Everything We Are

by Janci Patterson

  The secret’s out, and it feels great.

  I pick up my mic at the front of the stage. My piano is waiting there, open—I’m going to play and sing for the new songs, and we have a local backup musician on guitar, since our guitarist is notably absent. Right now though, I stay on my feet to work the crowd. Alec taught me how to do that.

  “Hello, Detroit!” I yell, and the crowd cheers right back. “It’s so good to be back home!”

  Detroit’s not really home, and I have complicated feelings about Ann Arbor itself, but the Michigan fans have always been fierce, and I love them for it.

  “How did you all like our little surprise?” I hold up my hand with my ring on it.

  The crowd screams and cheers. There are some boos and jeers in there, but they’re far quieter than the others. The fans, by and large, are on board with us as a couple—I can only hope they’ll be even more so after the concert.

  I turn to Felix, who is watching me with a wide grin on his face that tells me he’s loving the reaction. And then I get to say the best words: “Everybody, my new husband, Felix Mays!”

  The cheers somehow manage to grow even louder, and I lean over to kiss him on the cheek. “I love you,” I whisper into his ear, because honestly, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to say it enough.

  And though it’s not planned, he lifts me into his arms and kisses me in that breathtaking way he does, his hands tangling in my hairspray-shellacked hair. When we don’t break away immediately, Roxie counts off and the crowd goes wild.

  Leo and Roxie seamlessly repeat the intro to our first song, and I hurry over to the piano, and Felix rushes to get his cello, June, up and ready for the cue. We picked a fast number to start, an upbeat, biting indie-rock song called “Seven Deadly Sins,” about the mistakes of my past. It’s one I wrote a couple years ago, inspired by Ben Folds’ “The Last Polka,” but it never fit with the AJ sound or image.

  So much of the stuff I wrote—the stuff that felt like I was cracking my heart open on the page—was like that. And now, for better or worse, I’m getting to finally perform it.

  And maybe I’m being overly hopeful, but based on how the audience is already starting to chant the “sins” back to me by the second go-round of the chorus, I think it might be a hit.

  We follow it with “You Are the Story,” which is a love song I wrote for Felix. It’s by far the truest, most heartfelt love song I’ve ever written. The first time I played it for Felix, he got tears in his eyes and he kissed me like he might never let me go.

  The warmth of that fills me as I play it now for him. With him. I can feel the way the strong vibrations from his cello push against the chords of my piano, in that intoxicating, heady way they do.

  Felix says that whatever happens, he wants us to keep playing together. Even if the tour flops. Even if he needs to go back to classical, or I decide to stay home with Ty. Even if it’s just for friends, a couple times a year.

  I couldn’t agree with him more.

  After a few more songs we play our video—part two of the story of us, in which Felix and I lounge on our couch and talk about meeting on Hollywood Boulevard, joking about my comments about straddling and fingering, and the crazy wound-up confusion of it all. I watch us there on the screen, with our arms around each other, laughing about Ty thinking the condoms in Felix’s cello case were candies, and I’m just struck by sheer awe that I get to be one half of us.

  My palms sweat when we hit the middle of the show, where we take a break from our new songs to play Ravel’s Sonata for cello and piano. I’ve never really liked classical, even though I played plenty when I was taking lessons as a kid. But Felix was true to his word of making me start to love it, and this is one of my favorites. It can be demanding as hell, though, and I only had a few weeks to learn it.

  I’m using sheet music for this one, in no small part because it’s a fourteen-minute song—a huge risk for a pop concert. I’ve played piano my whole life, but I’m not a perfectionist like Felix. On this piece, I play my heart out, but it isn’t perfect. Felix plays with complete mastery, but I’m dropping notes and working to keep up, hoping very few people in the audience will be able to tell. As we finish, I look up to a sea of cell phones glowing at me, waving back and forth with the soft, lilting music, like we’re all part of something beautiful. When we bow to the audience after the piece, the cheers are quieter, but the applause is clear—a more subtle response with reverence for the music.

  “You all are the best,” I say to them, and grin over at Felix, who looks like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing out there, the lights and the fans who showed up for pop music and lost themselves in Ravel.

  We don’t have a full album’s worth of original songs, so we play a few covers we got quick approval for. Then I play a song I wrote for Ty about only fully becoming his mother when he was already four years old. It’s another one I’m nervous about, because it’s a hard thing to tell the world—that I wasn’t ready to be what my son needed for far too long. The feelings of what a revelation it was when I was finally capable of it are tender and personal. I want to share these truths with my audience after all the lying about being in love with Alec, but that doesn’t make it any less frightening. The crowd quiets for this, too, as if they’re aware they’re sharing something sacred with me, with us.

  It feels redemptive in a way I didn’t imagine.

  And like that, the concert is nearly over. I begin to announce our last song, when Felix sets down his cello and steps up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder.

  I’m not really sure what he’s doing, but I let him go ahead as he speaks into the mic. “Before we say goodbye,” he says. “I’ve got a little surprise for Jenna, and I’d like to share it with all of you.”

  Cheers erupt, and my chest flutters happily. I cock my hip, playing it all up. “A surprise? You know what happened last time someone surprised me on stage, right?”

