Strum Me

by Daisy Allen

Through the tint of my sunglasses and the shadows in the back of the hall, I can’t make out the expressions on her face. But I don’t need to see them to know. She’s biting her tongue, and her eyes—those brilliant blue eyes—are narrowed to paper-thin slits.

  And it’s killing me not to jump over the table and run to her. Pull her into my arms and shake her, and ask her where the fuck have you been all these years? Why has it taken you this long to find me?

  But I don’t.

  The tension in the air is like a vacuum, sucking the breath and speech from everyone in it. All we can hear is the flashing and recharging of camera bulbs.

  “Well. Um.” There’s a squeal of the microphone as Hailey’s voice cracks over the speakers, breaking the silence. “It looks like we’re out of time now. Thank you, everyone, for coming. Remember, Chords and Chaos is out next week. If anyone didn’t receive a press pack at the beginning, please come see me at the podium now.”

  There’s an immediate din of chair legs scratching on the wooden floor and voices raising into conversation.

  I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  There’s a soft punch on my arm. “Fucking hell, man. You got her,” Sebastian growls gleefully into my ear. I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know he is grinning ear to ear.

  I feel the other guys come up around me. But I can’t help staring out into the crowd. I can’t see her, but I can feel her. What the hell am I doing still sitting here? My inner conscience’s question must’ve rung louder than I thought, because there’s a bang on the table and I look up. Marius is staring at me, his hand wet from slamming his open water bottle down to get my attention.

  “What the fuck are you doing just sitting here, needle-dick? Get the fuck up and go get her!”

  Jez slaps me on the back as his way of agreement and it launches me to my feet.

  “Oh, what the fucking hell.”

  I leap over the table and down off the stage. Darting between the receding crowd, I make my way to the sole figure standing there in the back of the room. Waiting for me. Her features are becoming clearer as I make my way closer.

  Fuck, she looks good. Like time hasn’t bothered her with the pesky business of aging. She’s more beautiful than I even remember. Long chocolate-brown curly locks, her skin like porcelain, framing those blue, blue eyes that tell the world how she’s feeling every minute of every day. I’m kind of annoyed she hasn’t turned into a saggy old cow.

  Just as I almost reach her, she turns away.

  My heart somersaults and lands in my throat and my feet move just that little bit faster, then skid to a stop, but a little too slow, and I bang against her back. She lurches forward and I grasp her shoulder and spin her around.

  “Butter.” I say the name I haven’t let myself conjure for almost a decade.

  She looks up at me at the sound of her nickname, and suddenly, it’s only yesterday. Her mouth opens and I wait for the first words we’ve exchanged alone in over eight years.

  “Fuck you, Brad.”

  Chapter Five

  Emily

  Eight Years Ago

  I can hear the metallic rattle of the beat-up car drive up and the banter going on inside it long before it hits the driveway. There are voices rising higher and higher, their speakers always trying to compete to get a word in. There’s a roar of laughter and I imagine Marius has become the butt of someone’s one-liner, probably Jez. Then it quiets. That’s never a good sign. But it doesn’t last long and soon another roar shatters the car windows and echoes down the empty, silent suburban street and up into the cracked windows of the neighborhood.

  A car door slams and I lean over to peek out the window and see Brad stumble up the driveway.

  He sways a little as he stands in the glow of the motion sensor light, slowly flicking through the three keys on his key ring, as if choosing the right one that opens the front door is a matter of life and death. I see him finally make a decision however, and he rocks back on his heels once, creating momentum to propel his body forward the last few steps up the driveway to his house[JD2] where I’ve been waiting.

  I should’ve known he’d have a drink tonight.

  Weeks away from the end of the school year—well, school life, really—it’s not like he was worrying too much about his future, unlike the rest of us. The boys in the band were just going to keep being the boys in the band. Taking them wherever their charm seemed to carry them. I hadn’t heard a flicker of fear or a peep of insecurity from them about their futures.

  Lucky them.

  The heavy wooden front door slams shut and I can hear him mumble something to himself. Sinking back into the bed, I pull the blanket around me, waiting for him to make his way up the stairs and to his bedroom in the dark. The pillow cradles my head, comfortable, probably because of the hours I’ve spent in it, molding it to my shape. There have been hours spent in this room with Brad listening to music, discovering new bands—old classics and mainstream guilty pleasures.

  I envy him.

  Him and his friends. They always talk about their future as if it is a given. Music. It is to be all about the performance, the creation, the complete immersion of their bodies and souls with music. They won’t have it any other way, won’t even entertain the thought that that is what their lives are not going to be centered around.

  I love music, but I just don’t have the talent. It didn’t take the last four years at a prestigious music school to learn that. I could’ve told you that from the first day.

  So I don’t know how the next five, ten, twenty years of my life are going to go. Hell, after what happened tonight, I don’t even know what tomorrow will hold for me.

  The memory of the night drops the black cloud over my head again, and the tear that’s been lingering at the corner of my eye falls.

