A Love Ballad: A Fictional Memoir (Song for You Book 3)

by Megan Rivers

  “Good.” I let out a long breath. “I'm tired.”

  “We can lie by the pool for a bit, but I'm taking you out tonight.” She fiddled with the GPS then looked over at me.

  “Out?” I asked, uncomfortable with the vagueness.

  “Well, I got these tickets to the House of Blues for this new band—Universe—from work. They're like Jason Mraz meets Bruno Mars with some John Mayer... and a dash of soul-era Hanson.”

  I nodded, trying to put a finger on the sound of the band.

  Shortly after we pulled out of the parking spot, the CD player began reading the disc Meadow popped in and Justin Bieber began filling the car. I reached for the eject button. “No way. I draw the line at Justin Bieber,” I declared firmly.

  “But it's happy music,” Meadow said, sticking out her bottom lip.

  “Not to me,” I retorted, putting the the disc in the CD holder strapped to her sun visor.

  “What makes you happy then?” Meadow asked, referring to her music selection.

  Galvin automatically crossed my mind, but probably because his music—erm, Prey for Chance's music—touched me like no other music ever had. I slipped in a 1960s mix CD I made her and, as The Temptations played, my mind drifted to Galvin and I resisted the urge to check my phone.

  Meadow and I sat by the pool for a few hours and caught each other up on our lives. Just as the sun was beginning its descent, we retreated indoors to get ready for the concert.

  Meadow came out of her room in a black skirt and purple top with sequins that looked more like an oversized handkerchief than a top. When she saw me in jeans and a blue tank top that read “Picasso Reject,” she shook her head.

  After refusing to wear a black dress that barely covered my bum and an orange tube top that made me choose between covering my belly button or my chest, I approved of an off the shoulder black top and a pair of dark skinny jeans.

  When we arrived at the House of Blues, Meadow grabbed a seat at a high-chaired table to the far left of the stage, near the back. As soon as I sat down, she shot up like she had forgotten something. “I'm going to get us drinks,” she said. “Hold our table.”

  I watched her trek through the growing crowd, throwing hellos and smiles to people who seemed to be strangers. Just as the curtain began to part for the opening band, Meadow came back to the table. “Here you go,” she said, handing me a glass. “Rum and coke.”

  She raised her glass in a toast, “To Fristers!”

  “To Fristers!” I echoed, clinking her glass.

  We chatted about music and bobbed our heads to their set. Soon Meadow finished off her drink. “Why do you keep checking your phone?” she asked.

  “Am I?” I asked, putting my phone down guiltily.

  “Yes!”

  “Sorry, it's unintentional.” I slumped my shoulders and slipped the phone into my back pocket.

  “Who are you expecting a call from?” Her eyebrow rose, urging me to answer.

  “No one.” I shrugged.

  She studied me, biting her straw. “Who do you want a call from?”

  “No one. Honest. I was just wondering how Galvin's interview-thing went today.”

  Meadow suppressed an eye roll. “Why?” she asked, though it came out more as “Ugh! Why?!” dripping with attitude.

  I shrugged.

  “I still haven't forgiven him for what he did to you.” Meadow said, sipping her melted ice cubes. I knew that she got hurt during the break up too. She trusted him and he let her down. That pain ran deep.

  “He's changed,” I admitted. “He's been very sweet.”

  Meadow went on alert—her head didn't move and her eyes bore into mine. “Has he been making moves on you?” she sounded stern, like a mother finding out her child has been causing a ruckus in class by the teacher.

  “No!” I exclaimed. “Actually, quite the opposite. He's been very supportive and a good friend, but he's kept his distance.”

  “Good.” The word was firm, like the period at the end of a sentence. She flagged down the cocktail waitress and ordered another drink. “You know, I never told you this—and don't get mad—but he came by the apartment after the funeral. I thought he was trying to take advantage of the situation and worm his way back into your life. So I had a long talk with him about it, but in the end he was the only person in New York who could help me help you through everything that happened. I ended up giving him my key and threatened that I would get Antony's 'family',” she used air quotes to emphasize the word, “to track him down if he was anything other than a supportive friend to you.”

