by Holly Hall
And our director claps. The motherfucker claps.
“Where the hell did that come from? You sang the hell out of that song! James, that last bit, that was phenomenal. Jenson, I’d like to see that kind of raw strain during the show. You’re going to bring them all to their knees.”
I block out the rest of his praise and criticisms, not acknowledging his remark but not protesting it, either. I’d rather not throw my bloody, beating heart onto the stage in front of fifty thousand fans like I did just now, but whatever keeps them all off my back. If my suffering is what it takes to earn my listeners’ forgiveness, then suffering is what I’ll do.
The rest of the rehearsal is less eventful—if you call the director trying like hell to keep his cool while turning cherry-red uneventful. Our faster songs don’t have enough “energy,” he says. No “wow factor.” I’ll be just fine if I never hear the words “wow factor” ever again.
When the rehearsal is called and we’re dismissed, I do as I’ve been doing and get the hell out of there. I know I’m doing a piss-poor job at being a leader, but I can’t handle any more than what I’m doing right now. I’m digging for the Coke bottle in my console when I hear Carter call out to me. “Hey man, wait up.”
I pretend I can’t find what I’m looking for and slam down the console. “Yeah, what’s up?”
“You tell me. How’s the sinus infection?”
God, I’m not in the mood for a confrontation, and Carter is the one guy my lies don’t fool. “Better, but I’ve gotta take off. You did awesome today, man.”
His hand catches the door when I go to shut it. “Thanks for the half-assed compliment, but you and I both know it’s bullshit. What’s going on? Thought we were on a roll until you dipped on us and disappeared for a week.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and the thought to answer it crosses my mind for half a second until I look back at Carter. He’s a couple words away from pummeling me in the face, and he could do it. The guy’s spent more time in the gym and out of the bars since he started seeing his girlfriend. Impending ass-kicking aside, the guy’s my best friend, the closest thing I have to a brother. Giving him the runaround is as hard on me as it is on him.
“I’m gonna be straight with you. After that,” I gesture toward the metal building behind us, “I need a drink. So I’m going to take my ass home and pass out. You’re welcome to come, but I can’t promise to be good company.”
He just looks back at me, eyes as hard and unflinching as stone, and finally nods. “I’ll follow you there.”
I shut the door after he releases it. I didn’t plan on having company, but Carter won’t be happy with anything I do, whether I blow him off or tell him what I’ve been dealing with. I might as well not drink alone.
My hope that he was joking is short-lived. Carter’s truck stays in my rear-view mirror the entire drive home, and when we reach my complex, I point out the visitor parking on the ground floor before driving up to my usual spot. He meets me in front of my apartment door, and I let him in. Stale air and the smell of old takeout containers stacked by the trash can assault us without warning when I open the door.
“Bro,” he says when we walk in.
“Yeah,” is my only response.
“It smells like a Chinese restaurant in here.”
“It’s Thai, and thanks.” I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter and pour two glasses of Maker’s from a fresh bottle. I hand one to Carter, who accepts it without hesitation. “Cheers to the comeback,” I say, and I down it in two gulps.
Carter’s focus moves elsewhere, and he wanders around my apartment rather than grilling me. “You decorated,” he says from the living room.
I trade my glass for the bottle and look around the cabinets, noticing he’s studying the Christmas tree. I’m surprised the bulbs haven’t burnt out yet. Damn tree and its damn lights.
“Lindsey decorated. She dumped me, by the way.”
Carter nods, unsurprised, one hand in his pocket and the other around his glass. He hasn’t taken more than a sip of his beverage, but that’s fine. More for me. “I didn’t know you were dating.”
“We weren’t. Does that make the breakup more or less fucked up?”
He shrugs, and when I drop down onto the couch, he joins me. “Wanna tell me about it?”
“Not really.” Why would I when he’s heard it all before? Still, I haven’t talked to anyone about Lindsey, and when I open my mouth, everything that’s happened over the last few months spills out. The way she became a facet in my life when neither of us meant for her to and the gaping hole she left when she walked out the door.
“Anyway, maybe she was playing me,” I finish, toasting the bottle like it’s news worth toasting for.
“Nah.”
I frown at him, but under the influence of liquor, even my facial features seem to move in slow motion. “You can admit you were all thinking it. She wanted to be a music photographer, so she latched onto the first musician who paid attention to her. That guy just happened to be this guy.” I point to myself, sloshing the whiskey.
“We saw how she was when she came up to the studio. She was all about you. What happened between then and now?”
I raise the bottle and proclaim, “I told her I was falling in love with her.”
“Then what?”
“She left. She said that’s not how it was supposed to happen, or . . . hell, I don’t even remember. She left, and she hasn’t come back. Hasn’t tried to call. And that’s it.”
Carter winces. “You scared her off. She wasn’t ready for all that.”
“Then what was I supposed to do? You tell me. Was I supposed to just play along? Act like I didn’t care about her when it was clear that was a lie? She led me on, dude.”
“I don’t think she meant to. She was probably just as surprised by her feelings as she was by what you said.”
