Mirrored (Follow Your Bliss series Book 4)

by Riordan Hall, Deirdre

  “This café, I wrote the better part of our first album in there. See that teapot? Track three. A part of me dwelled at table nine for a time. Then down here, is the flat where Graham and I lived, Finn and Albert too most nights. We had to piss in the sink or bathtub because the plumbing was faulty.”

  Brighton looked alarmed.

  “Don’t ask. But that was home for a time. And then down that road there,” he said, pointing, “we played dozens of shows at the various clubs. All of these places helped shape who I am, but almost more so the atmosphere, the hanging clouds, the scowling commuters, the endless pots of coffee and tea. And beer. And…friends and family. My dad’s house, the music room. And you. It’s all home, a place to spring from and a place to return.”

  They’d reached an iron and stone fence outlining a park. Strolling hand in hand, they went in, the trees muting the city noises and whirring traffic.

  Brighton cleared her throat. “For so long I was trying to make one place home; prerequisite it be a building with four walls, but I understand what you mean. Home is a place and a feeling. I see now it’s also something that I help shape, investing my energy, whether creative or dull, inspired or tired, into building it for myself.” She hesitated and then added, “For us.”

  Alex grinned, not only glad that she understood, but that she’d unfolded his words, cut out the ones that worked for her and pasted them back together, adding her own sensibility. And that he fit into her meaning of home. “I love you Brighton,” he said, pulling her in for a kiss while the warblers, sparrows, and swallows sung in the trees above.

  “Bollocks,” Alex said, blinking open his eyes to see a dark lens across the path. “Come on.” He took Brighton by the hand and led her out of the park.

  “It’s eerie. I preferred the fans. At least their intentions were clear,” Brighton said, scowling.

  “Yeah,” Alex answered shortly. He’d figured out why Finn was bent on jealousy, but couldn’t pinpoint how the photographers, and possibly Suzie, figured into it. “I have an idea,” Alex said, abruptly turning around on the sidewalk. The paparazzi following them scattered. “Let’s pay someone a visit, have dinner, and then get back. I feel like crowding my head with music tonight.”

  Minutes later, Alex banged loudly on a metal door. “It’s me,” he hollered. There was no answer. “Wish I still had some of that spray paint,” he muttered, scanning the ground. He grabbed a piece of rubble from construction work on the corner. “Can I have your hair tie?”

  Brighton tugged it out of her long hair.

  “Do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”

  She tore the back off a magazine and proffered a sharpie from her bag. Her look of suspicion cut with impishness.

  Alex scrawled, Last chance Finn. Talk to me or bite it.

  He chucked the rock through a second floor window. On the opposite side of the street, a passerby looked at him disapprovingly,

  Brighton asked, “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  Walking away, Alex considered how to explain, but her phone rang.

  “I totally forgot, today she gets the results,” Brighton said, fumbling around in her bag.

  “Hi,” she said, breathless with anticipation.

  She stopped on the sidewalk by a row of newspaper boxes. Her face lit up. “Benign,” she said. Her eyes filled with relief. Then her expression fell.

  “You can’t do that. Forget that it’s a precaution. That’s horrible. Mom, no.”

  Alex watched her face sink deeper into itself in layers of disapproval and disappointment. It showed the kind of devastation that happens when finding out something that’s better left a mystery. The mask came off; identities and entire worlds were revealed in the greens of her eyes. “When?” she said after listening for a time. “I’ll be back then. Okay. Uh, huh. Love you too.”

  Brighton leaned against Alex. He struggled under a veneer of consolation, but irritated that someone, from a dark window or around a corner was capturing that moment on film. He sped her along the sidewalk, ushering her into one of his favorite restaurants.

  The hostess seated them in a private corner. Brighton declined a beer.

  “The biopsy came back fine. No cancer,” she said, exhaling.

  “What a relief.”

  “But she’s having a double mastectomy because she’s at such a high risk for future malignancies.” Brighton swallowed hard.

  “How’d she sound?”