  I let it sink in for a moment, sipping absentmindedly on my drink until it was gone. “Is that why you called him every day? I thought you guys were, you know.”

  Meadow laughed too loudly. “No way, Stie!”

  Just then the cocktail waitress delivered refills and two tequila shots. “These,” she said, pointing to the two small glasses with limes, “are from those two.” She then pointed to two dark haired men in t-shirts standing at a table a few yards away.

  Meadow raised a glass to them and yelled, “Thank-you!”

  “What are you doing?” I asked as she picked up a shot glass. Wasn't there a rule about not drinking drinks men send you in a bar? That's a thing, right?

  “Relax, Stie,” she said, picking up the salt bottle. “The waitress brought them.” She put the shot in front of me. “Here, lick your fist,” she ran her tongue over hers, “then sprinkle with salt.” She modeled this as well. “Honestly, Stie, you're a twenty-seven year old college graduate and you've never had a shot of tequila? What did you do at Sarah Lawrence?”

  “Studied!” I said over the pounding music.

  Meadow rolled her eyes.

  So, I had my first tequila shot.

  It burned.

  Meadow laughed. “You're supposed to bite the lime!” she said, handing it to me in a fit of giggles while I thought I was going to die. “Drink, drink,” she said, handing me my glass.

  After a night of dancing and perfecting my tequila intake (five shots later...), we grabbed a cab home, giggling and carefree.

  Morning had long since passed when I awoke in the morning. My legs bent over the arm of the couch and rested on the end table. Somehow, during the night, I must have kicked the lampshade because now it was lopsided, casting its light onto the narrow stairwell by the entryway.

  I turned my head—which sent the world spinning—to see Meadow half slumped onto the couch above my head, while her feet curled beneath her on the floor. Moaning, I pulled myself into a sitting position, closing my eyes, and letting the world twirl.

  Meadow began to wake while I held my head between my hands. “Oh, Stie,” she said, holding in a giggle. She flipped her now frizzy curls to one side of her head. “Are you okay?”

  I would have shaken my head if it didn't cause the world to jerk about, so I grunted.

  Meadow lumbered into the kitchen and returned with a cold bottle of water. As I chugged, she stated, “I've got the perfect prescription for you. Go take a shower, put on something comfy, and I'll be back soon.” She threw on a sweater and tied her hair back into a bun. After a quick look in the mirror, she rubbed the smeared make up from beneath her eyes and walked out the front door.

  One long, hot shower later, I walked down the dark brown carpeted stairs in my pajamas. I felt marginally better, but shook my fist at the person who invented tequila. Sinking down into the couch, I pulled down the throw blanket that was draped over the top. My eyes began to droop in the comforting silence of Meadow's living room.

  My eyes shot open when Meadow clumsily walked in, letting sunlight slice through the dark room. “Look at you!” she said, surveying me. A plastic grocery bag hung off her left arm, crinkling as she tried to keep her balance as she kicked off her flip flops. “You're already doing step one: comfy cocoon.”

  She bent down to sit between me and the coffee table and began unpacking the plastic bag. “Sorry it took so long. I had to pick u
p the car. Here, I got step two: greasy tacos.”

  After much coaxing, I relented and ate a taco; I felt much better.

  Meadow changed into shorts and a t-shirt. Bringing a blanket downstairs with her, she squeezed onto the couch with me, initiating step three: movie marathon. She had me choose between Gilmore Girls and The Office because, “They're the best feel-good shows after a night of partying,” according to Meadow.

  A few episodes into the world of Dunder-Mifflin, my cell phone vibrated from the table. A message from Galvin.

  Galvin: A little too much fun last night?

  Me: ???

  Galvin: You butt-dialed me.

  I groaned.

  “What's wrong?” Meadow asked, twisting the top off an Oreo cookie.

  “Apparently I butt dialed Galvin last night.”

  Meadow laughed.

  My phone buzzed again.

  Galvin: Don't worry. It wasn't embarrassing. Just you guys singing a song about tequila

  Galvin: I saved the voicemail to blackmail you later

  Me: Oye

  Galvin: Apparently tequila makes you “feel-ah” and then Meadow started singing that country song about how tequila makes her clothes fall off

  I blurted out a laugh, with a few Oreo crumbs. Reading the text aloud to Meadow, who turned pink and buried herself deeper into her cocoon.

