Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
“I find I’m most honest and at ease in the bedroom,” he answers.
“Have your eyes always been that brown?” I shake my head and step into the kitchen, placing my bag on the breakfast nook. “The kitchen is fine.”
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he mutters and slides into the bench across from me. His belly bumps the table, and I love that he doesn’t make an effort to suck his gut in. I love how confident he is in his skin—whether he’s performing on stage or hanging out with me. “Alright, let’s get this game of twenty questions started. But I have a rule.”
“You don’t get to make the rules. This is my interview,” I point out, rummaging in my bag for my recorder. I’ll record our words on both my phone and the dedicated recorder.
“My rule is that for every question you ask me, I get to ask you one,” he continues as if I didn’t object.
“You’re not interviewing me,” I remind him.
“It’s important I know facts about my girlfriend. What if someone asks me your favorite flower? I should know those things.”
I scowl at him, taking the seat across from him. “Fine, but I get two questions to your one. Are you ready?”
“For you, always,” he answers with a wink.
I pull up the questions I neatly printed on a sheet of copy paper. I could have left the questions as a list on my phone, but I can’t deny that it made me feel like a real reporter to print them. “You’ve said before that you picked up a guitar for the first time when you were fifteen. Did you play any instruments before that?”
I don’t miss the change in his expression. He’s guarding something. Zac has secrets. “No.”
“What made you pick up the guitar then?”
“Just wanted to be popular,” he answers. It’s the same thing he’s always said in interviews. But after getting to spend time around him, I know two things. The first is that he’s lying and the second is that he doesn’t care about being popular.
Every time I’ve been out with Zac, people approach him constantly. But he’s as happy to fade from the spotlight and let someone else have it.
“What are you hiding?”
“It’s my turn for a question,” he answers with an easy smile. “Why did you go into reporting?”
“To be popular,” I deadpan.
He chuckles. “Touché.”
“Should I put that down as the reason you tried out for the movie too?”
He stands from the table, bumping it with his belly again. He moves to the pantry, swinging open the door. “Do you want some dinner?”
“I want an interview,” I answer, frustration bleeding into my tone.
“Afraid breakfast is my specialty, but I can also make a mean can of soup.” He steps from the pantry and holds up a can of tomato soup.
He’s not going to do this. He was lying all this time. He’s been stringing me along, but he had no intention of giving me a good interview.
I turn off the recorder and gather my things with jerky movements. “I’ll take a rain check on the soup.”
I’m halfway out the door when he grabs my elbow to stop me.
I turn to look at him, and I see the raw pain flash across his expression. “I was in the hospital,” his voice is hoarse. “That’s when I picked up the guitar.”
Martha said he doesn’t go to the hospital. Did something bad happen to him once? Is that why he’s so hesitant to talk about this?
“Zac…” I start.
“I’ll tell you anything you want to know but don’t ask me about that.”
I nod, suddenly understanding why he’s playful and casual in interviews. That’s not his personality. He doesn’t want to let the world see his wounded places.
Given the side of social media I’ve seen this past week, I can’t fault him for that. Instead, I find myself wanting to protect Zac. Clearing my throat, I ask, “What if we start the interview over again?”
Chapter 10
Dotty
“And that’s how I lasted for eighteen seconds on Old Man Teller’s bull,” Zac finishes the story.
I chuckle and finish the last sip of my wine. We’ve spent the last three hours talking over soup and wine. The recording stopped long ago but we’re still chatting. I’ve learned a lot about the country singer and even more about the man. I’m not entirely sure an article about Zac will ever do him justice, but I’m determined to try. “You didn’t get arrested?”
“Nah, Old Man Teller never found out.” He shakes his head, a faraway look in his eyes that tells me he’s thinking of his teenage years.
I yawn and glance at the time. “It’s late. I should go.” I don’t really want to leave. That’s the thing about spending time with Zac. Every time I do, I lose track of the hours we spent together.