Pieces of You

by Cassia Leo

  Rachel shakes her head as she leans against the dresser and pulls her hair up into a ponytail. “You’re right. I don’t fucking understand. How could she throw that away? You guys were perfect for each other. Give me her new number and I’ll talk some sense into her.”

  “Hell no. I don’t need you fucking things up any more.”

  “Hey, she used to be my friend. Don’t be selfish. Give me her fucking number.”

  Jake finally comes out of the bathroom and I can smell the vomit on him as he passes between Rachel and me on his way to the bed. Rachel scrunches up her face in disgust and I wait for her to make a snide comment.

  “Ever heard of toothpaste?” she says as Jake pulls the comforter over himself.

  “I’ve got your toothpaste right here,” he mutters, and I’m positive he’s grabbing his dick under the covers.

  Rachel rolls her eyes then turns back to me. She’s not going to let this go.

  “Give me her number. I want to take her to lunch when we get back.”

  “I’m not giving you her number. If she wanted you to have her number she would have told me to give it to you.”

  “Whatever, Chris. I’m going to look her up in the directory and you’re going to be kissing my feet when she comes crawling back to you.”

  I crumple up the note before I toss it into the waste bin. “She’s changed.”

  “You’ve both changed,” she says as she walks toward the bathroom door. “But I’ll bet you Jake’s drum set that she’s just waiting for you to make your move. Trust me when I say that Claire worshipped you.”

  I sigh as I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. “Well, she’s really fucking pissed at me right now. Besides, she just wants to move on. I have to let her do that or I won’t be able to forgive myself if I mess things up for her again.”

  My phone vibrates and my stomach flips inside me. Taking a deep breath, I try to drown the hope that it’s her. I pull the phone out of my pocket and smile when I see the text message.

  Claire: Are you seriously trying to bribe me to go see your jam session?

  “Is that her?” Rachel asks, but I ignore her as I type my response.

  Me: I want to apologize properly and I can’t do that in a text message.

  Claire: I don’t want to hear your apologies. Just tell me what Tasha told you.

  Me: I can’t. It’s too important.

  Claire: You’re an asshole.

  Me: I know, but I’m trying really hard to change that.

  Claire: I don’t want to see Tristan.

  Me: He never sticks around after the shows. You know that.

  The thirty-eight minutes she makes me wait for her response are pure torture.

  Claire: When and where is the jam session?

  Chapter Twelve

  Chris

  “I’M TELLING YOU, THAT’S NOT my mic. That’s Jake’s. Mine is the 5200. Please get my mic.”

  The new crewmember keeps mixing up my mic with Jake’s. This is the third time he’s done it this week and I’m about to lose my shit. Xander had the brilliant idea of hiring local sound and backline crews we’ve never worked with for this Home Sweet Home tour, to support the local economy, but I don’t need this kind of stress right now. I just want this tour over with.

  I’m nervous as hell. Not only am I going to be jamming with the legendary Neil Hardaway, but Claire will be out there watching me. My palms are sweating and I haven’t even tuned up.

  Keith brings the correct mic this time and I slide it into the mic stand. I sit down on my stool and rest Lucille, my Gibson SG electric guitar, in my lap. I only use the stool for acoustic sets, but I’m feeling a little unsteady on my feet today. Keith hands me the amp cable and I plug in.

  I brush my fingers lightly over the strings and the sound echoes through the empty club. Nothing in this world is more soothing to me than holding a guitar in my hands, except being inside Claire or even lying next to her. The worst part of being apart from her this past year was the knowledge that I probably never would have gotten where I am if we’d stayed together. My songwriting improved by a million percent after we broke up. There really is nothing more inspiring to an artist than a shattered heart.

  By the time I’m done tuning the guitar, Jake and Tristan are on stage and ready for a warm-up. We’re not performing any of my songs today. The studio put too hard of a pop spin on most of the songs on the Relentless album. Neil Hardaway is a local blues legend. He can’t play that shit. He actually called me himself last night, and I nearly pissed my pants, to tell me what we would be playing. We rehearsed last night in his home studio and I swear I had an out-of-body experience, as if I were watching someone else living their dream.

  “Firefly,” I say over my shoulder and I immediately hear the clack of Jake’s drumsticks behind me and the shuffle of Tristan’s feet to my left as they prepare.

