Incidental Happenstance (18 page)

            Dylan was clearly agitated when they got back to the room, and he began pacing the tiny space. “I shouldn’t have to hide out at my own show just because some Hollywood starlet thinks she should be able to meet me.” He turned to Tia. “You see? That’s what I like so much about you. You aren’t here because I’m some celebrity or because I was voted “sexy” by some tabloid readers. I get so tired of this scene sometimes. Everyone I meet wants something from me—they don’t want to get to know me, they’re just interested in where I can get them—to all the right parties, premiers; or they’re looking for an acting career or a record contract. That’s what draws me to you so much, Tia. You honestly seem to just want to be with the real me. Not the Hollywood actor, not the singer—just me. And you have no idea how refreshing that is. It’s been so long since I’ve met someone like you, and we have such a short time together. I don’t know what to think about that.”

            Tia absorbed this with more than a little shock. He was excited that she wanted to know him as a person? That she wasn’t looking for fame or celebrity by attaching herself to him? She never wanted fame or celebrity, in fact, wondered how any person dealt with being constantly followed, constantly watched. It was aggravating enough to her sometimes that she couldn’t go to the grocery store or the mall without running into former students or their parents. She never in a million years thought that she would mean something to someone like Dylan Miller, someone who seemed to have it all, but who was still longing for a little normalcy, a little belonging. She walked over to him and took him in her arms. She felt him stiffen at first, but then he relaxed against her.

            He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. “Sometimes I just want to be a normal person in a normal place, you know?—but it hardly ever happens. Even when I go in disguise. I try to make myself repellent to girls, but then I alienate the guys too. Last night was the most normal I’ve felt in a very long time, and I really miss the feeling. How would the people at
Paddy’s
have reacted if I’d pulled off that damn mullet? I’d have been instantly put on some sort of pedestal I don’t deserve. Sean would never have been able to take the stage because they would have all been asking me to do it. And if I went out as myself, I would never have met someone like you—someone so real and honest.”    

            “It’s still kind of hard for me to understand that, but I’ll take it,” Tia replied, taking his hand.

            They quieted as they heard voices coming down the hall. One was Bo, and the other was a woman who was clearly agitated.

            “What do you mean, you can’t find him?” she squeaked. “How many places could he go? It’s just a backstage—he has to be somewhere!”

            “Well, Miss,” they heard Bo reply calmly, “we don’t keep track of each other 24/7. He could have stepped out to get some fresh air, and left his phone behind…”

            Their voices trailed down the hall as they passed the room where Dylan and Tia listened at the door.

            Bo must have sent her on her way, because a minute later, he was back on the open line. “Airwaves clear for everyone?”

            Everyone responded in turn. “She’s waiting in Dylan’s dressing room,” Bo’s voice replied. “She’s a real piece of work, let me tell you.”

            “Who is it?” Dylan asked.

            “Penelope Valentine,” Bo answered. “She’s pretty hot, but seems like kind of a bitch. She’s demanding front row tickets, too, and says she isn’t leaving until she sees you. Says there’s something real important she needs to talk to you about. Her assistant is waiting in the common room, so steer clear of that, too.”

            Dylan got on the line. “No way. Tell her there’s nothing available in the front row. There isn’t, anyway, they had to add chairs to get Tia and her friend in there.”

            Jessa got on the line. “I got a couple in the fourth—how about those?”

            “Fine,” Dylan conceded. “Then we don’t look like pricks and she doesn’t get what she wants. Perfect.” He chirped off the line.

            “Bloody hell,” Dylan said, mostly to himself, running his fingers through his hair in frustration and continuing to pace in the room. He turned to Tia. “Listen, I’m going to need to hide out in here, like a fucking caged animal, or go deal with some diva with a goddess complex. I hate for you to miss Outcast—they do a really good show. You can go watch if you want to, and meet me back here after their set.”

            The phone chirped again, and a whispered voice said, “She’s ba-ack, air’s not clear,” then cut off.

            Tia looked at Dylan. “Thanks, but I’d rather stay here,” she raised her eyebrows in question, “if you don’t mind.”

            Dylan’s answer was to pull her into his arms for a smoldering kiss. When it started reaching fever pitch, he pulled back and exhaled sharply. “Whoa. I better lay off you for now or I’m not going to have any energy left for the stage!” He laughed, and sat in the chair at the dressing table. “So what the hell do we do now? Play Monopoly or something? I don’t think there’s even anything like that in here…”

            Tia sat on the edge of couch and leaned toward him. “I have about a million questions I could ask you.” He looked at her, surprised. “There’s so much more I want to know about you.”

            “Great idea,” he said. “But you know ten times more about me than I know about you, so I get to go first.”

  ’t         For the next half hour they talked, and it didn’t take Dylan long to move from the chair to sit next to Tia on the couch and pull her against him. They talked about their childhoods, her work, his rise to stardom, hopes and dreams, travels, their families. Then Tia said, “OK, here’s a question for you. I’ve always wondered how you came up with the name for the band—I really like the implications and double meaning. Who named it?”

            “It was me who first said the words, I guess,” Dylan said. “We were sitting in Ty’s basement, tossing around ideas, and I didn’t like any of them. But what I did like was the feeling I was getting from the guys and the music we were making. I was remembering when I first met Bo in a little club in London. I’d happened to see a flyer tacked up on the wall at this little coffee shop I hung out in that said, ‘Real American Blues.’ It was my favorite kind of live music when I lived in America, and there really wasn’t anything quite like it on the London scene. The club was way out of town, and I hadn’t planned on heading out that way, but it kept itching at the back of my mind, and at the last minute, I decided to go.

