#this tour has unlocked something feral in these men

[hannahwayward-blog]

40 Hours in London

Hello all (aka hey Mom, Dad, and Donald)!

As I write this, I’m coming off of a whirlwind day and a half in London and am couple hours into my nine-ish hour flight to Mumbai from Brussels. Recaps and pictures below the break, but in a nutshell, I got to catch up with one of my dearest Duke friends and her adorable English boyfriend, ate some delicious food, and walked about 15 miles -- and, most surprisingly, got my first sunburn of the summer!

Read on for a very long post, which includes details on my first time getting lost (of many this summer, I’m sure), on a very flamboyant production of Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night,” and my key takeaways on solo travel so far.

I landed in London around noon on Wednesday and took a bus into the city. Even after two years of traveling for work, I’m still completely unable to sleep on airplanes, so I was on about hour 24 of being awake. After unloading my extremely heavy (exactly 13 kilos) backpack and showering at my friend Nicole’s flat, I ventured out into the city. My plan was to go to the Victoria and Albert Musuem, and I took a scenic two-ish mile stroll there at Nicole’s recommendation. I walked through Chelsea and another neighborhood and passed at least 10 high-end antique shops and another dozen designer clothing stores, along with plenty of old brownstones that reminded me of my beloved DC.

Inside the Victoria and Albert Museum (which is housed in a beautiful building), I started to walk through the Early British Art exhibit, but only made it to about 1700 before a wave of exhaustion hit. Probably due to a combination of lack of sleep and lack of water, I felt light-headed and a bit nauseous, so I asked for directions to the cafe in the hopes of getting a bottle of water. To get to the cafe, I had to walk out the back of the museum, and there I was greeted by a beautiful, sunny courtyard centered around a wading fountain. The little park was full of families and people young and old, and so once I got my water I went back out and spent about an hour soaking in the sun. I ended up sitting next to three separate groups of Scottish travelers, all of whom had come to see the Pink Floyd exhibit at the musuem. Over the course of the hour, I eavesdropped on endlessly amusing conversations, ranging from discussion of bands (the groups had very differing opinions on Meatloaf) to their motorcycles (they all had them, que sorpresa!)

Unfortunately, London’s uncharacteristic warmth (it was almost 80 degrees Fahrenheit!) was too much for my iPhone, which overheated and required me to go back inside. I took up a spot in the cafe, which ended up being the best decision I made that day -- in my overheated state, I had missed it earlier, but the room was one of the most gorgeous, ornately constructed I’ve ever been in, and a man had just sat down to play the grand piano in the center. For the next hour, I listened to the musician, who was quite talented, while I tried to set up the European SIM card on my phone.

Here’s where the plot thickens. The SIM card had already caused a bit of confusion, because apparently my provider needed to unlock my phone before I could use it, but I couldn’t call them because I couldn’t get the SIM card to work on my phone. I was able to get my mom to give Sprint a ring, and they flipped the switch, but I had to completely erase and reset my phone for everything to work. I backed my phone up to iCloud (which I’d never done before...oops) and popped in the new SIM card, intending to load the backup from the cloud. However, all of this required WiFi, and the V&A (which had remarkably fast free internet access) closed at 5:30 and swept me out, despite the fact that I was not even partway done downloading my apps and data. With the SIM card, I was able to use data to run the apps once they were loaded, but the SIM card wouldn’t work until the download of the backup was complete, which involved downloading the apps. This download required WIFi, and so I suddenly found myself stranded, with no apps yet downloaded onto my phone - including Maps - and no way to download them.

I wandered through the neighborhood looking for a locale that could provide free WiFi, and I must have gone into about eight different restaurants and bars asking if I could buy a drink and if they had public WiFi. The answers were all no - either they couldn’t serve drinks without food, they didn’t have WiFi, or - in one case - their WiFi wasn’t working. I finally gave up and sat down in an Italian bottega to collect myself as I was feeling pretty frazzled, and, after initially telling me no, the manager took pity on me and gave me the internet password while I enjoyed my glass of sauvignon blanc.

