Sound Effects

by L. J. Greene

  “When did you start taking your cooking classes?” he asked.

  Even without seeing his face, I could easily hear in his voice that this was not a simple question to ask. The answer illustrated just how far apart we had drifted for a time.

  “A couple of months ago. I didn’t tell you at first because my original plan was to surprise you–to have you over for dinner and fix that stew I’d botched so badly the first time. But then…well, it just didn’t work out.”

  I could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath, but he didn’t say anything for several beats. Then he picked up my hand and squeezed it softly.

  “I’m sorry, love.”

  “It’s okay.” What else was there to say? The best laid plans…

  “No, it isn’t.” With his accent, it sounded like t’isn’t, and I thought of my crumpled little list. Maybe it could use a few more words.

  “But I’m here now,” he said with quiet conviction.

  Those four words were even better. Almost as good as I love you.

  “I know,” I answered cheerfully. And I did know.

  “So tell me your ritual,” he said, in a tone of voice that set aside for now all evidence of sorrow and regret. It was a total non sequitur and completely in keeping with his spiral-thinking brain.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, lifting my head to see his face.

  “Your ritual. For cooking,” he said, as if this should make perfect sense to me.

  It reminded me so much of a conversation we’d had months ago.

  Tell me your passion.

  And once again, I didn’t think I had one. Did other people have rituals? His questions always seemed to throw me for such a loop. I kind of panicked for a minute, scrambling around in my brain for some sort of answer that didn’t sound completely lame, and mentally retracing any routines I could possibly think of that even remotely related to cooking.

  “Well, I guess I tend to grocery shop on Tuesdays because the sales usually start on Tuesdays, and forget about shopping on Saturdays…that’s just–”

  “Melody.” He stopped me with a gentle touch. “That’s not what I mean.” His expression was pleasant and expectant, as if he knew I had an answer to this puzzle, but I was, somehow, the last one to realize it. “I’m curious to know what is your ritual when you cook?”

  And that’s when I realized with relief that I did have the answer. And true to the dynamic between Jamie and I, he knew it before I did. He had always observed the lawyer side of me with quiet fascination, but the creative side of me he understood perfectly–probably better than I did.

  “I start by straightening up the kitchen,” I answered with some surprise at the revelation. A full-dimpled smile grew on Jamie’s face as if he had expected no less. “I want a fresh space to work with,” I asserted now, with more certainty. “I like to have wide open countertops at my disposal because I’m a little messy; I use a lot of pots.”

  He laughed at that. “I can see it.”

  I nodded and sat up cross-legged to face him, catching my footing in the conversation and enjoying the intimacy of being able to relate to him on this level. He, too, must have a ritual in his creative process, but it never occurred to me to inquire what it is. “I also enjoy having a glass of wine when I’m cooking in the evening–red or white, doesn’t matter–and I always cook with music.”

  “What kind of music do you choose?”

  “I like a mix of happy and sad songs, and I put them on shuffle because I don’t want to know what’s coming next. Because that’s kind of how life is, you know?”

  “Indeed it is,” he said with a grin. “And do you play it on the stereo or do you use headphones?”

  It was funny to me that he would think to ask that question, but actually, I did have a strong preference in that department.

  “I bought an iPod; I like listening through the headphones. I think I like to make the world very small during the time I’m cooking, and just focus on what’s in my hands and in my head. I find it very cathartic.”

  “Isolating, do you mean?” he asked directly. “But in a good way.”

  And there it was, the destination of his spiral thinking that I did not foresee. More importantly, for the very first time I truly understood, on more than just an intellectual level, something elemental about Jamie.

  “Yes, maybe you’re right. Maybe it is a form of isolation.”

  As I stared at him, almost in wonder, another tiny piece of this complex man fell into place. I’m not saying that understanding his tendency to withdraw from the world made it suddenly okay for him to withdraw from me for long periods of time, but it helped me to feel for myself what it was that sometimes drove him into that place of seclusion.

  He watched as the realization rolled through me, and he smiled gratefully in return.

  “And what about you? Tell me about your creative process.”

  “Ah, well, you see,” he began, and concurrently pulled me back down beside him where I could lay my head against him, and smell the earthiness of his warm skin. “It’s probably less of a process than a mindset, I think.” And then, looking up at the ceiling in inward thought, he seemed to examine his own rituals. “I cannot say to myself, I’m going to be creative between 2PM and 4PM on Sunday. I need to be open to it all the time, whenever it comes. Because songwriting is a very mysterious process; it’s not something I feel like I can control.

  “And the most creative people I know walk around singing melodies to themselves like nutters. They write everywhere and anywhere, even in a public place when they’re with other people.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I have a hard time getting to that point, myself, because there is always a part of me that says, no, you have to be a social individual. And I do–I can’t be so self-absorbed. But if you’re really open to your own creativity, it’s almost a madness. John Lennon said it’s like being possessed.”

  “Is that why you always carry that notebook?”

  “Here, hand it to me; I want to show you something.”

