by Holly Hall
I swallow my retort along with the lump in my throat. I’m not a goddamn chicken, but I also don’t care to ride the see-saw that is this conversation. “Anyway, you owe me information. Natalia, remember?”
“She’s a rich kid who had everything growing up and hates that it ruins her badass vibe. Happy?”
I slouch in disappointment. “That’s it? I just did a lot of soul-searching there.”
He slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. “At least we accomplished something today—I thawed part of your frigid soul, dude. Now, what kind of errands was I interrupting earlier? You were seriously concentrating before you noticed me.”
I give him a rundown of the wish list my family’s made: macarons for my dad’s fiancé, Scotch for Dad himself, a postcard from every city I visit for Mom, a kiss from a stranger for Blake, a legit stranger—like an entire person, preferably Italian—for Anika, and wooden shoes for Landon. That last one I think is a joke. Mostly. But my thoughts are never far from Jenson. We’re an ocean and several countries away, and still I’m surrounded by him. I don’t even notice Bryant’s asked me a question until he’s stopped a dozen feet behind me and I realize I’m meandering alone.
“What?”
“I asked you what you wanted.”
“Isn’t that the question of the century?” I huff.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I meant now. Like right now. Gelato? Dead flowers? Pot?”
I ponder that for a moment. I haven’t thought about what I’ve wanted in weeks. This trip, this job, it’s about more than me. It’s about the band and making dreams happen that once felt impossibly out of reach. “I want to see where the flowers grow.”
“So, like, the shop we passed thirty minutes ago.”
“No, where they actually grow.” For once, I don’t want stale. I don’t want the stems of blooms that have already been given a death sentence. I want to see the place where they flourish—hills covered in a rainbow of potential. “In the ground. In a field.”
“Don’t you know anything about anything?” he asks semi-seriously. “The tulip fields! I can make that happen easily, you know. I’m magical like that.” He makes a move toward the street, raising his arm like he’s going to hail a taxi, and I nod in confirmation.
For now, I want magic. For now, I want easy, because the realizations I’m beginning to make have been difficult to come by and almost impossible to accept. And I know that when I return to the U.S., whenever that will be, life won’t just get easier. It never gets easier when you proclaim something so complicated. But I think maybe I’ll be ready. Ready to explore the possibility, at least, and hopefully that’s enough.
“Then work your magic, Bryant.”
Chapter 28
Jenson
I sit in a back room and try to ignore the murmuring of the crowd, the random cheers that go up in response to the radio personnel they’ve got covering the show, the flare of nerves in my stomach. It’s probably well-known that it’s not the wisest idea to place yourself right back in the environment that drove you to dependence in the first place, but the music is what I live for. Without it, I wouldn’t have survived this long.
Performing my music isn’t necessary, for money reasons at least, but I want to gauge the reaction to what I’ve written. If I’m going to make it as a songwriter, I want to know I’m not releasing something people don’t feel. And not from some music executive, either—I hear the kind of pop shit they’re all losing their minds over these days. This crowd, at a little bar bordering a college campus, is as bold, honest, and passionate as it’s going to get.
“You good, man?” Carter asks, peering out a crack in the door to sneak a look at the throng just outside.
I scrub a hand over my face and stand up from the scratchy green couch in this bar’s version of a green room. “Yeah.”
“Thank God I’m not single. I can’t tell if half these chicks are legal.”
“They’re in college. They’re legal.”
His answering look is full of doubt. “You heard of fake IDs, dude? They’re so damn convincing. No way is that one in the denim skirt over sixteen. She looks like she can’t even drive yet.”
“Good thing I don’t give a shit.” I duck my head through my guitar strap, and Carter gives me another skeptical look.
“It’s been two months. You’re not ready to get back in the saddle again?”
“Yeah, no. Women were almost the death of me, remember? I have no desire to mess with that right now. They’ll drive me to drinking again.” I strum a few chords on my guitar to prove my point. Nowadays I’m not opposed to making jokes about my issues. It is what it is.
“True. Mine is a pain in the ass.”
“Okay.” I roll my eyes. “You worship your girlfriend.”
“I do, dude. On my knees, on my back, upside down, if need be.”
I smack him on the arm before resuming my pacing. “I don’t want to hear about your little reunions. Long-distance relationships are gross.”
“Not just gross. Filthy.”
One of the staff members from the bar, a willowy guy with gauges in his ears, pokes his head through the door. “You’re up in three minutes. Need anything?”
I shake my head and crack my neck, rotating my shoulders. Nothing about this is going to be easy, but exposing your skeletons never is. I’m thinking of this as a cleansing, a new beginning, a time to leave my old shit in the past. This is a new era of Jenson King, and though it may be less exciting, less explosive, it’ll be something I’m proud to call my own.
The scrawny guy returns, opening the door wider, and I take a last breath in the privacy of the back room before heading toward it. Carter gives me a slap on the back when I pass him. “Break a leg.”
The cheers become earsplitting as I make a beeline for the microphone in the center of the small side stage they use for acoustic shows. Behind it is the lone stool I requested, and in front of it, beyond the blinding glare of the lights, I can just make out the shifting bodies of the crowd. Flashes from phone cameras denote their presence, as if the noise wasn’t enough. I settle on the stool behind the mic and swallow the last lump of apprehension in my throat.