Newly equipped with a map, I made my way back to Nicole’s where she and her boyfriend, Ed, shortly joined me. We walked to a DC City Center-esque part of the city, where we had a tasty dinner al freso and caught up. I went back to Nicole’s for the night exhausted (at this point I’d been awake for almost 36 hours!) and slept like a rock.

Thursday dawned way too early -- I’d set my alarm for 7:30, which is the time I usually wake up naturally, forgetting in my sleepy stupor that I was five hours ahead and 7:30 would feel like 2:30 AM. I snoozed until about 10:00 then got up and showered and headed out. I ate a quick breakfast on the go (Coke included, of course) and, at Nicole’s and Ed’s recommendation, took the Tube over to the London Bridges stop.

I had forgotten that this was the site of last week’s terror attack in London. In stepping out of the Underground I was immediately greeted by a huge, roped-off swath of bouquets and cards laid in memory of the victims. Police men and women roamed the area, and I was asked to show the contents of my purse. The pseudo-memorial was a stark contrast to such a beautiful, sunny day, and I spent some time reading the cards and signs extolling the strength of Londoners and their city before heading down to Borough Market.

Borough Market was delightful, and very busy given that this was only its second day open following the attacks. Like the memorial at the Tube station, the area had a heavy security presence, but there was nothing somber about the scene. Green-canopied food stalls crowded together haphazardly in a maze-like arrangement (similar too, although far less cramped than, the bazaars in India). Each sold a different type of food, ranging from bright pastel-colored macarons to fresh shucked oysters. I roamed through for a while, then walked over to the Southwark Cathedral, at which Ed is the organist. I spent an hour or so walking through the cathedral, which is the oldest Gothic cathedral in London and was attended by many noteworthy Londoners, including William Shakespeare. Like many of the older European churches I’ve been to, the floor is made up of a patchwork of grave markers, and monuments and memorials to the dead line the walls. The architecture and centuries of history were well complemented by Ed’s beautiful organ playing; he was accompanying one of the church choirs as they rehearsed. Also notable is that I got to meet the cathedral’s semi-famed feral cat, Dawkins, who greeted me and let me pet her when I arrived.

After touring the cathedral, I went back to the market and, again following my hostess’ recommendation, got a salt beef sandwich on a bagel (bagels over everything). It was delicious, and I sat and ate by a grounded pirate ship -- well, not really a pirate ship, but it looked like one and I actually have no clue what it was -- and listened to an amusing conversation between to 40-something business men next to me about the public speaking class one of them was currently taking.

From there, I decided to wind my way down the Thames to Shakespeare’s Globe. On the way, I passed all that remains of the Westminster Castle. These two walls were uncovered behind some warehouses, and represent the back wall of the great hall, in which the King of Scotland and Joan something had their wedding feast in, like, the 1600s. Only in Europe! I also passed the site of the original Globe theater, which burned down, was forgotten and then rediscovered, and is now an archaeological site beneath a condo building.

At the new Globe theater - Shakespeare’s Globe - I discovered that there was a 2:00 PM show, and he time was 1:15! Unfortunately, I was told that the show was sold out, but was given the option to queue in the Returns line in the event that anyone did not want their ticket. Multiple tickets for real seats (as opposed to the standing room “cheap seats”) were offered to us for 45 GBP and up, but that was too steep for me. However, a couple in front of me already held standing tickets but was waiting to purchase seated tickets if they could. When two seated tickets at what they felt was a reasonable price were offered, they decided to take them, and gave their standing tickets to me and the girl in line behind me - for free! I could not believe my luck.

