You'd Be Mine

by Erin Hahn

  It’s fine. I might get hurt, but … I think of his calloused hands dragging along my rib cage slipping north … and whatever. Worth it.

  I’m not my mom. I can do “no strings attached.” He’s not gonna derail me.

  Clay’s trouble, but who’s to say I have to walk away? I can handle it.

  The silent question of what if he’s not—what if he’s more?—well, that’s not something I care to think on right now.

  Because, seriously, we’re only eighteen.

  I sing about playing casual and heat and passion and need, and it’s all so foreign and gorgeous and thrilling, but it also rings a little … I don’t know … hollow.

  As though it’s not … me. It’s someone else.

  And I want to throw up because it has to be me. That’s what this has to be. I can do this. People do this every day all over the world.

  I can’t fall for him.

  * * *

  After lunch, he finds me. Sheepish and almost shy, he knocks on my door. I’m sitting on my bunk with a book that I’m not reading. That I couldn’t possibly read because all I can think about is him, him, him.

  “Wanna go for a walk?”

  “Right now?” I ask dumbly.

  “It’s gorgeous out, and we hit the road again in a few hours. Come on.”

  As if I could resist him. Like ever.

  We’re trekking down a pretty little river walk toward downtown. He’s in his ball cap and jeans and is holding my hand.

  Holding hands doesn’t feel super-conducive to my “casual” MO, but damn if it doesn’t feel really nice. Like warm chocolate cookies and knit cashmere and hot tea during a snowstorm.

  I’m so super-screwed.

  “My brother used to call me Jefferson. My grandpa, too,” he says after we cross a busy street into the entrance of a city park. We end up settling on a picnic table.

  I don’t play dumb. I remember how he easily evaded my question last night. “Used to?”

  “They both died. First grandpa when I was fifteen and then my brother a year later.”

  I suddenly remember Fitz mentioning them dying. Damn. “I’m so sorry—”

  He cuts me off. “Anyway, whatever, it’s why I go by Clay.”

  I scramble, trying to think of something to say. The closed expression on his face doesn’t really offer more. I can’t decide if I’m supposed to press for details—give him the chance to open up—or share something of my own? A give-and-take? I’m not great at this kind of thing. After a pause, I blurt, “I won’t sing her songs.”

  He turns to face me, dark eyes burrowing into mine. He doesn’t ask who I mean. Just says, “I wondered about that.”

  I sigh, tracing some graffiti long ago carved into the table with my fingernail. “It’s not like I can pretend to not be connected to them. Everyone knows. But it’s this tiny bit of control I can maintain. I can’t change my DNA, but I can change my set list. I refuse to honor them after what they did to me.”

  “They didn’t die to hurt you, though. You know that, right?”

  “Actually, I don’t. And anyway, they certainly didn’t live for me.”

  He grows quiet, and I feel my cheeks heat, and I realize how damaged I must sound. Bitter and ungrateful and angry. It’s a carefully hidden part of me. One reserved for Kacey and Jason.

  “You’re right,” he says in a low voice.

  My throat catches, and I risk a glance up at him.

  He’s determined. “They didn’t live for you. You’re right.”

  “That’s it?”

  He shrugs. “Do you need more? Because if you do, I’m hardly the one to talk about unhealthy hang-ups.”

  “No, I guess I don’t. So we’re in a park.”

  Jefferson glances around, his lips pulling into a smile. “We are. I’m not real familiar with Ohio. You?”

  “Definitely not. I didn’t even know they had beaches until last night.”

  He sits up straighter, placing his hands on his knees and half rising. “I have an idea.” He holds out a hand, and I grasp on to it. Tugging me along, he pulls us across a busy street and onto the sidewalk entrance to what appears to be a jewelry store. There’s a sign that reads, MINE TOURS INSIDE.

  I raise a skeptical brow at the storefront. “How is there a mine in this place?”

  “No idea,” Jefferson says. “But I think we have to check it out. I’ve never been to a cave inside a store.”

  We walk in, and it’s exactly as advertised: your typical jewelry store. Behind the glittering counter sits a harried young woman who looks up at us from the glass display case.

