was familiar to her, she warmed up. “What can I do for you?”
“This is going to sound strange, but . . . WATT.”
She scrunched her brow. “Mmhmm . . .”
“I think I know—knew—him.”
“I’m not allowed to discuss his identity with anyone. I’m sorry. He’d have my head on a platter.”
“I understand. But, it’s important that I see him.”
“I can take that back to him. I usually do that with women who would like to meet him.”
That comment felt like a hot poker in my gut.
“William Asher Thomas Thoreau. WATT,” I whispered.
Her eyes grew briefly as if she might be in trouble just for being in the presence of the identity reveal.
“I can’t confirm that. But I can take your info or your manager’s info and tell him you were here. He’s not here tonight. He doesn’t come to his shows for obvious reasons.”
“Okay. You know what, never mind.” My hope was to ambush him somehow and demand answers. Leaving my phone number felt desperate, like one of those other girls who apparently did so, so he could decide if they were worth his time. “Could you—maybe not tell him about this?”
I had come here confident, determined, and now I was bumbling.
“Uh . . . okay. Are you sure?”
“Yeah. I was just curious. I gotta go. Thank you. So sorry to interrupt your conversation.”
It was hard not to run out of the show, but I kept my composure as I rushed out. I was a success in the dance world, independent, dating a sexy and kind man, and yet Ash had managed to turn me back into unsure the twenty-one year old girl, desperately trying to get into his head.
ASH
I spent the opening day of my show researching Bird. I had somehow managed to avoid much of her recent success. It wasn’t hard between locking myself in my studio, boozing, working out to get the booze out of my system and the occasional (more like frequent) lay. I did everything to forget her, but this morning, the image of her was branded into my psyche. I couldn’t stop thinking about Bird, and I wondered if, like me, she picked up the paper and saw us side by side again.
I went through my kitchen and dumped all of my liquor bottles into the recycling bin, as if she might show up any minute. I didn’t want her to know that while I had kept my illness pretty stable, I still battled with the demons of regret that I suffered ever since I left her, numbing the ache with women and booze. When I was on lithium, booze wasn’t an option, but ironically, this new medication allowed for it. I’d be sober for weeks, but then I’d remember her or Sarah and the pangs of regret would be so strong, I would pour myself a glass, and then another, and then I would wake up with someone in my bed or maybe not. It didn’t matter. But when I did, I hated that it wasn’t her. I opened my eyes every time hoping it would be her.
My track record wasn’t perfect. I might get overconfident or lazy with my meds, but I had learned much better to read the signs. I had a new system with Miller. He became my business manager and protected my money from me. If I got into a state, I couldn’t make stupid investments or sell my apartment. I understood I needed to lean on him instead of shutting him out. As a result, I had the occasional highs and lows, but I hadn’t ended up in the hospital since I left Bird.
I wondered if Bird would be disgusted with who I had become. I had the career success, but I could never regain the feeling I had sitting on the roof with her in my arms. No money, no artistic success could match that.
By the time I had filtered through every article and video I could find, the answer was clear to me: I was a distant memory. Maybe even a regret. She was an inspiration. I had become a bitter asshole who could paint. I had lost the Asher she had fallen in love with.
As I am so often prone to doing, I had lost track of time, becoming fixated on learning as much about her as I could. My show had already started and I would be fashionably late. I didn’t always attend these things, but I thought there was a slim chance that maybe