  Just then the door creaks open and Brad stumbles inside. I lift my hand up to cover my eyes from the shock of the light, but it doesn’t turn on as I expect. There’s the sound of a shoe being kicked off and I watch the shadow move against the wall. Brad mumbles something to himself as he struggles to pull his T-shirt off and suddenly he’s there, on top of me. In his bed. The weight of his body suddenly crushing my ribs shocks me out of my sadness.

  “Ahh! Brad! Gerroffme!” I press both hands against his chest and roll over until the wall is against my back.

  “What the freaking, flying herd of crazy bats?!” He scrambles around on the bed until he can see my face illuminated by the moon filtering through the open window.

  I can’t help letting a giggle escape at the look of confusion on his face.

  “It’s just me, dick-wad.” I roll my swollen eyes and reach out, giving his ear a soft tug.

  “Oh, for a minute there, I thought my mattress had come to life and was about to swallow me.” His body relaxes and he wriggles his lanky body against me so we can both fit on his tiny bed. Reaching to the end of the bed, he pulls his blanket over us, tucking it under our chins as we’ve done a hundred times.

  “Hey! I’m not as big as a mattress!” I respond in a raised whisper, offended, against his shoulder.

  “No, but parts of you are just as soft and squishy.” He pokes me in the side, knowing I hate it.

  I squeal a little too loud and he reaches over and covers my face with his hand.

  “Quiet, Butter! Always such a loudmouth!”

  I scrunch my nose up and bite his palm, and he pulls his hand away revealing my grinning face.

  “Wench.”

  And then suddenly, I’m crying.

  I don’t know if it’s the familiarity between us and knowing that I’m in a safe place, or if it’s just that I couldn’t hold it in anymore. All I know is that the tears are streaming down my face and I can’t stop them.

  “Hey!” I can just hear Brad through the roaring in my ears. “Butter, what’s wrong, babe?”

  But all I can do is shake my head and let the tears fall. I feel him move around me, his arms, one sliding under
me, one over, to pull me hard against his chest.

  “Shhh, what’s wrong, what happened? Tell me so I can go chase it off with my manly form.”

  And I make a sound that mirrors what a dying cat would if it were watching a comedy gala special.

  “That’s my girl—nice to see all those hours at choir practice going to good use.”

  “Shut upppp!” I wail and struggle in his arms, needing to feel the freedom of breaking free. “You’re supposed to be making me feel better.”

  He holds me tighter against him, his bare chest warm against my cheek. “Um, judging by the sounds you’re making now, I did.”

  Through my tears I can’t help but smile in gratitude, grateful for the comfort of just being with him.

  “Aw, Butter.” He looks down at me, his face filled with concern. “What happened?”

  “Silas and I broke up,” I force myself to say. To force myself to admit it.

  “Good!” he answers without missing a beat

  “Brad!” I look up at him in horror at his insensitivity.

  He meets my look, unwavering. “What? It is good. Good fucking riddance.”

  I’m shocked out of my tears. “You’re supposed to be comforting me, fuck-doodle! My boyfriend just dumped me!”

  “I am. I’m telling you that you can officially thank the gods that you’ve finally lost that good-for-nothing scro-bag.” He emphasizes his point by squeezing me tighter around him.

  I push him away and scramble over him and off the bed. “What the hell is wrong with you? Just how drunk are you?”

  He sits up on the bed, and shrugs. “I’m not that drunk and nothing’s wrong with me.”

  I search his face and it tells me nothing except that he truly believes what he’s saying. “Why are you saying this shit about Silas?”

  “It’s not shit; it’s the truth and you know it. You’ve known it for ages. That’s why you broke up, is it not?”

  “No, it’s because...”

  “Because what..?”

  “Because I wouldn’t go with him.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because…”

  “Because why? If you love him as much as you say you do, I’d have thought you couldn’t wait to run away with your rock God.”

  “I have to live my own life, Brad.”

  “Yes. You do. And you can start right now.”

  And with that, he pushes himself off the bed, reaches for my hand, and pulls me against his bare chest. For just a split second, he stares at me, and for the first time I see how the golden specks in his eyes sparkle even in the dark.

  And then his mouth is on mine.

  Hard.

  Wet.

  Urgent.

  And all I want is for it never to end.

  Chapter Six

  Emily

  Present Day

  He doesn’t move, and I wonder if he heard what I said.

  So, I repeat it.

  “I said, ‘Fuck you, Brad.’”

  “I heard you.”

  He seems too amused to have really heard though.

  I try again.

  “Fu—”

  “Yeah yeah, I get it, fuck me, Brad,” he says in a loud whisper as he tugs on my arm before I can finish, pulling me into a quiet corner of the hall.

  I wrench my hand away from his, ignoring the burning sensation around my wrist. Later I’d wonder whether it was from tearing my arm from him or from his touch alone. But for now, it just adds to the hate.

  “Butter.” One word. One name. And it all comes back to me.

  “Don’t call me that.” My mouth curls, pursing in annoyance.

  “Well, I see you haven’t changed.” He, on the other hand, keeps looking aggravatingly amused.

  “I hope I can’t say the same for you.”

  He chuckles. Seriously? He’s chuckling?

  The exit is behind me, and I’m determined to make it there.

  “See you ‘round, dick-wad.” I flip him off before I go.