  Me: I need to hear this!

  Galvin: Tomorrow! Want to do brunch?

  Me: Sure

  Galvin: Pick you up at 10?

  Me: OK

  Galvin: Call me if you need anything

  Me: Ditto.

  XIV.

  Lemonade Surrealism

  “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” – The Beatles

  The next morning, Galvin was outside in his silver rental car. He wore a pair of aviator sunglasses that reflected my smile and pony tail that bounced in the breeze. “Having fun?” he asked with a sly smile as I jumped into the passenger seat.

  “I'm going to need a vacation from my vacation,” I admitted with a smile. “Keeping up with Meadow is exhausting.”

  “I believe it,” he said and then threw the car into gear.

  “So where are we going to eat?” I asked, feeling my tummy grumble.

  He checked his mirrors before merging onto the interstate then replied, “I know this place just a few miles away. Tobey Macguire and I ate there a few years back and they have a Greek omelet that is so good I dream about it.”

  “That good?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “You have no idea.”

  We arrived at The Garden House not long after. It was small—a white one story building with tables outside and ivy growing up the surrounding walls. Galvin asked to be seated in the courtyard, which was in back. The small cobblestone patio was littered with white tables and chairs and ivy crept over the surrounding fence giving it an English garden feel. We were seated in the far corner, surrounded by a sea of green leaves.

  “I hope you don't mind eating outside. After living in New York, I miss all this sunshine,” Galvin said taking off his sunglasses and clipping them to the front of his shirt.

  “No way! Tomorrow we have to go back to New York, and autumn probably happened while we've been gone. I'm going to soak it in while I can.”

  There were cream colored plates in front of us and silverware wrapped in light green napkins. Daisies in a small glass sat in the middle of the table. Small menus, with ink drawn trees on the cover, sat on top of the cream colored plates and I picked it up, browsing, as Galvin talked about his omelet.

  I wasn't as adventurous as Galvin when it came to ordering (feta cheese and black olives in an omelet?), so when a waitress in a short, blonde A-line haircut dropped off a pitcher of lemon waters and took our order, I ordered waffles.

  “Thanks for coming to California with me,” Galvin said after the waitress left.

  “No, thank you for letting me tag along. I forgot how much I love California, and seeing Meadow. I'm almost sad we have to leave tomorrow.” I played with the knife and fork prongs sticking out of the napkin as I talked.

  “So you've had fun?”

  I nodded.

  “Good.” He smiled. “I thought yesterday might have been hard for you.” He was leaning back in his chair, looking very comfortable. California suited him.

  I gave him a confused look; it was just a hangover (albeit my first one) after all.

  Tentatively, he hinted, “September tenth...”

  It took a few moments to sink in. “Oh. Oh!” How could I have forgotten! It would have been my wedding anniversary. Suddenly I felt horrible. My shoulders hunched with the realization. “Oh no, how could I have forgotten?” I hated myself at that moment for feeling so happy just seconds earlier. “I feel horrible. I'm a horrible person.”

  I buried my face in my hands, ashamed to be in such a sunny, happy place. It was a day I should have spent remembering Antony and just putting time aside for his memory... not watching The Office in California, nursing a hangover and chowing down on Oreos. How could I have forgotten?

  Galvin leaned forward. “No, you're not horrible. Christie,” he reached for my hands to uncover my face, gently. “Christie, listen,” his voice was gentle and soothing. “It's not a horrible thing, it shows you're healing. Antony would have wanted you to be happy right?”

  I lowered my hands and nodded. “But it's not that. I didn't even think about him yesterday.”

  “I'm sure that's not true. Your mind always thinks about him and it happens so often, you don't realize it.”

  It took me several moments to speak my next sentence. I kept looking at my hands, which sat in my lap, as I spoke. “I'm afraid I'm going to forget him. He was too wonderful to ever be forgotten, but sometimes I can't remember his face as clearly as I used to.”

  “What do you remember about him?” Galvin asked, not taking his eyes off me.

