by Lane Hayes
Rand and Ed shared a bewildered look before Ed took my cell and perused the selection. “The rose. There were a bunch of them. Maybe a dozen, like a lazy bouquet,” he chuckled, then patted my back. “Hey, I just wanted to keep you in the loop. We documented it and forwarded it to the police, but this person hasn’t been in contact in a while, which is good news. No more worrying. All right. I’ll let you gentlemen get back to work.”
“You don’t look so good,” Cory observed when the door shut behind Ed.
Rand nodded. “Yeah, you look pale. Are you—”
“Fine. I’m fine. Let’s play. Ed’s right. No big deal.” I picked up my guitar and let my fingers scream across the fret board. Pent-up frustration flew from my fingertips like wisps of a dandelion blown by a wicked wind. I could almost see the color as the electric vibrations moved the air around me. I closed my eyes as the music built a wall of sound, thick and safe. Nothing could penetrate and no one—
I opened my eyes and glared at my bandmates. “Who unplugged me?”
“Consider it a collective unplug. What exactly is no big deal?” Rand folded his arms over his chest and moved closer.
I eyed him warily for a moment, then glanced over at Tim and Cory. No one looked excited anymore. They looked concerned. I sighed heavily and sank into one of the low stools. “I got roses three weeks ago and a card from this same admirer.”
“What the fuck?” Tim asked, jumping to his feet. “Where are they?”
“It was weeks ago, Tim. The roses are dead and the card… I lost it. Or it was stolen.” I told them everything I remembered from that night.
“Weeks ago? I can’t believe you didn’t tell us,” Cory said with a frown.
“I didn’t want to worry you and—”
“You aren’t the fucking Lone Ranger!” Rand thundered. “You’re in a band, Isaac. We’re brothers. You can’t keep crap like that to yourself. That was a selfish, boneheaded move totally unworthy of you. If there’s one good thing about all this pressure, it’s that we’re sharing it. It’s a four-way split. No one here wants or expects you to handle psychos on your own. If you don’t tell us what’s going on, we can’t take our share of the burden, which ultimately means… you’ve fucked up the balance and put our chemistry in jeopardy. Not acceptable.”
Rand tossed a scathing look at me before hanging up his acoustic and then slamming the door on his way out.
I stared at the space he’d just vacated, feeling confused and kind of hurt. I didn’t get what the hell had just happened.
Cory rolled up his copy of Rolling Stone and smacked me on the head before following him a moment later. I turned to Tim with a dazed expression.
“What did I do? I’m the one getting harassed. I don’t get it.”
“It’s exactly like Rand said. You’re one of four people in this band. You owe us the courtesy of letting us know anything that may affect you. Especially while we were wrapping up a tour and all eyes are on us.” Tim pointed at the cover of the magazine for emphasis. “If you feel sick, tell us. If you feel hungry, we want to know.”
“Well… I feel like shit right now.”
“And you deserve it. We can’t support each other if we’re in the dark, Ize. That’s not how this works. Go home and get some rest. We can talk about it in the morning.”
Tim squeezed my shoulder on his way to the door and left me alone and reeling from how quickly I’d brought the party to a screeching halt.
I plugged my guitar back in and bent my head over my instrument as I leaned into the notes, twisting them ever so gently. The melody gathered like slow-moving clouds promising a storm in the form of a catchy hook. I closed my eyes and tilted the guitar vertically on my knee, then let my fingers fly, creating a melody fraught with anxiety. Uncertainty. Exactly the way I felt.
I opened my eyes as the last note reverberated in the studio and saw a shadow in the doorway. Weird. I was sure Tim closed it when he left. Whatever. It was time for me to go too. I hooked my instrument over my back and stood to investigate just as the shadow started to retreat.
“Hey there. Did that sound all right?”
Tara bit her purple-stained lip and nodded profusely. “Y-yes, b-but I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t want you to stop. Ever.”
“Don’t worry. It’s cool. Can I help you with something?”
