A Song of Life: A Fictional Memoir (Song for You Book 2)

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A Song of Life: A Fictional Memoir (Song for You Book 2) Page 4

by Megan Rivers


  She put our drinks in the cup holder and handed me my doughnut before pulling back out into the street. “What's his name?” she asked, picking up the conversation again.

  “Galvin,” I said with a mouthful of strawberry sweetness.

  “Is he Australian?” Cream from her doughnut dripped down her knuckles and she licked it up.

  “No, he's... German.”

  Meadow was suspiciously quiet. Her cream oozing doughnut stayed in her fist, lacking another bite.

  “He’s.. well...” I looked at her, not sure what her reaction would be. We were at a stop light and now was as good a time as any. “Well, his name is Galvin,” I paused, wincing, “Kismet.”

  Her eyes widened and she turned to face me, surprisingly composed. “He doesn’t happen to sing, and be in a world-famous rock band, does he?” Her eyes went back on the road but she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.

  I nodded. “He plays guitar too, and makes a pretty good grilled cheese sandwich-“

  “Christie! Shut up!” she exclaimed and pulled the car over as the light turned green. When the car was in park, she turned towards me. “You are totally yankin’ my chain, right?”

  I bit my bottom lip and shook my head, trying not to break out into a huge grin.

  “You are NOT 'dating', “ she used air quotes with the doughnut still in her hand, “thee Galvin Kismet of Prey for Chance!” She pushed me in the shoulder leaving shards of chocolate in the crook of my arm.

  “According to the Australian tabloids, I am,” I remembered only too clearly how much they made me feel violated and cheated.

  She slumped back against the driver’s seat, dropping her hands (and doughnut) in her lap. A cloud of silence settled around the car except for the whoosh of the cars passing us by. Meadow's eyes flitted back and forth either trying to process the information or figuring out if it was the truth. “Well,” she finally sighed, “beat the drums and take me home!”

  We looked at each other and said in unison, laughing, “Help me friends, free my soul!” She had been around my mother too much already.

  Meadow cocked her head and put the car in drive. “Okay. All right,” she said to herself and took a deep breath. “What’s he like?”

  “He’s just a guy, really. Tall, weird sense of humor, sweet, a faint German accent.”

  “That’s it? No super human strength? No immortal powers?” I smiled shaking my head from side to side. “Huh. How anti-climatic.”

  “Okay. Really, he’s like...” I stopped and thought about it. “He’s like all four seasons rolled into one.”

  “Oh, Christie,” her voice hinted at mounting excitement. “Are you going to bust out some super sweet Robert Frost metaphors now?” She laughed.

  “No! He’s just…” How could I accurately describe him without sounding ridiculous? “Everything about him―“ I sighed, collecting my thoughts. “His eyes, his hair, his voice! Something about him makes me so...” I fought to find the right word and settled for, “distracted! He wears this one cologne because Dean Martin wore it every day of his life and he says that ‘Dean Martin is the King of Cool’. You have to―”

  “Wait.” She cut me off, her mouth full of the last of her doughnut. Her eyebrows pulled together as she swallowed. “Who’s Dean Martin?”

  I chuckled at her inquisitive face and wondered if the same look draped across my face when I asked Galvin that question. “He's a singer from a long time ago that Galvin idolizes.”

  “Amazing!” Meadow exclaimed, soaking it in.

  “Are you sure you're okay?” I asked, noting that she was taking this news rather well.

  She glanced at me as she made a left hand turn. “Oh, I don’t completely believe you, you know. I’m humoring you until I get some concrete proof, like shaking the man's hand.”

  “That sounds more like you.” I smiled, finishing my doughnut.

  “Hey, don’t hate the playa, hate the game.”

  I laughed. “Meadow that makes no sense.”

  “Oh look, Elvis,” she said, pointing out the window to a fire hydrant, changing the subject and providing a distraction.

  X.