  I bit my bottom lip, thinking. “He slept without socks, no matter how cold it was. He would say 'Momma Mia' in his accent just to make me laugh. When he made pancakes, he always tried to flip them in the air, but never could. He sang like a drunk Italian opera singer in the shower. He winked at me whenever he caught my gaze. His smile lit up the world.” I grinned, remembering all the times he met me with that smile.

  “See? He's making you happy even now.” Galvin said, playfully poking me in the shoulder.

  “I guess you're right. Thank you.” I looked up at him. “For listening. Sometimes it's nice to just talk about him... to remember.”

  “Anytime,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  After lunch we had a short drive to Trey's house. It was a two story colonial with an attached garage. It was a bluish-white with dark blue trim. The front door was red and had the animated door knob from Alice in Wonderland. Galvin was carrying a stuffed green dragon with a green velvety bow on it to give to his new nephew.

  Leah met us at the door. She was shorter than I remembered, but had the same long wavy blonde hair. She wore white capris and a red and white tank top that accentuated the slight curves of her hips and chest. She stood on her tippy toes to give Galvin a hug then gave one to me. “It's good to see you again,” she said genuinely.

  We exchanged pleasantries as she escorted us through the house and into the backyard. It was enclosed in privacy hedges and the yellow flowers that had bloomed on it littered the yard, sometimes being picked up by the wind. Their backyard looked like it entertained various amounts of company. They had an in-ground pool with diving board and small slide, and a pool house not far behind it.

  When you first stepped outside the house, a spacious brick patio met your feet and it held a long cast iron table surrounded by fluffy, flower-printed patio chairs and a large built in barbecue grill to the right. The rest of the yard beyond was littered with children's toys, a swing set, and glider swings surrounding a fire pit. As much as I loved the Big City, I wouldn't mind spending time in this yard. I could picture Fourth of July barbecues, children's birthda
y parties, and roasting marshmallows around the fire. This was the kind of life I never would have imagined Trey Kismet to live in, but loved it.

  As we walked onto the patio, we saw Trey sitting under the awning, in an Adirondack rocker, with the tiny baby sleeping in his arms. Trey looked older, but in a Brad Pitt kinda way.

  “Uncle G!” Galvin let out a grunt as a small boy ran into his side with a hug. His wet, light blonde hair hung around his eyes.

  “Phoenix! My man! You've grown a whole foot since I've seen you last!” Galvin said, giving the boy a secret handshake.

  “Mom says it's 'cause I eat weeds.”

  I smiled. Leah took the baby from Trey and said, “No, I said you grow like a weed.”

  Phoenix shrugged then looked up at me. “Hi,” he said bluntly.

  “Hey,” I greeted. “You have a pretty cool name.”

  “I know,” he said like it was no big deal. “I like it 'cause it starts with a ffff and it's spelled with a P.”

  Trey laughed, getting up from the chair, and said, “Phoenix, this is Christie. She's an old friend of ours.”

  “Cool,” he said. “Do you like squirt guns?”

  “Um, yeah. Only grumpy people hate squirt guns!”

  He started laughing. “Uncle G hates squirt guns. I think that's why we call him Uncle G, for Grumpy.” He laughed even more then ran off.

  Galvin turned to give me a “thanks for that” look. I mouthed “sorry”.

  Trey hugged Galvin and they exchanged a few words in German. “I hate when they do that,” Leah said beside me, rocking the baby. “I always think they're plotting something.” I laughed at her retort.

  “Christie,” Trey said, pulling me in a hug, “You haven't changed a bit. It's good to see you.”

  “You too. Your English has improved dramatically. I can actually understand you now.”

  He shrugged with a modest smile. “I married an American, I had to learn.”

  Just then a little girl, no more than four years old, in blonde pigtails and a yellow swimsuit, ran up to Trey and he scooped her up in his arms. “And this is Lexi,” he said as she squirmed in his arms and buried her head in his neck. “This is Christie, Lexi,” he said so sweetly to her, pointing to me. She wiggled until Trey put her down. She bobbed behind Leah's legs for a few moments and then ran to the playhouse at the far end of the yard where her big brother was.