Smoke and Lyrics

by Holly Hall

  I don’t want to see that fail. I don’t want to fail him. But he’s looking at me with his sad eyes and all I feel like doing is melting.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not usually such a nightmare. What’s up?”

  “First of all, you said something about eating.” He draws his arm from behind his back, and I see he’s holding a plastic bag.

  “Oh, what could that be?” I tease, but I can make out the telltale black-and-white logo through the thin grocery sack.

  Jenson pulls out a fresh bag of my favorite salt-and-pepper popcorn, setting it on the dresser beside him, then a bottle of red wine.

  “You’re pulling all the stops today, King. How could I ever resist you?”

  “If I had any clue, maybe I’d have won you over by now.”

  “Doubt it.” I jump up and open the bag of popcorn, downing a handful. The first one is always the best and spiciest. “What were you saying about going somewhere?”

  He passes me up and makes a beeline for my Polaroid collage. To anyone else, it might look like the type of junk an eight-year-old would put together, but to me it’s my pride and joy. That camera is sacred. Nobody is captured on my Polaroid film unless I say so.

  “These are cool. None of that fancy editing, no zoom. You get what you get, and that’s that.”

  “That’s that,” I agree. I wonder if the inventors knew what kind of honesty their cameras would print onto those little square photos.

  “I need to get out of town for a while.” His eyes are still on the photos, but I sense the question dangling at the end of that statement.

  “Did you commit a crime?” I ask, my mouth full.

  “I might if I don’t leave. You wanna come with?”

  That’s cute that he thinks I can just take off at the drop of a hat despite the job I need to pay my bills. I wonder when he last had to worry about things like that. But I decide to play along, because there’s a forlorn set to his shoulders that I recognize. A restlessness in his usually steady brown eyes. “Where are you headed?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. I like camping, you know? Unplugging from society. The wilderness and all that shit.”

  “Yeah. All that shit. Love it.”

  “I’m serious. There are some places close by, if you can’t be gone for too long.”

  “I can’t just go on a random trip with some random guy, Jenson. I have a job that I kind of need. Or else I’ll be, you know, homeless.”

  “I’m not that random,” he says, turning to me and wiggling his eyebrows. I hate that his disheveled hair makes me think of sex, and that my wanderlust is trumping all reason in my mind. “There are all kinds of hiking trails and campgrounds around here. We wouldn’t even have to leave the state.”

  I’m already shaking my head, putting up an impenetrable wall against visions of secluded cabins, a break from work, open wilderness. “I can’t.” My heart cries out in protest of those two words. “I have to work. You know that thing some people have to do to feed themselves?”

  “I’ll pay you,” he says.

  “I’m not sure if you’ve figured this out yet, but I’m not a prostitute.”

  “Not for that. For a session, or whatever. Bring your camera and charge me your hourly rate. I need some new photos.”

  “For what?” I ask, rolling my eyes.

  “My portfolio. As of today, I’m jobless. So I’ll probably need to sell myself to make ends meet. Some recent photos would be a big help.”

  My mind reels, though I try to shut it down. Nothing good can come of this. Nothing but a memory card full of one-on-one photos of Jenson fucking King, but . . . “Wait, you lost your job?”

  He turns toward me, making me the sole subject of his laser focus. “I didn’t lose it. I walked out on the VP of my record label, which is basically the same thing. I can hardly breathe through the bullshit. I need to get away, and I want you to come with me.”

  Just like that, his career is essentially over, his life has completely changed, and he wants to go away with me. The number of directions my mind is going right now is insane. “I’ll need to call in sick.”

  That smile reappears again, and I make a mental note to pack my good underwear. The kind that are dark, lacy, and will most definitely bring this man to his knees.

  “Atta girl.”