  “We’re here for the mine tour,” Jefferson says as if it’s the most obvious thing ever.

  She points a thumb to the back of the store, where the wall has been painted in a janky-looking mural that must be the “cave” entrance. There’s a cardboard cutout of an old-timey miner who I’m pretty sure is just a knockoff of Yosemite Sam, holding a pickax in front of the doorway. The little word bubble over his head reads, MOTHER (OR FATHER) LODE $5, LITTLE NIPPERS $2.50.

  I snicker. “Wait, you have to pay for this?”

  “I take offense at ‘Little Nipper,’” Jefferson says under his breath, and I can’t stop giggling.

  “I don’t have cash,” I whisper.

  “What the hell kind of country star are you?” he whispers back, pulling out his wallet.

  “The kind who uses debit, apparently.”

  Jefferson walks over to the clerk. “Do we pay you for the tour here?”

  “Seriously?” she asks, and Jefferson’s blinding smile falters.

  “Uh, yes?”

  “Are you students?” she asks.

  “Well, we aren’t Mother and Father Lodes, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Little Nippers are under ten,” she says.

  It’s incredible to see how the mask of Clay washes over Jefferson’s face. He’s taller somehow and charismatic. Gone is the uncertain teenage boy. “Tell me, Denise,” he says, glancing down at her name badge. “Is this tour worth five dollars apiece? Is there even a tour guide?”

  “Not really,” she admits. “It’s little more than a light show.”

  Jefferson pauses, considering. Then, “Is it romantic?” he stage-whispers, “We’re on our first date.”

  Two can turn on the charm. I take a stab at putting on my stage persona. “If this is a first date, why are you being so dang cheap?”

  Jefferson straightens. “Fair point. What the lady wants, the lady gets. Two Mother Lode tickets, please.”

  He slides her a twenty, and she goes to give us cash back, but he’s already leading me toward the “entrance.” “Keep the change, Denise.”

  He hurries me inside, and it’s basically a tunnel of what looks like black papier-mâché inlaid with tiny twinkle lights. The floors have glow-in-the-dark strips of tape that we follow around a bend. It’s cooler in here, and there is a recording playing through the speakers that sounds like drips echoing off a cave floor.

  “A-plus for ambiance,” I muse.

  “Watch out for stalagmites,” Jefferson whispers. “In fact, you should probably take my hand.”

  I snort in the dark. “Don’t you mean stalactites?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. I never graduated high school,” he says.

  “They didn’t make you take the GED?” I ask.

  Silence.

  “I just rolled my eyes at you, but you didn’t see it,” he says. “Of course I got my GED. But seriously, who actually knows the difference between stalactites and stalagmites?”

  “Fair point.”

  “I was just trying to be smooth, Mathers. Way to mess up my game.”

  I snicker louder.

  We round the corner—and by the, I mean the only corner, because I can already see the glowing red exit light on the wall—and enter into a small room that, to their credit, does sort of resemble a cavern. Twinkle lights are fashioned in broad swirls that look almost like phos
phorescence has been painted on the walls. Blue lights accent glittery seams, and the ground is uneven and feels legitimately close to a real cave floor. In the center is a display case of different gems and a key showing us where to find them in their “natural” state, scattered around the cavern’s crevices.

  “Let’s split up and make a game out of this,” he says. “Whoever finds the most gems wins.”

  His enthusiasm is catching and I ask, “What’s the prize?”

  “Bragging rights?”

  “You’re on,” I say.

  We split up, and I read the inscription under the first gemstone. Fool’s gold, or pyrite. I skim the bottom of the “cave floor,” dragging my fingers through a bin of stones that I’m positive are not found together in nature. From the clattering of rocks against cardboard, I know that Jefferson is doing the same.

  “This is impossible in the dark,” I mutter.

  “You just know you’re going to lose.”

  “I’m pretty sure all the real gems have been stolen already,” I complain, picking at another black-colored rock-type object that feels suspiciously like plastic.

  “I think I got one!” he yells triumphantly, running toward the only bit of light in the room, emitting from the gem display.

