Smoke and Lyrics

by Holly Hall

“Yes. Drown me.”

  In the silence of the morning, while Jenson’s breathing is still heavy and his arms are sprawled open, unguarded, I use my aloneness to inspect the map of ink over his right side. We’ve been naked in front of each other often enough, but rarely are those moments spent unoccupied by other activities. I’ve never had the time to appreciate the detail of the tree that dominates most of his torso. Everything from the veins on the leaves to the bark of the trunk was painstakingly done. Some of the upper branches arch over his shoulder, and the roots extend all the way to his hipbone.

  The Celtic cross on his ribs, beside the trunk, captures my attention next. Several minutes later, and only when I look up and see his eyes cracked—molten earth and topaz through thick, black lashes—I realize he’s awake.

  “Still angry?” he asks, sleep rasping his already gravelly voice.

  “Yes. Thoroughly worn out, but angry.” Even as I say the words, they don’t carry much meaning. The heat of my temper was lost between rounds three and four, the marks on his back the only testament that the angst ever existed.

  “I don’t think I know better than you, but I won’t do something that would lend you to believe that again.” He traps my fingers where they were tracing the initials I found at the bottom of the cross, lifting them to his mouth and kissing the pads of each one. It’s unfamiliar, melting over such a simple act. But I’m putty in his sheets. He runs his thumb over my palm thoughtfully. “For such a free spirit, you’re weirdly controlled.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask sleepily.

  He turns my palm toward me so I can see the faint crescent-shaped depressions there from last night. “You never let yourself fall completely.”

  I rest my head on his bicep. “I don’t want to fall apart.”

  “You’re in no danger of that. You can always pick yourself up if you need to, even if it’s piece-by-piece. I’d know.”

  I pull my hand away, and his goes immediately into my hair. The hair that dried in my sleep and probably looks completely out of control. “That sounds miserable.”

  “It’s not all bad. There’s a beauty to breaking.”

  “How can you still think that? After everything?” I stop short of mentioning his divorce.

  “I was just as broken then as I am now. But when I lost everything and all I had was myself, I found the initiative to get myself together.”

  I wonder if that’s what he’s doing, getting himself together. With an unobstructed view into the living room—at the boxes he’s yet to unpack—and the bare walls all around, I’m not sure he is. But I guess home décor isn’t always indicative of someone’s well-being. Some people don’t put their hearts on their walls like I do. I wait for him to continue, not wanting to disturb the fragile moment.

  He follows his fingers as they continue through my hair. “More of you can be found in the cracks rather than the shell. People like to forget that.”

  “Maybe because the cracks are uglier than people want to believe,” I suggest.

  “But they’re real. I’d do anything for something real. I try my hardest to give my listeners that.”

  “I get it. I want to show everyone what they don’t always look hard enough to see.” At this moment, I’m thinking of his roots. Of his raw words and the way they pull something out of him every time he performs.

  He turns over on his side and watches me, considering something. Then he says, “How do you expect to show the world its own beauty if you keep it at a distance?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I say automatically. He nods once, as if he realizes that in this, we are the same. All we want is truth, reality, when we’ve done all we can to shield ourselves from it, or to shield other people from the worst parts of us.

  “This conversation has gotten heavier than I meant,” I say with a short laugh. Jenson just shrugs a shoulder, and my fingers return to his ribs. “Tell me about the tree.”

  His lower lip turns out as he cranes his neck to look down at it. “My dad left my mom shortly after I was born, and all he left behind, aside from this ring”—he spins the band of engraved silver on his thumb—“was a newly planted tree in the backyard. When I was growing up, I couldn’t figure out why for the life of me. But I’d sit under its little branches and wonder. It was barely a stick then, but so was I. Then I came up with this theory that if I waited there under that tree long enough, he’d somehow know it and come back. As the branches spread, I started believing something else—that as the shade grew across the yard, so did his presence. Like he was there, looking after me, without really being there. Then I became a teenager and decided all that was bullshit, but I did learn this: everyone needs something to believe in—whether that faith exists as a foundation or motivation is up to you. I stopped putting my faith in that tree and put it in myself instead.”