  Pocket Friends, Broken

  “You Make It Real” – James Morrison

  Galvin had arrived in New York the day before Thanksgiving. Prey for Chance was scheduled to be at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade for a performance and my mother was more excited about it than Galvin. He still couldn't understand why there was “a holiday dedicated to food,” despite the history lesson I gave him over the phone.

  Meadow had finally talked to him on the phone but would only be convinced it was him if he sent a personal shout out to her on TV by sticking out his tongue and making a silly face. I told Galvin that he didn't have to, but he took it as a personal challenge. So, in front of thousands of people and numerous cameras, while singing Cuttin' the Rain on a cornucopia float in the middle of New York City, Galvin had made the highly publicized “crazy face.” Even the next morning, when he was asked about it on Good Morning America, he simply stated, “It was for someone on a high meadow who now owes me a large favor.”

  He had said the words “high meadow” directly into the camera with a smirk, which caused Meadow to jump up and down, pulling on my arm, claiming, “I'll never doubt you again!”

  Each time I talked to Galvin he seemed brighter and brighter with the fact his touring days were numbered. “I love and am grateful for everything that has happened to me, but I am so excited to have a holiday and sleep all day long!” he once told me. He absolutely loved performing and song writing, but he hated the limelight with the interviews, the cameras, and the photo shoots. He hated talking about himself and would much rather have talked about the music.

  In that way, he and Trey were the exact opposite. “Sometimes I wish I could be more like him,” he admitted. Trey knew how to play to an audience and he was a natural in front of the camera. I think that was why Galvin's “crazy face” was so publicized, because it showed there was more to him than his stoic mask of indifference.

  After Good Morning America he wanted to take a jet to Chicago, but at the last minute they were scheduled to do a radio show and they couldn't go on without their lead singer. Galvin was beat up about it. “I just want to spend time with the Chicago-you,” he admitted the night before. “And celebrate food.”

  I sighed in a playful way. It was pointless to go into another spiel about the holiday being about gratitude. “It will happen. One of these days the stars will align and we'll find ourselves in the same room. Until then I'm settling for the same country.”

  “Is there any way you can come out to L.A. next week?” he pleaded.

  “I wish I could, but I have to go to school. I'm still behind from the months I was in Australia. I'm never going to pass calculus.” I thought about the practice test packet that sat in my book bag. I had to finish it by Monday for the extra credit I desperately needed.

  “Sometimes I forget you are sixteen,” Galvin admitted. “When you turn eighteen I am taking you everywhere.”

  “I can't even think that far ahead right now. My mind's stuck on homework. Speaking of which, I have to go. We're spending the weekend at Kevin's and I have a mountain of calculus and history to do.”

  “All right. I'll call you on Friday. Don't eat too much turkey tomorrow.”

  I smiled. “I'm more of a cranberries and stuffing fan.” I thought about sitting at the table tomorrow and sharing what we're most thankful for before feasting. “Galvin?”

  “I'm still here.”

  “I'm thankful for you. You've made things much more bearable for me this year and I just wanted to say thank you for keeping me by your side even though we're so far away. You're like one of my best friends... that I keep in my pocket.” I realized how corny it sounded the second it left my mouth and I bit my tongue, cursing myself.

  “If that is a compliment, I will take it!” He laughed. “You have been there for me so many time
s too, Christie. And since you have become the mobile that sits in my pocket, you are truly the pocket friend.” I blushed, smiling.

  I heard voices on his end and he groaned. “I have to go too. Rupert was invited to a club by this girl he met today. I need to go with him and make sure he shows up for the parade tomorrow.”

  “We'll be watching for Meadow's shout-out. I'll talk to you on Friday.”

  He groaned again, being reminded of Meadow's request. “Happy Thanksgiving, Christie,” he wished before hanging up.

  When Mom and I arrived in Lincoln Park the following afternoon, Kevin was standing over the stove with a baster in his hand and clad in an apron that made him look like he was wearing a tuxedo. Meadow was polishing silverware in the dining room and her eyes zoned in on the aluminum foil covered container Mom was holding. “Is that―?”