  Felix grins. “Yeah. I pushed him right off onto Kanye West.”

  The crowd erupts in more screams, and I lean into him, feeling a little like Ty on Christmas morning, bouncing with excitement.

  “But it’s okay,” Felix continues as the screams die down. “You’re going to like this one.”

  “Mmmm,” I say, pretending to consider. “What do you think, guys? Should I give him a chance?”

  More screams and cheers. He kisses me again and then goes back to his chair, where Roxie has brought over one of the mics and adjusted it to face height.

  I stare at him. Is he going to sing?

  He plays the first notes of “Danny’s Song” by Kenny Loggins, and I’m already melting. It’s not the first time he’d surprised me by doing so. At our wedding, he played and sang this one—my favorite song ever, because it was what I sang to Ty that night when I first decided I wanted to step up and actually be his mom. I’d been floored by Felix performing it for me, and not just on the cello. Felix had made it pretty clear he doesn’t sing.

  But he can—really well, actually.

  I melt further as he starts to sing the words—not the original words he sang at the wedding, but ones he’s clearly written just for us. About how much I mean to him, about how the three of us are a family, and, yes, everything’s gonna be all right.

  I didn’t think I could love that song, or him, any more than I already do, but somehow Felix has managed it. Tears are spilling over my cheeks as the song ends, and I’m so happy I can barely contain myself. Felix lays June down and I climb onto his lap and just kiss the hell out of him while the crowd goes wild.

  I’m with Felix, and we’re married and in love and just starting our lives together. And right now, right here, I’m happier than I ever thought I could possibly be.

  Two

  Felix

  After the show, Jenna and I collapse in our hotel room.
She sets down a box of what remains of the Coney Dogs she ordered in after the show—a tradition of hers, apparently, of trying whatever famous or well-reviewed local food she can get delivered in the middle of the night.

  Being Jenna Rollins means she can pretty much get whatever she wants.

  We should be crashing—we have a flight tomorrow and a long string of these concerts to do. Not to mention Ty, who’s come along on tour with his grandparents as chaperones. He didn’t stay up for the concert, so he’ll no doubt be up at his usual early-morning hour, eager for our attention.

  But we’re still high on the post-concert buzz, talking and laughing the whole limo ride back to the hotel about how incredible it all was, both of us giddy and loud. I can’t stop smiling about the audience reaction, to the video, to the song I sang for Jenna, to the cell phone lights during the sonata—in all my years of playing classical, I never saw that image coming. The Ravel was ambitious and demanding, especially on short notice, kind of like our lives lately. I’d thought Jenna was going to tell me I was crazy when I picked it, and she probably should have. But instead she threw herself into it, playing beautifully, if not perfectly—the way she does with everything in our lives, and I respect her for it.

  But most of all, what makes me smile is us. Being with her, being married to her. Not to mention getting to perform together like this—our music, which I love. It’s raw and powerful and lays bare a lot of stuff Jenna’s never talked about in her songs before. And while everything we’re putting on display is carefully curated, and there’s a lot we’re not ready to share, the bits we’re giving are being generously accepted, and that makes it worth all the planning and stress.

  We’re winning them over. That stadium full of people were on board, not just with Jenna, but with me. Word will spread, and hopefully tickets to the remaining venues will sell out fast.

  I watch Jenna as she pulls pins and extensions carefully out of her hair and drops them onto the dresser next to the big flat-screen TV. I’m pretty sure sleep is still a few hours off, which is going to come back to bite us tomorrow, but right now, I just want to bask in what we’ve accomplished.

  And, well, her.

  Jenna rakes her hands through her hair, which crinkles with hairspray, and stares at her reflection in the blank TV screen. Then she looks back at me, the giddy smile from before replaced by an expression more cautious, serious. Anxious, even, though she’s clearly trying not to be.

  And I can tell even before she speaks that her thoughts have taken a darker turn.

  “He didn’t show up,” she says.

  Grant, obviously. “Or if he did, he was just one guy in the crowd.”

  Jenna nods, though she doesn’t look consoled. Her mascara is now smudged along the side of her eye. “Did you hear anything from security?”

  I shake my head. “Phil said no one reported seeing him. They had to deal with some pushy fans, but no one with his description.”

  Jenna lets out a slow breath, and I move up behind her and put my arms around her. “I wish he didn’t get to you,” I say. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  Jenna wilts in my arms. “I’m the idiot who let him do it before.”

  My arms tighten around her. I hate it when she talks like that—like some dick coercing her into letting him choke her is somehow her fault. This wasn’t made better by the contents of the messages he sent her.

  The things he called her made me want to strangle him with a cello string, except the bastard would probably get off on that.

  “Well no one is going to let him now,” I say. “You know that, right?”

  “Right,” Jenna says. She slips out of my arms, gently, like she doesn’t want me to think she’s brushing me off. But she is. I can tell by the way she doesn’t look at me when she crosses the room to wash her face.

  I sink onto the bed, some of the concert high wearing off, crumbling with thoughts of asshole exes. And other things.

  Things I don’t particularly want to bring up, but since we’re already talking about stuff we both wish we didn’t have to deal with . . .