  “The roots are my favorite.”

  “Those are a reminder. To always remember where I came from, what I stand on. My mom’s initials are in there, as well as Carter’s and some others; the people who helped get me where I am and didn’t expect anything in return.”

  I look closer, squinting to discern letters in the twisted roots, trying to figure out who’s worth a coveted spot on his skin. “You could’ve just put ‘I love Mom’ in a heart on your arm, you know. No need to go through all this.” I run my fingers over his ribs and dig between two of them until he squirms. It’s endlessly amusing that he’s so ticklish.

  “There’s still time,” he teases, pinning the offending hand to the bed and turning me over. He kisses me slowly and sweetly, then his tongue dips into my mouth and the morning slips away from us.

  We talk and sleep and make out on and off until eleven, when I become too famished to think straight. Of course, there’s less in his refrigerator than there was when he was living with Carter. He needs to start making himself a priority, starting with stocking up on good food.

  I ask him for the password to his phone while he showers, and after a bit of finagling, he gives it up. Then I navigate to the app store and download one of the grocery-delivery apps. By the time I’ve plugged in the necessary information, Jenson’s out of the shower with just a towel around his hips, procuring clothes from his dresser.

  “I need your credit card info,” I say from where I’m sprawled across his couch. He appears, standing over me.

  “If it’s for last night, I’m not sure I can afford it,” he says with a wink. I mimic kicking him in the face before flashing him the phone screen.

  “I’m ordering you some groceries. You need to start taking care of yourself.”

  He rolls his lips inward, appearing to fight a smile. When he drops his wallet into my hands, I fish out a credit card and input the information. Then I go to town. Produce, non-perishable items, gum to help stop smoking—I select it all.

  “You can schedule future deliveries on here, and it even tracks previous purchases so you can just select ‘restock.’ Hit the payment button and bam, food delivered to your door,” I call as he clothes himself in the other room. I manage to sneak a peek of his fantastic behind before he pulls a pair of shorts on.

  “Did you just say bam?” He turns to me and swipes his hair one last time with the towel, tossing it back into the bathroom. Groceries are one thing, but teaching him to hang his wet towels so they don’t get mildewy is obviously going to take some time.

  “I did. And I just made your life about a million times better.” Rising from the couch, I toss him his phone. Then I go to grab my clothes from the dryer, where he placed them last night, and swap them for his shirt I’m wearing. I regretfully fold it back how he had it after taking one last drag of his intoxicating scent.

  “You can take it with you, you know.” He’s peering around the corner. I don’t know how long he’s been there.

  “What? That’s okay.” I wave him off, returning to the entry table to grab my wallet. Jenson follows.

  “I was going to order us food.”

  �
�It’s fine. I have to work this evening, and I lazed around long enough.”

  “Okay,” he says, nodding at the ground. “Are we okay?”

  I pause with one hand on the door handle, the obvious concern in his voice making my heart twinge. “We’re okay,” I tell him with a reassuring smile.

  He nearly sags in relief. “You made quite the entrance.”

  “I didn’t mean to be so dramatic, it just worked out that way.” His smiling face is all I see as the door closes behind me.

  Chapter 20

  Jenson

  Looking back, I know I didn’t have the right to interfere in Lindsey’s situation with Craig. It’s a firm reminder that although I’m worlds away from the man I was immediately after my divorce, I haven’t fully kicked the habit of doing what I think is best. But I don’t regret it. Not even close. I feel better knowing Lindsey’s not being blackmailed day after day, and although she’s not likely to admit it, I’m sure she does, too. Somehow the situation worked out and she doesn’t hate me. The events that transpired later erased those fears.