  “Nuh-uh,” I say, dropping the stones at my feet and walking over to see.

  “I did. It’s called…” He leans closer, and I follow. Suddenly, he drops the rock with a click, and his hands are holding the sides of my face. “It’s called ‘I just wanted to kiss you again, and Denise is running a scam.’”

  “I’ve never heard of that one,” I say, leaning in.

  “Oh, really? It’s become my new favorite,” he says before capturing my lips between his own in a way that doesn’t feel casual in the slightest.

  16

  Clay

  friday, july 12

  indianapolis, indiana

  The first time I played in my hometown after hitting the big time was surreal. It was when “Clay” really took over. I couldn’t drive down my streets, sing to my old classmates, in a venue where I used to listen to all my favorites, while still being “Jefferson.” It didn’t work. I had to create someone they’d never met. Someone I’d never met, even. It wasn’t hard. My brother had recently died, and I’d already lost track of who I used to be by that point.

  Beer chased the memories, and a solid buzz made Clay easier for me to stomach until I barely had to think about it. The girls helped in their way. I wasn’t always such a bastard. In the beginning, I remembered their names and kissed them on their mouths and paid for their drinks. But it quickly became apparent they didn’t care either way. None of the girls camping out backstage wanted a relationship. They weren’t looking for clumsy efforts at romance. They wanted bragging rights and an incriminating selfie for their Instagram.

  So that’s what I gave them. When that got too exhausting, I would text Lora. She was even more effortless than the strangers. Or she would text me. Like she did today.

  WHERE ARE YOU AT THIS WEEKEND?

  I type INDY and wait.

  If I’m expecting her to catch the significance of me being back in my hometown, I’m disappointed. Lora has no clue.

  After a minute, she responds:

  DAMN. NYC FOR THE WEEKEND. CATCH YOU IN VEGAS IN SEP?

  I send her a thumbs-up and click the app shut. Probably for the best. Lora in Indy feels a little too real for comfort.

  Fitz leans over my shoulder, tapping my screen where her kissing emoji response is still lit up.

  I swat his hand half-heartedly. “Do you mind?”

  He turns for the fridge, grabbing out a root beer and twisting the cap against his forearm to open.

  “I thought you were done with Lora.”

  “I am.”

  He raises one brow, swallowing.

  “I am done. It’s … well … coming back here. This stop always makes me edgy as fuck.”

  “So does Lora, lately.”

  “Yeah, well, she’s out of town anyway, so it’s a moot point.”

  Fitz picks at the label on his bottle. The small window air-conditioning unit cycles on with a hum.

  “Spit it out, Fitz.”

  “I’m just trying to understand why you would even cater to the notion of another meaningless hookup with Lora when you’ve got Annie making doe eyes at you.”

  “I’m not catering to anything. And she doesn’t make doe eyes at me.”

  “So you told Lora to fuck off?”

  I don’t answer.

  Fitz nods. “I see. So you’re keeping her around just in case Annie rejects you.”

  “The fuck?” I say.

  “Classic Clay. Keep a flask in your pocket if things get too heavy and a girl on the line just the same.”

  “It’s not like that with Annie.”

  Fitz raises his brows. “Really. Indulge me. What’s it like, then?”

  “I don’t know!” I shout, impatient. “It’s not like anything. We’ve just kissed a few times is all. She’s cool. I like spending time with her. I can be me around her. Jesus, why does it have to be more than that?”

  Fitz stares at me a long minute before saying, “Because anything less than that isn’t enough.”

  I blink, feeling shaken.

  “I’m going to visit Danny tomorrow.” Fitz is changing gears, and I’m spinning to catch up.

  “I’ll come with.”

  He nods, not meeting my eyes.

  “What?”

  “You know that Mags throws a party every year at Taps in his memory?”

  “Vaguely. She emailed me last year, but we were on tour.”

  Fitz clears his throat. “She checked with me this year. Emailed a few months back to let her know once we got our tour schedule. Wanted to make sure you could make it this time.”

  My stomach clenches painfully like a punch in the gut. My hands sweat, and I stand up to grab a bottle out of the cabinet.

