Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

  “You must’ve hated her for that.”

  “I already hated her,” I shoot back. “That hurt, though. She’d already abandoned us. How could she steal one more thing—especially something that rightfully belonged to me?”

  She was selfish and spiteful, and maybe she isn’t the same person now that she was then, but I’m not waiting for her like Annie did. I hug Ryen close. This, right here, is everything. I can’t wait to live all the days I’m going to live with her. We’re going to have a hell of a lot of fun.

  Especially since I no longer have to worry about that cocksucker at school with her for the rest of the year. She got a text from Ten earlier, saying he heard that the superintendent stepped in and forbade Trey from stepping foot on school grounds until everything clears up. And since a few students are pressing charges, for the photos and various assaults, it looks like the next several months of Trey’s life will be spent in court.

  Ryen stands and pulls me up, both of us trailing out of the room. I’d come in here to put Annie’s locket and photo album back. There had also been letters with the album in the envelope I’d taken from our mother’s office, too. Annie didn’t tell me she’d written her, just that she’d sent her a photo album of her pics and stuff. She made sure to leave photos of me out of it, though. She knew I wouldn’t have liked that.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have taken the album and letters. After our mother never showed up to the funeral, though, I just didn’t want her to have anything of Annie’s.

  But Annie gave them to her, I guess. It was her wish our mother have those things.

  If she wants the envelope back, she can have it. But she has to come and ask.

  I close the door quietly behind me and walk into my room, seeing Ryen sitting on the bed, reading a piece of paper.

  “What’s this?” she asks.

  I look down at the white paper. “It’s a letter.”

  She folds it up and sets it down. “Well, I didn’t read it or anything, but it could be an offer to talk about a recording contract.” She smirks. “And there’s several more there.” She points to the bedside table. “I didn’t read those, either, but I was wondering if maybe they could be letters of interest, too. I’ll bet some well-connected dudes have seen Cipher Core’s YouTube videos and want to talk.”

  They don’t want Cipher Core. They want me, and I don’t want to leave my band.

  I plop down on the bed and pull her back, tickling her. “The only things I want to do are things that won’t take me away from you. Understand?”

  She laughs, squirming and trying to stop me.

  “Well, college isn’t far off!” she giggles, slapping my hands away. “I’ll be leaving. And I looked at your band’s Facebook page. They have tour dates up for this summer.”

  “It’s just bullshit dives and fairs and festivals.” I climb on top of her, straddling her and pulling her arms up over her head.

  “But that sounds amazing.”

  I stick my tongue out and lean down, trying to touch her nose.

  “Are you five?” she squeals, flopping her body and attempting to buck me off.

  I dart in, licking the tip of her nose. She winces and shakes her head rapidly so I won’t get a second shot in.

  I chuckle, releasing her hands. “Honestly, I don’t know why Dane still has that shit up. I told him I wasn’t going.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  I climb off her. “Ryen, I—”

  “Stop,” she says. “It’s not forever. You have to go. Just follow this and see where it leads.”

  Right now, I couldn’t want anything less. The idea of leaving her makes me really fucking unhappy.

  “You and I have had a long distance relationship for seven years,” she goes on. “I think we’ve withstood the test of time and distance. No one has ever come close to meaning to me in person what you mean to me in your letters. And now that we’ve met, and I love you,” she says, climbing into my lap and wrapping her legs around me. “I don’t doubt this. You need to go.”

  “I just got you.”

  “And I don’t want you holding back because of me.”

  I slide my hands up the back of her shirt, savoring her warm, smooth skin.

  “We’re going to have everything we want,” she tells me, laying down the law. “That’s the only way I want this with you. If you go, and you don’t like it, come home. If you do like it, I’ll be waiting when you’re done.”

  I can feel my nerves firing, and I don’t know how to deal with this. I’d rather not think about it today at all.

  Would I like to drive around in an old rented bus and play some music this summer? Maybe. That was the plan up until February.

  But now I have Ryen, and I can’t imagine not seeing her every day. I don’t see the goddamn point of wasting a minute without her in it. I won’t be happier just because I have the music.

  But she’s right. She’s going off to college, and although I can, too, it won’t be the same school. I could go with her, but…I can’t follow her. We both need our own work someday, a way to be fulfilled.

  “If you don’t try,” she says, “you’ll wonder later if you should’ve. Don’t put that guilt on me.”

  I give a weak laugh. Geez, punch me in the nuts, why don’t you?

  “If I do this, I have a condition of my own,” I tell her, looking up into her eyes. “I want you to write a letter.”

  She breaks out in a gigantic smile. “A letter? I’ll write you more than one while you’re gone.”

  “Not to me.” I shake my head. “Delilah.”

  Her face instantly falls. I can tell the prospect of facing that demon unnerves her.

  “She left Falcon’s Well in sixth grade. I wouldn’t even know where she is now.”

  “I’m sure she’s just a Google search away.” Which she knows. She’s just looking for an excuse to not face it.

  She turns her head away, biding time, but I nudge her chin back to me again.