  Although the holidays are around the corner, things haven’t stopped moving along with the band. A new record is coming together, and we’ve been busy rehearsing for a charity show Brad secured us a last-minute slot in. We were looking for an intimate venue for our comeback, but this show seemed right. It’s for a good cause, anyway. As expected, word has spread and photos have been leaked of us coming and going outside the studio—cue the rumors and predictions. This is my least favorite part, feeling that everything balances on a precarious edge. That we’ve set into motion something that can’t be stopped. But it’s all part of the business.

  I’m dragging my toes down the hall of my building when I return home after our latest rehearsal. By the end of our session, we still hadn’t gotten the bridge of one of our songs right. I push gracelessly through my door and blow out a sigh, before registering I’m not alone. A familiar messenger bag covered in buttons is resting in a heap on the floor.

  Lindsey’s been coming over semi-regularly since that first time, so her being here is no longer a surprise. Already, I’ve noticed an improvement around here; she’s been hounding me to unpack, make something of my place, so I set the goal to unpack one box each time she comes over. It’s not much, but it’s something.

  The smile I already had prepared fades when I round the corner and see her seated on my kitchen counter, head back against the cabinets, a half-empty bottle of red beside her. I stop short and prop myself against the refrigerator with a forearm, waiting until she looks at me. “Hello, lovely,” I greet, my voice just as weary and ragged as I feel.

  “I invited myself over,” she says. She’s in another one of her thrift-store finds, wearing a faded black sweater with sleeves that go past her hands as a dress, and she’s clutching it to her like she’s freezing.

  “I can see that. What’s on your mind?” It’s clearly something heavy, or her eyes wouldn’t be rimmed in red. I haven’t seen her this sad in all the time I’ve known her.

  “My father’s marrying someone—a woman he knew while he and my mom were together.”

  I watch her carefully, gauging just how she feels about this. Some families are more screwed up than others, and I can’t tell if she’s more disappointed that she expected the news or that she didn’t. “And you feel very negatively about it,” I finish. I want to console her, but at the same time I don’t want to smother.

  “My mom has MS, and my dad left her shortly after she was diagnosed. Or so I thought. I hated him for it, and then I found out they’d been considering it for years, waiting until I was out of the house to tell me. Said they wanted to provide a solid home life and make sure I was okay on my own before they did anything drastic. Now I hear from my dad for the first time in years, and he wants me to spend half of my time with him and his new fiancé at Thanksgiving.” The words seem to hit me at once, like they’ve been dumped from an overturned bucket. I’d have never guessed any of this, not about her mom or her parents’ divorce.

  Lindsey lets out a great, shuddering sigh. “I thought I was bigger than this. I thought I could be mature and accept that everyone deserves their own happiness, you know?” she voices to the ceiling.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t. I hung up on him. I can’t handle that right now.” She takes a swig of wine straight from the bottle. “Sorry I brought this. I’ll finish it.”

  I shrug as if it’s not a big deal, like the smell of it isn’t mouth-watering. Instead, I stick with my new theme of giving her space, trudging over to the coffee maker and brewing a mug, then wordlessly handing it over to her. In the same fashion, she accepts it, and I slide the bottle farther down the counter, away from her. Hypocritical or not, I know filling your belly with alcohol is probably the worst thing you can do when dealing with hurt and emotion. And every strained feature on Lindsey’s face tells me she’s waging a war against hers.

  “I’m sorry.” I hunch over the counter beside her and rub my face. There’s nothing else I can say. I don’t know her father or their situation, and I’m hardly the picture of marital success.

  Lindsey just sips her coffee and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m not gonna go.”

  “To your dad’s?”

  “Home. I have to work, anyway. I can’t get off long enough to fly back.”

  “You should see your family.”

  “I can’t.” She shrugs, but she looks regretful. “Anyway, I’ll be over it by Christmas. Maybe enough to go see my dad again.”

  Something in her tone clues me in. “You haven’t seen your dad? Since when?”

  “Since he left. Five years ago.”