  “I can’t go back there, Fitz.” My voice cracks, and I feel thirteen all over again.

  “It’s been two years, Clay. They need to see you.”

  “If I’m there, it turns into a publicity stunt. Danny’d hate that. He died honorably, and I’d make it a joke.”

  Fitz shakes his head, disbelief widening his eyes. “Why on earth would you think that? He would be crazy proud of everything you’ve accomplished. He loved listening to you play. He’d get such a kick out of your fame.”

  “He’d get a kick out of Annie’s fame. He’d tolerate mine.”

  Fitz throws his bottle in the trash with a loud clang. “What the hell, man? What’s wrong with you?”

  I surge to my feet, feeling miserable and wanting more than anything to let everyone know. And by everyone, I mean Fitz. Because let’s face it, he’s the only person who will listen. “What’s wrong with me? I’m a washout at eighteen, Fitz. I know booze and girls. I sing songs people drink to. I’m being overshadowed in my own tour. I’m borderline alcoholic with barely enough talent to scrape by.”

  Fitz holds his hand up. “You know what? Fine. I’m not going to sit here and blow smoke up your butt. Those drinking songs have made you wealthy enough to retire by twenty. Those girls deserve better. And Annie works her ass off and is the most unpretentious, talented person I’ve ever met in this industry. She overshadows ever-loving Garth Brooks. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Fitz moves forward, his face inches from my own, lowering his voice. “And if you’re crying out for help, then I’m here for you. We can walk away today. I’ll get you in a rehab program and hold your hand and whatever else you need. If. Because all I hear is a bratty show business kid feeling sorry for himself. If I believed for one millisecond you wanted to get dry, I would drive you myself.”

  I don’t say anything, and he backs up with a humorless chuckle. “That’s what I thought. We have sound check in thirty. I’ll tell Mags we’ll be there.”

  * * *

  The following afternoo
n, Fitz finds me propped against the white marble headstone that marks Danny’s resting place.

  “I thought we were coming together.”

  “I needed to talk to my big brother alone.”

  Fitz reaches down and picks up the empty glass bottle at my feet.

  “We argued,” I say by way of explanation. “Said some things we didn’t mean.”

  Fitz sighs heavily and drops down next to me, picking up the little American flag presumably stuck in my brother’s plot over the holiday. “I shouldn’t have said what I did yesterday. If you want to get clean, you know I’m here for it.”

  I lean my head back against the hard, smooth stone, the hot sun a giant, glaring spot in the sky. “No, you were right. I’m not ready to face this sober.”

  “Danny wouldn’t even ask. He’d have dragged you to a clinic months ago.” Fitz’s voice has lost its lightness. He sounds as defeated as I feel. “I’m fucking this up.”

  “Yeah, well, Danny chose his way to die. Maybe I’m choosing mine.”

  Fitz laughs, shaking his head. “Christ, you’re melodramatic.”

  The longer we sit here, the more I need to sleep. Stay here in the sun forever. I’d lied when I’d told Fitz I’d argued with my brother. More like I’d told him about Annie, and then that voice in the back of my mind that has the exact timbre of my brother’s told me I was a selfish prick and to quit considering whatever it was that I was considering.

  There was no back-and-forth. There never was with Danny. It’s what made him such a powerful soldier. His bullet always struck true. He never wavered. His faith was honed at my grandfather’s knee, and it’s as though God himself whispered in his ear. Our parents were never really together. Dad left after I was born, and he never came back. Mom worked three jobs until the cancer leached every last bit of her spirit. We had the exact same upbringing, but somehow the adversity made Danny decisive and solid and … good. He was so damn good all the time. Even to me, his mess of a kid brother.

  “I should have died, not him,” I say.

  “He’d disagree. He’d say you have a purpose that keeps you on this earth.”

  Music. Danny called music my purpose. My service. You make people feel things, Jefferson. He’d come to hear me play at Taps the night before he left for the desert. It was the only thing I could give my brother. We weren’t affectionate growing up. Instead, I dedicated a song to him and paid for his beer.