Tonight is mine. It’s a culmination of what I’ve built, what I’ve struggled and sacrificed for, what I’ve lost things I can never get back for. It is under my control, nobody else’s, and that thought injects me with the first sense of calm I’ve felt since booking this string of acoustic shows. I wanted the intimate crowd, the barely suppressed energy packed between the dingy walls of a hole-in-the-wall. I wanted to relive the buzz that got me high in the first place, without the drink. It’s a sold-out show, but at least the capacity is a few hundred versus tens of thousands.
“How are we doin’ tonight, Chattanooga?” In the close quarters of the bar, the answering roar is impressive. “Good, I take it. Thank you for the warm welcome. I’m Jenson King.” Another whoop from the crowd. “If you don’t know me, that’s okay, I’ve got a chance to make a good first impression. And if you do know me, well, let me introduce you to my redemption.” With that, I play the first chords of “Awake.”
The crowd doesn’t know the words—they’ve never heard these songs—and they hardly know the man in front of them, but I see them swaying to the music, the tiny lights on their phones as they record parts of the songs. I feel their approval, the connections made between my words and a hundred souls. They accept this new part of me, the one that’s broken and scorched but that’s striving toward the light. I catch sight of Carter at one of the few side tables roped off for VIP, and all it takes is a smartass smirk to confirm I’m doing something right.
Possibly the biggest surprise of the night is when I finish the last song and thank the crowd, then brace to rise from my seat, and they immediately start chanting for an encore. I drop back onto the stool, bemused. At a loss for words for once.
“Well, I didn’t have anything else planned for y’all. I told myself I wo
uldn’t come out here singing love songs.” A chorus of shrieks and whistles followed by a chanting of “do it! do it!” rises like a tide. Who am I if I don’t give them a taste of what they want? “Okay, you asked for it.” I clear my throat, gathering myself for the soul-baring I’m about to do. “This is ‘Antitoxin.’ ”
I sing to them a song that’s the opposite of what I wrote after Raven left. About a love that’s redeeming and healing, purifying and dominating. If I left them with any message at all, maybe it’s the hope that some vices, instead of only leading to madness and obsession, have the power to break us in the best ways. Ways that require evolution to survive them. It’s the melody of my own evolution, and for once, I don’t feel myself leaving every piece of me littered across the stage. I gain contentment, satisfaction. Pride and validation that I’ve chosen the right path.
I thank them and wish them a good night, once again, and take myself back to the quiet of the back room and its threadbare couch. Carter doesn’t immediately return, which I respect, but this time I don’t need to brood and pick up the pieces of myself. When he does open the door, however, I’m unprepared for the person he’s escorting inside.
It’s Anika. Lindsey’s roommate.
“Hey,” I greet, gathering my thoughts while I tuck my guitar back in its case. “I didn’t expect to see a familiar face.”
Anika shifts uncomfortably, combing her fingers through her long hair. “It was a last-minute thing. I hope you don’t mind.”
I wipe the sweat off my forehead and spread my palms. “Of course not. Not like it’s a private party or anything.” I don’t know what to say. Questions I want to ask are clawing the insides of my throat, but I don’t want to release them, make a mess of feelings I’ve dealt with and sorted. Still, they put up a fight.
Anika watches me with trepidation, before jabbing her thumb over her shoulder. “I loved the show, by the way. I’ll have you know I wasn’t the biggest fan of you before. No offense,” she adds to Carter, as if he cares. “Just . . . this was different. You’d lay it out there, but I got the feeling you were holding something back. Barely scraping the surface. Anyway, you dug my heart out with these songs.”
“Wow, thanks,” I say, reclining back onto the couch. “I’m glad you liked them. And I’m sorry about your heart.”
“Hey, take it. I’ll make that sacrifice any day for great music.”
I chuckle. “You sound like—” My voice trails off before I say her name, and I gesture around the room. “Please, sit down. I can send someone to get you a drink, if you want.”
“It’s cool,” she says, resting her hip on the arm of one of the chairs. I sense she’s uncomfortable, and I guess I get it. Neither of us wants to discuss the giant elephant in the room, literally the sole connection between us.
“I’m gonna grab another beer,” Carter announces, sensing the same thing. When the door shuts behind him, the silence is tangible.
“What have you—” I start, just as Anika says, “I’ve been wond—”
“You first.” I gesture for her to go on, and she blushes. The bold, dauntless Anika blushes.
“Ever since Lindsey told me about that job with the band, I’ve been wondering something. Did you have something to do with it?”
I take a swig of water, avoiding her gaze. Probably making it more than obvious what my answer is. “Her talent got her the job, not me.”
“But did you initiate it? You can tell me.” She mimes zipping her mouth shut.
“I mentioned her work to a friend who needed help. That’s it. He didn’t owe me anything, and he knew nothing about her. But I asked him not to mention it to Lindsey that I’d said anything at all. You know how she is.”