If things were normal, we’d hardly get through a conversation about feelings without laughing our asses off. But they’re not, and all I can say is, “Well, she doesn’t love me back. She proved that.”
“That’s where I think you’ve got it wrong, my man. She loves you.”
I don’t know what his desired reaction was, but the words anger me. I scoff bitterly. “I don’t think so.”
Carter pushes off the couch and goes over to the Christmas tree, looking closer at the photos before holding one up between two fingers. “You’re gonna show me this tree and tell me she didn’t love you?”
There’s probably a picture of my dick in there, but I can’t bring myself to care. The photos mean nothing. The months I spent with Lindsey mean nothing. It all means nothing. I gesture around the room. “Do you see her anywhere? No. She was clearly feeling some other vibe, and that’s why she left.”
He tosses the photo onto the window seat and selects another one, holding it up. “If she didn’t love you, it’d be easier to shut you down so you wouldn’t bother her anymore. But she didn’t do that. She left because she feels the same way. Who knows, maybe it’s not love yet. Maybe it’s something else. But it’s something.”
“It’s not anything.”
Carter sighs, dropping his arms. “Look around you. Look at this damn tree. She was showing you how she felt about you with her art. You and I have been in this business for over a decade, we all know that means something.” He strides back over to the couch and bends over, getting right in my line of sight. “She didn’t have to hang out with you, but what did she do? She took photos of you, she spent all her time with you, she decorated your tree with both of you, she surrounded herself with you. People only do that with things that are meaningful, whether it’s a conscious choice or not. Whatever you did, you made an impression on her. So don’t think it’s nothing.”
What he’s saying might make sense if I wasn’t already halfway to being wasted, but instead I’m in the mood to fight, reject, turn down anything that sounds halfway reasonable. But Carter is relentless and so I say, “What am I suppos
ed to do, then? I fought for Raven and it wasn’t enough.”
The couch dips when he sits beside me again, facing me. “That’s because you were fighting for yourself. If you want Lindsey, fight for Lindsey.”
“Well I don’t know how to fight for someone who’s dead set on running.” I tip the bottle back and drain a swig of amber, holding it in my mouth and savoring it like the last pieces of Lindsey I have left.
“You let her go. Set her free.”
Chapter 22
Jenson
After that discussion with Carter, I do what I can to let her go. Which means I don’t really do anything at all. I drink a little less because rehearsals take up more of my time and music is one of the few things I care about, and I think about Lindsey just as much. Only now, I have a goal in mind.
Let her go.
Set her free.
Too bad letting go feels like failure.
It’s after rehearsal on Wednesday that I get a phone call that resurrects my smile. How long has it been since I’ve done that?
“Hey, Ma.”
“Jenson! Jesus, where have you been, hon?”
Her strained tone comes out of left field. “Just rehearsing long hours every day. I’ve been meaning to call and ask if you were coming to the show and how many tickets to leave for you.”
“Well, hold your horses a minute. I’d like to know if you’re going to make it to Thanksgiving.”
“Well, yeah, we’ll be off for Thanksgiving,” I reassure her. I can’t remember the last time she sounded so stressed.
“You do know it’s tomorrow, don’t you?”
I freeze, mentally ticking off the days in my head. Today is Wednesday. Tomorrow . . . Thanksgiving. “Uh, yeah. Fuck, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. Rehearsals have been crazy. So what’s the plan for tomorrow? When should I be there?”
“Well, if I could get a hold of you, you’d know. I slipped at the diner the other day, broke my wrist. It’s nothing serious, but I can’t do a darn thing with the splint they’ve got me in.”
I grip my phone until I hear a muted crack. “Wait, you broke your wrist?”
“I know, and right before the holidays. Awful timing. Anyway, I’m sorry to say that supper tomorrow won’t be what it was. I can try to get something together, but it won’t be the usual.”
Guilt slides between my ribs and stabs me right in the gut. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. There’s nothing to apologize for. I’ll figure something out, all right? I don’t want you to worry about anything.”
“Jens, I understand you’re busy. Don’t worry—”
“Mom, let me handle it, okay?”
Silence stretches before she finally answers. “Okay, baby. But listen, there won’t be much left at the stores, so don’t stress it. You being here will be enough.”
“I’ll be there. Supper tomorrow, you and me, okay?”
She’s barely hung up before I pound my fist into the steering wheel, accidentally honking. The one time she needed me, the one fucking time, and I wasn’t around. She broke her wrist, and she was feeling guilty about not being able to cook a proper meal for Thanksgiving. The Thanksgiving I nearly forgot.
The arrival of the holiday brings Lindsey back into mind, only now, the memory of her battles my newfound guilt. She’s going to be alone. I forgot about the only family I have left because of my selfish mission to drown her memory, and she won’t even see hers. I wouldn’t count on her roommates to make a proper TV dinner, much less give a holiday meal its due diligence. The combination of missing her and the guilt I feel about my mom makes me sick, and I have to fight the urge to speed home for a drink. This is my last chance to prove to myself I’m not the self-serving bastard I’ve always been.
Besides, I have Thanksgiving to save.