The interior of the Globe was designed to mimic how it would’ve looked in Shakespeare’s time - round, with different booths for seated customers, and then a large pit where commoners could stand and watch. I joined a few hundred others (apparently the pit can hold up to 750, but it was luckily not that full) to watch the adaptation of Twelfth Night. Performed as a disco-esque musical, but still largely sticking to Shakespeare’s original text, the production was colorful and laugh-out-loud funny. The cast was small - only 10 or 12 actors, all of whom were insanely talented. Our narrator was a large, black man in drag, wearing a gold sequined gown, bright blue eyeshadow, and a humongous afro wig. Also notable were the man playing Count Orsino, who was hilariously and intentionally oversexual, and the small girl playing Malvolio, who really stole the show with her antics and affect.

After the two-and-a-half hour show, I took a short walk up to the Tate Modern, which has been on my bucket list since I missed it during my last visit to London nine years ago. By this time, my dogs were barking, so I bopped up to the observation deck (from which I mistakenly though I saw the Eiffel Tower… it’s a huge tv tower…) and went through one of the exhibits before calling it a day. The exhibit was exactly as weird as I had hoped -- centering on art as performance, it included abstract videos, lots of near-nudity and body modification, and lots of mundane black-and-white photographs that were too boring to be considered art, but somehow here they were 

I took the Tube back to Nicole’s and enjoyed a nice hour and a half off my feet while updating my daily budget and snacking on some of my leftover airplane food. Once she and Ed got home, we regrouped and headed to Aviary, a new rooftop restaurant and bar, at which Nicole’s roommate was DJing that evening. The sunset from the rooftop was stunning, and I was able to use a blanket that the bar had on hand once it went down and I was suddenly freezing. Nicole had two free drink coupons, so we each got a grapefruit gin and tonic - v tasty - and ordered a burger and fries to share. Despite the very poor service (think a labyrinth… every question only created more questions, and the answer to most was “no”), the food was really good, and we left full and happy.

Back at Nicole’s, I regrouped and repacked for my early morning flight. I had booked a 4 AM coach to Heathrow and was terrified of oversleeping, but my body refused to stay awake so I got about three hours of zzz’s before getting up, showering, and once again hitting the road. I successfully made the coach (I was one of four passengers) and got through Heathrow without issue and with enough time to grab a parfait and a Coke - my standard airport breakfast - before my flight to Brussels boarded. I had 90 minutes or so in the Brussels airport, which gave me enough time to go all the way to the far end of the terminal for Starbucks. In my efforts to trick my body into India time, I ate a “lunch” sandwich around 9 AM local time, then boarded my flight to Mumbai and here I am!

Mumbai will be tricky for a few reasons. Originally, I was supposed to travel with someone else this summer, and our meet-up was supposed to be tonight in Mumbai. Although the person bailed on me and forced me out of our trip - hence my completely different itinerary than initially planned - we’re both, to my knowledge, still flying into Mumbai tonight, and I would like to avoid a run-in if at all possible. The second sticky situation is that I’ve booked a flight to Kolkata that departs within three hours of my arrival in Mumbai - you may reference the aforementioned situation for my reasoning behind this seemingly masochistic endeavor that will result in me traveling for 22 hours. Because I booked that flight separately, I have to go out through customs, get my backpack from baggage claim, then once again check my bag, go through security, and board my next flight. It took me at least an hour to get through customs when I last flew to India, although I’m hoping to Mumbai airport is more efficient than CCU in Kolkata. So - fingers crossed for me please!

I’m so, so unbelievably excited to be back in Kolkata, my favorite city in the whole wide world. I’m already experiencing my first bit of culture shock, as I”m one of, maybe, five white people on my huge, very full plane to Mumbai: cue the awkward stares. It’s funny, because when I think about my time in India I never think about the staring, but there certainly was plenty of it. I’ve also experienced my first communication barrier, as the sweet middle-aged lady beside me keeps trying to talk to me but we have no common language. I’m definitely nervous - it’s going to be a real adventure being there by myself with a serious Bangla deficit, but I’m up for the challenge.

My thoughts so far before I wrap up this egregiously long post:

1. Traveling by myself is DOPE. I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. I don’t feel guilty for, say, only looking at one exhibit at a musuem, or for sitting outside in the sun instead of looking at Medieval Art (which, to clarify, I love - but I have a feeling I’ll be seeing plenty of museums this summer).