  I reached over to the nightstand where Jamie’s tattered blue notebook and pencil lay beneath the lamp. I was very familiar with that little book–the left back pocket of every pair of jeans he owned had a well-worn outline of it rubbed into the denim. It was his constant companion, though not one I’d ever had a glimpse into. It was almost like a diary for him, and it seemed too personal to intrude upon.

  Still, with one arm wrapped around me and the other one free, he opened the book in front of us to a series of pages he had apparently just written.

  “I did this last night, while I watched you sleep.”

  “It’s about me?”

  “It’s about us. About what we’ve been through.”

  On the pages were a series of musical notes and notations, along with a shorthand of words I couldn’t make out.

  “It was lovely and quiet watching you, and I could hear very clearly what was in my head. When I write, I need to be able to physically experience whatever emotion it is that’s inspiring me because feelings are the very currency of songwriting. That’s why, though it’s often inconvenient, I have to do it when I’m having the intense emotion; I can never remember it in quite the same way.”

  I ran my fingers over the notes, as though in touching them, I might be able to hear what he had written there. I wanted to, so badly. It felt like a secret code for all of the thoughts and emotions he had about us–like if I could just crack that code, I’d finally know everything that went on in his brain.

  “Will you sing it for me?”

  “Not yet. But when it’s finished I will.”

  I’ll readily admit to feeling disappointed. Of course, I knew he would write songs about our relationship from time to time; that’s one of the really weird things about dating a musician–particularly a songwriter, because everything in his life is fodder for his craft. So, ideally, you’ll be the inspiration for that beautiful ballad, but you have to know th
at sometimes he’ll sing really personal, hungry songs that he wrote at some point about someone else, and sometimes he’ll sing very angry songs about you. And you kind of have to just roll with it, knowing that it’s all part of that creativity that he expresses through song. In this case, we’d had such a crazy last 12 hours that the notes on his page could be capturing any number of things–some more of a credit to my personality than others.

  “Do you usually start with the lyrics or do you start with the melody?”

  “It can happen either way, I suppose. I love brilliant lyrics, but for me the real magic is in the melody. The melody dictates the lyrics and ultimately is what captures the feeling I want to express. So usually I’ll start there. When I feel like I have it right, I’ll take my best shot at the lyrics and then Greg–”

  Jamie caught himself mid-sentence and stopped, then after a cautious pause, cleared his throat and continued, “–Greg will complete the arrangement, and we’ll beat up on the words a good bit more before we’re done.”

  I tried my hardest to see his eyes, but he stubbornly wouldn’t return the look, choosing instead to focus on the notepad in his hand. His face was very carefully blank, which in itself was his ultimate tell. Jamie was the most transparent person I knew, except when he was very determined not to be.

  “Have you talked to Greg?” I asked, with enough insistence that he would have to acknowledge the question.

  “No,” he said quietly, his lips compressing to a firm line. “I’ve talked to Nash a few times, and sent over some material to look at.”

  I nodded, my chin on his chest. “What do you think is going to happen?”

  He lifted his shoulders and let them drop, kneading the curves of my ass as absently as he might knead handfuls of sand at the beach. “I think we both need time to sort our heads. If we’re going to come back, we have to come back with clear hearts.”

  ‘If’ was a very big word. It left significant room for any number of outcomes. And I knew this weighed heavily on Jamie’s mind because the band was such an integral part of who he was. They were a family, and whether or not he would say it, he was not ready to acknowledge the fact that ‘if’ was not an equal substitute for ‘when.’

  I could see the shadows of doubt cross his face, and searched for anything suitable to say. As I did, I happened to notice something I hadn’t seen before.

  “Jesus, did I do that?”

  “What?”

  I pushed his jaw to the side, turning his head so that I could see better. And sure enough, there was a red mark stretching from his hairline down his neck.

  “This scratch behind your ear!”

  He ran a hand carelessly over it. “Could be. I haven’t seen it.”

  He was so nonchalant, but the evidence of my complete loss of control winded me. In the light of day, it was not a particularly proud moment.

  “Jamie, I’m so sorry. I’ve never done anything like that. Does it hurt?”

  He looked at me as if I’d said something very funny.

  “No.”

  “God, you must think I’m a maniac.”

  I could not peel my eyes from that scratch. And the fact that I’d done it in such a mad frenzy was a little unsettling. I was on the verge of leaping out of bed to find antibiotic cream and bandage him to the hilt. But he pulled his chin out of my grasp and looked at me. Jamie was no stranger to violence; I had always known that. And he had let me do my worst; he had wanted me to exorcize my pain so that we, too, could come back together with clear hearts.

  It had worked, but I’d never allow it to happen again.

  “Actually,” he grinned, “I’m grateful.”

  “Why on earth would you be grateful?”

  He laughed. “Well, remember, I’ve seen what you can do to a man’s privates when you’re mad, love, and not that I didn’t probably deserve it, but I’m grateful you let me slide. All things considered.”

  “Oh, my God. I have done something like that before. I am a maniac.”

  Jamie rolled on top of me and grinned from ear to ear.

