Stay Until We Break (Hub City Romance, A)

by Mercy Brown

  I remind her that she tried that, and, well, she probably doesn’t remember exactly what happened that night and I’m not going to bring it up now.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says again, and we’re standing here on the sidewalk and she starts really crying. Tears, shaking, sobs, the whole waterworks. Do you know when I’ve ever seen my mother cry like this? Never. And as bad as this sucks, I’m glad she’s crying, because if it wasn’t her right now it would be me, and no way am I crying in front of my mother out here on the damn sidewalk. I put my arms around her and try to think of something I can say to make her feel better, but I’m coming up blank. I guess it’s great she’s been going to therapy and AA meetings and all, but fuck, I am not prepared for this. I don’t know what to say, so I just hold her tighter.

  “I know Uncle Pat is glad to have you back working for him,” she says. “But I just can’t see you turning a wrench for the next thirty years.”

  “Aw, come on,” I say. “I know I’m no genius but I can probably manage being a plumber. If Patrick can pay me well enough to foot Claire’s tuition, I’m glad to do it.”

  My mother sighs and drops her face into her hands. Then she turns to look out over the Hudson and grasps the gold crucifix hanging from her neck, asks the Holy Mother for forgiveness, for guidance.

  “Cole McCormack,” she says, “that guitar might be the only good thing God ever gave you and I’m not going to watch you turn your back on it.”

  “Ma . . .”

  “I’m not finished,” she snaps, now sounding a lot more like the Katelyn McCormack I know. “Tonight, watching you and your band, was the first time I really believed that in spite of everything that I let happen to you, you’d still be okay.”

  I remember my mother’s face the day I got sentenced to the youth house, like it was carved out of stone. I know how ashamed she was, how disappointed and scared, too, but she never let me see it. Now my mother looks up at me with those dark brown eyes, red-rimmed from crying, and her face is totally different. Teary and broken and desperate, it shows everything she’s feeling right there on the surface. I can finally see it all—my first report card, my dyslexia diagnosis. I can see my broken arm and the lies she told the ER doctors. But I can also see that glimmer of hope she has for me, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen quite that look from her before.

  “Mom, I’m okay,” I manage to say, though my voice cracks and I have to clear my throat before I can speak again. “Honest.”

  “Then don’t quit the band,” she says, reaching up to hold my face in her hands, warm and strong and deadly serious. “Please,” she says. “If you can’t do it for you, then do it for me.”

  And now I cry.

  My mother and I stand on the sidewalk together, and fuck, I’m a mess. She holds me while I just rain tears down her and my body shakes with the effort it’s taking to pull my shit together. People walk by, and I can’t do anything but breathe as my mother whispers, “There, there, Coco. It’s all right. We’re gonna be all right now.” And I remember that soothing, broken voice. I remember these arms. I remember being held.

  It’s just been a while.

  ***

  I’m sure Crown is nearly finished with their set by the time Mom and I finally pull ourselves together and walk back to the club. Patrick is waiting on the sidewalk for us and I thank him for bringing Mom down tonight.

  “Thank your girlfriend,” Patrick says. “She’s the one who convinced your mother to come see you play.”

  “Wait, what?” I say, floored. “It was Sonia who got you to come out tonight? Not Claire?”

  “Yes, when she called this week. She put me on the guest list,” Mom says. “When are you going to bring her up for dinner, anyway? I’ll make a roast.”

  My fucking heart, man. What can’t that girl touch and turn to gold?

  Patrick pulls me to the side and tells my mother he’ll meet her at the car, he needs to talk to me in private. And I know what he’s going to say. Don’t be an idiot, it’s not sexy, but being a plumber is a solid stream of income. Totally respectable line of work, you can join the union, you’re not a kid anymore, blah, blah, the usual.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, heading him off at the pass. “I’m not gonna jump ship or anything. I know Mom is all worked up, but I’m not going anywhere.”

  But then he starts talking about how I should probably just stay in New Brunswick because, you know, I’ll just eat up all my money in gas and tolls driving back to Hub City to see my girl all the time, and I can’t bring myself to tell him Sonia isn’t my girl anymore. Guess I can’t even admit that to myself, because when I saw her having a beer with the guy from Matador earlier I wanted to choke him to death.

