Chapter Text
“You know I’ve been planning this trip for months now, right?”
“I know, but this came up last minute.” His voice pleads with a version of her that no longer exists.
“It’s always last minute,” Baran huffs, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder as she plucks a loose sock from the laundry. “That’s your thing, Salar.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll pick him up tomorrow.” She hangs up before he can thank her. It wouldn’t mean much, even if he did. Her phone clatters against the counter and she gives herself approximately five seconds to let the rage wash through her, then picks up the laundry basket and carries on with her day.
When she picks her son up, he’s excited to see her, and not at all put off by the cold shoulder she gives his father. He’s almost seventeen and has grown into his own opinions, and it gives Baran a guilty stab of satisfaction to know they’re in her favor. A few years ago, when they were still in the early stages of an acrimonious divorce, she had nearly killed herself trying to hide everything from him, only to find out he had already overheard several of their many, many fights about it.
“Hi, honey.” She gets one kiss on the top of his head before he squirms away, blushing.
“Hi, mom.” He tosses his bag into the backseat and stomps his way to the passenger seat, closing the door without saying goodbye to his father. The warning look she shoots at him through the windshield is enough to get a half-hearted wave, then he disappears back into his phone.
“Stagecoach is a three-day festival, but these tickets are just for today. It’s the last day,” he says unhelpfully. It’s so like Salar to think it never occurred to her to look up an event she’s attending, but she lets it go. “I think the main act starts pretty late, like, nine or ten, so I wouldn’t worry about traffic.”
She scans the tickets, pursing her lips at the bolded 8:00 p.m. printed right on the front. “Sounds good.”
“And there’s a VIP meet and greet before the show, so you have to get there early.” He points to the corner that clearly says ‘VIP Meet & Greet; 5:00 p.m.’ and she stifles the urge to slap his hand away.
It seems like he might say something else, so she cuts him off, heading to the car with a flat “goodbye,” not bothering to look behind her at the packed suitcase already on the porch.
“So,” she says, reversing out of the driveway, “are you excited?”
Her son doesn’t look up from his phone. “Super excited.”
She frowns. “Cyrus.”
He lets out a beleaguered sigh and turns to her. “I’m excited.”
She can see the disappointment in his eyes, dulled by years of his father behaving the same way, and it feels like someone is slowly pushing a needle into one of her lungs. “Why don’t you play some music? The main girl we’re going to see, what’s her name?”
“Trinity Santos.” He connects to the speakers and an acoustic guitar starts, a smooth voice accompanying it after a few measures.
Her head nods to the bass drum that comes in, humming appreciatively. “She sounds good. Is this her thing? Guitar?”
“Yeah, it’s a lot of folk and indie stuff. She blew up a few years ago with this album, and she’s supposed to release a fourth one next year.”
The music loosens his tongue and he chats with her until they get home, where they stop for lunch and change for the show, and wait for his friends to show up. Once they do, Baran relegates herself to the role of ‘mom,’ happy to listen to the three of them laughing, Cyrus twisting around to face the backseat for most of the two-hour drive.
“How are you, Ms. Al-Hashimi?” Hassan asks at one point, and Baran smiles and replies “fine, thank you,” and asks after his parents. Hassan’s younger brother, Amir, compliments her hair, and she laughs and thanks him too, and then Cyrus starts a story about some jerk on the football team, and she half-listens to them and half-listens to Cyrus's music for the rest of the drive.
When they get to the festival, the sun is out in full force, and she finds she has absolutely no desire to follow three teenagers around in the blazing heat.
“I’ll just be here,” she says, gesturing to the VIP lounge as he pockets her credit card. “Call me if you need anything.”
Watching them walk away, she gets a pang of nostalgia for when Cyrus was too young to go off on his own; holding his hand the whole way through the zoo, chaperoning field trips, all of it. She had done her best to cherish the memories while she lived them, but she knows some things can only really be appreciated in hindsight.
She passes the time by scrolling through her email, scrutinizing the photos Samira sent of a new artist they’re considering exhibiting. The boredom is mind-numbing, and as she looks around at the excited groups of kids and the tired gratification in the eyes of their parents, she curses Salar yet again for interrupting the solo camping trip she had planned. It was her birthday present to herself, and somehow, he found a way to ruin it.
Enough of this.
Wallowing has never been her strong suit, so after a few seconds she shakes her head and leans towards an entirely too-energetic mom of three.
“Excuse me,” she smiles, “do you know where the restrooms are?”
“Just over that way,” the woman smiles back, pointing to a door off to the side. “The VIP bathrooms are on the right.”
