Moran's Plan

Riley

Row has texted me several times this afternoon, giving me updates on her spa day with her mother. I think it's good, they are spending time together. I'm happy Row is taking some time for self-care instead of caring for me. I also suspect she would be upset if she knew what I'm contemplating doing.

Well, Little-Miss-Do-As-I-Please-And-Ask-Forgiveness-Later-With-Kisses will get a taste of her own medicine this afternoon, because I can't stay trapped in the house a bloody minute longer.

I'm going out.

I sit behind the wheel of the van with the hand controls, contemplating whether I should try to drive this behemoth while I can, or simply call an Uber and let the idea of driving fade away with so many other aspects of my independence.

My self-determination

My manhood.

Fuck it. I'm not a child. If I'm going to have to live like this—with dead feet—I'm going to have to accept driving a vehicle with hand controls. I want to check it out, this one time, before I'm stripped of the right to drive. Next week, the court case for my drunk driving charge finally comes up on the docket. Most likely I'll end up with a license suspension for six months.

I press the ignition button. A little spark of something inside me flares at the sound.

"You sure aren't a jaguar, are you?" I mutter as I experiment with the hand controls and lurch my way down the drive.

It's not difficult to master the hand controls, especially if you aren't Street, who drives like a maniac. After a few winds around our neighborhood, I cruise the drive-thru of a local coffee shop for my usual order. From there, habit takes me downtown. Before I know it, I'm in the lobby of the Colossal building, staring up at the abtract Colossus that holds court in the lobby.

He stands firm, legs planted apart. Perfect sculpture, perfect balance. I sigh, staring down at my walker. Striding across the lobby, full of plans, using any opportunity to execute deals with passing-by Colossal executives was a thing I once took for granted. Now, I shuffle along, hoping to go unnoticed.

Of course, when the elevator door opens to take me to my office, Angelo Moran, President of Colossal, blinks in surprise to see me.

"Riley!" He doesn't exit, but slides to the side, making room for me. I guess he's intending to ride back up with me.

"Angelo," I say, as I punch my floor button.

"I'd heard you are back on your feet. That's great." He claps me on the back. "So everything is coming along, then?"

No, Angelo, not everything is coming along.

"I'm nearly fully recovered, thanks. This..." I shake the walker, "is just a transition aid. They tell me I'll be leaving it behind soon."

"That's good," he looks at the walker with a mixture of skepticism and pity. "That's good," he repeats. "Listen...do you have a moment?"

"For you, I have as many as you need."

This can't be good. The President  of a major record label doesn't come to down from the top office to a talent agent's  leased space. We are expected to go to him. I'm getting the del Marco treatment, here. Which means, he's taking the time to deliver bad news personally, because I'm Matt's son-in-law. Ex. Whatever.

Ariadne looks like she's seen a ghost when I walk into my agency. She's on a headset, walking and talking all through the small suite.

"I'm going to have to call you back," she says, as Angelo pushes the glass door, holding it for me.

Ariadne makes small talk with us while the receptionist scurries to open my office door and move some boxes. Apparently they have been using my office for storage. It feels surreal, sitting down into my desk chair for the first time in months. Angelo has easily thrown himself into a chair, and I can feel his eyes on me, watching the care I take with my movements.

As soon as I'm seated, he looks around at the boxes and says, "Maybe this is a discussion for another time. I didn't realize this was your first day back."

"Christ," I mutter. "It's that bad, is it?"

He stares at my walker. "Well, it's not good. But I doubt it will come as a surprise to you..."

God. They aren't dropping Daze Gone are they? The lads are barking mad and way more trouble to me than they are personally worth, but they are the best punk outfit to come across the pond in twenty years. No. Surely it's not them. This can't be about Dev's latest indiscretion, either. Dev isn't signed with Colossal. Darius is up for best new artist at the VMA's and he's the nicest bloody kid in the world, so there's no way the R&B division aren't happy with his album or his branding.

""I'm fully capable of taking bad news sitting down. It can't be completely disastrous, as long as you're still one hundred percent behind Soundcrush's next album—"

"Jesus, of course. Most anticipated record of the year."

