Cardinal

by Sara Mack

  Twenty minutes later Oliver returns with the movie. We hit the lights, get settled on the couch, and press play on the remote. Oliver sits next to me, sharing the bowl of popcorn with Jules as I now sip broth instead of tea. The opening scene shows a clownfish couple joking around at their new sea anemone home. They’re expecting tons of fish babies. It’s cute and playful, until tragedy strikes.

  This is awful, I think. We’re not even ten minutes in. I shoot Jules a worried look over Oliver’s head. Should he be watching this? I know it’s supposed to be a kid’s movie, but come on. Oliver lost his own mother in real life. “O,” I say. “I thought you said this was funny.”

  “It is,” he says. “Just wait.”

  To the kid’s credit, the story does get better as it progresses. Dory cracks me up, along with the surfer sea turtles. Oliver giggles uncontrollably at the sea gulls, then again when Nemo’s new friends attack a little girl named Darla.

  By the end of the movie I’m emotionally invested. I can’t stop myself from tearing up. I glance at Jules and notice she’s having the same problem. She wipes beneath her eyes as I try to blink my tears away. Damn Disney movies. Is it their goal to turn people into emotional wrecks? I remember when I saw Bambi as a kid. I was so scarred that I forbid my father to hunt that fall. Of course he didn’t listen. When he brought home a doe I refused to eat the venison in protest.

  When the movie ends, I look down at Oliver. He’s sound asleep against my side. I could have sworn he was awake a second ago, when he scooted closer to me.

  Jules gets up and turns off the TV. She glances from Oliver to me and whispers, “I’ll go tell Mrs. Gibson the movie is over.”

  Oliver looks so peaceful I don’t have the heart to wake him. “Tell her he’s asleep. I doubt she’ll be able to carry him. We’ll take him home in the morning.”

  “You sure?” Jules asks. “I don’t think you can stand without moving him.”

  I nod. “If you prop his feet up I think he’ll slide down on his side.”

  Jules moves Oliver’s legs and my idea works. He snuggles down into the couch cushions on his own. Jules finds a blanket for him while I stand and carefully stretch. I think about moving to my own bed, but don’t want to leave the kid all alone. What if he wakes up in the middle of the night and freaks out when he’s not in his room?

  “I’m going to sleep out here,” I tell Jules. “I don’t want him to wake up and get scared.”

  “As long as you’re comfortable.” She gives me a warning look. “I don’t need you busting a stitch.”

  She leaves to inform Mrs. Gibson of our plan and I head to the bathroom for another pain pill. After I drink half a glass of water, I crawl beneath the blanket I’ve been under all day and stretch my legs behind Oliver. Our heads are at opposite ends of the couch, so I can see his face when I lift my head off the pillow. By the time Jules comes back, I’m barely coherent. Pain medication, a healing body, and emotional cartoons don’t mix. I’m exhausted.