  “Fine. Like it doesn’t matter. She said they were getting too saggy anyway.”

  Alex tried to suppress a smile, but Brighton caught it. Her frown turned thin, and then as Alex tried not to laugh, she let out a chuckle, a valve released for all the tension she’d carried.

  “I’m relieved, but I shouldn’t be laughing.”

  “Claire would so want you to be laughing right now,” Alex said, assuring her. The woman who’d married El Holmes was not an innocent flower. She may have preferred the finer things in life, but she was tough, had a sense of humor, and wouldn’t let a precautionary procedure stop her from living life vibrantly.

  “You’re right. She said I have to take her bra shopping for her new boobs. She said she was tired of simple, nude, padded bras. Too much info.” Brighton made a gagging face.

  “But she’s going to be fine.”

  “And so will I,” Brighton said, her eyes glittering with tears of relief.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next day Alex and Brighton kept to the house, listening to Chaz’s endless well of stories, looking over memorabilia collected from years on the road, concerts, fan art, and world travel. But mostly they spent time in the studio, fooling around on guitars and experimenting with sound.

  “You were lucky,” Brighton said.

  “I am lucky,” he corrected, leaning in for a snog.

  “I mean as a kid, I imagine your dad never told you to keep it down, be quiet, or stop making such a racket.”

  “No one said that to you either.”

  “Just the neighbors.

  “My gran sure did,” Alex said. His thoughts collided into Finn. He hadn’t heard from him, even after the smashed window.

  “I’ve been thinking about you and your mother,” Brighton said.

  He stopped strumming the acoustic guitar in his lap.

  “Especially after coming so close to losing mine. Or at least grappling with that notion. You should find her, your mother I mean.”

  “Funny ya should say that,” Chaz said, appearing in the doorway. “I’ve been thinking about that myself. Claire called before you guys got here, filled me in. I reckon she’ll be okay. She warned me not to let Brighton near any sharp or blunt objects,” Chaz said with a laugh and an eyebrow raised in her direction. “Or fast cars, loud guitars…though I s’pose there’s not much I can do about that.”

  “We’ve talked about this,” Alex said with a snarl in response to the mention of his own mother

  “I know we have, lad. And you know I don’t like that woman at all. I don’t expect you will either. But she is your mother. And she is,” Chaz cleared his throat, “sick.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Gran knows everything. I moved her out to Bearsden, but she still has a line on the old neighborhood. You could probably ask her about any resident of this city, and she’d grub up some dirt on ‘em.”

  Alex rolled his eyes.

  “Naw, I don’t expect much of it, but hell, it might make her soul rest a little easier if ya see ‘er.”

  “How do you know she wants to see me?”

  “Gran,” Chaz said, sighing, “said she asked after ye.”

  Alex fought against the soft parts, in the center of his chest, which bowled against his rough exterior.

  “I’d do it today or tomorrow at the latest. I’ve already said goodbye to her. She had a tough life, that one. Maybe it’ll be sweeter on the other side.” Chaz set a scrap of paper on top of the piano by the door and exited.

  “
I’ll be with you. I’ll help keep you between the ditches,” Brighton said, handing him the paper with the address to the hospital.

  That evening, they set out into the city in one of Chaz’s cars. The lights smudged around the edges and glared off the perpetually damp cement.

  “What do I have to say to her?” Alex said as he parked the car.

  Brighton was quiet a beat. “You could tell her how much she hurt you. But maybe she didn’t make the wrong decision. Maybe she would have been a worse mother had she stayed. It’s possible you were better off with your dad and the family band.”

  Alex tried to shake the already-sprouted seeds of doubt from his head.

  A nurse led them to a non-descript room in a quiet part of the hospital. “She’s been asleep awhile,” she said before squeaking down the hall.

  Alex gazed through the double-glassed window. A strange, unfamiliar woman lay still, in the bed, with a sheet tucked snuggly under her arms.

  “I’ve only seen a couple photos of her. She looks old.”

  Brighton took his hand and led him closer. “You have her lips,” she whispered.