2. Jet lag is a sneaky sneaker. Although I’ve managed to sleep and wake up at all of the appropriate times, I have definitely felt “out of it” - lightheaded and achey and definitely not fully myself. BIG ups to Nicole and Ed for putting up with me and making my first two days of this summer amazing and much less scary than I thought they’d be. Which brings me to my third and final point...

3. Four years later, I’m still feeling #foreverDuke. Ed, as a Brit, apparently doesn’t fully understand the culture of “school spirit” that exists in America, and Nicole and I were trying to explain to him that it goes deeper than sports teams (although #DDMF, always) and colors (although we do bleed Duke Blue). How lucky am I to have friends that I met on literal day one of college that still love me enough to invite me to their homes in foreign countries and provide me with itineraries and food and warm beds? Feeling very #blessed by the Duke network and #thankful to M&D for making my dream come true eight years ago.

That’s enough for now -- I’ve way overshot the mark here but I still have four hours to go until I arrive at BOM, so I’m gonna read some GoT. I’ll catch y’all on the flippity flip -- next post will be from the home-away-from-home that I’ve loved the most, the City of Joy itself :)

[anavoliselenu]

Creighton chapter 13

“You treat this girl right, you hear? Or you’ll answer to me.” Thrasher’s gaze drills into mine and his words are solemn.

I open my mouth to tell him it’s no fucking business of his what I do with Selena, but I pause. Honestly, I’m glad she has someone who cares enough about her to threaten me on her behalf. As long as his concern is completely platonic, we don’t have a problem.

“Thanks for the warning. I’m glad Selena has a friend at her back.”

He catches the emphasis I place on the word friend. “No worries, man. I’ve got my own woman. Not looking to poach yours.” He leans closer and adds, “Besides, if I would’ve wanted her, you never would’ve had a shot.”

His cocky confidence instantly makes me want to ram my fist into his face, but Selena huffs quietly, apparently over the macho posturing Boone and I are engaging in.

“I’ll respectfully disagree with you on that,” I reply, ready to end the conversation.

He laughs, a booming sound that fills the bus. I step back and throw a possessive arm around Selena.

Thrasher is smiling when he says, “You just might do, man. Definitely better than that douche, JC.” He holds up both hands. “I ain’t got no problem with the fact that the man prefers dick to pussy. To each his own. But I do have a problem with him using Selena to pretend that ain’t the case. If you’re man enough to fuck another man’s ass, then you should be man enough to be honest with your fans about it—or at least not demand a beard from the label. Just my opinion. Not that it means shit anyway.”

Okay, I just might like this guy.

“That situation has certainly been taken care of.”

“Damn straight. I like your style, man.”

I nod, more than ready for this conversation to be over. I’ve got Selena by my side, which means all I want is some time alone with her so we can get some things straight. Namely the fact that she’s not ever going to walk out on me again with nothing more than a two-word note. And not walking out on me period would be ideal.

“We’ll get out of your way. I’m assuming the rest of your band is waiting to get on the bus?”

“They’re on the opener bus.”

I look to Selena, and she elaborates.

“I’m sharing a bus with the other opening act. The labels split the cost.”

I recall the four large bearded lumberjack-looking men who came onstage after Selena, and played a multitude of instruments.

“You share a bus with four men?”

“Seven, if you count the guys in my band too.”

“That’s over tonight. We’ll get a hotel, and I’ll deliver you to Dallas.”

“I always travel with my band,” she protests.

“And now you’re traveling with your husband.”

Thrasher takes a seat on the couch, not even pretending to give us privacy. In fact, he decides to share his two cents.

“She travels with the tour. That’s the way it goes.”

“Then she’s getting her own bus. Her band can stay with the other group.”

He nods approvingly. “That works. Then I can kick their drummer off my bus. But you’re going to have to pick up the tab for that. No way the label will.”

