Abby Road

by Ophelia London

  I’m glad I went with the contrasting browns and blues, I thought as I stood just outside the room, flipping on and off the switch of my new table lamp. It instantly brightened the space, while also painting a sort of rainbow halo around the colorful glass shade.

  I stepped into the room. The couch in the center was a rich café, fat and cushy, with extra deep down-filled cushions. It was just plain luxurious. It matched the rectangular ottoman that doubled as a footrest and coffee table. Three tall cinnamon candles sat in the middle on a funky little pottery tray. Flanking the sofa was an arm chair with azure and cognac stripes, and on the other side was a glossy mahogany end table, where the glowing Tiffany lamp sat. Lindsey had insisted that I get colored throw pillows to offset the dark furniture. I fought it at first, but then went with antique blue and bright turquoise. I sighed contently. The room was pretty, soothing yet energetic.

  Off to the left side of the sofa, I reclined on the red chaise longue. It was the one piece of furniture that didn’t match the others, but it was quickly becoming my favorite. I allowed my eyes to flutter closed while I stretched out comfortably.

  Maybe it’s my favorite chair because it has the best view of my favorite wall.

  This thought made me open my eyes. They fixed on the ceiling first then slowly moved down to the wall in question. I sat up . . . and smiled.

  The charcoal drawing of the horse catches the eye first, I considered, but then I immediately go right to the oil abstract with the yellow and red squares. I snickered. My comically pitiful attempt at Picasso. I linked my fingers behind my head, admiring the homemade art gallery.

  Furniture was one thing, but until a few days ago, what my home hadn’t had was a personal touch. Inspired, I’d sifted through my twenty or so finished products, chose my favorite few—the ones that didn’t scream out “first grader finger painting—and had them framed.

  I looked down at my fingers. There was blue paint under my nails. I smiled again, hunkering down as my eyes moved from frame to frame.

  And then they stopped.

  I always saved this particular painting for last. I’d debated hanging it up at all, but it was so beautiful, my masterpiece. It was a watercolor landscape, and my first attempt to paint from memory and not model: white sand, blue water, swirling gray sky, and the back of a dark-haired man sitting on the beach.

  {chapter 32}

  “CARRY THAT WEIGHT”

  “I dunno, Abby. You’re quite certain, then?”

  I swiveled around on the bar stool to give Molly a playful glare. She was eyeing my reflection in the bathroom mirror, looking petrified. But I wasn’t. I knew what I was doing.

  Before I swiveled back around, I slapped the handle end of the scissors into her open palm.

  “Cut it.”

  I was fully prepared for Max to throw a hissy fit. But I was not expecting the string of expletives that flew out of his mouth when he saw me the next day.

  “What in the—” was the first semi-complete sentence I could make out once his serious swearing concluded.

  “It was time for a change,” I explained, dropping my purse into the empty chair beside Max in the control room.

  Nathan’s eyes bugged out as he stared at me through the thick glass of the sound booth.

  “It looks more natural this way,” I said.

  “Natural?” Max repeated the word like it was in a foreign language.

  “Brunette is the new blond,” I further reported, “and short is in.” I ran my fingers up the back of my new chocolatey cut, flipping and twirling the short, pixie-like ends, sweeping wispy bangs to one side of my forehead.

  Max’s face was growing progressively redder. “Who . . . who did this to you?”

  Discreetly I flicked my gaze toward Molly. Her tall, willowy figure was frozen like a statue in the far corner of the room. One hand was at her face, nervously pulling her lip.

  “I did,” I said to Max, indignant. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Molly’s posture relax.

  Max stood up. “You had no right!” His voice was much stronger than I thought was necessary. “No right to do a stupid thing like that.”

  “No right?” I repeated slowly, as if I were the one translating a foreign language now.

  Max exhaled loudly. “We’re not arguing about this, babe.”

  “Exactly,” I said with a roll of my eyes. “This is a ridiculous conversation. It’s my hair.”