  “You’re only a tiny maniac,” he said as he began nibbling at my earlobe and scraping my neck with his teeth. Goose bumps rose over my skin almost immediately. God, he was sexy.

  I ran my hands down his back and over the muscular rounds of his ass. Riding a bicycle through San Francisco had given Jamie, perhaps, the most perfect ass known to man. Atlas, himself, would have been jealous.

  “Oh, that’s reassuring, thanks.”

  He pulled back, grinning widely. “I love you, though. Maniac or no.”

  All around us, sunshine was streaming in through the windows of my bedroom, lighting everything with clarity and hopefulness. And there was absolutely no hesitation in his face as he spoke the words I’d waited to hear.

  If there were only two emotions, love and fear, then it had always been love between us.

  I pulled his mouth down to mine and held him as close to my heart as I could manage. His body felt tautly alive, and I became aware of a hard, solid warmth growing between us. Jamie began to press himself to me in suggestion, but there was very little suggestion necessary; my own body was so ready to welcome him.

  “I love you, too,” I said breathlessly, wrapping my legs around his waist and enjoying the way it exacerbated the situation between us. “But modifying ‘maniac’ with ‘tiny’ does not make it any better.”

  “But you have breasts,” he said with total illogic. Then, he proceeded to fasten his mouth on my nipple.

  “What?”

  I had about one shred of rational thought left in my brain, and tried very hard to focus it on his line of thinking. But he just shrugged and made a face, now completely uninterested in pursuing any course of discussion involving maniacs. He had moved on to breasts, and he clearly found that subject far more engaging.

  Chapter 28

  Mel

  SHORTLY BEFORE NOON, THE DEMANDS of Jamie’s stomach had outrun certain other of his appetites. He climbed out of bed, pulled on his slacks, and left me to stretch out blissfully as he rummaged the kitchen for our lunch.

  I could hear him in the refrigerator, opening various things and rejecting them, or in some cases opening things and consuming them on the spot, as he prepared the rest of our meal. And he seemed to be giving Atticus a running commentary of his progress, though Atticus was likely much more focused on any slip-up that could result in something landing within his sphere of reach. Atticus followed Jamie around like a shadow, finding him endlessly curious and entertaining.

  As for me, I was happy–just simply happy in a way that I couldn’t have imagined twenty-four hours earlier. I rolled over on my side between the soft white sheets of my bed, and stared out at nothing in my room. My pillows smelled like him again; my body smelled like him again. Last night, I had fallen asleep with his solid weight leaning against me as though reminding me, but I’m here now. He was; and that felt right to me. I didn’t want to question it, or second-guess myself. I was tired of thinking everything through. I was tired of being sad. Instead, I just accepted his return to my life as a gift, and coveted it greedily.

  Jamie was still banging around in the kitchen when his cell phone suddenly began to vibrate on the nightstand next to me. At first, I just tried to ignore it. That wasn’t particularly successful. Curiosity quickly got the better of me and I picked it up, noticing the 650 area code on the display. That could be anyone, I assured myself correctly, and put it back down where I found it. It was not right to invade his privacy, though I’ll admit that there was a little part of me that was dying to. Well, little may have been an understatement. A month and a half apart will do that.

  But I’m here now.

  Jamie appeared in the doorway with our lunch, rescuing me from any counterproductive thoughts.

  “Your phone rang,” I said with as much nonchalance as I could conjure on short notice. “I didn’t answer it. I mean…of course I wouldn’t…answer it. Or look. Well, I did look…but…
yeah. Like that.”

  It was verbal diarrhea. And it just kept coming out. I wanted to stuff a sock in my own mouth, for Pete’s sake. But I was naked, therefore no socks handy, so I did my level best to avoid his gaze, busying myself instead by straightening the comforter and hoping he’d be more interested in settling down with his meal than in pursuing the hot mess I was serving up.

  He was not.

  His mouth twitched at the corners, and his eyes instantly lit with humor as he walked into the room. He didn’t say a word, but he was clearly enjoying my discomfiture. Still, his long, teasing look overflowed with love and amusement, and rather than pressing any advantage he may have had in that moment, he simply leaned in and planted a firm and loving kiss on my lips.

  Then he picked up the phone from the nightstand and dialed into his voicemail with the mirth in his expression still lingering on his face.

  But slowly his face changed, and I watched the humor drain from it like water from a tub. He stilled, and his eyes focused inward on the voice at his ear. The change in his carriage was equally startling.

  “What is it?”

  “I have to go,” he said, and immediately began looking around the room for his shirt.

  “Jamie?” I sat up in bed abruptly and reached for his wrist. I could not bear to have him leave me so suddenly and without explanation, not after everything we’d been through, and he knew it.

  “It was about my mum.” There was no time for more, but the worried look in his eyes was explanation enough.

  I nodded quickly, jumping out of bed. “We’ll take my car.”

  §

  We shot across the city and down the peninsula in record time. Jamie was preoccupied and silent nearly the entire trip, except for one brief call placed to Killian. The only thing he had told me was that the message had come from a family neighbor. His parents had had an argument, and it was escalating again. Killian was meeting us at the Callahan’s house.