After careful consideration that included slammed doors, stomping feet, and more than a few tears, Viv opted to come to the arena with everyone else, and James dutifully followed. Still, they huddled in the corner on a ratty old couch watching movies on Viv's tablet. It was pretty adorable. Jackson spent most of his time with Billy or the sound and lighting guys. I listened in for all of fifteen minutes before my eyes glazed over from boredom, but it was clear that Jackson had inherited Billy's interest in how everything around him worked. Jackson was willing to absorb anything he was told. I slunk back to Billy's dressing room to read my book.

Tess had made herself useful by taking pictures of everything except me as I refused to drop my book, but she spared few others.

"If you refuse to let me take your picture, then you can at least take some pictures," she scolded.

"I have zero knowledge of photography," I warned.

"It's on autofocus. Just point and click," Tess explained.

"I feel like that is a gross understatement," I argued.

"It is, but if you take one hundred pictures and only one is good, at least we have one. Plus, I suspect you'll get shots I won't." Her words were absent as she focused on a camera before handing it to me.

"Shots you won't?"

"Billy knows I'm armed with a camera and is already avoiding me. He won't be able to avoid you," she smirked.

"Wait, why are we taking pictures if Billy doesn't want pictures taken?"

"Oh, that's the conundrum that is your fiancé. He wants the pictures, but doesn't actually want to think of them being taken," Tess giggled.

"Yeah, that sounds like Billy."

"Come on, let's get some shots of the interview."

I thought about resisting, but I knew it'd be futile. Just before we entered the room set up for the various interviews to take place, I panicked.

"Wait, which button do I click?"

"It's the big green one." Annoyance permeated Tess' tone.

Billy was in full stage presence mode. He leaned back leisurely on the end of a couch with one of his long arms stretched out along the back of the sofa and gave answers that were more like riddles to the poor interviewer. Occasionally, an answer would amuse Billy, and he'd let out a low roll of a laugh. It made me miss his genuine laugh, higher and accented with dimples.

"This tour is coming a bit out of nowhere. It's been over a year since your last album," the interview began.

Billy just nodded, waiting for the point.

"What pushed you to tour now instead of returning to the studio?" The man finished.

"Who says I haven't been in the studio?" Billy teased.

"So, is there new material coming out soon?" Excitement filled the interviewer's voice as he flipped from professional to fanboy.

"There is always something being created; I don't share it all. I would assume you don't publish every shopping list you create, but does that make it any less successful?" Billy challenged.

I snapped a few pictures to appease Tess, but most of the time, I stared at the camera as though it entranced me so I could eavesdrop on Billy without distracting him. Still, I struggled with his analogy of a shopping list to the work he had created over the past year, but had yet to share.

"What made you decide to tour?" The interview redirected, acknowledging Billy's caustic temperament with an awkward shift in his chair.

"It felt right. Sometimes things in life push you in a direction, and the best thing to do is follow the path," Billy shot.

"Any experience, in particular, push you in this direction?"

"Well, I had a pony. Her name was Lucifer," Billy began. My gaze snapped up to his face. "She broke her leg and needed shooting," he continued.

"Oh, I am so sorry," the unknowing interviewer soothed.

"I swear it hurt me more than it could've hurt her," he finished.

Tim appeared out of nowhere. "I'm sorry, but the next interview is waiting."

"Oh, of course." The young man clumsily gathered his things. "Thank you for your time; it was a real pleasure, and sorry again about your horse."

Billy gave him a dismissive smile and murmured a thank you as the interview left.

"Really?" Tim and I said in unison.

"What?" Billy sat deeper into the couch as a smile accented by his dimples spread across his face.

"That poor man feels genuinely sorry that a horse had to die, except Bob Dylan killed that fictional horse forty-five years ago," I chided.

"And if that young man had been better prepared, he could have said that, but instead, he thinks I shot a horse named Lucifer. His fault, not mine." Billy let out a satisfied sigh at his misdirection.

"It's his favorite interview pastime," Tim groaned before turning back to Billy. "And for the record, it's your fault. Not everyone has an encyclopedic knowledge of every song written etched into their brain."