“Not a concern. If you didn’t insist she travel on a bus, I’d arrange for hotels and we’d take the jet.”

Thrasher shakes his head and reaches for a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label on the table. At least the man doesn’t have bad taste in scotch.

“That’s tempting fate, man. Too many good artists have gone down in crashes. I don’t hold with that.”

“Justin,” Selena says, interrupting us. “We need to talk about this.”

I look down at her. “There’s nothing to talk about. You need to be here, and I find that I’m unwilling to let you be here without me.”

She shakes off my arm, and I drop it from her shoulders. “That’s not really your decision to make.”

I glance at Thrasher, who may as well go get some popcorn with how raptly he’s watching our exchange.

My eyes cut back to Selena. “We’re getting a hotel for tonight.”

She leans back against the cabinets of the galley kitchen and crosses her arms. I’d be lying if I said I’m not caught on the way her movement pushes her tits up in that halter top.

My eyes are riveted, and I almost miss her words when she says, “We’re rolling out of here in a few and driving tonight.”

My lips twitch, and I quell the urge to bend her over my knee for her sassy attitude. But that’s not something I want an audience for. “What time do you need to be at the venue in the morning?”

Selena lets Thrasher answer. “Long as she’s there by noon, you’re all good. And if you take your damn jet, just don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. And I sure as fuck don’t want to have to get another opening act if your plane goes down.”

I grab Selena’s hand and tug her against me. She inhales sharply when she makes contact with my chest. Her hand goes up, and her fingers curl around my shoulder. We need to get the hell out of this bus in a hurry before I forget I don’t want a goddamn audience.

I don’t look away from her wide brown eyes when I speak. “We’ll see you tomorrow at noon, Thrasher.”

Justin unlocks the hotel suite and holds open the door for me. I find the light switch and wander into the room. Neither of us have spoken since we climbed on the opener bus and Justin directed me to pack a bag. And when I say directed, I mean ordered.

Throughout this whole exchange, mixed emotions flooded my veins until I was sure they would cause me to burst from the intensity. Shock fought with anger while anger fought with excitement.

I don’t know how to feel about this. Happy that he showed up? Or still hurt that he forgot about me? Or pissed that he came in and took over my life?

I couldn’t get a lock on any one thing long enough to just feel it, let alone put it into words. As always, song lyrics began to float through my head, but like my emotions, they were a jumbled mess.

This is what Justin does to me, and I’m not sure if I love it or hate it. Isn’t there some saying that life begins at the edge of your comfort zone? Well, guess what? I’m living, because I’m so far outside my comfort zone right now, I can’t even find the trail back.

These last months were all about trying something new and finding myself, and maybe this is just the next step. I know one thing is certain: I don’t want to lose myself to the commanding, overwhelming man that’s Justin Karas. Regardless of what happens next, I need to hold on to the bits and pieces of myself I’ve fought for, because I matter too. This relationship isn’t just about him. If this is going to last beyond the silent ride to the hotel, we need to get clear on that fact.

What did Justin think when he came back to the penthouse to find it empty? Did he realize he screwed up? Did he go to Nashville first? Is he here to scold me like a child and drag me back by my hair? If that’s the case, he’s in for some severe disappointment. I’m not leaving this tour.

The swirling possibilities are put to rest when he shuts the door to our room, drops our bags, and growls, “Strip.”

My eyes snap to him. This isn’t how I expected this scenario to go. “Excuse me?”

“Do I really need to repeat myself?”

“I thought we were going to talk—” I start, but Justin interrupts.

“I’m done talking. I’m about to show my wife how I feel about her walking out, not answering her phone, and leaving me to fly to multiple states to track her down.”

“You knew—”

He interrupts again. “You left a note with two words, my dear. Two. Fucking. Words. They might as well have been ‘Fuck you.’”

“Maybe they should have been,” I reply, dumbfounded—and pissed—at his reaction.

“Strip. Now. Or I’ll do it for you.”

His tone is implacable, and in that moment, I know I can’t cave. Maybe it’s fitting that I’m in San Antonio, because this might be my frigging Alamo.