"So..." I fish around in my instincts. The lads or the girls? The lads or the girls? "It's Harper and Sadie, then," I say grimly. "You're shelving their new album."

"I'm afraid so. The first album didn't perform to expectation. Only one top one hundred on the Country Billboards. The country division ran test groups on all the tracks for the new record. They crunched their data, and they don't see a hit among the tracks. Out of respect to my personal ties with the entire Skid Marcs/Soundcrush outfit, I had a listen to it as well. Unfortunately my ear agrees with test market data."

I react without emotion. "This is a failure of Colossal's making. If you recall, I strongly disagreed with the decision to brand them as a country duo."

"Well, they aren't good enough songwriters for the Indie Market," he says bluntly. "It was always a salvage operation, Riley. We both know that. We gave them a shot, that they really didn't deserve, but I gave it to them anyway. For Row. For Matt and Trace. It didn't work out."

I turn my chair, nodding. "Yes, I know and I appreciate that."

We're both staring at the picture on my wall of Strut—accepting their Best New Artist Grammy's. Below it hangs their plantinum award for the album. After the accident Row wouldn't have it in the house anymore, so I hung it here.

"What I wouldn't do to have them back," he mutters. "Girl rock band. It's an even better market now than five years ago..."

I cut a side-eye to Angelo. He's watching me too carefully.

"You bloody bastard. You know, don't you?"

His pale face breaks into a grin. "Matt told me she's quitting the show and more importantly she's playing again. Said she's working on a Southern Gothic thing, but I can't support another iffy endeavor, when..." he points to the award, "I've got platinum hanging on the wall. Think of the hype, Riley." He waves a hand, imagining headlines. "Strut reunites. Another del Marco Miracle. The girls are back and better than before."

I stare at my wife-on-the-wall, accepting her Grammy. I've never seen her happier than that night. Perhaps not even on our wedding day, although she was happy then, too. In my mind, those two days are opposite extremes. Rowan, publicly triumphant in her Grammy victory, finally getting the vindication she so desperately needed—that she was in fact, as talented as her new-found brother. Our wedding day, a private happiness, a hopeful new partnership, but not the spotlight where she shines.

"Riley. Talk to me."

"I don't know," I say slowly. "I don't know if she can play like that again."

"Matt said—"

"If you're asking me then let me tell you. Otherwise go talk to her damn father," I snap.

Angelo raises his hands. "I'm asking you. You're her manager. You're her...guy, again, right?"

I incline my head. "She can play acoustic almost like before. She hasn't picked up an electric guitar yet. But, I think it's in her mind. She's meeting with a new hand therapist and a guitar coach next week. They are building her a practice regimen."

"That's good," Moran leans forward eagerly. "What kind of timeline are we talking? Do you think a Strut reunion could be in the works in say...six months' time?"

"That's entirely premature, Angelo. I don't know if Row wants that anymore."

Angelo gives me a skeptical smile. "Isn't it your job to help her define what she wants?"

"It's my job to love her," I say curtly.

He sighs. "And this is why the husband-manager thing hardly ever works."

"Well, we aren't married anymore," I remind him. "I won't make the same mistakes again."

He stares at me coolly. "I would bet you the revenue on Soundcrush's next album that you've still got your wedding ring in the desk drawer."

When I don't take the bet, he crows. "You're more married to her than the day you ran off and eloped. Which is why, I'm betting, you're going to come around to my way of thinking." He rises and takes her picture off the wall, lying it on my desk, so that I can see the shine in her eyes. "This was never a mistake. This was her lifelong dream. If you love her, help me give her back her destiny."

I watch him walk out cool as fuck with no small envy. The man is a damn vampire. He never ages, never rages, and he rarely fails to persuade.

Ariadne comes to sit in the chair Angelo vacated. She overheard everything, of course.

"It's good to have you back, boss," she smiles sympathetically.

It's not good to be back.

I think that thought, and I'm almost shocked as it registers. Marley is right. I no longer enjoy this job. Perhaps if I had simply stayed a one-band man, instead of becoming a talent management agency, things would have been different. Now we've got six major clients and endless headaches.

Well, no. Five, I suppose. Harper and Sadie are likely to split up now. It's bloody unfair. They were part of something special, with Strut, but they can't find their place now.

