Slower

by Deana Birch

  We opened our second bottle with dinner, and my mom and I proceeded from our tipsy state to being downright saucy. Stella didn’t seem very impressed when we were both drunk by the end of the meal. I banged around doing the dishes and fumbled up the stairs to bed.

  There were no messages from Jake; he was probably still sleeping off the events of the night before. I obsessively looked at the three pictures again, studying all elements of my former boyfriend. A tear streamed down my cheek. Our love had been washed away in a tide of assumptions and by the fact that Jake could not control his jealousy. Or maybe it had all just been a fraud. At least I’d found out before the tour and wouldn’t be following him around like a fucking idiot.

  Shane was probably tap-dancing on cloud nine. He’d finally gotten his victory. A victory Jake had made too easy. Before crying myself to sleep, I sent Jake the biggest lie of my life.

  * * *

  Me: I don’t love you anymore. Please remove all your belongings from my apartment and give the key to Fern before I come back on the 4th. Don’t call me. Don’t write me. I don’t want to see you.

  17

  JAKE

  * * *

  A freight train collided with a semitruck behind my eyes. It had been a long time since I’d been on a bender, and the stale nastiness of the wake-up reminded me why. My kidneys had pulled all the saliva from my mouth to rehydrate my shriveled body, and my full bladder was pressing into my empty stomach.

  Piss. I needed to piss.

  I moaned the objections of my rattling brain as I rolled over and cracked an eyelid. Daylight forced its way through curtains and highlighted random bodies, articles of clothing, and empty bottles on the floor next to me. None of which looked familiar. I pushed myself to sit and contemplated the real possibility of me puking.

  My bones cracked as I rose, and I maneuvered my way through the passed-out crowd to the hotel bathroom. What the fuck city was I in, and what the fuck day was it? A cone-shaped party hat, which someone must have tried to use as a cup, lay on its side and read, “Happy New Year” in worn-off glitter.

  I flipped on the light, which made me squint even harder, and avoided looking at myself in the long mirror that ran the length of the cool, tiled room. When I lifted the seat of the toilet, the urge to vomit replaced any other calls of nature.

  Bile burned in the back of my throat, and I retched, spitting into the bowl, where it floated next to a cigarette butt. My ass met the hard edge of the tub, and I hung my head. What the fuck had I done?

  I pieced together images of the last few days without Louana. Why, after a beautiful send-off, had she landed in the arms of another man? What kind of power did her ex have that could erase everything we’d shared? And the time difference made it impossible to talk to her. That, and it would have required me fessing up to the snooping around. Was this why she’d never asked me to go with her?

  Pushing into my knees, I managed to stand and relieve myself. I let the tap run cold and splashed my face. With hesitation, I lifted my eyes to the mirror. They burned red, and my cheeks sank in. I had become a cliché of a musician in a matter of days. In other words, a complete pile of dogshit. Plus, I had no idea where I was.

  Back in the main room, I stumbled to find my shoes. Miraculously, my cards and cash were still in my pockets, and I stole a pair of sunglasses on my way out the door. I gave one last look to the redhead lying tits up on the bed and shuddered. In the lobby of the hotel, I asked for a taxi and then sat outside on a wooden bench and waited.

  The strong California sun beamed through the marquee and dared my stomach not to come out of my mouth. I just didn’t understand. Why had she been so happy with Fuck Face? I pulled out my battery-empty phone, probably dead from my social media overload of Dimitri Le Clerc, and slid it back into my pocket. I wished I could blame Shane, but I’d stalked that French asshole more than he had. And apparently the monster inside of me had a taste for cocaine and vodka. What the fuck was I thinking? My gut twisted tight, and I fought back its need to pour itself in the fake plant to my left.

  At home, I plugged in my phone to charge and stood in the shower for what may have been an hour. I didn’t know whether to call her or bury myself under a rock. I’d lost my shit, partied too hard, crossed lines just like she had. Fuck.

