Page 13 of Two Hit Wonder

"I understand."

"Do you?" Maeve turned to face her fully, and there was something raw in her expression. "Because I spent a long time falling apart, Iona. I hurt people. I hurt myself. I nearly destroyed everything. And then I came here, and I put myself back together, piece by piece, and now you want me to risk all of that because Cam bought too many Ferraris or something?"

"She invested in cryptocurrency, actually."

"Of course she did."

"And there was also a club in Ibiza."

"Naturally."

They looked at each other. The moment stretched thin enough to see through.

"I'm sorry," Iona said. "For not writing. For not checking on you. For showing up after fifteen years asking for something instead of just… showing up."

Maeve's expression shifted, softened for just a second. Then she shook her head. "Go home, Iona."

"Maeve…"

"Go home. Tell Cam to find another singer. Tell Ellie I hope she's well. And don't come back here expecting me to save anyone." She walked to the door and opened it. Cold Scottish air rushed in, carrying the smell of rain and heather. "I'm done saving people. I couldn't even save myself."

Iona stood. Her legs felt unsteady. She'd known this was a long shot, but somewhere, stupidly, she'd hoped. She always hoped. That was her problem.

"What if I came back?" she asked. "Not for the band. Just to see you."

"Don't."

The word was final. A door closing.

Iona walked past her, out onto the ancient stone steps. The sheep was there, watching from the garden with yellow eyes that seemed distinctly smug. It had won. They'd both lost.

"Goodbye, Maeve."

"Goodbye, Iona."

The door closed behind her. Iona stood there for a moment, looking at the cottage, the hills, the gray sky. Then she started the long walk back to the village.

THE TRAIN WAS nearly empty. Late afternoon on a Tuesday, heading south. Iona had found a seat by the window and was staring out at the passing countryside without really seeing it, replaying the conversation in her head. All the things she should have said. All the ways she should have said them.

"Excuse me?"

Iona looked up. A woman was standing in the aisle, somewhere in her early forties, with sensible hair and a nervous smile. She was holding out a napkin and a pen.

"Sorry to bother you, but… are you Iona Faith? From The Stage Girls?"

Iona blinked. People still recognized her sometimes. Not often. But occasionally. Of course, most of the fans who used to wait by stage doors had all grown up, moved on. Gotten jobs, gotten married, gotten lives that didn't involve screaming at pop stars.

"I am," she said. "Or I was. A long time ago."

"I knew it! I had your poster on my bedroom wall. I played I Wanna Be a Star about fifty times a day."

Iona smiled and felt a weight in her chest. A fan. A whole, all grown up, adult fan. A girl that had once danced around her bedroom and was now asking a stranger on a train for an autograph. Practically an old woman. Another decade or so and she’d fade into the background, just like all women did when they reached a certain age and the world deemed them unimportant. And Iona’s heart hurt. Like she was any different. Sitting here on a train with a daughter at home and two marriages behind her and idiotic ideas of re-forming a rock band.

She sighed and signed the napkin with a hand that didn't quite feel like hers. Smiled the smile she used to give to cameras. Said all the right things.

The woman thanked her profusely and retreated to her own seat, clutching her prize like it was made of gold instead of paper.

Iona turned back to the window.