She laughs and wipes her mouth with her napkin. “It’s really cool how you have this new personality coming out. It’s like you’re the same, but just some things are a little different. Your likes and dislikes. Sorta like you’re the twin sister of yourself.”
Interesting. I’m going to bring that up the next time I talk to my therapist.
After lunch, a man and woman approach us in the parking lot with big, excited smiles.
“We don’t mean to be rude, but aren’t you Ember Valentine? From Sugar Kiss?” the woman asks.
I blink at them, feeling utterly confused and thrown off guard by the question. No one’s ever asked me that before.
“Um…” I stammer. I am Ember Valentine, but also, I’m not. Am I supposed to tell people that? Asher mentioned something about an official press release about me, but I have no idea if it’s been published or what it even says.
Geez. I need to be less clueless about things.
“You are,” the man says and then turns to Kenzi. “And you’re their daughter. Holy shit. Asher Valentine is the fucking shit. We’re huge fans of you guys. We thought you were dead.”
“Thank you,” Kenzi says, touching my arm. “Yes, this is my mother, Ember Valentine, and as you can see, she’s very much alive and well. She was in a tragic accident years ago, but she’s fine now and is happily retired.”
I smile gratefully. Kenzi is obviously used to strangers approaching her about her well-known family. I never would’ve thought to say I was retired to just avoid further details. Before Kenzi spoke up, I think I was about to spew out something awkward about waking up with amnesia and zero clue how to play guitar and how I can’t sing to save my life, and I don’t even like my own nose.
My heart sinks, and my confidence slips back. I’m not doing as well as I thought I was. I don’t think quickly, and I don’t know the correct things to say.
“You look great.” The woman’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. She looks me up and down. “You’re thinner. Can we get your autograph?” She digs in her purse and comes out with a scrap of paper and a pen.
“Oh…” I look to Kenzi for help, unsure if I’m allowed to sign random pieces of paper. I have no idea if there’s a protocol for this type of request. I suppose this could be one of the reasons why Asher has been leery of me going out in public without him, and now I wish he were here, with his strong arm around me and his calming voice. He would also know exactly how to handle this.
“Okay, but then we really need to be going.” Kenzi flashes them a dazzling smile.
My hand shakes as I sign Ember Valentine on the back of a receipt. I feel like I’m committing forgery. “I’m not sure if that’s what my autograph used to look like,” I say apologetically.
“That’s okay,” the woman says, eagerly taking the paper from me. “It will make it even cooler if it’s different.”
“It might be worth money,” the guy adds.
I’m taken aback. Would these people actually sell my signature? The mere idea of that freaks me out, and I’m tempted to yank the paper back from them.
Is having a signature from a famous person who can’t remember how to sign her own name considered cool?
I think it’s sad and inconsiderate, and I don’t like this interaction with so-called fans at all. I want to go back home to Asher and Teddy and sit on our pretty porch and watch the butterflies.
The man pulls out his cell phone. “Can we get a quick photo with you two?”
“No,” Kenzi says sternly, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but my mother isn’t comfortable with photos. She’s living a private life now. I’m sure you understand. Enjoy your day.”
Still gripping my arm, she steers me away from them.
“Thank you,” I mutter under my breath.
I decline the offer to drive Kenzi’s car back home. I feel rattled and shaken by the exchange in the parking lot. I’m not sure how I’d handle that if I was alone. I didn’t like the feeling of being unexpectedly cornered and scrutinized by fans of the band.
They recognized me. Wanted some little memento of me. My writing. My name. My face.
It’s not real though.
That’s not me. They want the me I used to be.
But not me.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Wow, babe. That’s incredible.”
I take a step back from my easel and study my latest painting project.
“Do you think so?” I glance over at Ash, and my heart flutters at the sight of him sitting on the wicker love seat behind me.
He’s wearing frayed and ripped jeans, barefoot, playing his guitar. His hair is pushed back by a pair of aviator sunglasses perched on his head.