  My chest tightens. Yeah, my dad left, and yeah, I’ve had countless moments where I’ve thought of him as nothing more than a piece of shit, but her situation is different. Her dad didn’t abandon her when she was a baby, he raised her and gave her the childhood he thought she deserved. He wanted to preserve some of that naïve youth. I can’t fault him for that. But her feelings aren’t mine to judge, so instead of voicing my thoughts, I drop my hand to her thigh and squeeze it reassuringly. “What can I do?”

  She looks down at me and gives me a small smile. “I think you know.

  “Jesus, woman. It’s like I’m not good for anything else around here.”

  “I know a few things you’re very, very good at. But I was thinking. . .”

  I straighten, taking her mug and setting it in the sink, busying myself so she can say what’s on her mind. “What?”

  “Your apartment is sad. Maybe even sadder than the situation with my dad. You haven’t fully unpacked and you’ve been here for months.”

  “Interior decorating is not one of those things I’m good at,” I say. I’m also not good with adjustments. Once I’d finally grown accustomed to living with Carter, I moved out. Now I’m here and I can’t bring myself to try futilely to make it home. It won’t ever be home.

  “Come on. I know you have some platinum albums in there somewhere,” she says, waving toward the cardboard graveyard. “Maybe a photo of you and your mom? Some porn mags for the coffee table? Literally anything to cheer this place up?”

  “Cheer? That’s what you want?” She nods, her eyes glimmering with mirth. “Well, cheer is what you will get, dream catcher. Wait here.”

  I stride into the living room, pausing only to whip my shirt over my head and change into sweatpants. Then I peek beneath the flaps of the boxes in the corner until I find what I’m looking for. Money.

  Bare feet pad up behind me as I’m wrestling with the disassembled pieces. “How could I have guessed you wouldn’t follow instructions?”

  “I’m curious,” she whines, trying to lean around me.

  “Behold,” I declare, pulling out a third of a Christmas tree. “In a moment of pettiness, I took this from Carter’s house when I moved out.”

  “You took his Christmas tree?” She fake gasps. “Scrooge strikes
again.”

  “I’m pretty sure I bought it. And I think you mean the Grinch.” I hand her the section and dig through false branches to find the next.

  She frowns. “Never saw it.”

  I freeze, appalled. “You’ve gotta be shitting me. Like, you haven’t seen the remake?”

  “I’m not shitting you. I haven’t watched either.”

  “The hell? That changes tonight. But first, we have a job to do.” I locate the base and Lindsey points me toward the windows along the wall opposite my front door.

  “All the way over here?” I question.

  “Yes. In the window. Christmas trees aren’t just for you to enjoy, they’re for everyone.”

  “You must’ve lived in a different kind of neighborhood than me. Put your tree in the window and you’d probably get robbed.” I plug the widest section of the tree into the base, fluffing the branches.

  “Or maybe I’m just good at Christmas.” She passes me the middle portion of the tree, and I plug that one into the bottom. Leaving her to arrange the branches, I reach over her head and slide the last piece into place. It’s not the largest tree, maybe six feet tall or so, but it’s a tree nonetheless; it does the job.

  I plug in the pre-strung lights and step back, dusting off my hands. “Voila. Christmas tree.”

  Lindsey gives the tree a long look from bottom to top. “That’s it? You don’t have any ornaments?”

  “Damn. I knew I was forgetting something important when I left Carter’s place pissed off after he betrayed me. Ornaments.” I feign a perplexed look and she swats me on the arm.

  “I have an idea.” She goes to rifle through her messenger bag, and I fetch my phone from the kitchen. A few taps later and the apartment is filled with notes of Andy Williams’ “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” Lindsey returns a moment later and produces a handful of Polaroids. Taking a closer look, I see they’re photos of us. Me, or her, or both of us. This whole time, while I was writing or drinking or loving on her, and she was clicking away with her camera, she was taking these. I watch while she divvies them between us, then starts placing hers on the branches, nestling them in the greenery so they’re standing up.