"I don't have every song ever written etched into my brain, but I will take the accusation as a compliment." Billy smiled, pleased that he had misdirected a reporter and annoyed Timmy in one moment.

"Mmhmm," Timmy managed, but I could see his fingers clenching into tight balls of white fist and bone. "I'll send the next one in; try to be normal."

As Timmy left, Billy's attention turned to me. "Be good," I scolded.

"Et Tu, Brute?" Billy laughed before stifling his jovial side as a new reported entered the room.

I returned my focus to taking pictures while they settled their pleasantries.

"You've played this show annually for over a decade. Why do you keep coming back?" The young female reporter asked.

"Coming back? I live here." Billy let out a husky laugh.

The reporter nervously laughed. "Does this show hold any special place among the shows you play?"

Billy could tell his jesting was knocking the young woman's confidence. He shifted to lean forward towards her and tugged on his hair a bit to pull it from his face.

"Anytime you play your hometown, it's special. I'm happy they keep inviting me back. I grew up in the shadow of this place. Well, the DECC, at least. A little swankier these days. But I'm happy anytime I can play for nine thousand of my neighbors." Billy gave a smile that was part flirt, part shy, but still not his natural smile.

I found the camera suddenly drawn to my eye as I snapped pictures of this entity I was getting to know.

"This is a tradition for many people in Duluth. Do you have any traditions around the holidays?"

Billy leaned back and looked like he was genuinely thinking about the question. "Yeah," he absently started. "I have the usual family dinners and such at the holidays."

The reporter smiled as Billy looked through her. She paused, expecting more, as I would have, but nothing else spilled from the thoughts roaming Billy's head.

"You have kids," she continued after an empty pause.

"I do," Billy snapped back to reality.

"Do they share your passion for music?"

"Sure, you know they are still figuring things out, so they're interested in all sorts of things, but music is certainly on the list," Billy easily spoke. He wasn't finding this line of questioning as obnoxious as the previous interview, and it showed.

"You have been pretty open about your influences and the music you love. What do you share with them?"

Billy's instinctive reaction was a shrug. "You know music is different for everyone. The happiest song for me could be the saddest song for someone else. It's fun to share everything with them and relive it through their eyes. When they were little, they loved those great novelty songs like Monster Mash and Rubber Ball. Now that they're older, they're into heavier stuff. They also remind me of songs I haven't listened to in a long time. My son was listening to Donovan the other day. It just tucks back into the mind and almost influences me all over."

"Very cool. What album?"

"Fairytale," Billy dipped his face, and for a split second, his dimples appeared before he dashed them away.

"Great album; I love The Summer Day Reflection Song." Her comment came absently as she reviewed her notes to get back on track. If she had kept her gaze trained on Billy, she would have seen that for the first time he was inspecting her.

"I still think the absence of Oh Deed I Do is a challenge," Billy challenged. She didn't realize it, but she was now being quizzed.

"Yeah," she spoke absently as she crossed something off in her notebook and then returned her gaze to Billy. "But Hey Gyp is a great pickup."

Unbeknownst to her, she was the first reporter of the day that was actually going to get real answers from him.

"Do they listen to your work, your kids?" She continued.

"Of course, I make them. They're some of my best critics. Kids are great like that. They're getting a little older now, so they're finessing their feedback a bit more, but I could see the raw response when they were young."

"Kids can be brutal," the reporter agreed.

"There's a beauty in genuine brutality. Most adults forget that. We're not as resilient as kids, so we run from it, you know? In life and reality, kids haven't been stung, so they don't fear it or avoid it. I find myself seeking shelter in their blindness sometimes, but that's no good. My girl recently reminded me that love isn't always sweet and gentle; sometimes, it slaps you in the face. But that's passion. A lot of people don't want to foster passion; they want to walk around in a bubble pretending to be perpetually blissful. I don't know what that is, but it's not life."

The young woman stared at him for a minute, uncertain where to go next.

"I think that's all the time we have," Tess interjected.

The reporter looked down at her watch. "Oh yeah, well, thank you for your time, Mr. Collins."

"Pleasure," Billy smiled as he extended a hand.

They briefly shook before the woman paced quickly from the room, seeming to be just as eager to escape as Billy.