  Chapter 10

  Lindsey

  I don’t have many routines. I live life by the seat of my pants most days, but one thing I’ve always done is shown up to work; mostly out of necessity, sure, I do need to make money. But for the first time in my life, I called in sick. My mind was screaming at me not to, and still I somehow said the words. And all because of the man beside me, who’s drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music and pausing intermittently to pluck the strings of his air guitar.

  I don’t need to involve myself in what could become a media shitstorm. I shouldn’t be spending my valuable time on someone who I’m certain is listed beneath the word “wildcard” in the dictionary. But here I am. I tell myself it’s for the photos, all the while dreaming of putting my feet up and being somewhere I don’t have to be constantly on all the time. Maybe it’s a backwards way of thinking when it comes to women my age, but in my opinion, there is no pressure to impress someone who is so completely wrong for me.

  I lay my head against the threadbare headrest, inhaling the scent of the open road. I wouldn’t have matched this old Bronco to Jenson, even given his grungy, hipster/mountain-man wardrobe, but it suits him. He’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, one hand resting on the wheel and one making waves in the wind out the open window. In between every cigarette, his hands stay busy, either playing his “instruments” or clutching the pack like he wishes he could resist the little sticks of temptation. His fidgeting keeps me on edge.

  “So, where are we going?” I ask, propping my white Chucks on the dash. They’re more of a dishwater-gray now, but they’re broken in and have traveled more miles with me than anyone. To me, that means something.

  “I wasn’t sure what your stance on camping was, so I played it safe and got a cabin. Hopefully it’ll be decent, despite the short notice. We might have to share a communal bathroom.”

  I shrug a shoulder and run my finger along the inside of my bracelets. “All right. Whatever.”

  The silence makes me look over at him, only to discover he’s inspecting me over the top of his sunglasses. “Really? You’d be cool with that?”

  “Have you seen where I live?”

  “True, but that’s out of necessity. Why is that, by the way? Reminds me of a hostel.”

  “It’s not so bad. I need to live close to the city because I don’t have a car, and with five other roommates it’s cheap. I can dedicate my paychecks to the things that matter.”

  His eyebrows lift over his Wayfarers. “I haven’t heard that kind of dedication from someone your age in a long time.”

  “We aren’t all brainless idiots, my generation,” I say, angling my head toward him.

  “Uh-huh. So besides the whole music scene, what pushed you to just pick up and leave home?” He taps the top of his cigarette carton in sync with the beat. “That had to have been a tough decision to make.”

  I bob my toe to the music, something folksy I can’t place, meanwhile trying not to think too hard about who I left behind. “I had to make my dreams happen. It was either New York, L.A., or here, and I liked the vibe here most. It’s less in-your-face, more understated. And I’m not really attached to one place.”

  “Denver’s a pretty place to be attached to.”

  I trace the tops of the pines out the window with my eyes. “Landscapes don’t move me. People do.”

  “No shortage of those in Nash, but you said you didn’t know anyone here. You get homesick for your family?”

  I nod vaguely, then change the subject. It’s a little early in the weekend to delve into the topic of my home life. “So, you lost your job,” I say, because that’s not the kind
of thing you just decide, especially when it involves a total lifestyle change and millions of dollars.

  “I did.” I see him chewing his lip out of the corner of my eye. “Well, I was basically given an ultimatum, and I told them I was done.”

  The prospect of it makes me sweat. I remember the conversations we’ve had, the tough love I’ve given him, and suddenly I feel a little queasy. Have I played some part in setting this in motion? “Done with music? Forever?”

  “No. I could never be done with music. I’m just sick of the business.” Nearly a minute ticks by with nothing to occupy it but a guitar riff emanating from the speakers. He flexes his hands on the steering wheel. “I’m sick of being a business. This all started because I loved to write music. I was lucky enough to have some success with it, but the focus shifted from the music to . . . everything else.”

  “You need to get back to your roots,” I conclude.

  He looks at me sidelong for a long time—longer than what’s considered safe in a moving vehicle—like I’ve just said something profound. But he doesn’t speak. Slowly, our worries drift to the pavement behind us like leaves crisped by the changing seasons.

