In Love With A Superstar

Brennan's [POV]

Standing in front of the large picture window with my carry-on suitcase next to me, I let out the biggest, longest, most exaggerated sigh I can, mostly to get my mother's attention. The snow is piling up faster than the plow trucks can get rid of it.

Of course, my parents live in a townhouse not far from the waterfront, on a side street, which means there isn't a single plow coming down their street, which means Uber, Lyft or a taxicab won't be able to pick me up.

"What's wrong, Brenny?" Brenny. I loathe the nickname my mother still insists on calling me after all these years.

What's a guy have to do to get his mom to call him by his name, Brennan? It's a fine name, it's the one she gave me at birth but quickly fell into the habit of shortening and adding the "y" sound.

She should've named me Benny. Then maybe I wouldn't be so embarrassed when she calls me Brenny.

"It's snowing," I state the obvious.

"I told you yesterday the Nor'Easter was coming."

"I forgot. How am I supposed to get home?"

"This is your home," she screeches from the kitchen like Laverne from that old sitcom, Laverne and Shirley.

"My other home. Do you know the one that paid for your condo? The one where I have a life."

My mom comes into the living and stands next to me. She's wearing an apron with some type of batter smeared all over it.

She and my dad have big New Year's Eve plans with their friends and I'm due to catch a flight out of Logan in about three hours, at least I hope I am.

"You'll have to stay a few more nights."

She shrugs and walks back to the kitchen. Staying a few more nights is easy for her to say, she likes having me home.

I, on the other hand, have things to do, like bask in the sun and only get wet when I decide to jump in the pool not look at cold white shit falling to the ground in rapid succession.

As if on cue, my agent's ring tone plays from the pocket of my hoodie. I pull my phone out, verify it is my manager, and slide the bar to answer.

“Hey."

"Your flight is canceled," Vance Davis barks into the receiver.

"I'm trying to book on the next available flight out, but with the holiday tomorrow and the snowstorm, everything is pushed back the next couple of days. You cool chilling in Beantown?"

"No one but non-locals calls it that," I tell him.

"Right, you cool though?"

"I'm supposed to be at Rayna's party tonight, can you call and cancel for me?"

"Ooh," he says, and I picture him rubbing his hands together.

"You don't want to call and cancel yourself?" I pinch the bridge of my nose, inhale and exhale slowly, as my meditation specialist taught me.

In my business, we need all the help any guru is willing to offer.

"No, I don't. I'm making an appearance on behalf of whatever contract I signed, nothing more."

"But it's Rayna Freaking Reynolds. Only the hottest, most eligible chick on the market."

"You go to the party then, Vance. I was only going because I was paid to. I'm snowed in. Can't get there. Send my condolences."

I hang up because there's no getting it through his head when it comes to Rayna and me. Sure, she's beautiful, but beauty only goes so far.

If I'm going to date, and that's a big if, it needs to be a woman who has some intellect, who I can carry on a meaningful conversation with, someone I want to spend time with, and don't have to be paid to show up at their parties.

Instead of watching the snow, I take my suitcase back to my room and unpack. Vance said a few days and I hate the idea of living out of my suitcase.

After my clothes are back in my dresser, I find myself lying on my childhood bed, bored out of my mind.

Again, I pull my phone from the pocket of my hoodie and scroll through my contacts.

I told very few people I was home for Christmas, mostly because they make a big deal out of my career and it never fails, they always have "a friend" . . . a friend who wants an autograph, a cousin who is such a big fan, a roommate who wants to hook up, and sometimes I want to be the Brenny of the group and not the famous one who's guilted into giving a piece of himself away.

I click on Jordan's name, the one buddy from high school who I have kept in contact with, and send him a text.

Hey man, plans tonight? I'm stuck for a few days.

Almost instantly the three conversation bubbles pop up Jordan: Chill party at my friend's high rise. Everyone is cool. No fan shit.

BYOB Jordan sends another quick text with the address, which happens to be a half mile from my parents. I could easily walk there, have a few beers, and chill.

Ring in the new year and walk back home. But do I want to party? Or do I want to hide behind a hat and go sit in some bar downtown? It's pretty bad when I, mister badass superstar, don't have plans tonight, but my parents do. My life is lame.

There's no question about it. I tell Jordan I'll stop by and leave it at that. I shut my phone off and decide to do the most rock star thing ever take a nap.

After what was probably the most restless nap ever, I get up and find my parents sitting at the table eating.

"Hey, pops."

"Mom says you're here for a couple more days?"

"Yeah, the storm sort of messed my flight up."

"Sit down and I'll make you a plate." Mom gets up and heads into the kitchen. I do as she says and takes the seat I've always sat in. By always, I mean the opposite of my dad.

"Storm will clear up tomorrow, flights should be normal the day after," Dad says in between bites.

My mom brings my plate over, chicken and mashed potatoes, with green beans. After living alone for a few years, there's nothing like a homecooked meal.

“Thanks, Mom. And yeah, Vance said I should be good to go."

“Well, you're more than welcome to come over to the Brumet's with us, if you'd like." To play cards and charades, no thanks.

"Thanks, but I'm heading to Jordan's. His friend has a place not far from here we're going to go hang at."

"Don't forget to watch the fireworks, they go off shortly after midnight," Mom adds.

As if I'd forget. Of all the places I've been to on New Year's, Boston will always be my favorite. Maybe because it's my hometown, but it feels right to celebrate here. I help mom clear the table before I hop in the shower.

By the time I'm out, my parents are gone, and the thought crosses my mind to stay home, but I know the closer it gets to midnight, the more I will have wished I was out celebrating.

I dress in dark jeans, and a blue button-down shirt, put my biker boots on that's what mom calls them, and grab my old winter coat from the closet. I need a scarf for good measure and all but wrap it around my head.

One look in the mirror reminds me of what I used to look like when I lived here . . . an idiot, dressed for the snow apocalypse.

A warm idiot who hopes no one recognizes. My hands are stuffed deep into my jacket pockets as I make my way toward the waterfront.

The snow is deep, it's cold, and my pants are getting wet from where the large snowflakes land on me.

There's hardly any traffic out here and I'm tempted to call my parents and ask them how exactly they got to their friend's house because no one should be driving in this mess.

Halfway to Jordan's, well his friends' place, I remember I'm supposed to BYOB. I suppose I could show up empty-handed because I know there will be someone or many someone's willing to share their liquor with Brennan McLean so they can tweet, Instagram, and post all over Facebook that they're partying with me.

The thought is tempting, but it's also dangerous. You never know who might slip something into a drink. I turn around and head back toward the grocery store I passed earlier.

The walk is taking more time than it should, and my calves are screaming from the workout they're getting.

I should probably tell Vance about this new snow workout. It could be the next up-and-coming fad for everyone to try.