I shake my head. “I’m not playing, Justin.”

His expression turns feral. “Did something about this situation make you think I’m playing?” He stalks toward me. “You agreed. I call the shots; you follow.”

“That deal went out the window when you made it all too clear that you can’t be bothered to acknowledge I exist except for when it’s convenient for you.”

He jerks his head back as if I just slapped him, and stops mid-stride. “Do you really believe that?”

“After yesterday? What else should I believe? You couldn’t even be bothered to answer a phone call, and you knew I needed to go!”

“I knew you needed to be in Nashville today. That was the plan. I said I’d get you there last night, but something came up. It happens when you run a multi-billion-dollar company, Selena. That’s not going to change.”

“I get that. Even little old me understands that, but what I don’t get is how you couldn’t even take a phone call from me to tell you that plans had changed. I’m on a short leash when it comes to the label. I’ve got no choice but to follow the rules, or I’m screwed. I told you I’d play by your rules, but when you start putting my career at risk because you can’t seem to remember that I have a commitment, that’s where my caring about what you want stops.”

I fling a hand toward the window and the lights of the Majestic Theatre in the distance. “This is my life. This is my one shot at proving to myself that I’m meant for more than serving up greasy food to bowling teams who argue about who has the biggest beer gut and the biggest man boobs. Do you have any idea how fast this could all fall apart for me? Then I’d be right back where I started, and I refuse to let that happen just because I didn’t give this absolutely everything I’ve got.”

“And what makes you think I’d let that happen? That’s not something you need to worry about anymore.” Justin’s frustration is clear in his tone, but he still doesn’t get it.

“Bull. Your prenup makes it damn clear that I still can’t count on anyone but myself. Besides, I didn’t come this far on my own to start depending on a guy to take care of me now.”

Justin’s head tilts to the side. “Selena—”

I swing my head back to face him. “No. You don’t understand. Once you put my future on the line, this stops being a game.”

His brow furrows and his features tighten. “I’m well aware this isn’t a game. And I’m also well aware that I’m the one who fucked up by losing track of your schedule. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need to put us back on an even keel the only way I know how.”

I assume he’s talking about sex, because that seems to be the only part of this marriage where we’re compatible. But still, that doesn’t mean I have to like his methods.

I stride into the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed, unzipping my right boot before tossing it across the room. Justin crosses the threshold, and it flies perilously close to his head. It wasn’t my intention, at least not a conscious one. The second boot follows. He says nothing as it whizzes by his left side. A quick glance at his face reveals a crooked smirk. I tug off my boot socks and reach for the zipper on my skirt.

His voice is quieter this time. “Selena, what are you doing?”

“Following orders. What does it look like?”

I shove the skirt and my underwear down over my hips and tug my top over my head. Each article of clothing lands at his feet as I toss them.

I rip the duvet off the king-sized bed and climb up into the middle. I flip onto my back and spread my legs wide.

“Is that good enough for you? Is that stripped enough for you?”

Justin closes in on the bed. “Are you going to explain this, or am I going to have to guess what you’re trying to accomplish with this stunt?”

“No stunt. I’m just following orders.”

Justin’s lips twitch into a wolfish grin. “Oh, Selena, you know how to tempt me, that’s not in doubt. But I don’t think this is going to work out quite how you’re thinking.”

I cock my head sideways on the fluffy pillow. “Really? I submit, you fuck me, I come, you come, and then maybe we repeat.”

He tosses the duvet up and over me.

Okay, apparently I’m wrong.

“You make me sound so predictable, my lovely wife, and I can’t have that.”

He circles the bed, sits on the edge with his back to me, and lifts the cordless phone from the receiver.

“Room service, thank you.” Once he’s connected, he says, “A porterhouse and a filet. Medium rare. Two Caesar salads.” He rattles off the name of something I assume is an expensive wine, thanks the individual on the other end, and hangs up.