  “My famous homemade mashed potatoes, just for you!” Mom said, holding them out to Meadow as she ran up to us in bright pink furry socks. My mom made them from scratch using a variety of spices, bacon bits, chives, sour cream, and cream cheese. She broiled them in the oven so the top was crispy. The first time Meadow had them she licked the bowl clean after her fourth helping and asked for more.

  “Best. Holiday. Ever,” Meadow declared, taking the bowl and peeling back the foil. She gave Mom a hug and exclaimed, “You are the best!” then scampered back to the dining room.

  “Save some for me!” Kevin called after her and embraced my mother, kissing her forehead. “Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes. How are you, Christie?”

  “Ready to get my cranberries on!” I rested my hands on the high back of the stool that sat at the island, inhaling the aromas mingling in the air.

  “Ah!” He turned to the fridge and retrieved a plate. “Now it was by far the most difficult recipe I ever attempted, but I hope it meets your specifications.” He lifted the covering and I laughed.

  Inspecting my cranberry sauce I said, “Yeah, it's difficult for most master chefs to be able to achieve the cylindrical can shape, but you've outdone yourself. Bravo. Beautifully done!”

  “Merci!” he said with a smile. “Can you do me the honors of taking it to the dining room and keeping an eye on my daughter and that dish of mashed potatoes?” He winked. “If you carry out this task successfully, I see a large slice of apple pie in your future.”

  “A la mode?” My eyes lit up.

  In a French accent he answered, “Oui, oui, but of course, is there any other kind?”

  And so I left the kitchen to chase Meadow several laps around the table as she gripped the glass dish of potatoes and a spoon until Mom and Kevin came in with a basket of rolls and a heaping plate of turkey.

  After dinner everyone seemed to be suffering from a turkey coma. Mom had retreated upstairs, complaining about a headache while Kevin, Meadow, and I sat in the living room watching Miracle on 34th Street on TV.

  Meadow was lying upside down on the couch while I laid across it, my feet resting across her stomach. Kevin fell asleep in his armchair not long after the movie started. Every once in a while he'd regain consciousness and comment on the movie to fool us into thinking he was awake, then he'd roll his head to the side and fall back asleep.

  “Mm, I could sure go for an Oreo right now,” Meadow admitted, poking my foot.

  “You're still hungry? I can't even think about an Oreo right now,” I said, rubbing my stomach.

  “Lay upside down. I'm serious. It helps digest the food.” I gave her the stink eye. “But first, could you be the bestest friend in the whole wide world and get me an Oreo?”

  “No way, Jose,” I said and nestled deeper into the pillows on the couch.

  The sound of Kris Kringle singing a Christmas song with the little Dutch girl played over Meadow's pouting silence when the phone rang. Meadow and I looked at each other, neither one of us wanting to get up. We threw our fists at each other and in unison said, “Paper, rock, scissors!”

  “Paper covers rock!” she claimed and let her head hang back down against the couch.

  I wiggled my fingers in her direction and said, “Fire burns paper!”

  “That's not a valid move!” she stated sternly pointing a finger at me.

  “I can't help it if my rock was on fire during the game.” I shrugged and laid my head back down on the pillow.

  Meadow glared at me and moved all her fingers in a scissor-like motion. “Edward Scissorhands attacks rocks!” She bit her lip and made a determined face, waving her fingers at me. “And it puts out your fire.”

  Groaning, I rolled my eyes. “Fine.” I got up in defeat.

  “Edward Scissorhands also grants wishes and I wish for an Oreo.”

  Mumbling, under my breath, I jokingly replied, “And I wish--”

  “What was that?” Meadow cut me off before I could finish mumbling my sentence.

  “Oh nothing,” I threw her the throw pillow and a sly smile, “I'll make sure I get you a very special Oreo,” I joked, thinking of licking the cream filling before handing it to her, and sprinted down the hallway.