"Bad news for Harper and Sadie..." Ari murmurs, turning the Strut picture toward her to see their better days.

"Maybe. Maybe not," I say. "So about that secret birthday party Row, you, and Marley are planning for me next month..."

"How did you know!?!?" she cries.

"Love, think of who you are asking," I say and she huffs.

"I think some impromptu music would be a good idea. Make sure there's a stage."

"For an acoustic set?" she's already typing in her phone.

"Not just. Make sure, if the spirit moves any of our rock stars, that they can put on a real show."

"You're not talking about Soundcrush, are you?"

She's staring at the picture of Strut.

"I have no bloody idea what I'm talking about. Yet," I say, rising slowly and heading for the door.

"You're leaving? Already?" she says in confusion.

I turn slowly. "You're doing a fantastic job," I say. "Honestly, I'm beginning to wonder if you even need me here."

Ari is no fool. She makes me immediately proud by jumping on my admission and pressing for advantage. "I want a raise," she says flatly.

I shake my head, "No, you don't. You want a full commission off the lads, and Dev."

She's shocked. She understands that means I'm turning Daze and Dev over as her full-time clients.

"What about Soundcrush?" she says slowly.

"Not hardly, love. I do need an income, and I promised Trace a while yet. Besides...if the day ever came, I think Marley might fight you for that one," I wink at her as I leave.

Having mastered the hand controls in the van, I'm not quite ready to give up what will likely be my last driving experience for a while. Row is still in the depths of her spa treatments, so I drive out toward Malibu. I end up parking at El Matador State Beach. It's a lovely place—the parking lot lies on impressive cliffs. I don't even have to leave the overlook to view the waves crashing against interesting rock structures on the beach below. The sunset over the Pacific is the main attraction. I get out of the van and lean against the hood as the sky begins to bleed burning orange. The wind whips through my longish hair, and I taste salt on my lips, I long instead for Row's taste.

I close my eyes, feeling the warmth on my face.

I wish she were here.

I want her always with me.

She believes I haven't forgiven her but isn't that forgiveness? Wanting her more than I care about the hurt between us? There was a time when I could hardly bear to be on the same side of the world as her. Now, I want her with me and I'm willing to cope with the pain of her betrayal. It does still hurt. The intensity catches me off guard sometimes. In the same way that my back pain will flare from nowhere, wrenching my gut and forcing me to gasp. I think I'm getting better, and then all of the sudden I'm not.

I won't give up trying, though. Just as I keep plodding away with the physical therapy, hoping for a miracle, I will keep loving her, even in my incapacity to fully forgive, hoping for the miraculous day when the thought of her with Mosteller doesn't twist my insides and cause me to expel angry words.

Or better yet, the day when the thought of them doesn't come at all.

I push away the perpetual image of one of their on-screen love scenes by intentionally thinking about my meeting with Moran. Could a Strut reunion be a possibility? Would Row want that back?

Maybe. She shouldn't have lost it, so if she could have it back...maybe.

I can see her on the stage where she belongs. Her gray hair shining almost pink beneath the hot lights. Fingers tipped in black polish wrapped around her mic, but the song is wrong. The thrashing, throaty anthems she used to write aren't what I'm hearing.

I'm hearing the complicated harmonies we make. Because there I am, with her, just out of the spotlight—the underlayment to her sexy gorgeous song.

That's just a fantasy. I'm not built for the stage like she is. And it's like both Matt and Angelo said. An Indie duo is a hard sell. Sadie and Harper just failed in their similar bid, and very soon I'm going to be the one to have to tell them their gig is up. But if Row could play electric guitar, and Strut could reunite...Colossal would throw it's full support behind them. Row could get back everything she once worked so hard for her. So would Sadie and Harper and even Chili. I imagine we could put aside our differences for something that big.

My job is to love her. That's what I told Moran. Isn't it therefore my job to give her what will make her happiest? Give her back her dreams?

If Strut reunited, maybe they would become my only job. Maybe I could make Trace understand how Row's dreams had to be my only priority, in a way they had never had been. Maybe living for the dreams of the woman I love would be enough to make me less miserable in management.