  “I didn’t take anything off the stage,” I say. “Heroin or otherwise.”

  Jenna splashes her face with water. She still doesn’t look at me. “Did you see anything?”

  During the show, I made it my business not to look. I saw few more obvious things—a girl’s shirt, most notably, and a couple of roses. It wasn’t hard to guess who each of those were aimed at.

  Afterward was another story.

  “Not heroin,” I say, kicking off my shoes and then my jeans, leaving them and my shirt in a pile beside the bed rather than folding them neatly, as I’m sure Allison, our type-A costumer, would prefer. “Needles, though. You were right about those. And a couple of joints.”

  Jenna plants her hands on the edge of the sink. In the mirror, I can see water dripping off her chin. “Did you want to take them?”

  “No,” I say, lying back with my head on a pillow. “The joints are no temptation.” I’ve never smoked pot. Jenna knows this. Ironically, I’ve almost never had anything besides heroin. After doing that once, it never felt like I needed anything new. “The needles might as well have been rattlesnakes, for all I wanted to touch them. I saw one next to my cello case and it scared me to death.”

  Jenna dries her face. She’s still not looking at me, and there’s a dull, empty ache in my chest.

  I’m beyond lucky Jenna gave me another chance—god, more than that, she married me—even though I’m still barely ninety days sober. I know all the recovery stuff is new to her, and I know it shouldn’t bother me how much it still hurts her to hear about it.

  But it does.

  Jenna busies herself with changing her clothes, stripping down to her underwear and pulling on a Ben Folds concert t-shirt she likes to sleep in. Maybe she’s just tired, or winding down from the adrenaline surge of the concert, but the silence feels heavy.

  “But that’s good news, right?” I say. “I didn’t want to touch them.”

  Jenna nods. “Do you think it’ll always be that way?”

  “No,” I say. We both know this is the answer. She’s lived with me long enough to see some bad days, when getting out of bed is the last thing in the world I want to do—or the last thing besides go out and buy some gear and shoot up until I forget my own name. “But I’m not going to use.”

  Jenna climbs in bed beside me, the remaining hot dogs forgotten on the table. She lies facing me, but doesn’t touch me. “I believe you,” she says.

  I hate how unsure she sounds.

  She shouldn’t have to talk about this, not right after our first show. I decide to change the subject. “So you liked the song?” I ask.

  She smiles, and it’s genuine, and for a second I think I see tears in her eyes again. “You have no idea what that meant to me,” she says. “That you would sing that for me, in front of all those people. I know you don’t like to sing.”

  I smile. “I never said I didn’t like it.”

  “Do you?”

  “I plead the fifth.” I fold my lips between my teeth.

  “You do!” she rolls over and pokes me in the stomach, and I curl around her like she’s mortally wounded me. “I’m going to convince you to sing with me yet.”

  “You are,” I say. “That was part of the surprise, you know. That I’m willing to sing, when you write a song for us to do together.” I poke her back. “One you didn’t used to sing with Alec.”

  She laughs, and the tension from before is gone. Her bare legs wrap around mine, her skin soft and warm. “And you’re going to sing that song again, right? At every concert. And record it for me.”

  I laugh. “Phil’s still working on the recording rights. I barely got the performance rights for the show.”

  Her gray eyes sparkle. “But you’re working on it.”

 
“Yes,” I say. “And I’ll sing to you. At every show. But only because it makes you so happy.”

  “You make me happy,” she says, leaning in to press her lips to mine, softly, and the rush is back, the familiar floating feeling that I’m actually lucky enough to be here with her—not to mention all the other familiar feelings my body is having, with her so close and so barely-dressed. She pulls back with a grin and shakes her head. “I can’t believe you kept that a secret.”

  “It wasn’t that difficult,” I say, grazing my fingers along her arm. “The idea of showing my lyrics to you was terrifying.”

  “You have a talent for it. Next thing you know, you’ll be the one writing our music.”

  “Our music,” I say. “I may never get tired of hearing you call it that.” I reach for her hand, lacing my fingers with hers. “Actually, I was thinking I might try it. Writing a song, I mean.”

  Jenna’s eyes crinkle. “I’m pretty sure you already did.”

  “A new one,” I say. “For Katy.”

  Jenna is quiet, and for a terrified minute, I’m afraid she thinks this is a horrible idea. I’m talking about writing a song for another girl, even if I barely knew her and just happened to be present for her death. Katy’s overdose was the reason I went back to rehab the last time; the thing that finally scared me enough to make me really want to get help. I still have more guilt about that than I should, both for being partially responsible for her death—however accidentally—and for being the one who got clean, instead of the one who never woke up.

  “I could help you with it, if you wanted,” Jenna says. “And if you wanted to go public with the story, or even if you didn’t—we could donate the proceeds of the song to organizations fighting addiction.”

  I smile, relieved. I’d been thinking along those lines. I’m working on step seven, where I’m supposed to be asking God to remove my weaknesses. I’m not at all sure I’m doing it right, but I also think maybe I’m overcomplicating it to avoid beginning steps eight and nine—where I need to plan and make apologies and restitution.