“Great, thank you.” Baran pulls the back of her shorts down as she stands, the over-sized button-up not doing much to cover anything. Grabbing her tote bag, she exits the lounge, blinking in the sun and sliding her sunglasses back on her face.
She’s met with several identical trailers. Nothing looks particularly like a bathroom, and she scans them, searching for a sign. A door opens to her right and she turns to see a woman who looks like she works here descending from one of the trailers. She walks right past the security guards, neither of them seeing each other, and gratefully steps out of the sun.
The inside is surprisingly roomy, for a bathroom. Dark paneling and a large mirror greet her, and she surreptitiously checks her hair as she passes it, pausing in front of the door. Two sharp knocks are met by a muffled “just a second!” and she steps back, staring at the ground as the toilet flushes.
The door slides open. Standing behind it is a young woman. Baran’s immediate impression is that she’s beautiful, with the kind of beauty that makes people lose their train of thought when they look at her, which Baran is currently doing.
The woman stares back at her with a slightly puzzled set to her brows, but her lips curve into a tentative smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
The silence stretches while Baran tries to figure out where her breath has gone. The woman blinks, green eyes peering out of her face, and it snaps Baran back into motion.
“Do you mind?” she gestures to the bathroom behind her.
The pale face twists with amusement and a healthy dose of confusion. “Oh, you want to—use the bathroom—”
“Yeah.” They slide past each other in the cramped space, and as the door closes, Baran is already forgetting about her.
She washes her hands and fusses with her hair in the mirror, looking herself in the eye and reminding herself to be grateful, to try to enjoy the extra time with her son. The music he played earlier wasn’t half-bad, either, some of the lyrics even sticking with her after the song ended. She slides the door open and steps out, and comes to an abrupt halt.
The woman is still there, sitting on the ground and sipping from a can of soda, arms resting on bent knees. “Hi again.”
Several things fly through Baran’s mind, some of them hilarious, most of them alarming, and she holds up a hand. “Are you one of those people that gets off on listening to people pee?”
“No, I wasn’t—”
“Because I don’t think you can just go around—”
“This is actually my trailer.”
“What?”
The woman takes another swig of soda, looking Baran up and down. “I guess it’s not literally mine,” she says, “I don’t own it.”
Baran blinks down at her. “This is your trailer?”
“Yeah,” the woman says, her smile a touch too mischievous for Baran’s liking. “I’m performing on the mainstage in a few hours.” Her voice is musical, the words rising and falling in cadence.
Oh, fuck.
Baran closes her eyes and counts to three, then opens them. The woman hasn’t moved, is still smiling up at her with those bright green eyes, and she tries to say something that won’t make her look like a total asshole. “I had no idea what you looked like.”
The woman—Trinity Santos—jumps to her feet. “Big fan?” Her teeth are very white and perfect and lighting up Baran’s brain as she grins, a few strands of dark hair falling into her eyes.
“No, I—um. Anyway, I’ll just…” Baran trails off, heading for the door as fast as her feet will take her.
“Hey,” Trinity says behind her, and Baran pauses. “You know if you wanted to, I don’t know.” She lets out an awkward laugh, and even that sounds like music. “Hang out?”
The end of the sentence hangs in the air and the disbelief is strong in Baran’s voice when she turns back. “Hang out.”
“Yeah,” Trinity says, more enthusiastically. “Do you want a drink? I’ve got all the sodas.” She pulls open a mini-fridge that Baran didn’t notice before, waving at the shelves. “The healthy ones, the not-so-healthy ones. Kombucha, which, if you haven’t tried it, is like drinking salad dressing.” She makes a face, sticking her tongue out, and Baran is baffled to find herself thinking the word ‘cute.’
“I’m actually here with my son for the VIP meet and greet, so I’d better go find him.” She makes no move to leave as she says this, not missing the way Trinity’s eyes never leave her face.
“Your son, he’s a fan?”
“Oh, yeah. I mean, who isn’t?”
One of Trinity’s eyebrows arches. “You, apparently,” her voice drops, moving something in Baran’s chest. “Since you didn’t know what I looked like.”
“Right.” She clicks her tongue, wondering if there’s a way out of this, a little afraid of the fact that she’s not sure she wants to find it. The need to fill the silence has her opening her mouth again, no idea what will come out of it. “My son’s father bought the tickets for the meet and greet, he was supposed to be here with him, and, um.” She scratches the back of her head and Trinity’s eyes follow the movement. “And he canceled last minute, and anyway, I should—”
“His father.” A sparkle enters the green eyes. “Not your husband.”
Baran’s voice dies in her throat, her mouth slightly open. It is an insane thing to say to a stranger, and it is even more insane for the tiny thrill it sparks in her.
Trinity Santos is flirting with her.