I show up at Mom’s place and hustle inside, not wanting to waste any more time being the world’s worst son, but the sight of her in her splint ignites my guilt all over again. I drop the bags and give her the hug she’s deserved every day of her life that I haven’t been around to give her.
“I’m not dead, Jens,” she finally says after a solid minute in my arms. “I take that back, you might’ve cracked a few ribs.”
“Sorry,” I say, pulling back. “I’m so damn sorry.”
She purses her lips and blinks at me a few times, but she finally nods. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
I watch her face for disappointment as I unload what I found at the store, but all I see is amusement. “Rotisserie chicken,” I say with an apologetic shrug. “It’s the closest thing they had to turkey, aside from lunch meat.”
“Good thing I like chicken.”
She pops the plastic lid off the container and sets to work reheating our turkey substitute while I boil some water for powdered mashed potatoes. Looking back, I probably could’ve gotten the real thing, but I was flustered and had to make a game-time decision. I heat up the canned green beans, then pour cherry pie filling into the crust I bought and slide it into the oven. I can’t remember the last time I cooked—if I can even call what I’m doing now cooking.
Oftentimes, I’d spend just about every minute outside the studio writing. My lyrics never came out on paper like they did in my head, so I’d spend days mulling them over. The task of keeping us alive fell solely on Raven’s shoulders, and she bore it for the entirety of our marriage. Even then, I sabotaged everything she’d nourished, everything she’d grown single-handedly from seeds. Jenson the Destroyer. Can you change a destiny that’s already been written?
“If you meant to bake that pie, you might want to turn on the oven first.”
I look up and realize Mom’s talking to me. Then I peek inside the oven at the pie that’s sitting on the rack, definitely not cooking.
“Right. It’s my first Thanksgiving handling supper on my own, cut me some slack,” I tease.
It must’ve been a weak attempt because the look she gives me brims with sympathy. She reaches across me and switches on the oven. “What’s on your mind?”
I scrub my face, try to appear casual, but it’s no use. I can’t lie to her. I’ve already put her through too much. “What isn’t?”
She searches my eyes, then nods toward the counter where our meager meal is spread out. “Let’s talk about it over supper.”
Over the course of garlic butter-glazed chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, and slightly crushed dinner rolls I recant what happened with Lindsey, from our strange first encounter, to our talks about music and photography, to the situation with Craig and how furious she was that I interfered. I try to make sense of our relationship, but it sounds even more fictitious when I voice it out loud. Like it never even happened. I suppose, technically, it didn’t.
“Anyways, then I told her I loved her and she left.”
Mom takes a sip of her Coke and smacks her lips. “She left,” she agrees.
“I hugely misread that whole situation.”
“I don’t think so. And I would tell you what to do if I thought it would help.” She reaches over our dirty dishes and utensils and squeezes my hand. “Looking at this from the outside, it’ll never make sense to you. Try to get in her head for a change, walk in her shoes.”
I thrust my fingers through my hair, my frustration rising. She’s an enigma. I’m no closer to figuring her out than I was that day I met her at Tripp’s. “Don’t you think I’ve tried that? She’s impossible. You think Raven could put up walls—Lindsey’s a whole other story. She’s like the Pentagon of women.”
“I wasn’t finished,” she chides. “Bear with me. If my memory serves me right, she left behind everything—her family, her friends—and risked a lot to come here. All to do what she loves. Some girls would meet you and immediately get dollar signs in their eyes, see opportunity. She didn’t. You know why that is?”
“Because she’s stubborn as hell,” I say, scratching my beard. “I don’t know.”
“Exactly. She’s stubborn. Just like in the situation with Craig
and your offers to help her get her foot in the door. You showed up with your money and your fame, offering up those things as solutions to her problems, and instead of fixing things like I know you meant to, what happened?”
It blew up in my face, that’s what, but I shake my head, at a loss for words.
“You undermined all the effort she’d put in so far. You basically swept aside all those risks she’s taken, the blood, sweat, and tears she’s put into making this dream come true, and said they weren’t enough.”
I open my mouth to protest—that’s not what I did, was it?—until I’m hit with the brunt of her words. “And what about the love part? Or lack of.”
“I don’t know that it’s the lack of love you need to worry about. She’s a goal-oriented girl. Whatever she felt about you made her question the things she came out here to accomplish. What’s the one thing she cares about most in the world?”
“Her family and her photography.” I don’t know why I feel both empty and proud when I say it.
“If that girl left without giving you a piece of her mind, I think you’re underestimating her feelings toward you. From what little you’ve told me, her passion is something she wasn’t willing to compromise. If she left without another word when faced with something so brash and unapologetic as love, my guess is she felt so much for you it threatened the one thing she knew she could count on. Her art. Herself.”
Just like that, every ill feeling I harbored toward Lindsey sways on shaky legs. I didn’t want to believe she was afraid, that I could shake someone so seemingly unshakable. And I’m not sure I’m ready to believe it now. But perhaps Lindsey isn’t the mystery I thought she was; I was just too focused on the illusion—her smoke and mirrors—she put up to see what was behind it.
“How do you know so much, especially about someone you’ve only met once?” I grumble, half to myself. I’m getting schooled by the women in my life.