  The kitchen glowed with the soft light from above the stove. Dishes sat in a pile in the sink and the scent of turkey still hung in the air. I grabbed the phone from its cradle on the counter. “Hello?” I greeted and sat down on a stool at the island.

  “Christie?” I knew that voice all-too well.

  “Galvin?” He had often called Kevin's house when no one answer the landline in our apartment, so this call was no surprise. But, on the other end of call, his voice was stressed, like it was being pulled in all directions and my mind automatically thought the worst. “Is everything all right?” The shadows began to dance around the kitchen as the wind picked up outside the patio doors.

  “I don't want to be a pocket friend with you anymore,” Galvin blurted.

  “What? Are you―?” I could feel my heart pounding, ready to jump out of my rib cage and flee down the hallway.

  “Just listen. We've seen each other twelve times, that is all. We spent three months together through letters and phone calls. I know you solely through that. You are just a girl I met on an airplane and I should have forgotten you by now. We had some great nights together and that is all it should have been.

  “It's probably not the best time or the best way to say these things, but I have to because I haven't forgotten you. I cannot stop counting down the hours to our next phone call. It hurts that I can't have you by my side every hour.

  “I think back to that plane ride all the time because I had never felt so connected with anyone in my life. I trust you and want to include you in everything when you are not around. You make me want to be stronger and better. Just the fantasy of having you next to me makes me feel like I can do anything. That feeling is rare and I should try my hardest to never lose it.

  “And people will talk and it will be scrutinized, but we are who we are and I love you. I love you. It'll be unconventional. We'll be happy. We'll be doomed to fail. We'll hurt. We'll laugh. We'll cry. We'll experience. We'll be chastised and criticized and talked about, and singled out, but we'll have each other. And that's what matters, right? I never want to lose this feeling. Ever.

  “I just...” He sighed heavily and quickly. “I called to let you know.”

  I was trying to let it all sink in when I realized, after a very long pause, it was my turn to talk. “I... I don't know what to say.”

  My fingers curled the edge of the bamboo place mat on the counter. My eyes traveled to the hallway where the light from the television danced across the walls and into the darkened kitchen. That world was very far away, suddenly.

  “If we're being honest...” I paused to gather my feelings into words that I hoped I wouldn't regret. “I don't know why you just won't leave me alone. Sometimes I feel guilty like I inadvertently put a spell on you. I don't know why you keep calling me or sending me letters, but I love each one like it was you showing up for a visit.

  “You are so easy to talk to and you understand
me and support me. I love how you rely on me. I love the sound of your voice on the other side of the telephone and how I have letters from you all over my room as if they were your fingerprints.

  “I've been so scared of getting hurt that I've never admitted it before, but the idea of losing you hurts too much to think about. I don't want the phone calls to stop and the letters to stop coming. I'm afraid to admit that I love you too―with everything I have―because it might change everything and I would lose you.” I began to notice that tears ran down my warm face and I wiped them on the neck of my shirt. Cue the emotional teenage drama.

  “Oh, Christie,” I could hear the hint of a smile in his voice, “it would take something much more stronger than three words to lose me. I can't explain it, but you are the one. You're the one I would fight an eternity for.”

  Everything was on the table in front of us and he wasn't running away. Deep down, though, I knew I was right: everything was going to change now, but it was going to be better. “I love you,” I admitted with relief―a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders. The words didn't trip over my tongue or get stuck behind my lips. They were said with such fluidity and ease that for a second I didn't know the power those three words held.

  “I have waited so long hoping to hear you say that.” Galvin paused and I wanted to reach through the phone and embrace him. “You are and will always be my better half and everyone should know it. And do you know what else? I don't want to leave our next meeting up to fate. I want to be by your side. I want to spend time with you.” His voice was so definitive and declarative that I had to smile. “I do not want to not see you anymore.

  “We're playing at a benefit concert on Christmas in Munich, but I can be with you for New Years. Do you think you could come to Germany for Christmas?”

 

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