  Away from the city and deeper into the back country, it’s more apparent that fall is tightening her grip on Tennessee—the leaves on the broadleaf trees are stained yellow and crimson, a promise of winter. I burrow back into my seat, taking in the growing ruggedness of the terrain. Whatever kind of photos Jenson has in mind, the scenery will be an asset.

  Partway to Center Hill Lake, we stop off for barbecue at a place that looks like a shed and smells like heaven. Jenson makes fun of the way I eat my ribs with one hand and drink a beer with the other, all while sporting a red smear of barbecue sauce on his cheek. I don’t point it out until we’re on our way back to the truck and he’s already been seen by all the other diners. Our antics come so easily I don’t realize I haven’t thought about who he is, who he really is, since I asked the one question about his career over an hour ago.

  God, what are we doing? I haven’t yet gotten to the bottom of that. All I know is Jenson’s career is over, and he wanted to leave town, and he chose me. I told myself it wouldn’t go to my head, but I feel the significance. If I think too much about it and what it means, I’ll freak myself out.

  I almost don’t want to know the answer.

  Jenson

  I wasn’t lying when I told Lindsey this was the only cabin left, but I never mentioned I didn’t bother to check any other rental sites. If she’s adamant about it, I’ll sleep on the couch or something. I’ve spent nights passed out in the backseat of my truck before, the couch will be a breeze.

  After checking in and procuring our keys, I drive us down to the end of a row of nearly identical cabins—cedar logs with green metal roofs. I don’t know what I was hoping for, but the place looks as cheerful and quaint as a damn Christmas card. It’s a place my grandma would’ve called precious. But the knot in my chest eases when we park out front of number fourteen and unload our bags and what few groceries we bought. That’s all it takes—a few minutes of fresh, piney air, nothing but the sound of gravel beneath our feet and birds twittering overhead, and not another human in sight.

  Lindsey dumps her armload on the kitchen island and jogs up the stairs to the loft, and I hear a muffled flump as she drops onto the bed. “This is heavenly,” she calls down. I smile to myself. Maybe I won’t be setting up camp on the couch tonight. I shrug out of my leather jacket and hang it over one of the wooden chair-backs, putting some of the groceries away to the sound of her sneakers squeaking as she explores the rest of the cabin. It doesn’t take long, and she ends up back downstairs before I’ve even put the steaks in the refrigerator.

  “I was wondering when you’d ditch that,” she says, hopping onto the island and swinging her legs. Already, she’s claimed it as hers.

  “What?”

  “The rock star jacket. People don’t wear that sort of stuff when they go camping.”

  “People who camp don’t stay in cabins, either. Maybe I should’ve brought the tent. Or, better yet, just a couple of hammocks. Nothing between us and the elements but thin air.”

  She scrunches her nose while she thinks about it. I thought I liked her hair better when it was down and wild, but I haven’t stopped thinking about how that messy ponytail would look wrapped around my hand since I first picked her up. I shake my head to clear away those thoughts. Think about knitting instead. I don’t know a damn thing about knitting, so it doesn’t work completely, but it helps. When my eyes find her again, hers are scrutinizing.

  “Do you have something else to say about my wardrobe?” I ask, tossing the tomatoes into the veggie drawer. My smile broadens as her eyes rake down my body. Her eye makeup is a little smudged and worn from the day, and I can’t get enough of her sleepy-eyed smiles and the jabs she’s sent my way this entire trip.

  She shakes her head. “Everything else, I can deal with.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

  When the sun begins to set, we carry armfuls of logs just beyond the back deck, and Lindsey arranges them in the fire pit while I start up the grill. I turn my back on her for just a couple minutes, and when I turn around, all I see is a ball of orange flames.