  “Firefly” is one of the many songs I wrote about Claire where I changed a lot of the details so she wouldn’t know it was about her. This song is about a girl I call Firefly who writes me love notes and leaves them in random places for me to find. Of course, in the end, she leaves a note that’s not a love note at all. Claire used to send me random texts with random words—anagrams. I had to rearrange the letters to figure out what she was trying to tell me. It was one of our favorite games. She always tried to use the longest words to make it difficult for me to guess. The last text she sent me after we broke up was a one-word text, but it wasn’t an anagram: Sorry.

  When we finish warming up, Neil Hardaway strolls in looking like a fucking pimp. He’s got more soul than any white man I’ve ever met. And, man, is he white! I don’t think Neil Hardaway’s face has seen a ray of sunshine in fifteen years. He’s wearing a midnight blue suit with a thin black tie, sunglasses, and black newsboy cap. I hope I’m that cool when I’m fifty-seven years old.

  “What’s up, brother?” he says in that smooth, soulful twang. “You ready to turn these girls inside out?”

  We shake hands then I nod at Keith for him to take my stool off the stage. Neil laughs, a raspy laugh, as another crewmember races up the steps onto the stage and hands him his guitar: a baby blue ES-345.

  “Them girls waiting outside are about ready to tear the doors off this mother,” Neil continues.

  I’m a little star struck, though not as bad as I was when I first met him yesterday. “Not interested,” I mutter as I pull a fresh pick out of my pocket and rub it between my fingertips to warm the plastic.

  I’m not interested tonight, not when one of those girls waiting outside could possibly be Claire. I told her to come through the rear entrance, but she insisted on not getting special treatment. She probably doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about us, afraid it will get back to surfer boy.

  “Chris?”

  Keith is looking at me weird as if he’s been trying to get my attention.

  “What’s up?”

  “There’s a girl out back asking for you.”

  I can’t help but smile as I toss the pick to Keith and he catches it in one hand. “Take me to her.”

  I set Lucille down before we cross the empty space designated for general admission ticket holders then past the bar. He takes me through an adjacent lounge with a few pool tables and then through a corridor with some restrooms. At the end of the corridor, we arrive at an exit door and I push it open slowly in case she’s standing on the other side.

  The cool night air blasts me in the face and I get a strong whiff of garbage and cotton candy. Claire is leaning with her back against the back wall of the club with her eyes closed. We haven’t had any long conversations since we got back in touch last month, but she did mention to me that she started meditating after we broke up. The way she dismissed me when I asked her about it made me think it wasn’t something she liked to talk about.

  “Hey.”

  She opens her eyes and turns to me. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and the light of the streetlamps paints an a
ngelic glow over her skin.

  She flashes me a tight smile. “Hey. Is it okay that I came back here? The sidewalk was packed out front and I started panicking that Joanie was gonna show up.”

  “You can do whatever you want. No one here is going to mess with you. Come on.” I hold the door open for her and try not to be too obvious that I’m breathing in her scent as she passes me. “And Joanie’s not welcome here, so you don’t have to worry about her.”

  She follows me through the corridor and into the lounge area.

  “Have you seen some of the signs those girls are holding out front?”

  “Nope. I’ve been warming up. We’re about to warm up with a few songs then they’ll open the doors.”

  “You should really go see those signs. They’re kind of gross and fascinating all at once.”

  “Like Jake’s sixth toe or worse?”

  She laughs for a split second before she remembers she’s still pissed at me. We pass the bar where the bartenders are busy setting up. I grab her hand and she quickly yanks it back, throwing me a shocked look.

  “Settle down. I wasn’t trying to hold your hand. I was just trying to stop you. Do you want anything to drink?” I ask, nodding toward the bar.

  She shakes her head quickly. “I’m fine.”

  I narrow my eyes as I try to figure out why the hell she came here when she knows damn well that she could have worn me down and I’d have given up the information from Tasha. I didn’t want to say anything about this when she called me this morning to verify the address. I was afraid questioning her motives would make her change her mind. But I’m getting the feeling that there are more problems in her relationship than just the stupid scuffle we got in last week.

  “Christopher Michael Knight,” Jake booms into the microphone in his deep voice. “Get your sexy ass on this stage.”