Or maybe Row has a new dream. One that you're afraid to dream, Rye.

Be quiet and enjoy the sunset, Priscilla.

It is lovely, isn't it...

Thankfully, my inner ghost-girl is not that chatty today. I suppose my mind is more at peace here in this beautiful place. When the last rays of sunlight flare and disappear, I feel a little regret at leaving. It's time to go home, but I've learned something today. I'm ready to start living in the world again.

On the way home, I call Marley as Row has asked. She's somewhat reluctant to counsel us until I make her understand that it's completely Row's idea, and she only wants her. She relents, agreeing to meet with us tomorrow.

Careful attention to Row's messages ensures that I arrive home before she does. With takeout from the Thai Lady.

Row walks in the door, but I am no longer interested in the food.

The woman who comes home to me is not the woman that left this morning. That woman looked tired, frazzled and harassed. This woman looks...she looks...

Christ. She looks like a million fucking dollars.

Rowan has given herself a complete makeover. Gone is the platinum blonde mess. Her hair has been restored to its natural near black. It's trimmed to just below her shoulders, and its gloss and wavy and incredibly dramatic against her pale skin. Her brows have been done, her skin fresh and glowing, her makeup is subtle—smoky eyeshadow and soft pink lips make her gray eyes come alive in her face.

Her outfit spans a look somewhere between youthful and elegant. She's wearing buckle boots to the knee, with a flouncy shiny gray skirt and a tight, short sleeved black sweater.

She twirls slowly, tossing her glossy mane. "What do you think? This is my natural color, obviously. Just like my mom and Bridge..."

I can do nothing but stare. I've never seen Row look so incredible. I've only ever seen her with her natural hair color in pictures from childhood. Once, briefly, after Strut and before Girl Band, she wore it auburn while she was auditioning for roles, but never raven like this. She never wanted to wear her hair the same as Bridget's. They are not identical twins but they look very much alike. Row used her hair color as a way to deviate from their shared looks.

She's beginning to frown at me because I haven't said anything.

"You look...incredibly beautiful," I say quickly. "I'm...Rowan...really. I'm speechless, because you look so beautiful. Your hair, the softer makeup...it suits you."

She dumps the bags and looks in a hall mirror. She smiles at herself, but quickly tucks it back. "You don't think I look too much like Bridge?"

I come to stand behind her, touching an inviting tendril. "You do look a bit like her. In the same way that one could say a panther looks like a black housecat."

She smiles darkly at me in the mirror. "In this analogy, I better be the panther."

"Darling, you know you are..." I whip her around quickly to me. "Can I kiss you?" I ask her.

Her eyes widen in surprise. "You think you have to ask?"

I run my thumb along her lips. "We've had a rough couple of days. You've had worse than me, over the weekend." I touch her scalp where the glue is holding her wound together. "I'm not taking anything for granted between us, anymore."

Her answer is to pull my hand to her mouth and kiss it. "Massage therapy worked out my anger at you," she whispers.

"The sunset at El Matador worked out mine as well," I say, leaning in to kiss her.

She kisses me back, and I taste longing as our tongues meet. After a long moment she pulls away.

"You went to the beach?" she murmurs, stroking my hair. "That's nice."

"I went to work for a while as well," I tell her. "And I picked up dinner."

Those deadly gray eyes widen further.

"Did you hire a driver?"

"No. I will, I suppose. But for today, I drove, while I still can."

She doesn't like it. I see her lips tighten. "You're supposed to worry about my safety, but I'm not supposed to worry about yours, is it?"

"No. You're entitled to worry. But in this case, there's no reason, is there? We're both here, we're both fine..." I kiss her again, and she melts into my arms.

"Christ, you smell delicious," I tell her, nudging beneath her hair, scenting along her neck.

"Must be the essential oils from the massage." Her voice is relaxed. She's not going to give me a hard time about driving the van. "How was it?" she asks instead. "Your day out?"

"Liberating," I tell her.

She regards me with pleased eyes. "That's good, Riley. I'm glad."

"So it seems our day apart has done both of us some good," I kiss her once more, and walk back into the kitchen, using the wall as support. She follows.

"I'm glad to be home, though."