  His eyes narrowed and held on me for a second, as if he were trying to figure out what game I was playing. Then his gaze ran across my face, brazenly scrutinizing me, forcing upon me that need-to-shower feeling.

  “It looks terrible,” he muttered over his shoulder as he returned to his chair. “What’s done is done, but you’re never to do an idiotic thing like that again. Do you understand me?”

  Unsure how to reply, I said nothing. Surely I couldn’t promise such a thing, right? Chopping off my hair had been the right thing to do, a personal statement of change. It had nothing to do with Max. I did it for me.

  I looked through the glass for a little help, but Nathan was gone, and Molly hadn’t stirred from her place in the corner.

  “I’m sorry,” she mouthed, her pretty face flushing with fear.

  I shook my head briskly, not about to let her take any of the blame. It had been my idea to cut and color. And it had been a brilliant idea.

  “Holy crap!”

  I turned to see Hal standing in the doorway.

  “Whatja do to yourself, duchess?” His arms reached out, Frankenstein-style, as he advanced toward my head. “It’s all gone,” he whined while his fingers fiddled in my hair like a mama gorilla to her baby. His hands moved to my cheeks to tilt my face up. “I like it,” he said, nodding approvingly.

  “Brings out all that gray in her eyes, doesn’t it?” Nathan inserted as he walked through the door. “She always wanted to look like Ringo.” A teensy smile of acquiescence played on his lips. “Good deal,” he whispered.

  Max huffed.

  “Naw,” Hal said to Nate, wagging one finger in the air. “She looks like the chick from that TV show. You know,” he snapped his fingers, “that one.”

  “Exactly!” Nate exclaimed. They both stared at me, grinning and nodding.

  “Yeah.” Hal sighed wistfully, “that chick’s a major hottie.”

  “Guys.” Molly walked to me. “Leave her be.” She swept my mussed up pixie cut back into place. “So fab.” She winked.

  “If the beauty parlor talk is over,” Max interjected, “we have work to do.” He looked at me, lifting one mocking eyebrow. “Unless there is something else you feel you need to share?”

  “Actually, there is,” I blurted out.

  The room went dead quiet.

  Max spun around in his chair, arms folded, mockingly taken aback. “Oh?”

  I swallowed, wetting my suddenly dry throat, fingering my list in my pocket. “I know the album is almost finished.” I gestured to the large wipe board hanging on the far wall, our recording schedule scribbled on it. “Once it is, I’m taking a break. A vacation.”

  “You just took one.”

  “That was three months ago. I’d like to spend Christmas with my family for a change.”

  No one in the room moved, except for Max, who was shaking his head.

  “No way you’re leaving,” he said, matter-of-factly. “The promotional circuit starts in two weeks. That covers the next two months. The album release date is in March. We’ll be touring into next year.”

  I looked from Max to Nathan for corroboration, or maybe I was just hoping for a little support, but Nate was staring down, blinking at his shoes. I glanced at Hal. His face was pale, his mouth turned in a frown.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling deflated after doing the math in my head. “Maybe I can take a day or two, or—”

  “Maybe.” Max swiveled back to the console. “And maybe the year after that you can have a little vacation.” He turned to the other three standing behind me.
“The rest of you,” he snapped, “out of here.” His eyes shifted back to me. “We’re working alone tonight.”

  Nathan’s lips parted, ready to jump in and say something. I braced myself, grateful that someone was finally going to stick up for me, but instead, he sealed them together again.

  My stomach sank.

  When I looked at Hal, his cheeks were burning red, his bright eyes equally incensed.

  As he went to take a step toward Max’s turned back, Nathan grabbed his arm, pulling him away. “Don’t,” I heard Nate mutter under his breath, making Hal’s intense expression dissolve.

  The whole interchange took only a few seconds—totally unnoticed by Max, who was barking at someone on the phone.

  Nathan was still yanking Hal’s arm. “We’ll catch ya later, Abby,” he said, leading Hal toward the door through which Molly had obediently exited a moment earlier.