  “You guys remember Claire,” I shout at them from the bar then turn back to her. “Come on. You can sit on the side of the stage so you don’t get squished.”

  “I don’t want special treatment,” she insists as she follows me toward the stage.

  Jake waves his drumstick at Claire and she waves back, but Tristan doesn’t acknowledge her. Tristan and Claire have never gotten along well. She always insisted he was trying to corrupt me. Tristan always insisted that I was whipped and Claire was the reason I went solo. They’ll probably never speak again after this fight with her boyfriend.

  “This place is going to be packed,” I insist.

  “So.”

  “You don’t have to pretend you don’t care.”

  I shake my head as I climb the steps onto the stage and pick up my guitar. I can’t see Neil’s eyes through the sunglasses, but I glimpse a barely-there smile on his lips. We warm up with “Gimme Shelter”; I take the first guitar solo and we go back and forth on the second one.

  The whole time we’re warming up, Claire stands off to the side of the stage with a scowl on her face. After a couple more songs, we head backstage so they can open the doors. Claire follows me backstage with a pissy pout on her face.

  Once everyone’s out of earshot, I grab her arm and pull her behind an equipment rack. “You want to tell me why you came here if you’re still so fucking pissed?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Claire

  I WRENCH MY ARM OUT of Chris’s grip and push him back. He’s standing way too close. His dark eyes are burrowing into me and making me nervous. I almost forgot how much of an asshole Chris can be when he thinks I’m hiding something from him.

  I am pissed at him over what happened with Adam, but I know Adam is the one who opened the car door to get at Chris. Chris didn’t even hit him.

  “You’re the one who bribed me into coming here. Why don’t you just give me the information so I can leave.”

  He smiles, that you-don’t-have-it-in-you smile, and I’m seriously considering punching him to wipe the grin off his face. But somehow I can’t stop staring at his lip ring. I wish I could forget the memory of the metallic taste of it in my mouth.

  “Come on, Claire. I’m your best friend; at least, I was your best friend. You can be honest with me. Are you having problems with your boyfriend?”

  “You can lose the smug grin, Chris. I came here because you bribed me with your information and because you looked like I’d smashed your guitar in half when I told you I couldn’t come.”

  He lowers his head a little as if he’s ashamed then lets out a soft chuckle. “Sorry. I guess I’m just a little on edge about seeing you after what happened with Abigail’s parents. I thought you’d blame me. Then that shit happened with your boyfriend and I thought for sure I’d lost you forever.”

  Suddenly, the muscles in my chest tighten and I feel as if I’m about to have panic attack. I have been trying not to blame anyone for the mess I’m in with Abigail’s parents, especially not Chris since I do believe he’s only doing what he thinks I want. But I can’t help but feel like Chris’s fame is the main thing that tore us all apart. If he hadn’t been in Los Angeles recording the final tracks on the Relentless album when I found out I was pregnant, I might actually have told him about the pregnancy. If I hadn’t been completely certain that having a baby would have ruined his career, none of this would be happening.

  I don’t want to blame Chris. After all, I was the one who encouraged him to leave. But hearing him say that he thought I would blame him for what happened with the meeting makes me feel as if he’s giving me permission to hold him accountable. I take a few long, deep breaths to keep the anger from exploding out of me.

  I need some serious therapy.

  “I don’t blame you for what happened with Abigail’s parents, but it is really frustrating.”

  “That they backed out on us or the reason they backed out?”

  “Both.”

  Before he can respond, Xander jogs toward us with a panicked look on his chubby face.

  Xander has been managing Chris’s career since he was a senior in high school playing local clubs. He was a customer in Jackie’s bakery and, true to her chatty nature, they sparked up a deep conversation. She found out he managed a few local bands and she buttered him up with lots of delicious cakes and pastries to get him to listen to Chris’s band, Blue Knights. Xander didn’t need any convincing to sign on with Chris, but he was always pushing Chris to go solo.

  Xander’s thick brown hair is plastered with sweat along the hairline and the panic in his eyes makes him look like a sitcom character. When he sees me, he doesn’t immediately recognize me. Then it clicks.

  “Claire? Is that you, sweetie pie?”

  Xander has the most melodic Southern accent I’ve ever heard on a man. It always makes me smile.