  Under the safety of our duvet, I finally looked at my phone. There were a thousand texts but only one I needed to see to confirm all my worst suspicions about the girl I loved.

  * * *

  Louana: I don’t love you anymore. Please remove all your belongings from my apartment and give the key to Fern before I come back on the 4th. Don’t call me. Don’t write me. I don’t want to see you.

  * * *

  I stared and stared. I read and reread. It was all true. She loved him. She always had. No. My palms pulled down my cheeks. She couldn’t have been faking our life. We’d parted on good terms. It was almost like she knew I’d fucked up. Which I had. Which meant I deserved every word of her text. But how could she possibly know? Besides, I’d seen her pictures before the show. That I knew. The rest? The rest was blurry as fuck.

  I spent the next twenty-four hours lying in our bed and wandering around the apartment like a curious but lost ghost. At one point, I sat on the floor of her closet and pictured her wearing all the dresses and shoes she owned. Had I done this? Had I forced my will onto her, and strong-armed a relationship when she was clearly not over the last one?

  Maybe it was for the best. I thought back to her on the phone with her mother, speaking her native tongue and happily clucking away. Then to the pictures of her on New Year’s Eve, surrounded by tuxedos and formal gowns. I had always thought she was out of my league and now I had my proof positive. And she’d broken up with me via text. What a fucking coward. And a hypocrite. She fucking hated texting.

  After I lugged the empty bottles to the recycling bins in the car park, I stared at Fern’s door. I needed to face her and Archie. Leaving them was the salt in my gaping wound. But I didn’t want to taint her view of Louana—and probably couldn’t anyway.

  I rapped my knuckles on the door, and Archie obediently barked his warning. Fern opened with a smile that transformed into a concerned frown. She ushered me in, and I walked over to her couch. Archie hopped up as I plopped down, gave me a single lick on the cheek, and then pushed into me with his black-and-white head resting on my knee. His ears tucked, and his tail batted the couch in a rhythm I was sure I’d taught him.

  “Louana broke up with me.”

  Fern’s eyes fell to the ground where she stared at her beige carpet. After a while, she lifted her head and said, “I’m sorry, honey. I really thought you guys were going to be able to make it work. You want a drink?” One of her perfectly painted-on eyebrows lifted, and she shrugged at her won proposition.

  “Nah, I think I’ve had my fill of booze for a while. Mind if I just lie here with Archie for a bit?” I knew she would let me, so I shifted my legs onto the couch and lay back. Archie obliged my new position and stretched his paws up to my neck. “What the fuck happened, buddy?” His wet dog breath kissed my stubble and his chin pushed into my chest.

  I couldn’t even stick around to try and win her back. Christ, maybe she’d been planning on leaving me all along. Go see the ex, then dump me before I went on tour. It wasn’t like we hadn’t had our fights. Plus, she’d never committed to any weekends to come and see me on the road. And running away and not talking shit through was so typically and predictably her. I scratched Archie’s head and told myself how stupid I was for not seeing it coming.

  “Tell me a story, Fernie. Take my mind off this fucked-up situation.”

  She sat down in her lady recliner and took a drink of the tea from her side table. “Did I ever tell you my brother was a homosexual?”

  I lifted my brow to make room for my growing eyes. It was as if Fern had saved this story for the perfect moment. She had my full attention. “No…”

  “Yep. First gay gangster in Hollywood.
Damn, that man could wear a suit.”

  We ordered in a pizza, and I stayed in her apartment for the rest of the night. When it was time for bed, I cringed at the thought of one more night alone in what I had been sure was my home. My sanctuary.

  Even more depressing was the lack of possessions I needed to pack. Everything fit into my Jeep, and I handed the keys over to Phil who promised to find me an apartment near Sam and Gina at the beach.