  “What if she doesn’t even remember me?” she asks. “What if it was no big deal to her, and she thinks I’m an idiot for still dwelling on it?”

  I hood my eyes. “Any more excuses or are you done?”

  “Okay,” she bursts out like a child. “I’ll do it. You’re right.”

  “Good.” And I flip her over onto her back and pin her down again. “Now get undressed. I need to make up for lost time while I’m away.”

  “What?” she argues as I pull her shirt over her head. “You make up for lost time when you get back!”

  “Yeah. We can do that, too.”

  Five Years Later…

  “Ryen!” I hear my name being called. “Ryen, come on!”

  I shake my head, amused as I step up onto the curb in front my apartment building. Delcour’s doorman is already poised with the door open for me to make my escape.

  “No, Bill,” I say to the reporter from the Times as he and a few photographers rush up to me, cutting into my space.

  I try to veer around them, but they’re everywhere. I push through them.

  “An Oscar nomination for Best Original Song?” Bill Winthrop holds up a recorder in front of me. “You have to be pleased. He has to have something to say! Come on.”

  “He’s in the writing cave,” I say, making my way to the door. “I told you that before.”

  I turn around, giving him and the other guys who’ve been camped out here forever a bored look. “Really, you’ve been out here for months. Take the night off. Go get a date.”

  Some of the reporters and photographers laugh, and shots from their cameras go off around me.

  “Yes, it’s been months since anyone’s seen him,” Bill chides. “How do we know he’s still alive?”

  I cock my head and put my hands on my hips, making my now-visible pregnant belly more apparent. Obviously, Misha is well enough to do this, right?

  I hear laughter break out again.

  “You know Misha likes his privacy,” I point out.

&
nbsp; “Will he be at the awards?”

  “Not if he can help it.” And I turn, heading into the building.

  “You’re impossible!” I hear Bill’s frustrated shout and don’t even bother to hide my smile.

  “I love you, too!” I call over my shoulder.

  Really, that has to be the most tedious job. Waiting around to see if Misha leaves to go get coffee or pick out a new pair of shoes. It won’t last forever, but my husband would rather avoid attention at all costs. I guess that just makes him more alluring and mysterious, though. I think they even created an app, Spot Misha Lare, like it’s frickin’ Pokemon Go or something.

  I can understand the desire for him, though. He ended up joining me at Cornell for college after his summer tour, saying that his opportunities could wait. We had one life, and he refused to do anything more without me at his side. He’d wait.

  I’d been worried he’d miss out on some big chance, but Misha knows who he is and what he wants.

  And he was right. It wasn’t long after college before he reformed Cipher Core, all the original members back, and they began racking up the awards and tour dates.

  It’s been a hell of a ride, and it’s just starting.

  I walk through the lobby, spotting Rika passing by the front desk.

  “Hey, how are you?” she asks, carrying a duffel bag.

  I take in her leggings, knee-high black boots, and oversized sweater, and here I am, feeling like a planet. When is she going to get pregnant anyway?

  Michael Crist’s wife—who’s from Thunder Bay, as well—and I have become very close, and since her mom and Misha’s dad are suddenly very close, we’ll all probably be family eventually.

  I can’t complain. Their whole crew of friends is interesting, to say the least, but they’re loyal.

  I look at her apologetically, gesturing to the reporters behind me. “I’m sorry about all this.”

  But she just waves me off. “It’s happened with Michael when he makes the play-offs, just not quite like that.” She laughs. “I think he’s jealous, actually. But, hey, a basketball player is a basketball player. A rock star is a rock star.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  She adjusts the bag on her shoulder and keeps walking. “Well, I’m off to the dojo and then Thunder Bay for the weekend. See you Monday, and tell my future step-brother I said hi,” she jokes.

  “Will do.” And I head for the elevators.

  I ride up to the twenty-first floor where there are two penthouses, and there’s only one floor above us, and that’s the Crists’. I love the view, and I’m glad Misha likes to be in the city. We frequently spend time with his father in Thunder Bay, but the nightlife, shows, and concerts are too alluring to stay away from. We like the noise here.

  Once inside, I smell steaks cooking, and my stomach instantly growls. We have a gym in the building, but I like the classes at Rika’s dojo, so I braved the reporters for that today, but now I’m starving. And I need a bath.

  Arms come around me from behind, holding my belly, and I lean back, feeling instantly relaxed. His intoxicating scent surrounds me, and I need contact.

  “Help me get out of these clothes,” I beg.

  He pulls my shirt over my head and helps me out of my sports bra. I’m only six months along—our son is due in March—but I’m playing up the helpless act. The more he touches me, the happier I am. And Misha doesn’t like to see me mad.

  After stripping out of my shoes, socks, and workout pants, I turn around, pulling my hair out of its ponytail.

  He looks incredible. I like this house arrest he’s been keeping himself on. All he does is walk around the apartment all day, half-naked in only lounge pants, listening to music and leaving lyrics in random places. They’re written all over the refrigerator, on napkins, on Post-its stuck to the walls—which he started doing when I freaked out about Sharpie on the fresh paint in the bedroom.