I crush the duvet to my chest and sit up. “What the hell just happened?”

Justin stands and turns to me. “I decided I’m having your pussy for dessert rather than as an appetizer.”

Once again, my mind spins. “I repeat, what the hell just happened?”

Justin ignores my second question and crosses the room to the closet. He unrolls the sleeves of his white dress shirt, shrugs it off, and hangs it up.

“Holy shit, he’s wearing jeans. How is it possible that I missed that?” I mumble to myself. But apparently my mumble isn’t quiet enough to escape Justin’s ears.

“Probably the screaming fans, poorly lit bus, and your plotting to rip me a new asshole.”

“I didn’t know you owned jeans.”

“You would have if you’d actually stepped foot in the closet where the clothes I bought you were hanging.”

I stiffen, my fingers tensing against the fluffy down. “I didn’t need all that. Any of it.”

“Even the guitar?” he asks, his dark gaze landing on me.

I hate how he drives right to the heart of things when I don’t want to discuss them.

“I thanked you for the guitar.”

“And yet you left it. I’m assuming that was a personal statement rather than a practical one.”

I refuse to break his stare. “You already bought me once, Karas. You don’t need to keep trying to buy me.”

“The guitar is on the jet.”

My heart clenches. I loved that glittery turquoise Gibson. Really, really loved it.

I’m still trying to decide how to respond when Justin says, “Do you want to shower before dinner? It should be here shortly.”

I think about the ten pounds of stage makeup I’m still wearing, and stand. I’m almost surprised that he phrased it as a question, but I don’t hesitate before climbing off the bed and going to my bag for my toiletry case.

I take my time in the shower, replaying what just happened and trying to figure out this man I’m married to. Spoiler—I fail. He’s impossible to predict, and I think I’m going to drive myself crazy trying. I don’t exit the bathroom until I hear the outer door open and shut.

Shrugging on a fluffy robe from the bathroom, I peek my head around the door frame and see a man unloading domed dishes from a cart and setting up our meal at the table.

Memories of our sushi dinner once again filter into my brain. Given how tonight has gone, I can safely say we won’t be sitting on top of the table eating our steaks. But considering how long it’s been since I’ve had steak, I’m good with sitting properly and devouring it. I tell myself that I deserve it. One night off the Selena needs to stay skinny on tour so she’s visually appealing diet won’t kill me.

The man lifts the covers, uncorks the wine, and offers further service, but Justin thanks him and sends him on his way. I don’t leave my shadow-darkened post at the bedroom doorway until I hear the outer door close.

When I step out into the living room, I find Justin pouring me a glass of wine. The protest on my lips dies when I inhale the rich aroma of the meal. I get that lots of people have moral or other objections to eating meat, and I respect that, but I’m a Kentucky girl who loves a good steak.

Justin pulls out my chair, and I sink into my seat. Is this his way of trying to make amends? If he just wanted sex from me, he could have taken me up on my offer. So maybe I play this cool and see how it goes?

I hate needing a strategy, but with Justin I feel like I need to be ready for anything. How about just be normal, Selena? But what’s our normal? I decide to just be me. The nice version, not the one who throws shoes at a guy’s head.

“That smells amazing.”

“Glad you approve.”

I smile. “I might not even complain about you ordering for me because you rocked it like a rodeo cowboy. But rest assured,” I say as I pick up my fork and steak knife, “the first time you order pâté or caviar and expect me to eat it and like it, your meal-selection privileges will get yanked faster than a weed from my gran’s garden.”

“Duly noted.”

I flick my gaze up to Justin’s for only a moment before I cut into the filet. Lifting it to my mouth, I pop it inside and groan appreciatively as I chew. Other than the meal at Johnny Utah’s, this is the first time I’ve really indulged.

After I swallow, I mumble, “Fourteen months without red meat. Should be a crime.”

Justin catches my comment. “Why would you go fourteen months without red meat if you clearly enjoy it so much?”