  At the record release party, I posed for a few pictures, drank water, and got the fuck out as soon as I could. Our bus left in a couple of days, and I spent them in a hotel room by myself wallowing in every form of self-pity I could think of. She didn’t love me. She probably never had. Not like she’d loved him. But I’d loved her. Hard. My feelings were not fake.

  I needed some kind of proof that I wasn’t crazy. That woman had marked me for life. The day before I left on tour, I walked down to my favorite tattoo parlor on Melrose. I showed the artist what I had in mind, he made it a thousand times better, and I took off my shirt to sit in the chair.

  The sting and hum of the needle were a powerful cocktail on my neck and shoulder blade. The sacred space where she’d laid her head would now be sealed with a loopy symbol that resembled more of a broken infinity sign than the first letter of her name. It would be my constant reminder to stop fucking up. To never let happiness slip away again. To try harder. And to try again.

  Because I was not done with Louana Higgins. I couldn’t fight for her from a thousand miles away, but as soon as the tour was over, I would go to her. I would plead. Beg her to tell me it was all a lie. Force her to scream at me and sever the bond once and for all by admitting she’d never loved me. Make her break me all over again. Burn our story to the ground. Unless she said it to me, to my face, where I could either smell her lie or swallow the bitter pill of honesty, I would always wonder.

  When it was time to kiss Los Angeles goodbye, I told it fuck off instead, I was ready to reclaim my one saving grace. Music.

  18

  LOUANA

  * * *

  With Casey still in France for the entire month of January, I didn’t make much of an effort to get out and about. I wasn’t ready to see Gina, and while I spent a bit of time with Fern for meals—and probably too much sangria—for the most part, I retreated to my apartment.

  My apartment. The very same one I’d had before Jake and now hid in post-Jake. Sometimes, I could smell his distinct woodsy scent. And even when I reminded myself I hated him—I longed for him. The punishingly slow passage of time was an ineffective ointment on my still-fresh wound.

  Bob came in to have lunch with Mario and me about two weeks into the New Year. He had decided to move to San Francisco to be closer to his daughter and new grandchild. He was also putting his beach house up for sale. There were too many memories and being there alone had become overwhelming.

  Mario had seen it coming. We’d talked about it before the holidays. He left the door open for Bob to come back anytime he wanted, but we all knew this was the end of the road for him. Tears streaked Bob’s cheeks as he cleaned out his desk and we decided to go down to the third floor and smoke one last cigarette together. As we sat there, he assured me I would always have his ear and I could call him for advice whenever I wanted; in fact, he would welcome the distraction. There was a moment of silence when I thought about pouring my heart out to him, but that saint of a man had bigger fish to fry than a cheating rock star.

  I hated to see Bob go but welcomed the idea of being busy. Mario’s new project was an action/adventure, not what he was known for, but the director was a fan, and it had sealed the deal. As Mario began composing the score with a much more docile client than Vincent, I moved onto finding his next project and had sales meetings at least twice a week for lunch. I also redid my office, taking out my old desk and officially claiming Bob’s.

  But waking up to an empty bed and coming home to nothing pecked at me like an obsessive hen. Too often, I would sit on the couch with a bottle of wine and stare at the piano, wondering if I should break it down with a baseball bat, sell it, or play it. But I never touched it. It just stayed there, haunting me. And out of spite alone, I never watched anything on the TV.

  By February, I was done moping around and drinking alone. I wanted to chop off all my hair, but my hairdresser refused to cut more than an inch. I needed a project, something—anything—to keep my mind and body busy. Any activity to protect my fingers from checking The Spades’ concert schedule or watching their new music video.

  With my work bestie back, but swamped, my very unlikely inspiration came from the back-tapping actor and acquaintance, Brandon Cole. When I saw him at yoga on a Friday during lunch, he told me he was training for a new role where he was a runner and he was going to do a marathon. And the idea was born. I had always run but hadn’t competed since high school track.