  Patrick also seems to think I’m about to become famous and that I need to stay in the band. I explain, no, that’s not how this works. At all. And what the hell, does he think Claire’s tuition is going to pay itself? And Mom’s medical expenses? And the rent? This isn’t the lottery here.

  “Look, Cole, no thanks to you, I got that contract for five new strip malls from that developer up in Tenafly,” he says. “I already covered Rutgers for Claire.”

  “You what?” I say, my jaw hitting the sidewalk. “You paid Claire’s tuition and nobody bothered to tell me?”

  “I just did tell ya, didn’t I?”

  Patrick is about fifty pounds heavier than I am, taller, too. He was a football star in high school, always wanted to go pro but never made it. He’s ten years older than me, but he could take me in a throw-down, pretty sure. And it makes no sense that I’d want to take a swing at him right now, but the guy clearly does not understand how I’ve completely fucked myself in life, here, thinking that my sister’s future is riding on my back. Thank God for those anger management classes they made me take in the youth house, because I’m putting all that deep breathing shit to work right the hell now.

  “I’ll need Katie to do books for me, and I can pay her all right,” he goes on. “That shouldn’t bug her asthma too much. Then when you’re number one on the Billboard chart, you can take over the bills, deal?”

  “That will likely never happen,” I say.

  “Then you’ll be off the hook, won’t ya?”

  Unbelievable. I’m speechless here, trying to figure out how the hell my entire life got turned so inside out, when it slowly dawns on me what’s happened. My mother never needed me to come home to work at all. She and Patrick were just scared I was out there fucking my life up, and they knew exactly how to bring me back. It wasn’t Claire they were trying to help—it was me, the whole time.

  And I guess they still are.

  “You’ll bust your nuts trying to install all those toilets alone,” I say. “You’ll need the extra hands.”

  “Well, ya still need a job, right? You can do a bunch of overtime when you’re around, take time off when you need to go on the road. We’ll work something out.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Cole, you can always be a plumber. But this band thing is your dream, right? How many chances do you think you’re gonna get to follow it?”

  What the hell can I even say to that? I guess dreams aren’t such a luxury after all. Either that or I’m more damned than I realized. Or maybe more blessed.

  After he finally leaves, I lean against the brick wall of Maxwell’s, my hands in my pockets, just trying to feel calm again. Normal. At the moment I feel thin and shaky and smaller than I’d like. I look up at the sky. You can’t see a lot of stars from Hoboken, but I’ve been a few places now where the stars are countless. And I think about that, about how it’s all the same sky, but how different it looks, depending on where you look up at it from.

  For the first time in a year, I look into my future and I can’t see what’s there. I really don’t know what I’m supposed to do now. But at least I know what not to do.

  I’m not
letting Sonia go.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Sonia

  If anyone had asked me a week ago what I thought this Maxwell’s show would mean to me, I would have said it’s going to be the moment all our dreams start coming true. And if the only dream I had was seeing Soft get signed to Matador, I guess that would be the case. Of course that’s great—you know how hard it is to get a shot at Matador? I should be ordering champagne. Singing and celebrating and calling home to say to my parents, See? I didn’t have to go to Juilliard to have the music career I always dreamed of. I helped my best friends get a record deal by my own sheer will and a hefty dose of the right sort of luck. I should feel proud and accomplished and all that shit. But that’s not how I feel at all, because however good and happy and exciting all of that is, I can’t seem to enjoy any of it because I don’t have Cole.

  Speaking of Cole McCormack, that tall, good-looking, big-hearted asshole in the Jawbox T-shirt, here he is now, hopping out of Steady Beth after he parks her next to the club for load out. (After celebrating all night with Emmy at the bar, Travis is finally drunk enough to let Cole drive the van. There’s one band milestone achieved.) Cole sees me standing on the sidewalk talking to John Salinger from Matador, and he side eyes me from ten feet away. Then he and Joey load all the gear into the van by themselves because Emmy is schmoozing with me and Travis is too wasted. And I have to stand here, talking to John, pretending not to notice how Cole’s biceps flex when he lifts Emmy’s amplifier. Asshole.