  “Good night,” she whispers from the hallway. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  I wave with a floppy hand. “’Night.”

  ~~~~~

  Around three a.m. something wakes me. I open one eye and look at the clock before lifting my head to check on Oliver. He’s still asleep. I hear a door close and assume Pete is home. Slowly, I move from my side to my back to get comfortable, then close my eyes again.

  Moments later, I can see light behind my eyelids. They flutter open. A shadow is standing over me, illuminated from behind. It takes a few good blinks to focus, and I realize it’s Latson. He must have turned on the kitchen light. He wears an odd expression; one I can’t place.

  “What are you doing here?” I rasp in a sleepy voice. “Where’s Pete?”

  “In his room.” He crouches down. “I came to get Oliver so you can go to bed.”

  “He’s fine. Don’t wake him.”

  Latson shakes his head. “The kid would sleep through an earthquake. Let me get him out of your way.”

  “He’s not a problem,” I say, but it’s too late. Latson stands and scoops up his nephew, cradling him against his chest. The kid doesn’t even twitch.

  He takes a few steps, then looks over his shoulder. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  “Why?”

  He doesn’t answer. He leaves the apartment with Oliver and I’m left alone in the living room. I consider ignoring him and going to bed, but for some reason I don’t. I’m curious to see what he wants.

  I’m almost asleep again by the time he returns. When I hear the door open, my eyes meet his. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks over to me and moves the blanket. Then, he slides one arm under my knees and the other around my waist.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper.

  He picks me up. “Helping you. You just had surgery.”

  “I can walk,” I protest, but wrap my arms around his neck anyway.

  He looks straight ahead as he carries me down the hallway. I notice the muscles in his jaw tense, like he wants to say something but he’s holding back. My guess is he doesn’t want to be near me after our last conversation, but feels obligated because I spent time with Oliver. I try to relieve his conscience. “This really isn’t necessary.”

  We reach my room and he sets me on the bed. He reaches for the covers and pulls them back. “Get in.”

  I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told. Once I bring the blankets to my chin, he starts to leave.

  “Hey.” I stop him. “Does this mean you’re speaking to me again?”

  He turns around with a resigned sigh. “That depends. Do you want me to speak to you?”

  I prop myself on my elbow. “I shouldn’t because you were an ass the other day. Just so you know, I did ask Jules about you, but only because of the way you acted. I had no idea about any of it.”

  He looks at the floor, then back at me. “And?”

  “Yes, I want you to talk to me. And no, I won’t be quitting my job.”

  His eyes lock on mine. He looks surprised, maybe a little relieved. “Okay,” he says. He backs toward the door with a hint of a smile. “Goodnight, Jen.”

  “Goodnight.”

  He disappears down the hallway, and I carefully roll on my side to bury myself in the sheets. I’m glad we cleared the air. It reminds of my cardinal rule, to do what makes me happy. As my mind drifts, I recall Latson’s goodbye and compare it to his goodnight.

  I much prefer the latter.

  Chapter Ten

  “What? Your first day didn’t kill you, so you’re back for more?”

  I look up at Carter as I pull the cork out of a bottle of merlot. It makes a loud pop. “Of course. You know I couldn’t go another day without seeing your handsome face.”

  He grins. “You fit in here so well.”

  I wink.

  “Seriously, though.” He leans over the bar. “That was some pretty freaky shit last week. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I nod. “I’m good as new, minus one unnecessary organ.” And a few pounds, I mentally add. My appetite definitely took a hit after surgery.

  Carter raises his hand over the bar top. “Well, I’m glad you made it.”

  “Me, too.” I give him a high five.

  “Did I hear the word organ?” Gwen appears at my side. “What are you two talking about?”

  “Unnecessary things, like gallbladders,” I explain.

  “And kidneys,” Carter chimes in. “You can live with one kidney.”

  “And lungs,” I add, but then frown. “You can live with one lung, right?”

  “I think so. I know you can survive with a partial liver,” Carter says. “My uncle only has half of his.”

  Gwen looks over her shoulder. “I know I could make it with half of this ass,” she complains.

  I laugh as I glance at her butt. “I don’t think your ass is an organ.”

  She ignores me. “Do you think I could get some of my butt fat sucked out and injected int
