“Th-thank you,” I said, staring at him in astonishment. “So are you.”

He scoffed at that. “No, I’m not.”

“Bullshit,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Bull. Shit. You are talented. You forget, I knew your band before I knew you. I know who wrote all your songs. It was your name on almost every track.”

“Yeah and a fat lot of good that got me.”

“It may not have gotten you signed, but that’s the luck of the draw in my opinion. You and I both know there are a million bands out there that didn’t make it but are just as, if not more, talented than those who have. Maybe that’s why you’re here, in this car with me, waiting to see five bands in London. You know what talent really is, and you can help push it to the front of the queue with Seven.”

He dragged the side of this thumb across the top of the steering wheel and I accepted that as a form of acknowledgement.

“Besides I’m kind of glad you didn’t make it.”

“Nice, January.”

“No, really. Listen, if you had made it, I’d have never...” kissed you, “met you and wouldn’t have gotten the ultimate lesson in scouting under such awesome tutelage. Call me selfish, but I’m happy to be sitting here with you.”

He looked at me and shook his head, a tiny grin gracing his lips. Bingo.

“I think you’re incredibly suited for this job, Tom. It may not be what you had imagined yourself doing, but fate has a way of stepping in and guiding you the direction you need to go even when you yourself had no intention of creating that path.” I sighed deeply.

A chorus of engines started as the lift to the ferry opened up and Holyhead’s blue sky greeted us.

“We need to feed you,” he said out loud, not really talking to me.

“Thanks, I’ll just get my bib and rubber-coated spoon then.”

“Shut up,” he said, laughing and surprising me.

“I just meant that if we’re going to be on the road for a while and what with your little issue, you probably need to eat something to keep you from feeling ill.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said, genuinely touched that he even thought past the minute with me.

“Yeah, don’t mention it.”

Our little rental putted down and out into the fresh sea air.

“Pass this way with a pure heart,” I said, reading an inscription on a bit of concrete just off the port.

“Holyhead’s motto.”

“Very pretty.”

Tom grunted his reply. I suppose it was better than nothing.

“I know of a fish and chips shop just off Cambria in the city proper. Cherry found it when The Ivories were here a few years back.”

“Sure,” I said. “Cherry, from The Ivories Cherry?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God, she is so freaking cool. I love the crap out of her.”

“She is cool, my Cherry Bomb. She’s a sister to me.”

“Tell me about your friends.” I knew this was a subject he wouldn’t shy away from. It was the one topic that made Tom’s eyes light up like the Fourth of July.

“They’re my family. You probably know all about The Ivories, but there’re a few more of them who don’t take a stage at all but are so extraordinary they should.

“For instance, besides Cherry, Callum and Harper are my best friends. I hang or hung, before I moved to Austin, with them almost every other day. January,” he said, meeting my eyes for a moment before moving them back to the road, “they are so freaking amazing. Both of them grew up in the foster system and were kicked out at eighteen with nothing but the shirts on their backs. They met, worked themselves up from nothing and are becoming some of the most accomplished people I’ve ever met in my entire life! And they never asked for anything. They became extraordinary all on their own.” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “I miss them so much,” he said, his neck and face heating up at their memory. He was fighting with emotion so badly it was affecting his heart, I could tell.

“I want to meet them,” I said, trying to keep him there with me, to keep him from reverting back to his closed-off normal self.

“So do I,” he said, shocking me mute. “They’d love you.”

“Thank you,” I barely whispered as we pulled up to the chip shop.

We walked into the tiny little shop and bought an order of fish and chips to share. Turns out, we both liked vinegar and salt on our chips so I lucked out there. With drinks in hand, Tom and I sauntered across the street and set our food on the wall between us and a very beautiful cemetery.

“What’s with your name, January?” he asked.

“Oh,” I laughed, rolling my eyes, “my parents.”

“Oh, really, that’s fascinating. Your parents named you, did they? What a conversationalist!”

“Shut up, rude ass. My parents named each of us after the months of the year.”

“Starting with you, then.”

“Yes, and it goes all the way down to October. My mom lost her eleventh and couldn’t have them anymore. So, we’re stuck at ten kids.” I smiled.

“Ten kids! My God, that is - that is a lot of kids.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never had so much fun as you’ve had with my family. They are the craziest, funniest, most amazing people in this world. The way you feel about your friends is the way I feel about my family.”

“Then you must love them very much,” he said softly, eyes trained on a few grave markers.

“I do. My sister July is my best friend. She is so rockin’ cool, Tom. She’s got this crazy long, jet-black hair and is, like, six feet tall. She’s bigger than life!” I smiled at a memory of her. “All of us are pretty tall. I’m the shortest actually.”