  Thoroughly puzzled, I waved good-bye, watching them disappear. While I stared through the empty doorway, suddenly ill at ease to be left alone with Max, my stomach plunged again.

  e

  I was pouring a stream of golden honey into the Styrofoam cup that was balanced between my knees. The lemony water was steaming hot. I cleared my throat a few times and swallowed hard, but this didn’t help, either.

  Phlegm? Allergies? Throat nodules? Who knew?

  “I think I need to rest my voice.” I closed the cap on the honey bear and licked my finger.

  There was nothing in return to my comment, only silence. I held the lemony honey water to my lips, inhaling the steam. I sneaked a glance at Max and rolled my eyes.

  It wasn’t an oddity for him to ignore me; I’d grown accustomed to it lately. But instead of the way I normally zoned out while I waited for him to get around to acknowledging me, I caught myself glaring at the back of his head. It was getting really late, but not late enough, it would seem, for him to dismiss me of his own accord.

  I blew a puff of steam away. “Also,” I droned on, even though I knew I wasn’t being listened to, “I’d really like to go home and finish my tree.”

  Max’s attention was fixed on the various computer screens in front of him. Over and over, he was replaying one section of a song. I was so used to the constant sound of my singing voice, it was annoying background noise, like the hum of the A/C or noisy traffic on the 101.

  “What’s that, babe?” Max finally said, inattentively, without looking at me.

  “My tree,” I repeated to his profile. “I’m painting a redwood tree. I’ve been talking about it for four days.”

  There was another long stretch of silence. I crossed and then uncrossed my legs, irritated with the feeling that I was talking to myself.

  Max and I were working on a charming little ditty called “Nothing on Me.” We’d completed it weeks ago, but Max had recently become unsatisfied by the original recording, claiming that the new album was in dire need of more urban-sounding tracks—“urban” meaning “overtly sexual,” in my opinion. I didn’t agree with this sudden veering of style, but nobody asked me, and I hadn’t spoken up.

  For no particular reason, or maybe for a million reasons, I felt myself glowering at the side of Max’s face, my foot tapping impatiently. I knew I was playing with fire, but something inside wasn’t willing to work under those circumstances anymore, the way he snubbed my ideas and pushed me around. I felt like it might be time to push back.

  Maybe it was my sassy new haircut.

  “I want to finish painting my tree,” I repeated for a third time.

  “Listen,” Max snapped.

  I jumped, spilling hot water on my jeans.

  His face was halfway turned in my direction now, while his attention remained glued on the screen. “You need to stop all that. I don’t want you up half the night wasting your energy on some stupid hobby.” He clicked the mouse, adjusting something on the program he was running. “It’s costing us every day you show up tired and distracted like this.”

  “Cut me some slack, jack,” I muttered into my fist. This unexpected burst of pluck surprised even me. It made me snicker quietly, but afterward, I was a little afraid to make any sudden movements.

  I heard his chair squeak, and I knew Max was looking at me, although glaring was probably a more accurate term, what with the prickly feeling shooting up the back of my neck.

  Success! I had finally said something to win Max’s complete attention.

  For one instant, however, while he stared daggers at me, I wished I could take it back, to go back. But not this time.

  Go forward, Abby.

  When I looked up, his tight and pale lips were pushed out. And I’d been right: he was big-time glaring.

  “What’d you just say to me?”

  Halfheartedly, I plastered on an apologetic smile. “You’re absolutely right, Max,” I agreed. “I am tired.” I took a few sips of my hot drink. “Just like you said. Don’t you think we need more balance around here? I was reading the other day about—”

  “Look,” he snapped irritably, but then he sighed loudly and rubbed the back of his neck. His expression turned calm. “Come on, babe.” His voice was calm, too, and patient. “We’ve got a lot to do tonight.” He knew I was about to interrupt, because he lifted a hand. “I know, I know. Yes, it’s late and you’re tired, but if we work together, we’ll get this done and it’ll be gold.” He leaned toward me. “We could do with some gold now, know what I mean? Maybe we’ll go out and celebrate properly afterward. Any place you like. Sound good, kiddo?”