She's parceling out the take-out. Her eyes follow me as I walk around the kitchen without the walker, but she doesn't protest. I'm finding my balance, and I think we may be finding ours as well. No longer controlling husband and guilty wife,  no longer invalid and anxious caregiver.

She is quiet at dinner, and I can tell there is something on her mind. When I press her about what she's thinking, she's reluctant to share.

"This is nice. We've made up. I don't want to upset you again," she admits.

"Did someone assault you today and you're hiding it from me?" I ask.

"No," she smiles into her plate.

"Then I shall do my best not to get overly upset. Even if what you're thinking is something to do with...him," I say with difficulty.

She looks up quickly. "No, not at all. It's...what my mother told me today."

She shares the somewhat shocking tale of her mother's affair. It is difficult for me to believe it, because there is such an unshakable love between her parents. It seems nearly impossible that it could have been forged in the wake of such a betrayal. I chew quietly on the idea that Matt and Marianne did in fact, all evidence considered, do what Row and I are trying to do—find their way to true forgiveness.

"I have a new respect for your father," I murmur. "In all this mess we've scattered in front of them, he never once said a word to me, that he had been through the same."

"He wouldn't," she says softly.

"No, because he loves and respects your mother too much to bring up their past."

"Yes, that's what I was thinking, too. It was only her story to tell."

I take her hand. "How do you feel? That couldn't have been easy to hear..."

"I feel...grateful to my mom for telling me. I've never seen her nervous before. It was a hard thing for her to do."

"Yes, I can imagine."

I examine my own feelings. It's shocking, but I don't feel the kind of raw hurt and betrayal toward my mother-in-law that I felt toward my wife. Obviously, because I'm in love with Row. I just feel...sorrow for Matt and what he must have gone through and sadness for Marianne that she has to live with the incredible guilt.

Oh. Fuck. That was the whole point, wasn't it?

"I suppose your mother intended a lesson with her revelation," I murmur.

"Yes. She told me that you can't forgive me unless I forgive myself. All this...," she gestures to her appearance. "It's part of me getting real. Becoming genuine. Relearning to value myself. Letting go of..."

"The girl who made the mistakes."

"Yes."

I take her hand. "Well, you certainly accomplished erasing Stella, and I love the new look. The Real Row. But. Can we put this serious talk away for the evening, darling? Marley will meet with us tomorrow and we can talk about it more. Tonight, I'd really like to play a little, if you would..."

My new panther's glossy mane catches the kitchen lights as she bobs her head. "Just for a little while. Getting real is exhausting."

We play two songs only, before Row is yawning from her spot atop the dresser. She's not in her lacy underwear tonight, but also not in an old t-shirt like she used to wear. This is a simple black chemise she's wearing, with a matching robe. She must have bought it today with her new clothes. It's not quite a seduction outfit but a newer, sophisticated look for Row's sleeping attire.

I ignore the ever present ache in my back as I put my guitar off the bed and walk across the floor unaided to her, helping her blow out candles.

"I like this," I say, running my hands along her silk gown. "Very pretty. Come to bed, darling. Let me hold you."

She helps me take my foot braces off and together we fold into the bed. We kiss tenderly for a while, but by some unspoken mutual agreement, neither of us wants the uncertainties of trying to escalate romance tonight. After a time, the meeting of our mouths fades into a cuddle, where I'm holding her close.

"You know...even though I do miss sex with you," she whispers, "I love this just as much."

"How lovely for you. I quite prefer fucking first."

She laughs. "Well...the balls are in your court..."

"Ha-ha," I slap her ass lightly. "Sleep, my love. You seem quite tired. Perhaps in the morning, however..."

"We have forever, Riley..."

"Do we, now?" I murmur.

I haven't thought about forever in a long time. What kind of forever does Row want? The kind like her parents have? The kind where we at some point, perhaps, remarry? I don't know. I don't know if I could ever do vows again. It hurt too much to know they were broken so easily.

"We have all the time in the world. I would wait forever, for us to get it right this time," she amends.

"Well, if anyone can set us on the right path, it's probably Doc Gorgeous."

Row blows out the last candle by her bedside and we slip into slumber.