She almost forgot what it looked like, flirting. She certainly forgot what it felt like, at least when it’s done properly, because the few dates she’s been on since her divorce have been pitifully dull, more of a tedious exercise in endurance for her than a night out.
It is a nice feeling.
She swallows, relishing the final traces of weightlessness, then tries for a tone that signals the end of the conversation. “Well, he was my husband. Now he’s just his father.”
She meets Trinity’s gaze with a polite smile, but it fades as she realizes the moment feels distinctly not final, feels, in fact, like the complete opposite of that.
The door to the trailer opens and a man enters, short, tousled brown hair looking annoyingly styled in the way people do when they want it to look messy, but not too messy. “Almost ready for you,” he says to his phone, presumably speaking to Trinity. When no one answers, he looks up. Alarm flashes across his face. “Who’s this?”
“Oh, I’m—” Baran hesitates, not sure what the answer is. Lost? Trespassing? Sorry?
“She’s a friend,” Trinity says smoothly, leaning against the counter.
“Okay,” he says slowly, then decides it doesn’t matter and checks something else on his phone. “Almost time for the meet and greet,” he says without looking up, “do you need me to dress you?”
Trinity shoots Baran a sidelong glance, and Baran has to bite back a laugh as a flush creeps up the woman’s neck, staining her cheeks an adorable shade of pink.
“No, I’m fine, Dennis,” Trinity grumbles through her embarrassment, her eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “Thank you,” she adds with a grimace as Dennis leaves, waiting for the door to close before looking up at Baran with a mortified expression.
Baran purses her lips, cheeks burning with silent laughter. “Do you need someone to help dress you?” Her teasing tone is so full of mirth she doesn’t recognize it as her own.
She watches Trinity try to regain some dignity, leaning one hand on the counter and pretending to seriously consider the question. “On special occasions, yeah, sometimes.” She lets out a snort of laughter as she turns to the cabinet behind her, then, right in front of Baran, pulls her shirt over her head to reveal a lacy, black bralette.
Baran isn’t sure what sound she makes, but she almost falls over in her haste to turn around.
She doesn’t turn around too quickly, though. It’s not like Trinity gave her a warning. It’s not like Baran was trying to be a creep.
It’s more like Trinity seized the opportunity to get undressed in front of her, for the express purpose of flustering her.
And fuck if she isn’t. Flustered, that is, because the imprint of a curling tattoo that crisscrosses Trinity’s ribs and disappears under her bra is currently burning itself on the insides of Baran’s eyelids, and no matter how many times she blinks, her eyes keep drifting to the mirror and the reflection of Trinity that she can still see in her peripheral vision.
The door bursts in and the man, Dennis, is back. “Great news,” he says breathlessly, “we’ve got the campaign for that line of watches. I have one for you to wear, and then you need to get to the meet and greet.”
He leaves in an equally abrupt way, and as Baran turns to see a fortunately (unfortunately) dressed Trinity Santos looking entirely too pleased with herself, she shakes her head.
Brand deals, famous singers, people whose job it is to dress those famous singers. It’s all just a little too outlandish to her.
“Sadly, duty calls,” Trinity says, about to head out the door, and Baran scrambles for an extra moment in her outlandish orbit.
“I’m sorry about the…”
“Using my toilet?” Trinity smirks at her, pushing the door open. “Don’t be. You’re the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. You’re welcome to use it again.”
She steps out as Baran stammers her way through a confused thank you. Right before the latch clicks, the door swings open and Trinity pops her head back in.
“I never got your name.”
“My name?” Baran points at herself.
Trinity snorts. “Yeah, you. What’s your name?”
Still standing in the middle of the trailer, she hears herself say “Baran” as if from very far away.
“Baran.” Trinity rolls the ‘r’ perfectly and winks, a cocky smile spreading across her face. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. See you at the meet and greet, Baran.”
And then she’s gone, and Baran is staring at her bemused reflection in the mirror, and trying to remember what time it is, and what her name is, and if she knows any of the words to any songs by Trinity Santos.
They’re standing in line while Baran tries to pay attention to Cyrus explaining something about the record label, when a hand waves them forward.
“Oh my gosh,” Cyrus says, his voice jumping up in excitement. “Hi, I love your music, I can’t believe—I mean, your songs mean so much to me. They’ve saved my life. Literally.”
This last sentence makes Baran frown, and she looks at his face a little closer, reading his sincerity with a mother’s worry in her heart. She glances down to Trinity Santos, who is sitting behind a table and mindlessly signing things, waiting for the scripted “thank you, it’s so nice to meet you,” but it doesn’t come.