  The movie studio had provided Brandon with a coach, and they met every morning early. He said I could tag along and just do the same things he was doing. It was perfect timing and exactly what I needed. The next day, I got up before sunrise, met Brandon and his coach (a short, bald man in his mid-forties who had no problem with me being there—he was well paid by the studio), and began training.

  Karim, our coach, was all about fuel. Brandon was on a high-protein diet that included a lot of shakes, especially after running, but Karim also encouraged non-sugary carbs like potatoes and veggies. At the beginning of the second week, when Karim saw I was committed, he sent me to a specialty running shop to get new shoes.

  His other big thing was rest. Brandon wasn’t allowed any caffeine to ensure he could fall asleep easily. Coffee was not a usual crutch for me and I joined Brandon in an act of solidarity. At the end of the day, when I hit my bed, I could fall asleep within five minutes of putting my head down. No pinot noir required. And thoughts of Jake that tried to spin in my mind were met with exhaustion.

  Running and training gave me everything I needed. I had a purpose, a focus, and a goal. I daresay I got addicted to it and missed it on Sundays, which were our only days off. Brandon’s chipper demeanor translated into fantastic cheerleading, and a genuine friendship formed. Not in a sexual way—the back tapping had permanently ruined him for my libido—but he was always positive, and we were both committed to our common project.

  After our month was up, Brandon had lost ten pounds and trimmed off a serious amount of body fat. I wasn’t counting—losing weight and toning up weren’t my goals—but I could tell my dresses and pants were a bit looser than after the holidays and the laziness of the previous month.

  In March, Casey had less of a workload. He was still trying to swallow his guilt about posting pictures of Dimitri and me on Instagram, and he showered me with attention. We saw movies, had dinners, and went for facials. He was always full of hilarious stories and insider gossip. I was moving on with my life and didn’t want to be reminded of what I was missing. Who I was missing.

  However, I was more than acutely aware the week The Spades were back in town for a ten-day break from their tour. I wasn’t going to reach out to Jake but wondered if he would call me.

  My answer came on Tuesday after lunch with the sound of his raspy voice. I was sitting at my desk writing an email when I heard him down the hall in his friend Steven’s office.

  Shit. Why had I thought he would call? It was so much more like him to drop by. I briefly contemplated hiding under the desk or closing my office door. Instead, I grabbed the phone from its receiver, pretended there was someone on the other line, and swiveled my chair around so that my back faced the door. I did my best impression of talking to someone important. I said a lot of “mm-hmm”s and “I understand”s. But my bones vibrated to his energy. I knew he was standing in the doorway, waiting. I doubled down and kept going. Eventually, though, I couldn’t think of anything more to say and ended my farce.

  I spun around and saw him—smiling, arms crossed, leaning on the door frame. He had on a baseball cap, his
sunglasses hung from the open collar of his wrinkled button-down Black Country shirt, and he wore his typical dark jeans and Vans. His eyes drooped into the small bags below his bottom lids, and I could tell by the notch in his belt he’d lost weight. But damn it if he wasn’t still the sexiest man I had ever laid eyes on. I bit my lips inward and slowly exhaled as I pretended my heart wasn’t racing. I couldn’t let his physical state allow me to forget that he was a motherfucking cheater.

  His mouth pursed before saying, “You’re still beautiful.”

  I’d been sure he would open with calling me out on my fake phone call. But no, Jake had to open with a zinger like that.

  “You look tired.” My tone was only of concern. I never liked finding him in this state. Plus, I didn’t need drama in my office.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t sleep very well these days.”

  My lips twitched, and my eyes fluttered. Was that my fault somehow?

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said cautiously and motioned to one of the chairs in front of my desk.

  Jake sat down and studied me. I tidied up a bit, then looked back to him with raised eyebrows.

  “How are you?” he asked with a small head tilt that revealed new ink on his collar bone.

  “Good. Really good. Busy, though. Bob resigned and moved to San Francisco, so I have a lot more on my plate. You?” Damn it—my super cheery voice sounded massively fake.