Anika nods insistently. “I do, and I had a feeling that’s what happened. It would’ve been too much of a coincidence—her wanting to see the world and photograph musicians, and this crazy opportunity just falling into her lap. I knew you could make something like that happen.”
“I tried to do it sooner, but she turned me down. More than once.”
She nods again, a small smile on her lips. “Yeah. That’s our Lindsey.” The hole in my heart flexes painfully. Lindsey probably left a lot of holes in her wake. “I just wanted to say thank you, because she didn’t get a chance to.”
I nod, looking down at my interlaced hands. I never wanted her gratitude. I just wanted the peace of knowing she was free to blaze her own path, that she wasn’t spending time with me because of a lack of opportunity. “Did she go?” I ask, the question directed at the floor. I told Sal not to tell me. I didn’t want to know whether she went while I was trying to sort myself out. But that was then.
“Yeah.”
The answer makes me smile. She deserves whatever she gets out of this experience. It’s once in a lifetime.
Across the room, Anika continues. “I thought it was crazy when you showed up at our place; she doesn’t make it a habit to let people in. It was hard enough for me to get through to her, but I told her she was my friend and there was nothing she could do about it.” She smiles fondly. “She’s all or nothing, you know. Some people might think she’s cold, but she’s the opposite. She cares about everyone. She values the relationships she has enough that she doesn’t let herself be put in the position where she has to choose work over someone she loves. And she’s a slave to her photography.”
“Doesn’t she know there’s room for both?”
Anika snorts, her laugh cynical. “No. But we’re both young and dumb, she’ll figure it out. She just needs time.” Time. Of course. “Did she tell you about her parents’ divorce?”
“A little, yeah.”
“Well, the people she trusted most to be her stability, her foundation, blew that all to hell. She found out their relationship had been in shambles for a decade and they were only keeping it together for her until she was out of the house—like a fake support system was better than honesty. She’s used to being disappointed. Who isn’t, really, but I guess we all respond to it differently. More than that, though, she didn’t want to disappoint you. I saw the way she looked at you, and I knew you were getting close to cracking her.”
“I wouldn’t have hurt her,” I murmur, and though I know I wouldn’t have meant to, my habits could’ve hurt anyone.
“I know, and I’m sure there’s nothing worse than not being able to prove that. But you did the best you could, doing what you did. I just wanted you to know that. If you ever question yourself, or wonder if you should’ve done more, just know you made the right decision. Maybe you won’t be waiting around for her thanks, but you did a good thing. Sometimes, that’s enough.”
Despite the hell I’ve put myself and the people I love through, I realize that, at least. I’ve destroyed the best parts of my life, and I’ve watched as they’ve rebuilt themselves and moved on without me. So if me helping someone touch her dreams, even if they take her far away from me, is the only thing I achieve in this new era of my life, it’s enough.
It has to be enough.
Chapter 29
Lindsey
Telling yourself you’re above love does not make you stronger. It makes you stupid. And I’ve been stupid enough that I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me. Sweet, soulful Jenson. Remarkably open and accepting after all he’s been through. Undeniably himself, even in the wake of a crisis.
I believed I could schedule life, like it would bend to my will and follow my wishes. It’s taken long enough, but I’m learning that things involving hearts, and soul mates, and free-will don’t adjust themselves to fit the windows you try to force them through. No. They blow up the whole damn house.
It’s clearer now as I sit at what’s become my new favorite outdoor café, surrounded by beautiful, foreign architecture and people, that I’ve spent years running from things in life that would challenge my perspective—my mom’s disease, my parents’ divorce, love. I didn’t look back long enough to realize how many loose strings I’d left, I just pushed forward
before I had a chance to feel anything. But here’s the thing: it’s almost impossible to move on when you’ve left patches of your history frayed and weak.
Without fully realizing it, the mending process began months ago by forgiving my dad. I’ve got a long way to go, but I’m determined to keep mending and adapting. To keep feeling.
But no amount of determination could prepare me for what I felt when I realized my head and my heart were finally in agreement. I am lovesick, and I am heartbroken, and I didn’t know it was possible to be so overwhelmed by both.
We’re leaving France today, flying to Glasgow for a music festival, but I just needed to sit with myself for awhile. Just be still while the world spins around me and the consequences of choices made exist in tandem with those who regret making them.
My beliefs are in ruins, and for once, I’m not determined to keep my eyes down, focusing on the pieces. I’m just content to be.
Someone plops down in the wrought iron chair across from me. “Moping again?” Kingston asks. He is unapologetically brash and shameless about his awful timing.
I blink hard to clear the haze of my thoughts. “Moping?” I scoff, as if that is unheard of.
He shrugs, olive skin showing through his sleeveless, ripped-up shirt. He dresses like he took the clothes off a homeless person’s back, but it somehow works for him. “Mooning, pouting, wallowing. Moping. Your boyfriend at home dump you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nate and I were taking bets on whether your moping was due to your boyfriend breaking up with you or an unplanned pregnancy. I said boyfriend, he said pregnancy.”
At least now I know I can trust Bryant, to a certain extent. If he’d told them about Jenson, Kingston wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut about it. “Gee, that’s all I’m reduced to? Dumped or with child? Can’t a girl just mope in peace?”