  “Hi, Xander,” I say as I reach out to give him a hug.

  He hugs me so hard I can feel the sweat seeping through his shirt and mine. I pat his back a few times and he lets go.

  “Girl, look at you. You look and smell like cotton candy on a stick.”

  “Not looking so bad yourself. Have you lost weight?”

  “I have!” He twirls around for me and shakes his butt. “Ten pounds. It’s this new trainer Chris referred me to. I mean, if he can get this boy some muscles, he’s gotta be able to work his magic on me.”

  I try not to laugh too hard at this. Chris was always a bit self-conscious about his inability to bulk up. He’s still pretty lean, but even through his T-shirt I can see his shoulders are a bit broader and his chest is bulkier. I have a strange urge to squeeze his arm the way I used to when he was lifting weights in the garage.

  Chris squints at me as if he knows what I’m thinking. “You think that’s funny? My trainer kicks my ass and he has me drinking these awful shakes that make me want to chuck the blender across the kitchen. But I do it all for the fans.”

  Xander’s panic returns suddenly. “Speaking of fans, one of your fans just got arrested for stripping in front of the club. They’re opening the doors early to try to subdue the frenzy. You’re o
n in twenty.”

  “What the fuck? Why do I always miss the action?” Chris complains.

  I resist the urge to punch him in the arm the way I would have when we were together. Those days are over. He’s allowed to make comments like that in front of me now.

  After the show, Chris insists I allow him to drive me to my car a couple of blocks away.

  “Those girls will rip you to shreds if you walk out there alone,” he says as he opens the passenger door of the Porsche. “You saw how they were looking at you while you were sitting on the side of the stage, like you were a cockroach.”

  Sitting on the side of the stage tonight, the way I used to, was an uncomfortable experience for me. Not because I had to watch Chris flashing his crowd smile at the girls in the first few rows of bodies. It was uncomfortable because of the way I felt when the same girls cast dirty looks in my direction while Chris performed “Relentless.” He kept glancing at me during this song, and the crowd noticed. I should have felt annoyed with Chris, but instead it felt kind of cool to be so envied. I don’t want to feel that way.

  “Just take me to my car,” I say as I grab the handle to shut the car door, but he holds on to keep me from closing it. “What are you doing?”

  He stares at me for a moment, looking like he’s about to say something, then he shakes his head and shuts the door. Suddenly my entire body is zinging with a dreadful nervous energy. I hope he doesn’t try anything. I don’t want to have to reject Chris.

  He slides into the driver’s seat and chuckles as he turns the key in the ignition.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask as I buckle my seatbelt.

  “Nothing,” he replies as the engine purrs around us.

  He casts me a sideways look that sends chills through me. I rub my arms to feign cold as he pulls out of the parking lot and takes a few side streets to bypass the crowds leaving the club. When we arrive at my car, there’s a crowd of girls passing by and one of them points at the Porsche when she recognizes Chris.

  “Don’t get out,” he says as I reach for the door handle. “We’ll chill out somewhere for a while, then I’ll bring you back.”

  He pulls away quickly before I can protest.

  “Hey! I don’t care about those girls. I need to get back to the dorm to study.”

  “It’s 11:45.”

  “Yeah, I’ll probably be studying until four a.m. Even later if you don’t take me back to my car right now.”

  He turns right at the intersection and passes in front of the club where the sidewalk is almost empty now.

  “Claire, we need to talk.” I stare out the passenger window as he continues. “I know you asked me not to text you or call you out of respect for your boyfriend, but—”

  “His name is Adam and he’d be really fucking pissed if he knew what you were doing right now.”

  “I don’t give a shit what his name is or what he’d do. The hard truth is that you need to grow up.”

  I turn to him and he’s serious. Not a trace of a smile on his face.

  “Don’t look at me like you’re so surprised to hear me say that. I know you made some tough decisions this past year, but you’ve been running from the consequences of those decisions instead of facing them. And you’re still running. We should be able to have a fucking adult conversation concerning our daughter without worrying if we’re going to piss off your boyfriend. By the way, he needs to grow up, too.”

  I want to tell him to fuck off. I want to plug my ears or punch him or jump out of his Porsche as it speeds down the boulevard; anything not to have to hear another word of this.