“No. I’m g-going home,” she said as she lowered her head and raced down the hallway.
I stared after her and let out a defeated sigh. “Home. Yeah. Me too.”
INCREDIBLE SMELLS wafted from my kitchen when I arrived home thirty minutes later. Something garlicky and spicy. I propped my guitar case against the sofa and headed toward the savory scent. I wasn’t staying long, but I needed to see Adam. His brand of unfettered cheerfulness always made me feel better, even when I was sure it would annoy the hell out of me.
“Smells good,” I said as I opened the refrigerator.
I somehow resisted the urge to sniff the air around him. If I wasn’t careful he’d figure out I was more interested in his aftershave than the vegetable concoction cooling alongside some cookies. And he’d be correct.
“Thanks. You’re just in time for a lesson.”
He sounded more cheerful than I’d counted on. Not good, but I’d play along for a moment or two. I grabbed a beer and held it up in silent query. When he shook his head, I shrugged and then plucked a carrot from the cutting board and leaned against the counter.
“I’m not up for a lesson today. Thanks anyway.” I made a production of uncapping the bottle as I checked out the chef. Levi’s and a snug-fitting gray T-shirt never looked that hot on anyone. Ever. “What are you making?”
“I’m making carrot cake with—”
“I hate carrot cake.” I lifted the bottle to my lips and tried to pretend I wasn’t aware of his piercing stare.
“No one asked you. Bad day at the office?” Adam asked sarcastically.
“It was fine,” I said in a clipped tone.
He gave me a sideways glance, then picked up a kitchen tool, and handed it to me. “Good. Then make yourself useful.”
“What is this?”
“It’s a julienne peeler. Take the first layer off the carrot and then use this to—”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s bad for my fingers. I’m a musician. My hands are important.”
Adam narrowed his eyes and stubbornly pushed the peeler at me. “Do it. It’ll relax you. Your fingers will survive. Wash your hands first.”
I gave him a dirty look, but I obeyed. Even as I was rinsing the soap off my hands, I wondered what I was still doing there, but I didn’t walk away. I picked up a carrot and swiped at it with the peeler. Nothing happened.
“Move it away from you so it slices off the outer layer… like this.” He gave a quick demonstration before handing the carrot and peeler back to me. “It’s easy.”
It was sort of easy. Except for the part where strips of carrot went flying in every direction. On the counter, the floor, the faucet. A couple even hit the window.
“How am I doing?” I asked as a piece of carrot hit him in the chest.
“A less violent approach would be better. Why do I get the feeling you’re taking some angst out on a poor unsuspecting carrot?”
“This is therapeutic.”
“Yeah… no. Hand it back. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
I twisted away from him and held the carrot and peeler out of reach, like a kindergartner clutching his prized crayons. “No. I’m doing this. It’s our deal, right? I teach you a song, you teach me how to be helpful in the kitchen.”
Adam plucked a chunk of carrot from his shirt and shook his head. “Hmm.”
“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts. I need a hobby big-time. If you tell me I suck at this, I’m gonna be crushed.”
He eyed me thoughtfully for a moment before stepping aside to put the cookies he’d made into a contain
er. “Here. Stop throwing carrots around and try one of these instead.”
“What is it?”
“A vegan, gluten-free peanut butter cookie.”
“Vegan and gluten-free? Thanks. I think.” I set the carrot and peeler down and took the cookie.
“You’re welcome. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“I don’t want to rehash my day. It was lame and I’m bad company.”
“Try me.”
I bit into the cookie and shrugged nonchalantly. “I have a hard time being told I suck. I’m an overachiever who pretends to be laid-back and cool. When things go sideways, I get frustrated.”
“And take out your crappy mood on veggies,” he added in a solemn tone.
I huffed in reluctant amusement. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Talk.”
I filled him in on the highs and lows of my day, then reached for another cookie. “These aren’t bad.”
“So you never told them about the letter.”
