. Whatever.

Then, we’re off to the narrow roads of the South of France. It scared the hell out of me when I first came here as a teenager; to British me, people were driving on the wrong side of the road, and I was expecting a car crash at every turn. Living in New York taught me better, although I don’t own a car.

I jut my chin his way. “What is?”

“You definitely look more like a model than a guitarist in a country band. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen your videos and TV appearances, and you do fit in with that strange blend of strong personalities, but you’re definitely not your typical American cowboy, which Hardy is.” He’s the larger-than-life lead singer.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover. I have a buzz cut and don’t wear flannel or own a truck, but pretending isn’t my style.” My heart tightens at my own words… I’m so full of shit. I am a pretender for sure. Hiding who I really am from my closest male friend with whom I’ve shared so much. I’m an asshole. “Maybe I should work on my Texan drawl, though.” I catch my breath, bothered by my own cowardice when I’ve been pushing Sally to be brave.

“Don’t even try; you’d look ridiculous. You’ve already acquired a flawless New York accent and vocabulary. I’m baffled,” Tim marvels. “It’s one thing to hear it over the phone or video chat, but it’s just…”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous because your stepmom will peg me for a local while you can’t ditch that hint of an annoying pointy French accent.”

“I don’t have a pointy accent, jackass. Plus, Victoria is from California. It’s a totally different accent. Too bad she knows you’re a Brit. Otherwise, I would have asked her to guess where you were from.”

“Ha-ha!”

With his window rolled down, Tim’s left forearm rests on the edge of the window frame until we approach our destination. The short drive is refreshing and full of banter, jokes, and life stories that we’ve forgotten to share since we last spoke.

“Like I said, it’s been too long, man.” Eyes on the road, he says, “I’m glad you could make it. The fact that you took a leave of absence from your band rehearsals and traveled all this way to be here with us… with me, means the world to me.”

“Anytime. What I wouldn’t do for my best friend?” I squeeze the side of his shoulder, then retrieve my hand. “I’m sorry I can’t stay more than an extended weekend and missed your bachelor party, though.”

“Oh, man, you missed out! You’ll have to come back for a month next year, and we’ll party like the good old days.” He tilts his head, winking at me.

“Why don’t we enjoy this weekend first before getting ahead of ourselves?”

“You got it.” Running his fingers through his dark wavy hair, he drives through the massive iron gates and resumes lip-syncing before releasing an irritated grunt. “Hopefully, by then, our extension will be fully completed, and Claire and I will have our own space. Now that everybody’s moved out, I’m not sure when my siblings are planning to come back here for the holidays… So, basically, it’ll only be my parents and Elliot. You see… you and Sally will have plenty of rooms to choose from. I’m so bummed she couldn’t make it.”

“Same. She’s having a blast in Colorado. There’s an archaeology site she’s been working at for a while.” I rub the back of my neck, wondering how to switch topics because I know where this is going.

“Good for her.”

“I know, right!”

“I used to be so envious of you for finding the right person before me.” Here we go. I should open my big mouth and tell him. I don’t. “But look at us now!”

Bile rises in my mouth, and I offer him a tight smile.

Will I ever be able to come clean?

Forcing myself to focus my attention elsewhere, I look around and take note of festive decorations for tomorrow’s party, including small wrought-iron lanterns, which give a romantic atmosphere to the place. On the drive from the train station, he shared that there’s still a lot to be done before the place looks how it’s supposed to, but they’ve been busy greeting guests and working for the past few days. Lately, he and his fiancée have been in charge of the wine tasting events and vineyard tours. A winery sounds like a demanding business.

And just like that, I blurt out, “I can’t wait to see the place in broad daylight.”

Oblivious to my inner turmoil, he drives around the expansive two-story estate and heads towards the back. Nothing’s changed, except everything feels different from what I recall. I remember how overwhelmed my sixteen-year-old self had been upon my first visit to the Lefevre mansion. Because that’s what it is, and I’m not exaggerating. Even back then, there was no need to compare it to the tiny house where my mom and I lived; at least the Cotswolds are as beautiful as the Rh?ne Valley. Funny how I met Timothée through my soccer teammate, Dominic, with whom the French teenager stayed over the summer. Our friendship quickly grew into a tight bond, no matter how far apart we’ve lived over the years.