  It’s all a part of his creative process, he says.

  Whatever. It works, I guess.

  “Come on.” He pulls me along. “I started you a bath.”

  I follow him to the bathroom, watching him strip down and get in, and then he holds out a hand, inviting me in.

  I climb in and sit at the other end of the large tub, smiling gratefully when he starts massaging my leg.

  “The reporters are insane,” I tell him. “Everybody wants a piece of you.”

  “Well, this piece wants you.” And he takes my foot, nudging between his legs with it.

  I slowly crawl up on top of him, straddling him but not able to get chest to chest with my belly.

  He takes the small silver pitcher I have next to the tub and begins pouring water over my hair. I arch my neck back, the blanket of warmth coating my scalp and back and making me moan.

  He kisses my neck. “Can I tell you something?” he asks gently.

  I look up, meeting his eyes and nodding.

  He smoothes my hair back, looking at me lovingly. “I love you very much, and when we got married it was my hope that we’d be together forever,” he states, “but that mirror thing,”—he points behind me to the wall design I just installed—“is pissing me off. I lose my equilibrium whenever I walk in here.”

  I turn around and break into a smile, looking at the array of mirrors installed on the walls, which reflect the mirrors on the opposite wall.

  Turning back to him, I lift my chin, nodding. “You’ll get used to it.”

  “You say that all the time,” he whines. “I put up with the gothic fireplace in our converted barn home in Thunder Bay, the sewing machine end tables, the fact that I have to walk through a wardrobe to get into the master bathroom, but this mirror thing…”

  He trails off, and I kiss his cheek. “It’s a conversational piece.”

  He levels me with an unamused look.

  I shake with laughter. “If you divorce me, we won’t still have sex.”

  He twists up his lips. “Yeah, I figured.”

  What a baby. He knew when he married me that I liked being creative. Even if I wasn’t any good at it.

  I reach over and flip the knob, turning on the shower over us. It falls behind me, but it creates a pleasant buzz.

  “You need to put in an appearance,” I say.

  I hate pushing him, and I normally don’t, but sometimes I worry he doesn’t live it up enough.

  “Will’s been calling like crazy,” I point out, “and he even bugged me at work today. He says you need to ‘ride the ride while you can.’”

  “I am,” he maintains and then he tightens his arms around me. “I just want to make music with you, and I want people to hear it and love it, but I don’t need to be bigger than this. I don’t need the hype. I’m happy.”

  I caress his face. “Most people don’t get a chance to be a god,” I say. “Are you sure you’re not missing out? You won’t live forever, after all.”

  “No, but my music can.”

  He always has the perfect answer for everything. He’s right. He’s not missing anything. Would we be happier, sacrificing the time we have together to give it to others? No.

  “And you and me in the lyrics,” he finishes. “That’s all that’s important, and I won’t tolerate any distractions. I’ve only got one shot to do this right, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  I bring him in, kissing him. I love him so much.

  But his words remind me of our favorite rapper, and I pull back, unable to resist teasing him. “Hey, ‘only one shot’ just like in Eminem’s ‘Lose Yourself.’”

  And I start singing the song, belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs.

  He pushes my head back, dousing me under the shower as I squeal in laughter.

  Hey, what did I say?

  THE END

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  Please turn the page to read Ryen’s letter to Delilah.

  Dear Delilah,

&nbs
p; My name is Ryen Trevarrow. We were friends in fourth grade.

  I’m sure you don’t even remember me, but I remember you. In fact, you cross my mind quite a lot. And if you do remember me, then please keep reading, because there are a lot of things I’d like to say.

  You’re under no obligation to listen, but I would be grateful.

  By now, I’m sure your life—like mine—has changed a lot. Your memories of me—if you have any—could range from resentful to so ambiguous that I barely register on your radar anymore. Maybe you haven’t thought about me in years.

  But just in case…I needed to do this. Maybe for you but especially for me. I have a lot of guilt, and I deserve it, but there are things that need to be said, and it’s long past time.

  You see, the image is still in my head. You standing against the wall on the playground, alone because I wouldn’t be your friend any more. I can’t imagine what you were thinking that day and every day after, but I hope you know that what I did and what everyone else said or put you through was never your fault. It was mine, and you were simply there.

  There’s a secret I want to share with you. I haven’t even told my best friend, Misha, because it was so embarrassing.

  When I was nine I had a routine every Sunday night. At about six o’clock, after dinner, I would start to gather all of my hygiene products: shampoo, conditioner, soap, loofah, clippers, nail file... I’d line up everything on the window sill above the bathtub, and for the next hour, I’d bathe.

  That’s right. I was in the bathroom, cleaning, scrubbing, and making sure every damn piece of hair smelled like a lily-scented brook in a mountain meadow for an hour. Then I’d finally emerge and begin the moisturizing and nail cleaning process.

  Good grief, right? But wait, there’s more.

  Then I spent ten minutes flossing and brushing, and even more time picking out my clothes, which of course had to be ironed and laid out for Monday morning. It was a new week, and it was a new me. I was going to have more friends. I was going to be with the popular girls. People would like me.