“How did you reach that conclusion from that little piece of info?”
“I know you. And I’m going to take the opportunity to point out that not acknowledging something doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“You have a lot of nerve, McBride. You practically hid in the guest room after the sofa incident—”
“Is that what we’re calling it now? ‘The sofa incident’?”
“Call it what you want. You were guilt—”
“So were you! You avoided me too. Admit it.”
I growled when Adam cleared his throat noisily. “Okay, fine. Maybe I did.”
“Look at us… communicating and stuff.” He sealed the container, then leaned against the counter with his arms crossed and a teasing grin on his handsome face. “Keep talking, or do you want me to finish for you? You’re the consummate loner who hates not being able to fix a problem on your own. When situations don’t resolve themselves in a timely manner, you brush them under the carpet and hope for the best.”
“I’m not that bad.”
“I didn’t say it was bad. It’s just how you’re used to operating. You’re passively optimistic. You want to believe good things can happen, but you’re always afraid there’s a catch.”
His description was entirely too accurate. I should have been irritated, but I found it vaguely comforting to be known, even though I wasn’t sure his observation painted me in a positive light.
“What makes you think you know me so well?” I asked in a soft voice, keeping my gaze forward.
“I have masterful skills of observation and communication.”
“You? Mr. Post-it?” I huffed and took another bite of the cookie. “This is pretty good, by the way.”
“Pretty good? Or really good? Or just marginally okay but you’re trying to spare my feelings because everyone knows no self-respecting cookie wants to simultaneously be gluten-free and vegan?”
I chuckled softly, feeling a sudden sense of lightness. “It’s really good.”
Adam leaned into my space and grabbed the cookie from me. He pulled it apart and popped half into his mouth. “I’m getting better.”
“At cookies or communication?”
“Both. Did you see my mad moves there? I wrangled a compliment, half a cookie, and I made you smile.”
I inclined my head and let out a huff of agreement. “Thanks for—”
“Don’t thank me yet. You’re still mopey. Come with me. I have an errand to run, and you need to get out of here. Let’s go have an adventure!” He clapped his hands, then went back to the giant container of cookies and set them inside a recyclable bag.
“What? Where? The kitchen’s a mess. There are carrots everywhere and it’s pouring outside.”
“The mess will still be here when we get back, and we have umbrellas. Come on. I’m talking about an hour and a half tops.” Adam cocked his head and raised a single eyebrow in challenge. “I dare you.”
I held his gaze for a long moment, then pursed my lips thoughtfully. “Dare, eh? Well, Brian’s off tonight and his replacement isn’t as clingy. We could probably get away without a fuss and if we have umbrellas….”
“That’s the spirit!” His earnest expression and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes sold me.
“All right. Where are we going?”
“Staten Island.”
“What the fuck?”
Adam chortled merrily. “Go with the flow, baby. Just go with the flow.”
HALF AN hour later, I found myself on a crowded ferry bound for Staten Island. For real. The rain had eased up, but everyone was huddled inside to escape the elements. When Adam caught a young couple staring at me, he gestured for me to follow him to the deck. The second the door slid shut behind us, we were hit with a steady stream of driving mist. I opened my umbrella to shield myself from the incessant spray just as Adam pulled me into a semicovered area along the side of the ferry away from the windows. He pointed like a schoolkid at the Statue of Liberty in the distance.
“This is the best view in the city! Can you believe this?”
“No. I can’t. What the hell are we doing?”
“I’ve already told you. We’re delivering cookies to a restaurant co-owned by one of my instructors. Nigel chose his ‘best in batch’ today, and I won. I was going to make a new batch tomorrow, but these are fresh, and since my roomie isn’t a carrot cake fan, I’ll finish that later and do this now.”
“Hmph. So we’re literally delivering that bag of goodies and turning around to get back on another ferry?”
“Yep.”
“Your idea of fun has taken a serious hit in the last few years,” I snarked.