  He moves fast, cutting me off.

  “Still going for the classics, I see.”

  “Someone’s got to have a bit of class.” The words come out in a hiss.

  “Ooh. That hurt. You know I’m embarrassed about my humble beginnings.”

  “Brad, there’s nothing humble about you other than your intelligence.”

  He grins. He goddamn grins that fucking grin of his and nothing’s changed and it’s eight years ago and something in my chest just... breaks.

  My hand comes up to press against my chest. I don’t know why, maybe to stop whatever is about to flood now the dam has cracked.

  His grin instantly fades and suddenly he’s holding me.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I scramble out of his hold.

  “Shit. Sorry. You suddenly went all pale and I thought you were going to faint or something.”

  “Don’t touch me!” The words come out in a whispered yell. The last thing I want is for anyone to witness this scene.

  “I’m sorry! Fuck.” he curses, staring down at his feet for a moment.

  I take the pause to compose myself. Get it together, Emily. And get out of here.

  His gaze moves up to meet mine again. Golden specks. Golden specks in his eyes. That look hurt. Hurt by me.

  A twinge happens somewhere. Somewhere I thought couldn’t twinge anymore.

  “It…it’s fine,” I offer.

  He takes it. A smile.

  “I’ve gotta go. Nice seeing you around, Brad.”

  “Butter. Don’t go. Let’s go grab a coffee. It’s been—”

  “Eight years, Brad. Eight.”

  “I know.”

  No, you don’t know. You might figure it out from looking at a calendar. But you don’t know. You haven’t counted the days, the months, the birthdays.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve gotta go.”

  “Give me your number then,” he insists, and I wonder why he’s even bothering.

  “No.”

  “Or take mine.”

  “No point, I’ll just throw it away.”

  “Emily.”

  “Just… just let me go, Brad. Forget we saw each other today and let’s just start the clock again.”

  I don’t know what he responds to that, because I’m gone.

  ***

  Phil wants to see you.

  I moan. I’ve barely been back in the office for two minutes before our receptionist dings me on our intraoffice messenger.

  Why?

  Give you two guesses.

  I don’t even need one.

  Nice knowing you. Don’t steal the stapler on the way out. I know how you’ve been eyeing it.

  Your sympathy knows no bounds.

  Sure it does. Office stationery just isn’t within those bounds. He’s in his office, anyway.

  Yeah, yeah, I’m going.

  I push myself away from the desk with a resigned sigh. I knew this meeting was coming. He was not going to be happy about my question at the Rock Chamber Boys press conference. Their manager was a good friend of his and he was not going to have enjoyed having his star music journalist attacking the band.

  Practicing my excuses, “I’m an old friend of the band blah blah,” I almost walk into the glass door of my editor’s office.

  “Shit!”

  “Ah. My star writer! Come in, come in!”

  He sounds, and genuinely looks, happy to see me. How many drinks did he have with lunch today?

  I open the door and step into his office.

  “Hey, Phil…look, I know what you’re going to say—”

  “Emily. This is my old friend, Dennis.”

  I spin around, noticing the figure sitting on the couch for the first time.

  “Dennis…”

  “Emily, nice to meet you.”

  We reach across the room in a handshake. But of course, there’s no need for introductions.

  He smiles at me, holding my gaze, and then lets go of m
y hand, sinking back into his seat on the couch.

  Fuck. I’m so going to get fired.

  “So, Emily…” My boss starts, and I don’t want to hear it. Not after the day I’ve already had.

  “This is so unfair, Phil. You hired me to be honest, you hired me for my ‘fresh opinion’ as you put it…well, that was it. And I’ll be damned if you’re going to censor me!”

  The two men stare at me. Mouths open. And the silence is unnerving, so I try to fill the void by continuing my rant.

  “And who are y—”

  “Wait. What? What are you talking about?” Phil cuts me off.

  “Wait. What what? What are you talking about? Didn’t you call me in here to tell me off for what happened at the press conference today?”

  The two men now chuckle in unison.

  “Far from it. We thought it was great.”

  That can’t be right.

  “Your question and Brad’s response has been on the airwaves and newsfeed since it happened. It’s all over the place. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it yourself,” my boss tells me in a manner I can only describe as gleeful, something I can’t say I’ve experienced from him before.

  “Rolling Stone even tweeted that it’s about time music journalists stopped kissing the asses of artists for the sake of their careers and go back to asking the important questions.”

  In the corner of my eye I can see Dennis nodding along. It’s not the reaction I expect from him.

  “Okay, so I get why you are happy, bloodsucking editor that you are,” I say to Phil and get a grin by way of reply, “but what about him?” I gesture toward the band’s manager. “He can’t be thrilled I insulted his precious boy violin band.”

  Dennis stands up again and walks over to where Phil is leaning against his desk, facing me.

  “Emily, I’m not going to tell you that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Because there certainly is, well, there is if you don’t know how to control it. But what’s going on right now? This is good publicity. Your dialogue with Brad was unexpected but entertaining. And it’s got people talking about the Rock Chamber Boys. And that, that is what I want.”

  My eyes narrow at him. He can shove what he wants right up where he doesn’t want it.