o my boobs?”

  “You don’t want that,” I say and adjust my own. “Trust me. Some days I wish I could downsize these babies.”

  Gwen frowns. “Your boobs are perfect.” She looks at Carter. “Aren’t they perfect?”

  He tries to hide his smile. “They look nice from here.”

  My expression twists, but not from embarrassment. “His opinion doesn’t count. Men think all boobs are perfect. It’s ingrained in their psyche.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Carter interrupts. “I beg to differ. All breasts are not made equal. Just like all asses are not the same. Gwen, here, happens to have a very nice ass.”

  “Thank you.” She smiles.

  “But, I see where she’s coming from about her chest. Guys want a handful, or at least I do, and hers isn’t –”

  “Hey!” Gwen cuts him off by throwing a bar towel at his face. “Not nice!”

  “Yeah.” I glare.

  “I’m just agreeing with her.” Carter steps back. “She’s the one who said she wanted to inject fat into other parts of her body.”

  “I’m allowed to say that,” she huffs. “Not you.”

  “I thought you wanted someone on your side,” he protests. “According to Jen all guys like all boobs. What I’m trying to say is – wait a minute.” He stops.

  “What you’re trying to say,” I finish for him, “is guys like boobs, period. They may have preferences, but they’ll take what they can get. Hence, men think all boobs are perfect.” I reach over the bar and sarcastically pat his arm. “Thanks for proving my point.”

  He looks speechless.

  I turn to Gwen. “You, my friend, are stunning. Never forget it. There are plenty of men who will appreciate your body and not just settle for it. The hard part is finding one who wants your heart and your assets.”

  Gwen’s expression softens. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.” She hugs me. Then, she faces Carter. “You’re lucky we’re friends. Here’s some advice: the next time a girl criticizes her body, just tell her she’s hot and leave it at that.”

  Carter blinks. “How’d we even get on this subject?”

  “We started to talk about unnecessary organs,” I say.

  “Whose organs are unnecessary?”

  I look over to watch Latson approach the bar. This is the first time I’ve seen him since Oliver fell asleep with me on the couch. He’s wearing another new t-shirt today. This one is red and says I’m lost. Please take me home with you. Although the statement is loaded with innuendo, I think about how I met Oliver and smile.

  “Don’t get these two started,” Carter warns as Latson stops in front of us. “I’ll be outside with Pete.”

  Latson looks confused as Carter walks away. “He said something stupid, didn’t he?”

  “He knows better now,” Gwen says.

  I grab another bottle of wine. Torque opens soon and we still have things to prep.

  “Jen,” Latson says my name. “I want to show you something. C’mere.” He gestures for me to follow him.

  “Are you sure? I still have set up to do.”

  “I’ve got it,” Gwen says. “It’s not much.”

  I set the wine down and, due to my healing torso, slowly duck beneath the bar. “I’ll be right back.”

  She shoots me a knowing look. “Take your time.”

  I catch up to Latson’s side as he walks. “What’s going on?”

  “Just something I thought you’d be interested in.” He points at his shirt. “Did you see?”

  “Yes,” I laugh. “How apropos.”

  “I thought you might like it.” He smiles.

  We make it to the stage in the corner of the bar. It’s set up for tonight’s performance. Only a stool and a mic sit under the main spotlight, and a few guitars sit on stands in front of the house speakers. I trail behind Latson as he takes the stairs to the top of the stage. He walks over to one the guitars and pulls it off its stand. He turns around and holds it in front of him with two hands. “Do you know what this is?”

  My eyes comb over the instrument. It’s metallic mint green and rosewood, with a cream-colored pickguard and maple neck.

  Holy shit. There’s no denying that shape.

  “That’s a vintage ’59 Fender Strat,” I whisper.

  He looks impressed. “You know your guitars.”

  I silently nod. Fender is an American rock icon. My fingers tingle at the thought of touching the strings. “Whose is it?”

  Latson shrugs. “It’s mine.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Are you playing tonight?”

  “Hell, no,” he laughs. “Dean is. We played together in the Sin days. He’s been working on some new stuff and asked to borrow a few things. Well, actually, his van broke down and his equipment is stuck somewhere on 94.”

  “That sucks. I hope he didn’t leave anything like that on the side of the road.”

  “No, nothing like this.” Latson lifts the guitar, looks it over, and then holds it out to me. “Want to try?”