I’m too focused on the delicious meal to give him anything but an absent account of the absolute truth. “Before the show, I was living on PB&J and ramen, putting every spare cent toward my gran’s medical bills. And during and after, it was on the don’t you dare think about putting that in your mouth list.”

Justin lifts his glass and takes a sip of wine. “Then I’m glad you’re having it tonight. Tell me about—”

I interrupt what I’m sure will be a question about Gran. I may have brought her up, but I don’t want to talk about her. I’ve already bared my body tonight; I don’t think I can handle baring my soul.

“Just don’t tell my manager or the costume people. They’ll get out the pitchforks. I’m not allowed to gain weight. Actually, I’m supposed to lose another ten pounds before the ACM Awards. But I hate exercise, and after tasting steak again, I’m not sure how I can go back to chicken and steamed vegetables.”

Justin’s fork clatters against the china. “That’s fucking ridiculous. I forbid it.”

Cue my What the hell did you just say? look.

“Um, excuse me, but it’s not your place to forbid anything,” I reply, losing the nice Selena attitude.

“You lose another pound, and I will ensure it’s the last pound you lose.”

Well. That sounds ominous.

“And it’s still not your place to make that kind of call.”

“Selena—”

“Justin—”

We both lapse into stubborn silence for a few moments, and I drop my attention back to my plate. He does the same, and I wonder if he’s going to drop the issue. Then I take another bite of my steak and forget to care.

I’m almost finished with my dinner when Justin’s cell rings. He pulls it from the pocket of his jeans and apologizes.

“I have to take this.”

He leaves the room, and I can’t hear much of his side of the conversation except for a few comments like “that motherfucker” and “we’ll never concede.” Neither of those two sentiments indicate he’s enjoying the phone call.

While he’s gone, I polish off the rest of my steak and salad, and one of those jumbled song lyrics from earlier starts nagging at me. I’m at the desk, scribbling away on a pad of paper, when Justin returns.

His hair is sticking up in the front, as if he’s been jamming his fingers into it over and over. Just one more sign it wasn’t a good phone call.

This is where a real wife stops what she’s doing and asks what’s wrong. I finish off the lyric and decide to give that wife thing a try.

“What’s up?” Okay, admittedly it’s not the most brilliant of conversation starters, but it’s open ended, and I’m inviting him to share what all the cursing was about.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

And there it is—the difference between this marriage and one where the spouses are actually trying to make a connection. Something about it breaks a little piece inside me. A piece of what, I refuse to speculate.

“Oh, you don’t say. Darling, that’s awful. I wish there was something I could do to help.” My babbling, batshit-crazy response earns me a sharp look from Justin. “What? I’m trying to pretend that I’m a wife whose husband actually just shared something in his life, and I give a crap.”

His look, if possible, gets sharper. But it’s his words that surprise me the most. “You really want to know?”

“Lay it on me, hubs. I’m living dangerously tonight,” I drawl, letting my accent loose.

Justin crosses the room to the desk and leans against it so he’s facing me, his thigh only inches from my arm. Which means his dick is probably only a foot from my mouth, and I can’t help but think about dessert.

I tear my eyes away from his package, which is displayed rather prominently in his jeans, and meet his dark brown stare—a stare that’s still narrowed on me. He’s taking my measure, gauging my actual interest in what he’s dealing with.

I decide to make it easy for him. “All sass aside, I really am here if you want to talk about what’s going on.”

Something flashes through his expression, but before I can pin it down, it’s gone.

“That was Cannon.”

“Okay,” I say, prompting him to continue.

“We have an activist shareholder causing trouble. He’s getting the street wound up about the company’s business strategy, and he’s demanding changes as well as additional independent directors on the board to balance the decision-making.”

I’m following him, but most of this means nothing to me.

“What exactly is an activist shareholder?”

“Someone with enough of a stake in the company that we have to take him seriously when he makes a big public stink. It’s an inflammatory way of trying to effect change in the way the company does business.”

“Okay.” I consider his explanation for a beat. “Isn’t that kind of par for the course in your business?”

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