In fact, Trinity’s hand has stopped moving, a marker frozen a few inches above a CD case as a member of her team tries to get her attention. She pushes them away and sits a little straighter, and her eyes lock with Baran’s before she turns to Cyrus.
“I hope you know how much that means to me,” she says in a soft, earnest voice, and Baran watches her son hanging on to every word. “It’s always been comforting, listening to music that makes me feel a little less alone.”
“Your music is that for me,” Cyrus says, his unsigned poster forgotten in his hand. “I listen to it, and it makes me feel real, like—”
“Like whoever wrote it knows exactly what you’re going through,” Trinity finishes for him, and he sighs, a long release that ends in an incredulous laugh.
“Yeah. Exactly like that.” He smiles. “Sorry, I don’t want to take up all your time, but these are my friends.” He waves them forward and Baran hangs back as they all gush over Trinity, and right as they’re about to be waved through, she grabs Cyrus’s poster.
“Would you mind signing this?” She feels a little silly, but that evaporates when Trinity turns her gaze on Baran and raises an eyebrow, holding out a hand for the poster.
Baran almost reaches out to shake it, or just to hold it, to see what it feels like to touch Trinity Santos. She catches herself just in time, handing over the roll and watching as Trinity flattens it out against the table, her fingers flexing a lot more than the action calls for, and loses her train of thought when Trinity looks up again.
“To Cyrus, right?”
Next to her, looking embarrassed, Cyrus nods. Baran imitates him, trying to think of something to say.
“Mel,” Trinity says to the woman behind her, who seems to only exist for the express purpose of handing Trinity things to sign, “can you give Baran here a card?”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, we already have the poster,” Baran starts to object, but Mel gives her such a look of impatience that she takes the square of cardboard without another word and lets herself be waved onwards, Cyrus and his friends looking back at her with confusion.
“How the hell does Trinity Santos know your name?”
“Language, Cyrus,” Baran chastises, slipping the card into her back pocket without looking, trying to read the tickets with eyes that aren’t really working. She fights the urge to turn back, to see if Trinity is watching them walk away, and waits until her eyes focus. “I told the lady in line, she must have mentioned it,” she says lamely, hoping he’s too excited to pick her lie apart. “Okay, turn left. Our seats are that way.”
She tucks the tickets in her pocket, and when she pulls them out again to double-check their seat numbers, the card comes out. The front is a print of the latest album, and the back has Trinity Santos’s signature, her website, and below it, a small line of handwritten numbers.
Cyrus, trying to grab the tickets from her, narrows his eyes at the card. “Is that the card? What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she answers, confused. “It looks like a marketing thing.”
He grabs it out of her hand, but pronounces it “just the merch website and a number from one of the songs,” before handing it back to her and turning to his friends.
She has to fend off a few more questions, but by the time the show is starting, lights dimming and smoke machine swirling, she has fallen so far on the list of things worth his attention, she might as well be another stadium seat.
Except halfway through the show, during one of the sadder songs, Cyrus leans away from his friends and grabs her hand, and she almost tears up when he rests his head on her shoulder.
“Thanks for being here, maman.”
She kisses the top of his head, squeezing his hand, and for a moment, all of the pain and anguish of watching his father disappoint him yet again means nothing. “I love you,” she murmurs, and he says it back, and then the music is picking up again and she loses him to the beat of a bass drum.
“And this one,” the amplified voice of Trinity Santos washes over the crowd, “wasn’t on the setlist, but I’d like to sing it for you anyway.”
The crowd roars, and Baran smiles in wondrous disbelief, at the idea of one woman holding so much power as to bring forty thousand people together for one evening, all there for the same reason. For her.
“Well, not for all of you,” Trinity says as someone runs out to her with a new guitar.
It’s almost impressive, the amount of different instruments Baran has watched the singer play in the last hour and a half. It impresses her a little more than it should, considering she already knows several people that can play several different kinds of instruments, but the energy of the evening is getting to her, the live music and the massive crowd and the perfect weather, and the lyrics that seem to reach straight into her heart and grab the muscle and squeeze it in place of her heartbeat.
“Just a special someone that I met earlier, who may just be the hottest woman I’ve ever seen,” Trinity says to a chorus of whistling. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” she corrects herself, and Baran watches on the jumbotron as Trinity winks directly at the camera, her breath catching. “This one’s for the beautiful woman with the beautiful name.”
The screams and cheers turn to thousands of voices singing in unison, every single one of them oblivious to the absolute chaos raging through one Baran Al-Hashimi.
When Trinity gets to a specific line, Baran sits bolt upright, her eyes finding the lone woman at the front of the stage. The message could not be any clearer.
Trinity Santos sings nine numbers that all match the card in Baran’s pocket, which has ten.