  I know this anger isn’t rational, but it beats crying. I’ve already done a ton of that in the ladies’ room, Emmy’s arms around me as I heaved sobs for a lot longer than I care to admit. My face is still so puffy I had to tell people I had an allergic reaction.

  Cole leans against the van, watching me, and he doesn’t even have the decency to be unattractive. I can see the whole of his naked fuckability right from here—the glow of his skin, that stupid tattoo sneaking out from his sleeve, taunting me. I make the Sunshine face at him because he really needs to stop distracting me. John Salinger just offered me an internship at Matador this semester and I can’t even pay attention to what he’s saying.

  “Call me next week, Sunny,” John says, handing me his business card. “Take the train in and I’ll introduce you around the office.”

  Whatever. I mean, great! But it’s no use. All I can think about is that the night is over and Cole still hasn’t changed his mind and begged me to take him back. He’s had all night to reconsider, to tell me forget it, he wants me to quit everything and be with him. I wouldn’t say yes, but hell—he can at least ask, can’t he? If he’d just ask, I’d figure out some kind of compromise.

  I feel his eyes all over me and try to ignore it, but they’re like fiery stars pulling me clear down the sidewalk to him. I may as well let him know the time for second chances is running out. Asshole. I almost turn around when I see his lips curve into the slightest upturn, and I’m not sure if that’s a smirk or not, but I’m about to wipe it right the hell off his face with my fist. Now I can’t tell if that’s a smile or maybe he has gas or something. His poker face is enviable, I have to admit.

  “What’s your deal, McCormack?” I demand to know.

  “Sunshine, did you call my mother and tell her to come to the show tonight?” he asks, cool as a cherry Italian ice.

  Oh, shit. Oh, oh shit. I gulp and feel my face turn red. I was not expecting to have to answer for that right now.

  “I can explain,” I start to say. “I was calling for you, actually, and she answered and so I just thought . . .”

  “You just thought what?” He starts to crack a smile and then backs me up against Steady Beth. Now I can’t breathe properly because I can smell his skin, cool and clean right here on his neck, probably coming straight from that magic little mole which is right in front of my face.

  “I . . .” I don’t know what to say. He’s too close for me to think straight, so I just stop talking, which is for the best because that’s when Cole kisses me. His lips brush my top lip first, softly, and then my bottom lip, less soft, with just a hint of tongue, and I can’t really think of a coherent reply to that, so I open my mouth and kiss him back, because that’s what my heart decides is a good idea right now. Cole breaks away to look at me, his thumb stroking my cheek as he talks.

  “Now I have something I need to say to you,” he says, his eyes big and intense, locked on mine. “I’m in love with you, Sonia. I don’t care how far away you think you can get in Steady Beth—if you keep meddling in my life and making it so much better all the time, you will never be rid of me, do you understand? I don’t want to let you go.”

  I look up at him, let the warmth of his smile in, and take a deep breath.

  “I’m in love with you, too,” I say. “I don’t want you to let me go.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m absolutely, positively sure,” I say, and the relief I’m feeling is enough to make me practically giggle. I never giggle, but I feel drunk and high and giddy like I’ve got a bottle rocket firing inside of me. I start to ramble on. “I know it’s going to be complicated, logistically speaking, but we can make this work. I can drive up to Lodi on Sundays and when I don’t have early classes, so Tuesday and Thursday nights, too. You can stay with me on weekends when we’re not out of town . . .”

  “You’re working out a schedule already?” he says and laughs.

  “Well?” I say. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Yeah, actually, I do. What if I just stay in New Brunswick?” I’m not sure I heard that right, but then he goes on. “That way the beefcake won’t have to find a new roommate and then we won’t have to give up the band cave . . .”

  “Wait—did you say we?”

  “Yes, we,” he says. “Unless—did you want to play bass for Soft?”

  “God, no,” I say. “Are you kidding? I’d have to live off antacids.”

  “Okay, then I’ll just fill in for you for the foreseeable future. How’s that sound?”