"Dark, Billy, real dark. She probably thinks you're some S&M fan," Tess chided.

"What?" Billy and I said in unison.

"Brutal love? You two deserve each other," Tess sighed before leaving the room.

"Hey," Billy's voice was back to his usual tone.

"Hi," I smiled up at him as he neared.

"Was that okay? That I mentioned you?"

"Yeah, I'm fine with being your girl; just don't hand out my address," I teased.

"Of course not; we live together; that'd blow up my life more than yours," he joked back. "I hate these things," he added as he wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on the top of mine.

"I know, babe." I let him linger for a moment, enjoying his proximity. "Hey, where did you go when she asked about traditions?"

"Huh?" Billy absently murmured.

"She asked about traditions, and you seemed to zone out for a minute," I noted.

"Oh, yeah; I was thinking about traditions. Interesting concept. It's funny to consider how they start and stop; sometimes by accident, sometimes by tragedy, sometimes by love."

I stayed quiet, but could feel him pondering the idea further. After a moment, he pulled away and picked up the camera hanging around the neck. "You on the payroll now, Lil?"

"I guess so." I smiled as I took the camera from him. "Say cheese?"

Instead, he made a face like he was choking and lifted his hands to his throat for effect.

"Very nice. I'm sure Tess will love that one." I poked his chest as I spoke.

"Mr. Collins," a voice came from the door, "the next reporter is ready. Can I get you anything?"

"Coffee, all the coffee you can procure," Billy begged. "You want anything, Ms. Turncott?"

"Water, please," I requested.

"And water for my photographer," Billy added.

"Yes, sir. I'll send the reporter in and be right back." The young man dutifully nodded before departing.

"Who is that?" I asked.

Billy just shrugged. "Doesn't work for me. I think he's with the venue. Hey, do you mind if I mention you? I won't use your name or anything, but sometimes you pop up."

"Yes, Billy, I'm your girl. I don't mind," I reconfirmed as I smiled up at him with the sudden urge to scream to the world that I was in love with this man, only to be stifled by the second thought that Billy could actually do that.

The next reporter, a man about ten years younger than me, entered, causing Billy to redirect his attention. "Hello, I'm Billy Collins."

"Hello, I'm Randy Trunk with the Hello Duluth." Randy greeted as Billy settled back onto the couch to answer eerily similar questions.

I buzzed around, snapping a few pictures and then reviewing them. I deleted more than I kept.

"Any new music on the way?" Randy asked.

"I'm probably not allowed to say," a throaty laugh came from Billy. "I've got some things cooking," he added.

"People were concerned with how that last album ended. Any comment on that?" The reporter asked, perking my ears.

"That album is a story. It has an arc, and that's how that story ends. It's no more about me than it's about you."

"So, there's no real-life inspiration?" Randy pressed.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. All inspiration is real-life inspiration. Why am I wearing this shirt? Why am I wearing this hat? It all means something to me and something different to you."

The reporter blinked blankly at Billy.

"Look, man, I write songs to help me understand what's happening around me. I share them to help others understand the world around them. I don't write facts. I'm not sitting down at the piano and writing out what I had for breakfast; that doesn't help me, and it doesn't help you. What any of my songs mean to me won't help you. You've got to decide what they mean to you. Maybe it's all gibberish. I put much more thought into the composition. I think about the tone I want to hit."

"You play an eclectic mix of instruments. Do you have a favorite?"

"Favorite is such an obtuse word. It imposes on you. You pick one and disparage the others. Different songs call for different instruments. Maybe that hollow Danelectro will get you where you're going, or maybe it's the Diddley bow my kid made me out of a broken chair."

The reporter laughed. "That would be an interesting album."

"Wouldn't it, though? Sometimes those boxes are what you need. They focus the rain to make an ocean," Billy agreed.

"I take it your kid didn't get in trouble for breaking the chair?"

"No," Billy let out another throaty chuckle. "Best get out of jail card is to make something out of the wreckage." Billy nodded to himself. "That's a pretty solid life lesson, too," he mused.

My phone suddenly blared, pulling the room back to reality. I dipped my head to hide my flush and bolted from the room.