            “When I saw Bo play that night, the itch came back. I don’t know how else to describe it—it just felt like I had to talk to him and ask him for a jam session. I don’t think any of them took me seriously at first—I was kind of in my punk phase then, and didn’t exactly have any of the outward qualities you’d think of in a blues musician.”

            “You had a punk phase?” Tia asked. “That opens up a whole host of new questions.”

            “Oh, that was an interesting time,” Dylan said with a smile. “Lots of good stories there.”

            “I can’t wait to hear those too,” she said with a smirk. “But finish this one first.”

            “OK, so Bo and I clicked right away—or right after our jam, anyway. We could both feel it. It was almost like we knew what the other would do before they did it, and we were on the same page musically, too. So when we were discussing names, months later, I said that it was by incidental happenstance that we all met—it was all coincidence, but it somehow seemed like it was meant to be. Everyone agreed, and the name just kind of stuck.”

            “That’s a great story. And it’s true—life is like that sometimes, isn’t it?”

            “More often than not, I think. It’s kind of the way we met, too.”

            “How so?” Tia asked.

            “Neither of us was planning on meeting anyone last night; in fact, we both started the evening determined not to. We were both in a place that neither of us had been in before, and were both out of our comfort zones. And yet, here we are. Like no matter what we did, it was meant to be, so it was going to happen. Incidental Happenstance.”

            “I have to say,” Tia smiled, “that that’s my favorite incidental happenstance.”

            He took her hand and looked into her eyes. “I’m really glad I met you, Tia.”

            “Me too,” she said.

           “OK, my turn,” Dylan said, looking into her very soul. “Tell me about Nick.”

            He felt her stiffen, just for a second, and was glad when she relaxed back against him. She sighed, and told Dylan about the five years she and Nick had together. It felt so much easier to talk about him after last night—she was again so glad she’d gone to the memorial. He was a good memory now, instead of a painful hole in her heart.

            “And you were going to dance to one of my songs on your wedding night?” he asked. She nodded. “Which one?”

            “
Just Us
,” she replied.

            “But you put that one on your list for us to play tonight. Are you sure you’re alright with that?”

            She turned to look him in the eye. “Absolutely. It’ll be coming from you.”

            He leaned in to kiss her, and she returned the kiss, but then pulled back, looking him in the eyes. “Now it’s my turn—tell me about Shelby,” she whispered.

            Dylan had a great childhood. His parents genuinely loved each other, and life. They both had rewarding careers; his dad owned a successful automotive repair shop and loved the challenge of making things work, and his mom was an artist. He’d always loved watching her work in her studio; the sun shining through the big windows his dad had put in so she could have natural light, listening to her hum as she painted or worked deep red clay into incredible treasures. Because she worked from home, she was always there for her family, encouraging and supporting them in all they did. When Dylan asked for a guitar for his eleventh birthday, they’d taken him into town and immediately signed him up for lessons. He practiced constantly, loving the sounds he was able to coax out of the wood and strings. Even his eight-year-old sister loved listening to him play, dancing and singing as he strummed the first simple pieces he’d learned at his lessons.

            He excelled quickly, and soon got too good for his instructor. Playing felt natural to him, the instrument an extension of himself, and his mother drove him further away, into Melbourne, to pursue more advanced training. He soon grew bored of the basics, however, and found himself creating his own sounds, and then graduating to writing lyrics to go with them. Sometimes when his mother was working she’d ask him to sit in the studio with her, to play her something that fit the mood of her current project. He loved that challenge, trying to make the guitar sound soulful, happy, sad, thoughtful, playful—whatever her piece inspired in him.

            He spent every dime he could get on building a music collection from all genres, and took odd jobs whenever he could to make more money. He spent his time listening to the nuances of the songs, copying them by ear, and imagining instruments that would blend harmoniously with his own uniquely developing sound. He played at church, at family parties, at nursing homes—anything to get an audience. Inspiring joy on people’s faces with his music lifted him to places he didn’t know existed, and he rarely left home without his guitar slung ver his back. It was the Christmas he turned sixteen that he got his first Martin, a sleek and beautiful instrument that made his well-worn First Act look pale in comparison. He reveled in the sounds he could create with it, and began seeking out others to start a band. Most other accomplished artists were considerably older than him, and they generally laughed when he approached them with his request to have a jam session. Enough decided to humor him, however, and they were always amazed at the talent of the scrawny kid with the shaggy hair. Soon he was writing songs for mixed ensembles, and loving every minute.

            It was the next summer that Shelby got sick, and life as they knew it fell apart. Leukemia. The very word sounded ugly and hateful to Dylan. After several months of tests and treatments the doctors in Melbourne could do no more to help her, so his parents moved them to the States so she could get the very best care from respected specialists in the field. They tried everything—experimental treatments, conventional medicine—but she was getting sicker, and there was soon little doubt that she would succumb to the disease.

            Dylan found a new musical niche in America. There was a different sound here, a different vibe, especially in the city where he got his first real tastes of soul, blues, and jazz. He loved the blend of colors and cultures that made up the music scene, and even though he was only seventeen, he usually managed to find ways to slip into clubs to soak in the new sounds.

            His parents found a new niche, too. Doctors, hospitals, home health care nurses, more doctors, specialists; and none of them could rid Shelby of the disease that was consuming her. They’d sold their house and leased out the business back home; but the medical bills were staggering, and his dad had to find work to make ends meet, leaving Shelby’s care primarily in his mom’s hands. She had no time for her art; her daughter had become a full time job; one that would never bring any fulfillment.