“You’re the shortest?” he asked in disbelief, his eyes roaming down then up my body and heating me up from the inside without so much as a graze of his hand.

“Yes.” I cleared my throat.

“I imagine your family must be an imposing force.”

“That they are, but not because of their height. We’re just big and loud and lots of fun. I miss them already.”

“It’ll be alright,” he offered. “You’re going to have a lot of fun at this job, trust me.”

I eyed him carefully, taking in his tall frame, stopping on the hand that rubbed my arm not two hours before. I have a feeling you’re right, Thomas Eriksson.

“So you know how lucky I am in my heritage but what about you? Where does Eriksson come from?”

“My mom is Swedish and my pop is American but from German descent.”

“Ah, that explains the light features,” I said, popping another chip in my mouth and contorting my face from the vinegar.

“Yeah, blond hair, blue eyes. Boring.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say boring,” I said, my face and neck heating to an impossible color. Irritating problem!

Tom’s tongued his upper teeth as he avoided a laugh and that proceeded to drive me up the bloody wall.

“Sorry,” I said, hiding my face behind my hands.

“Don’t,” he said, pulling at one of my wrists. “It’s nice, January.”

Nice? Nice? What does that mean?

“Come on,” he said, crumpling the coned newspaper that carried our chips and tossing it in the nearest bin. “We’ve got quite a trek ahead of us.”

Chapter Six

El Scorcho

January

Our tiny car proved advantageous for "Operation Disarm Tom." He kept glancing my way, his arm bumping mine, his shoulder grazing mine, his fingers brushing mine. Problem? Uh, it was slightly backfiring! I kept fantasizing he’d veer off the road and onto the shoulder and kiss the tar out of me.

“Tom,” I said, gulping down the tension permeating throughout the car.

“Mmm, hmm,” he said, his knuckles white.

“Can we pull over?”

“Why?” he asked, his eyes wide. “Feeling sick?”

I was sick—just not from motion sickness. “Uh, yeah.”

Tom pulled over and I struggled with my belt, bolting from the car. I discovered we were on top of the most gorgeous rolling hill, its green sweeping layers screamed beautiful things as the wind swooped around the feet and back to the heads of each mounded hill.

Wales.

It was one of the most breathtaking countrysides I’d ever had the pleasure of witnessing. A quaint little town was nestled at the bed of the hill below and it looked like what I’d envisioned a village two hundred years ago would look like, like time had stood still. The only things that gave away progress were the little cars winding the charming streets.

 I was breathing hard from the proximity of Tom and the overwhelming view below me. Tom came and stood beside me, brushing a few strands that had strayed from my loose braid from my shoulder.

“You okay?”

I looked up at him. “Um, yeah. Much better. Thank you for pulling over.”

“Of course,” he said, moving to see the view I’d just admired. “Wow,” he exclaimed, “why do I feel the need to abandon my life as I know it and start a new one here?”

I laughed. “Because you’re sane? This is an incredible place. Look at that view.” I held my hands out in front of me.

“Extraordinary,” he said, but when I looked up to agree with him, his eyes weren’t on the world around us, they were trained on me. My neck and face heated, but I didn’t find myself embarrassed.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing, we should, uh, get on the road,” he said, walking back to the rental.

“Alright.” I sighed. “Wait,” I said stopping him short by grabbing his arm. “You’ve got something on the back of your hoodie.” I dusted away imaginary nothings from his back, enjoying the unbelievably amazing muscles beneath his hoodie.

“Get it?” he asked.

“Oh, I got it.” I smiled at myself before settling in and buckling myself back in.

***

London was five hours away and I took the opportunity to get to know Tom a little better, asking him all his favorites. Favorite color, food, song, band. I packed as much as I possibly could in those five hours and by the end of it, I felt I knew Thomas Eriksson better than anyone possibly could in five hours with the impossible Thomas Eriksson.

Truth be told, I was surprised he’d opened up at all—let alone the amount he’d shared. The crazy part was for every question he answered, he expected me to answer the same, like he wanted to know as much about me as I wanted to know about him.

But an hour from London, the most unfortunate thing happened...Well, unfortunate yet at the same time very fortunate. You’ll see.

“Is Jonah going to be there?” I asked, fiddling with the stations. “At the shows tonight?”

“Yeah, it’s definitely a competition. He’ll be wherever we’ll be, I think.”

“Tell me about the bands. Who are they? How long have they been playing? Any past affiliations? Spill,” I said.