  Alex hoped that was all. Her frail body looked foreign and helpless. The little boy in him, who was rarely quiet, hushed and wanted her to hold him, promising her love, and never to let him go. But that never was and never would be. Maybe Brighton was right, perhaps he’d been better off without her. But if that was true, where did he put all the agony and anger at not having a mother? What about the resentment and rebellion? What did Suzie and all the girls he’d cheated on her with mean if he was just supposed to be a boy with only a dad. He couldn’t close the loop with an answer.

  Brighton took his mother’s hand, patting it gently. His girlfriend exhaled. She was a jellybean, all right, with a tough break-your-tooth exterior and a squishy, melt-your-heart, compassionate center, like him. She leaned over and kissed his mother's forehead.

  “Thank you for giving us your boy. You’ll be happy to know how deeply he’s loved and cared for.” She turned and left the two of them alone.

  He didn’t know what to say. He’d spent nights, hours of recording tape, years, filling notebooks with angry scrawl, channeling his anger toward that woman. He’d rehearsed things he’d say, and shout, if he ran into her on the street or if she’d contacted him. But his mind was quiet except for Brighton’s words, Thank you for giving us your boy.

  For giving.

  Forgiving.

  How could he forgive her?

  Then his heart whispered something else, How could he not?

  He stood there, studying the placid lines in her face, the rise and fall of her breath, and how she was otherwise impossibly still. He thought about Brighton and his relationship, second chances, and how everything leading up to the moment he’d told her he loved her had been, in all its pain and glory, perfect. And that moment then, with Bri waiting for him and his whole life before him, was because of the woman that lay there dying.

  Tears pierced Alex’s eyes as the weight of his burdens swept away leaving him feather light and buoyant. He leaned over, kissed her forehead as Brighton had and whispered, “I forgive you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Flashbulbs popped as they left the hospital, leaving Alex temporarily blind. “What the hell?” he hollered.

  “Let’s go have some fun,” Brighton said as they dodged the cameras for the car. It seemed she noticed the lift of his burdens as if it was something to celebrate.

  Brighton grabbed the keys, despite her disinterest in driving on the left side of the road. “Tell me where to go.”

  Alex stuttered, shifting from the quietude of loss and forgiveness to the madness exploding before him as flashes burst against the windshield. “Uh, erm, take a left there,” he said, pointing.

  Two sedans followed them, even as Brighton wove in and through traffic, driving erratically and fast. She smiled at him wickedly.

  “What are you up to?” he asked.

  “They want a show. We’ll give them a show.”

  He directed her to a broad lot, and they walked to the club on the other side of the road. “A couple bands I dig are playing here tonight,” he said by way of explanation.

  “Perfect,” she said, her voice ripping with mischief.

  They each ordered a Stella Artois, and watched the remainder of a set. A few moon-eyed fans approached Alex, but otherwise there was no sign of the photogs. Alex heard someone shout his name.

  “Graham, what the effin’ hell are you doing here?” he said as the shaggy-haired bassist approached.

  “Should ask you the same thing, except that we came here every night for months running when we lived ‘round the corner. Hey Brighton,” he said, interrupting himself. They hugged. “Everything all right, you nutter?” Graham asked, turning back to Alex.

  He shrugged. “Just saw my mum. She’s sick.”

  Graham’s eyes widened.

  “Said goodbye, I guess.”

  “And what else has your knickers knotted?”

  Brighton answered for him. “Some paparazzi have been following us around for days.”

  “Aye,” Graham said. “I was afraid of that.”

  “What?” Alex and Brighton said at the same time.

  “I see Jimmy and the Dills are coming on. I’ll tell you after their set,” Graham answered as the first notes of a song blared through the speakers.

  As they tossed beer after beer back, Alex forgot about his mother, the paparazzi, and the pending conversation with Graham. The bar turned into a living room jam session as Graham took up a bass at a friend’s insistence, followed by Alex on guitar.