“We redid the pool area and have an actual pool house now.” He points at the area where a few guests are soaking up the last rays of sunshine, as if it wasn’t plain to see. My diversion visibly worked to a T.

With him still mouthing lyrics, we reach the back of the main property. He easily maneuvers to park in a row of vehicles that range from trendy to commercial.

Looks like it’ll be a full house indeed. But then again, what did I expect?

We exit the car. He slams the trunk shut once my duffle bag hits the gravel.

I heave a content sigh, in spite of being far from a melancholic type.

It’s good to be back.

So many things fell into place around the last time I stayed with the Lefevres. I lost my virginity here. I improved my French skills. I landed my first modeling gig, which led to meeting Sally in London shortly after.

Out of reflex, I square my shoulders and stand taller in an attempt to rein in my emotions. I’m about a head taller than my French bestie, but he’s sturdier, which apparently fits his job requirement.

Texting, he doesn’t budge from behind the car, then looks up at me. “Everyone’s really eager to see you. They’ll be hopping in the shower before dinner, so Victoria suggested we get your stuff upstairs through the kitchen door. Come on!” I don’t miss how he doesn’t call Victoria Mom since she isn’t his biological mom, but the divorced American his French dad remarried shortly after Tim’s mom died. So, the four kids instantly gained two younger siblings, and later came Elliot, the surprise baby, who’s ten years Tim’s junior.

With my duffle slung over my shoulder, I notice his family exiting the pool house from afar. We wave at each other, and I follow my friend, my head swiveling in every direction to see if my memory betrayed me. Adjacent to the living room, the large family kitchen has been remodeled and updated with what looks like a new dark blue La Cornue cooking range. All in all, it’s modern, while blending perfectly with the medieval castle-like feel of the house. Things look smaller, but then again, I was a late bloomer, and my last visit here prompted my growth spurt.

He halts in front of the massive wooden staircase that always reminded me of the one in Titanic. “I’m really glad you’re here,” he repeats, as if unable to fathom that his mind isn’t playing tricks on him. Then, he awkwardly pats my shoulder blade before pulling me into a quick hug. “It’s been what?”

“Since I’ve been here, you mean? Eleven years, man! Thankfully, I’ve seen your ugly mug countless times since then.” My knuckles rasp over his neatly-styled hair and mess it up until he swats my hand away, grinning and mumbling threats.

Yeah, it’s good to be back.

Our jobs require plenty of international travel, which helped us to see each other in person. I haven’t seen his family, though. I heard that the oldest girl, Manon, has a steady boyfriend now, so at least, she won’t try to get into my pants like last time. She’s a sweet, good-looking girl, but has definitely never been my type to begin with.

“Too bad I never got a chance to attend one of your gigs. When are you touring in France with your band?”

“It’s not in the cards in the near future. Once I’m done in Nashville, I’m heading back to Manhattan… Anyway, I doubt France is ready for modern country music… or any type of country music, actually.”

“You’d be surprised! I heard they have square-dancing classes scattered across the country.” I get a ridiculous visual and put my hand in front of my mouth as I chuckle heartily. “Well, not here or in Orange, obviously, but I swear it’s a trend. They dress up and everything…” It doesn’t subside easily. I eventually apologize for mocking his fellow citizens.

Eager to meet everyone as well as famished, I sprint up the stairs to drop off my bag only to wait for Tim to show me to my room.

Leading the way, Tim explains, “Samuel’s former bedroom has been turned into a guest room because, as always, he whined that he had the smallest room. So, that’s where you’ll be staying. It’s across from Elliot’s.”

As if on cue, his younger brother, who must have been like six or seven when I last saw him in real life, appears before us.

My windpipe shuts down as I hold back from gaping.

Barely.