  “I have made fire,” she sings, doing a little shimmy. But I’m too distracted by the writhing, sanguine tongues of heat behind her. Their dance is violent and enchanting and destructive.

  “Hey,” she says, appearing right in front of me. “How are the steaks coming along?”

  “Good.” I wipe my hands on my jeans and look down at the bare grill. “Let me go get them.” Turning, I hop up onto the deck and slide through the door to get the meat. If I want to get myself together, I need to keep my head out of the past. One of the shrinks told me that, and it’s the one thing I struggle most with. How do you forget the things you’ve seen with your own eyes, the feelings that seemed to soak and stain your conscience? How do you just disregard the mistakes that sent your life into a tailspin, when the proof of one of them is living and breathing and loving someone else?

  I brace my hands on the counter, staring unseeingly at the tile floor. How the hell did I wind up here? I only have a partial answer to that. My life is a revolving door of mistakes that I can’t get out of, and it’s hard to trace the wayward path from my somewhat innocent beginnings to now. The memories are hazy, obliterated completely by either time or alcohol. I first started writing music simply because I loved it, because I wanted to create the kind of music I admired. I had no clue where it would lead.

  With fame came attention, and with that, the incessant need to please everyone by being who they wanted me to be. My mind was full of razor-sharp doubts that cut determination and what little self-confidence I had to ribbons. The party environment wasn’t much help. I quickly found out it was much easier to deal with everything once it was dull, muffled—hence the alcohol. Nobody looks as intimidating when they’re blurry, not even fifty thousand fans. I wasn’t built for that life, and I felt it every day. Putting on the Jenson King my PR team created was like squeezing into a scuba suit that was a size too small. No matter what I did, that suit rubbed me the wrong way, grating on my psyche until there was nothing left but raw nerves. I couldn’t take it, hence the alcoholism. And in the middle of all that was Raven.

  We both made mistakes, though I shoulder the blame. I promised her time and time again I would get the help I needed and never did, and she stashed every complaint inside like she was stowing ammo for war. But I put the final nail in the coffin with the fire. To say I messed up is putting it lightly. I got fucked up one day, a normal Thursday, and accidentally lit the kitchen on fire trying to cook myself something. I don’t even remember what it was, only that it involved grease. And because of that, we lost our home, our life.

  We’d been crumbling before then, but that was when the last piece of us joined the growing pile of rubble. Raven was the first to mention divorce, and I dismissed it instantl
y, citing it as a weird side effect of the trauma we’d experienced. When it settled in that she was truly leaving me, I fought her tooth and nail. I was afraid of being alone, of shouldering everything we’d created by myself, when I’d never trusted her to carry some of the burden in the first place. Throughout my fight, I never considered what was best for her. I’d become blind to the shell she’d become following the miscarriage, and the fire, and during the dissolution of our marriage.

  For years, she’d played the role of supportive wife, and I was foolish enough to think a life on the road, following the band around, was enough for her. I simply watched as she tolerated the meet-and-greets full of girls with wandering hands, spent holidays alone, and cooked dinners for one while I was too busy writing, rehearsing, or recording. How messed up is that? I was supposed to protect her from the ugly side of the industry, and all I was worried about was saving myself.

  The smoke around my memories is disturbed when Lindsey steps around me and roots through the refrigerator for the pan of marinating meat. Then her eyes settle on me and she comes closer, enough so our toes bump, and physically removes my hands from where they’re both planted on the counter.

  “Popcorn for your thoughts?” Her tone is playful, but I hear the underlying concern.

  “If you wanna make that deal, you’d owe me a whole damn movie theater of popcorn.” I am endlessly tired, weary from inadequate sleep and slogging through my thoughts every time something reminds me of the year I’ve had. I’m ready to cut my demons lose, I just don’t know how. It’s too much to process, and all I really want is a drink.

  “I found some folding chairs in the little storage box outside. Want to come sit by the fire? It’s pretty freakin’ awesome, if I do say so myself.”