  Hell yes, I want to try! But, it’s a $2500 guitar. And that’s if it’s brand-new-to-look-vintage. If it’s really fifty-five years old, it cost thousands more. I take a step back. “I don’t want to break it.”

  Latson sighs. “You won’t break it.”

  “How do you know I even play?”

  “I saw your acoustic when I picked up Oliver the other night.” He closes the short distance between us. “I know Pete and Jules don’t own a guitar. C’mon. You know you want to.”

  He flashes his panty-melting one dimple smile. Coupled with the instrument he’s holding, it’s too much. Way too much. I need a distraction. “Let me see it.” I hold out my hands.

  Satisfied, he gives it to me. As I pull the guitar strap over my head, I swear I feel dizzy. I’m holding a freaking vintage Fender Strat. The angels should start singing any minute.

  He gestures toward the stool and I take a seat. I set the guitar across my leg and try to get comfortable. “Any requests?” I joke.

  He flips a pick at me and, surprisingly, I catch it. “Impress me,” he teases back.

  Oh, lord. Okay. I’m holding a Fender. I should probably break out some Clapton. He’s notorious for using a Strat. I rifle through songs in my mind. What wouldn’t Latson expect?

  Ah ha. I grin.

  I position my fingers and effortlessly play the opening chords to “Enter Sandman.”

  “Metallica?” Latson looks suspicious. “You don’t strike me as a metal head.”

  “I’m not,” I admit, “but I can appreciate good songwriting.” I tilt my head and think about what else to play until the song it took me the longest to learn jumps to the forefront of my mind.

  I only intend to play through the first few lines of “Freebird” but, before I know it, one note morphs into the next. Latson doesn’t stop me and his presence fades the longer I play. The spotlight shining on the stage is warm and bright, making the bar fall into darkness and my skin feel like I’m under the sun. I close my eyes and forget where I am; it’s as if the only things that exist are me, the guitar, and the music. I’m not ashamed to say I’d stay forever in this spot if I could.

  Despite my trance, halfway through the song, a metal chair scrapes against the floor and the sound pulls me back to reality. My hands still and my eyes spring open.

  “Sorry,” I mutter to Latson. “I got carried away.”

  He’s looking at me like I’ve sprouted a third eye.

  “Are you okay?”

  “That was Skynyrd,” he says like he can’t believe it.

  “Um, yeah.” I start to hand him his guitar. “Thanks for letting me play. She’s awesome.”

  “No.” He pushes it back into my hands. “Keep going.”

  “With “Freebird”?”

  “With whatever,” he says. “I like watching you.”

  I raise an eyebrow, to keep my heart from racing. “You’re the rock star. Shouldn’t yo
u be the one performing?”

  He gives me a self-deprecating smile and doesn’t answer. He crosses his arms. “So? What else you got? Who’s your favorite to play?”

  My face lights up and reveals my crush. “That’s easy. Eddie.”

  “Vedder?”

  “No. Not Pearl Jam. Ed.”

  “Sheeran?” Latson’s mouth twists around his name. “Really?”

  “What’s wrong with Ed?” I defend my pretend boyfriend. “He’s talented. He writes his own songs, he collaborates with other musicians, he –”

  “He’s a pansy,” Latson goads me.

  My mouth falls open. “He is not.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “He’s romantic! Not that you would know anything about that.” My eyes bore into his. He can’t mess with my Ed and get away with it.

  “What did you say?” Latson steps closer and towers over me.

  “You heard me. Garage band ex-rock stars don’t know anything about romance.”

  I can see the wheels turning in his head. One side of his mouth quirks up. “That’s what I thought you said.”

  He steps back and rolls his neck, as if trying to relax. “Enough about Ed. What else do you like to play?”

  “Besides my music boyfriend’s songs?” I stress the word.

  He begrudgingly nods.

  I readjust the guitar on my lap, then take a breath. I play the chorus of the new song I’ve been working on. The Fender must inspire me, because the next few chords I’ve been struggling with appear in my head. Yes! Finally. I play it one more time before I stop.

  “Who was that?” Latson asks.

  I smile. “Elliott.”

  “Who?”

  I stand and remove the strap from around my neck. “Me. Jen Elliott.”

  “You wrote that?”

  I nod.

  Pounding footsteps pull my attention to the right as someone bounds up the stairs. “I need to know you,” he says and makes his way toward me. He holds out his hand. “Dean McCarthy.”

  I take in his rugged looks. Mussed hair, five o’clock shadow. He must not have had time to get ready with the van breaking down. I tentatively shake his hand. “Jen.”