“That could be true,” Adam agreed with a contagious grin. “But this is a great and inexpensive way to do some sightseeing and—”
“It’s raining, Adam. We’re hiding under umbrellas. I don’t see any amazing sights. I’m cold, wet, and—”
“Oh boy. Sally Sunshine is back. C’mon, Ize. Let’s make up stories to pass the time.”
“Okay. You start. Tell me about your plans to rule the cookie w-world,” I said, shivering when a blast of wind swept along the deck.
Adam put his arm around me and grabbed the handle of the umbrella. “Here. Let’s just use one for now. It’ll be cozier.”
I was too chilled to argue, but I wouldn’t have anyway. Huddling under an umbrella in a sheltered corner of a ferry with Adam buffering me from the worst of the wind felt kind of nice. Like we were kids waiting out a rainstorm under the eaves. There was a sense of wonder about him that made being here seem like the perfect cross between nostalgia and magic.
“I am indeed going to rule the world one day. It will be a cookie conquest no one will ever forget.”
“You don’t say.” I chuckled, glancing sideways to admire his strong profile.
“I do. Cookie domination will commence with a bakery in Springville. I’m gonna lease the old Sugar Patch on Pine Street. Remember the candy store by—”
“Of course I do. Did the Smiths retire?”
“Yeah. It’s been empty for a year, but there’s been a mini renaissance in town. The economy is picking up and the time is right to try something new.”
“So you’ve had a plan all along. Why’d you let me think you were wallowing in self-pity in the big city when you’ve been planning a revolution?”
Adam smiled and squeezed my shoulder. “I’m getting used to the idea myself. I’ve been dealing with a lot of change and trying to figure out how to manage it. And truthfully I’m still honing my communication skills. I’m a work in progress. Ask my ex-wife.”
“Don’t tell me you broke up via Post-it Note,” I joked.
“No. It was more of a fizzled-out ‘this isn’t fun and it hasn’t been in years’ conversation that took all of about ten minutes.”
I twisted slightly to get a better look at him, but it was too dark to see his expression clearly, so I laid my head on his shoulder in a show of friendship. “That suck
s.”
“Deb and I didn’t communicate. At all. We were too subtle when we should have been insistent, and too demanding when we should have let things go. We couldn’t get it right because we didn’t bother asking what the other person wanted or needed. We assumed we knew. And when we were angry, we expected apologies and penance. If we didn’t get them, we were hurt. After a while, that was all we had.
“I couldn’t assert my will to make my marriage work. Anyone can buy flowers to apologize or as a token of affection, but if the person you’re giving them to doesn’t feel connected to the gesture or understand your meaning… it’s an empty offering. A one-sided play. In football terminology, it’s like a quarterback throwing a rocket downfield to the end zone for a surefire touchdown just as his receiver runs the wrong route. Good execution, nice form, great idea, but ultimately… meaningless.”
“You said you guys were over years before you actually got divorced. What happened?” I asked gently. “I mean… my parents had a twenty-years-in-the-making demise. My dad was too controlling. My mom was passive. Was it something specific?”
Adam shrugged with studied boredom as though the story was hardly worth mentioning. “One of my friends told me he saw Deb in a compromising situation with some guy from work. We’d been married six months at the time.”
“What kind of compromising situation?”
“The drunk and promiscuous kind. His hand was up her skirt and hers was on his junk. It was an after-work thing. Too much flirting, too much alcohol. Whatever. I confronted her, she denied it, and we fought like fucking animals. Everything went back to normal for a while. I thought we’d gotten it out of our systems. But we hadn’t. Something was different.”
Adam stared at the lining of the black umbrella, lost in thought, for a long moment before continuing. “We’d introduced doubt. The gnawing sense you’re never getting a straight story. After a while you feel unsafe and nervous in your own home. You want to sleep with your eyes open so you’ll know what time your lover comes home. You sniff their pillow for a hint of someone else’s cologne. There’s no trust. That’s how I felt anyway. Her version was slightly different.”