Page 47 of Two Hit Wonder

Iona excused herself to get water from the little fridge in the corner, mostly so she could turn her back and get her face under control. She poured herself a glass with hands that were only slightly unsteady and tried to think unsexy thoughts.

The problem was that Maeve had always been her type. Tall, intense, terrifying. Red hair and green eyes and a voice that could make you believe in anything.

She remembered Maeve when she was only Mo’s age. Before the band, before any of it really. Gangly and awkward and absolutely obsessed with The X-Files. She'd had a poster of Gillian Anderson on her bedroom wall and had talked about her with the kind of fervent devotion usually reserved for religious figures. Maeve had declared, with complete conviction, that Gillian Anderson was the most beautiful woman who had ever lived.

"She's a genius," Maeve had said, at fourteen, with complete sincerity. "And she's got the best bone structure I've ever seen."

Iona had teased her about it mercilessly. "Just admit you fancy her."

"I don't fancy her. I admire her craft."

"You fancy her craft?"

"Shut up."

The memory made Iona smile despite herself. Teenage Maeve, before everything got complicated, blushing furiously at the suggestion that her interest in Dana Scully might be anything other than professional appreciation. She'd worn her hair the same way for a month after one episode, trying to recreate whatever Gillian Anderson had done with hers. It hadn't worked. Maeve's red curls had their own ideas about things.

And Iona looked nothing like Gillian Anderson. She was short where Gillian Anderson was poised, round where Gillian Anderson was elegant, dark-haired instead of auburn. If Maeve's type was cool, untouchable redheads with cheekbones you could cut glass on, then Iona was approximately the opposite of that.

Which was fine. Good, even. It meant she could stop being ridiculous about a hug that had lasted approximately three seconds and probably meant nothing.

"Iona." Shepherd's voice cut through her spiraling. "Can I borrow you for a minute?"

She followed him into the corridor, which was marginally less grim now that someone had replaced the flickering light bulb. The carpet was still sticky, though. Some things never changed. She took a breath, then another, somewhat startled to find that she still knew how to breathe like a normal person.

"This is big," Shepherd said. "You understand that, right?"

"I understand."

"Iona." He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "I've put my reputation on this. My name. Fifteen years of contacts and favors, all called in for one festival slot. If this goes wrong, it's not just the band that suffers."

She felt a prickle of defensiveness. "We've been rehearsing. We played Manchester."

"Manchester was a warm-up. Lakeside is a hundred thousand people and live television coverage." He paused. "I'm worried about Maeve."

There it was. The thing he'd been building toward.

"Maeve is fine."

"Maeve hasn't performed on a stage that size in fifteen years. Maeve has a history. If she falls apart up there, you all do, and I'm the one who vouched for you."

"She won't fall apart."

"You sound very certain."

"I am." Iona met his eyes. "She's different now. She's been sober for years. She's worked hard. She's not the same person who…"

Who broke my heart. Who left without saying goodbye. Who I apparently still have inconvenient feelings about despite my best efforts. Not things she could say in front of her ex-husband.

"…who she was," Iona finished.

Shepherd studied her for a long moment. "Do you know what you're doing?" he asked quietly.

"With the band?"

"With all of it."

Iona wanted to say yes. Wanted to sound confident and certain and like a woman who had her life together. But this was Shepherd. He’d know if she was lying. He always did. So instead, she said, "I'm figuring it out."