  After fooling around with a few songs, they needed another guitar part. Alex pointed at Brighton, urging her forward. She shook her head, but before he realized what was happening, Graham picked her up, slung her over his shoulder, and brought her on the small stage, insisting she play with them.

  They broke out into an impromptu dance-heavy song with Alex and Brighton singing the chorus together. The crowd loved it. The room erupted into chaos after Brighton played a solo.

  Fists and feet were in the air as people danced, pogoed, and crowd surfed. Screaming, whooping, and cheering provided the chorus to the next song they played, with Alex adding the first things that came to mind, “A patchwork summer of love and loss, magazine covers add a mythic kind of gloss,” followed by a loud snarl and, “shut it and be your own boss.

  When the drummer’s crash symbol sealed the end of the song, Alex looked back to see Albert sitting behind the kit, his grin wild. Just then, the microphone crackled.

  “I see you’ve replaced me,” Finn said, setting foot onstage. His glower revealed glassy eyes.

  Alex frowned.

  “No sir, you are mistaken. No one could replace you. Everyone, the illustrious Finn,” Graham said, irritation clipping his words as he lifted Finn’s arm overhead for applause.

  Albert tapped the kick drum in a muted, but steady beat.

  “What about Brighton? Your dear, darling Brighton standing there, in my place and playing guitar?” Finn’s voice pricked with venom.

  “This wasn’t planned, but this is people having a good time, remember that?” Alex responded, his words flowing downstream on a river of alcohol. “Isn’t that what we do? Bollocks playing in front of a sea of twenty-five thousand nameless faces. This room, this is the heart and soul of rock and roll. This is art. This is The Gracks, or have you forgotten?”

  Just then Suzie appeared, her eyes rimmed with eyeliner and her hair as strung out as ever. The piercing in her eyebrow hung onto threaded desperation. “We know all about you two. The scandal is going to press tomorrow. Everyone will know the truth about how you used Finn to rise to fame, only to replace him with that bitch,” she said, pointing at Brighton.

  Brighton’s face burned red. The guitar was out of her hands and the foreboding thum, thum, thum of the drum filled the silence following the accusation.

  “For the record, you’
re both mad,” Graham said, looking back and forth between Finn and Suzie.

  Alex stepped forward. A semblance of clarity appeared in his mind if only to keep Brighton from punching Suzie in the face.

  “Finn, I thought this was about you lamenting me taking up with Bri and how that took my attention from you, but I see this is about her musical talent. Despite your admission to a prestigious music school and classical training, you’d credited your musical ascension to your abilities and quietly derided me because I’d been born into the industry fame machine. Well, you can keep it; shove it up your arse if you want to. Your judgments aren’t welcome here.”

  “Rubbish,” Finn said.

  The crowd was silent, watching the spectacle unfold.

  “I listened to you carry on about how you didn’t believe some people have innate talent, the kind they don’t have to pour buckets of money into, the kind that just is. I abided the insult because we were friends. But you can’t stand that Brighton came along and blew us all out of the water.”

  “I don’t think we can give her that much credit.” Finn scoffed.

  “Yeah, we saw where you want to go with the band. Vanish into obscurity with your girlfriend, leaving us behind,” Suzie said.

  Alex’s brow furrowed. “Which is it? Do you accuse me of hoarding fame or trying to disappear? You can’t get your story straight because the lies are so thickly entwined, you can’t see a way to untangle them. I thought breaking it off with you, Suzie, was clear. You aren’t part of this band. We aren’t a couple. We aren’t an anything.”

  Suzie edged closer to Finn. “Tell him, Finny,” she said, gripping Finn’s arm.

  The drum continued, and Graham picked a rhythm with his bass.

  “Tell me what?” Alex asked.

  “Where should I start? That hotel in Amsterdam and the hot tub? That was bubbly. Or that night you got sick, and I left the room because it stank so bad? Finn kept me warm that night. You weren’t the only one having fun on the side Lexie,” Suzie spat.

  “Ugh. Enough. I don’t even care. I mean I do, I thought we were friends Finn, best mates.”