  There was a twinkle in Max’s eyes, the same twinkle I remembered from when we first started working together. Lindsey insisted this was how he manipulated me, how he was generous and empathetic until he talked me into something I didn’t want to do. I had never really noticed before, but Max Salinger was kind of a snake.

  “You with me, babe?” He smiled, his voice smooth like silk. “We’re so close to wrapping this thing up. Just a couple more hours.”

  I stared at Max’s face while biting the inside of my cheek. This wasn’t going as planned. Not that I’d “planned” anything, but I had made some mental notes of things I’d like to express if the opportunity presented itself. My recorded voice grew louder as Max worked his editing magic.

  I blocked out the bothersome sound and turned my back on him. “I’m burned out, Max; that’s why I need a vacation,” I said over my own voice.

  “Already decided. Not gonna happen.”

  “Fine,” I said, choosing to let him win that battle. When I swiveled back around, I could clearly make out that he was smirking, like he knew he’d won, like he knew he could get me to do anything he wanted. Was this some kind of game? Was my life a joke to him?

  “We need to focus on the future now,” Max said, back to business.

  I sat rigid in my chair, my toes curling in anger. “Yes. The future,” I agreed under my breath.

  “We need to finish this record. The first single’s ‘Lonely Boy.’ That’s set in stone. Our people will leak it, and then the video shoot’s next week. We’re in New York for that.”

  “New York.” Steam from my cup started to warm my face.

  “Ronald Blain’s directing.”

  I was only halfway listening, chewing on the rim of my cup.

  “He’s got some radical ideas. We’ll play up the French burlesque vibe. Very macabre and obvious. We’re talking Moulin Rouge meets True Blood. I see you in stiletto thigh highs, fishnets, and strips of torn leather, maybe a dagger or a whip.”

  His words shook me awake. “Seriously, Max? That’s disgusting. No way!” I downed the rest of my hot drink in two gulps, my sore throat burning. “There’s no way I’m wearing anything like that.”

  He leaned back in his chair, looking amused by my outburst. “That’s funny,” he said, lifting his eyebrows. “You say that like you think you have a choice.”

  Was he serious?

  The door leading out into the hallway was propped ajar. A window in the vestibule hung o
pen a crack. I heard glass shatter somewhere outside on the street and then a distant siren wailed. It was an eerie sound, empty and unsettling, adding to the alarm bells ringing in my head. “I do have a choice,” I said tentatively.

  Don’t I? Of course I do!

  I pushed back from the console, forcing my voice to sound steady. “And I won’t let you talk to me like that.” My legs shook a little when I stood up, my scalded throat going dry. “It’s disrespectful, and . . . I deserve better.”

  Max turned away from me—and laughed.

  “This isn’t funny.” The sound of my wobbly voice made me cringe. If I started crying now, I’d lose all credibility. “Don’t laugh at me.”

  But Max didn’t stop.

  “I’ve always done everything you wanted,” I said, pacing backward a few steps. “You know I have.”

  He wasn’t laughing anymore, but his smug grin was back in place.

  “I’ve sacrificed and alienated people I love. I ended up pushing away the most important person in my life because I was—”

  “Oh, I get it,” Max cut in. “This little tantrum is about that guy?” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “Todd,” I corrected as I frowned down at him, my voice ragged with emotion. “His name is Todd, Max. And I love him.”

  Now . . . I hadn’t planned to say those words out loud, and never to Max Salinger. But they’d come so effortlessly, so honestly. “I love him,” I repeated. It had floated out as a whisper, but I felt my lips stretching into a giddy grin. “And I don’t care why he left or where he went. I don’t care if it takes the rest of my life; I’m going to find him and marry him.” The prospect made my heart beat hard and my grin stretch across my face.

  “Pshaw,” Max scoffed. “I did what I could to keep that whole thing away from the press. You’ll thank me later, babe. I spun it our way. It was the right thing for us.”

  My smile went limp.

  “I will admit, though,” he added, “this one lasted longer than I thought. But once he got here, I knew it was a matter of time.”