  I’m really not sure if I should strangle him or not, except to strangle him I’d have to let go of him and I don’t want to do that.

  “But what about Claire’s tuition?” I ask.

  “Patrick had a big contract come through and he’s going to help out. And now he and Mom are both convinced I’m about to become a bona fide rock star, thanks to you, and they won’t let me quit the band and there’s no reasoning with them. So I guess I’m stuck.”

  I could just tell him how happy I am to hear that, I guess. That would be a decent way to handle how fucking elated I feel right now. But instead, I go for mauling him on the sidewalk. I grab his head and kiss him with tongue, with my hands tangled in his hair, and I’m a total mess right now.

  “Christ, you two,” Joey says as he and Claire walk towards the van. “We’re finally within an hour of you having a room all to yourselves. Can’t you just keep it in your pants?”

  “Wow,” Claire says. “Are they always like that?”

  “Yes,” Joey says. “Unless they’re cursing each other out, but I think that’s just part of their mating ritual or foreplay or whatever.”

  “No wonder he loves her,” Claire says.

  Cole gives them both a dirty look before pulling me into the back of Steady Beth and pinning me to the bench. Fuck, it’ll be two hours before we make it to a bed, and after a week without him touching me, I don’t think I can wait.

  “Come on,” I say. “We have at least ten minutes . . . You have Trap’s keys—just lock the doors. It’s not like Emmy even knows where the spare is, probably lost in Kentucky somewhere . . .”

  Cole grins and reaches up to hit the door locks and gets his hands right up under my cowgirl dress, sliding them up my thighs. He tells me to ride him like Dale Evans, baby.

  “You want it right here, right now, Sunshine?” he says. “You’re g
etting it.”

  I climb into his lap, cursing myself—again—for not being on the pill, and I vow to go to student health services first thing on Monday. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think he’s twice as hard now.

  “Where’s the yellow bag, Sunny?” he says, his lips hot against my neck as he kisses up under my ear, dragging his teeth along my skin. “Did you leave your purse in the club?”

  “I think Emmy has it,” I groan.

  “Okay, we’ll make do,” he says. Then he slides his hand up my leg until his thumb is right at the edge of my underwear. I grind against him, so, so good, but oh, fuck me, wouldn’t you know, BOOM! The van rocks from the volume of that explosion.

  “Shit!” I scream, terrified for the split second it takes me to realize what’s happened, but fucking drunk Travis has set off a Roman candle in the middle of Eleventh Street, right next to the Crown Ram van. Elliot is climbing up the hood of Steady Beth, pounding on the roof, howling how there will be hell to pay. Then it sounds like the Fourth of July as Anton retaliates with whatever is left in their arsenal: Black Cats, bottle rockets, you name it. Next thing I know, Travis is banging on the door, please, please, please unlock it and let them in because . . . Then we hear it. Sirens. And not the siren of just one cop car, but several. Maybe a fire truck, too.

  “Oh, fuck no,” Cole groans.

  “Oh shit.” I hop off of Cole and pop the locks.

  Emmy, Travis, Joey, and Claire all pile in the side door. Travis is still too drunk to drive, so Cole hops into the driver’s seat and puts the key in the ignition while Travis takes shotgun.

  “What the fuck, Travis,” Cole says, annoyed as hell. “You set off the arsenal without me? And in the middle of fucking Hoboken, dude? Are you trying to get us all sent to jail?”

  “Hey, they desecrated Steady Beth!” he says. “Our holy vessel of rock! They must pay!”

  Claire squeals with laughter as she hops on Joey’s lap next to me and Emmylou. Emmy and I exchange looks because we’re both wondering when Cole is going to realize that his little sister is hot for the beefcake (and really, who can blame her?) but he’s too preoccupied at the moment. Elliot jumps off the roof of our van and runs over to his while Miles is still making out with Maria against the side of Maxwell’s, oblivious to what’s going on, even as Anton continues to throw lit Black Cats at our windshield. Cole revs the engine as Trap cranks AC/DC and yells, “Secure the gear and hold on to your tits, because we’re outta here, bitches!”