Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Despite its family sedan appearance, the car is actually quite peppy, and I gain a few minutes back as I head to the park on the other side of downtown, where I agreed to meet Wilder. Meet as in drive past slowly so he can spot me and make a break straight for the backseat, catapult himself in, and have me drive away like I just committed a felony.
We did discuss my picking him up from his house or his coming here when he first proposed the idea of us going to Reno for a few days to record the songs I wrote in a private studio. He promised they didn’t have to go anywhere if I didn’t want them to. He just wanted to do this with me. Us. Together. Making music. It was magic the first time, even if it was in the back of a tour bus, and Wilder was so ill.
I want to give him this.
I want to give myself this.
I wasn’t sure at first, but after considering it for a few days, I told him to book the space if it was still available. He rented a small house on the outskirts of town, not far from the studio. He knows the person who owns the studio and the house, so we’re guaranteed that our presence there will be discreet.
It felt like the right thing to do after we’d been apart for nearly two weeks.
Even if it’s complicated, and I basically have to sort of kidnap Wilder out of a freaking park, I’m seriously looking forward to having time together with him again that isn’t a phone call or a text. Those were great, but they only go so far. I’m beyond physically aching to be close to him again.
We didn’t want to risk someone spotting me picking Wilder up from his house or recognizing him if he came to mine. We both thought hiding in plain sight might be best. Hence, the park.
As soon as I near the east side of a large greenspace with a giant bear statue spouting water out of its mouth, paws, and rump into a basin below—making this up would be hilarious, but it’s for real—I wonder if we’ve made a mistake. The place is packed. Benches. Sidewalks. The grass. People are spread out on blankets, walking, jogging, ambling, talking, flirting, making out, pushing strollers, biking, reading, listening to music, and picnicking. No one is out there taking photos of the bear. I can’t imagine why not. I definitely want some.
An old man unfurls himself from a bench bracketing the grassy part of the park. It’s shaded by two towering trees. He’s stooped just about in half, with scraggly gray hair stuffed up under a fedora-style hat, checkered brown pants pulled up way past the waist area, a blue dress shirt under a vibrant red sweater vest, and black suspenders on top of it all.
I quickly veer out of traffic, pulling over to the loading zone in front of a row of parked cars. I flip the hazards on and unlock the doors.
The old man suddenly chucks his walker aside and breaks away, racing down the sidewalk. Luckily, no one seems to be paying attention. I guess if you’re not wowed by a fountain bear with water coming out of its rear end, you’re not going to be intrigued by an old man suddenly finding his stride.
The back door of the car flies open, and the old man hurtles into the backseat.
I lock the doors and peel away as soon as he slips his seatbelt on and tucks the top part behind him so he can remain hunched down.
I can’t speak for a few blocks. My heart is hammering right up in my throat. “I hope no one saw that.” Hiding out in a park in the guise of a senior citizen is exactly the kind of attention Wilder doesn’t need, especially after the past few weeks he’s had.
Maybe a few people would understand, with the band being under such intense scrutiny after news of the breakup, but there are so many others who would make up stories about him going off the deep end, straight into a pre-midlife crisis.
Wilder peeks around the passenger seat and up above the middle console.
“Maybe just lay low for a few more minutes until I’m out of the city.” It’s going to be more than a few minutes to get out of downtown Sonoma, and Wilder is wearing one of those synthetic masks made to look like real skin with the features painted on. I reason he’s probably had it on for a while, and ten to fifteen more minutes isn’t going to kill him.
The mask has a strange odor that reaches me up front, but it’s quickly drowned out by the familiar scent of Wilder himself. No get-up is going to disguise the clove, cedar, and mint scent that so perfectly mixes with his body chemistry. It’s strong in the car and has the end result of driving me nearly feral.