by Liora Blake
Simon is a windows-down, let-the-sun-shine-in, Here’s the combination to my locker, Don’t worry—I trust you kind of guy. He doesn’t second-guess things, taking it all at face value until every other detail says otherwise. I always, within the first ten seconds of meeting someone, determine not if they will screw with me, just to what degree they will.
Not Simon, though. And his face in the shower, that expression of injured pride and sadness, says everything. In the emptiness of his eyes, without a spark or glimmer for the first time, in that desolation I know he’s second-guessing me.
Tonight, in the dim light of a private banquet room at the Ace Hotel, he’s standing on the other side of the room and still not talking to me. He’s wearing a short-sleeved white button-down shirt so fitted that I can see some of the ink on his skin through the fabric, even from across the room. The sleeves are rolled up a few inches, stretched taut across his biceps, and every sip he takes of his beer means the muscles flex just right. The shirt is tucked into a pair of flat-front chinos—no belt, just some skinny black suspenders.
Flashbacks to Trevor’s wedding and that damn sweater-vest fill my head. The suspenders have the same effect: a tattooed boy dressed in a way that would drop any girl who appreciates a rockabilly sensibility to her knees. Between the last time I saw him and tonight, he’s gotten his hair cut, the sides trimmed extra short, but the top still a little long and messy. If we weren’t fighting, or, hell, breaking up, I would have dragged him somewhere and turned him into my own personal playground for a while.
I cried a little after he left me, then I got pissed. First at him, then at myself. After that, I let the edges dull, swallowing the regret for being such a glorious dysfunctional mess, so that I could make it through the rest of the day.
Unfortunately, this entire room smells like incense, musky and seductive, the way I think of Simon when his body is over mine. Just the recollection of that scent, combined with knowing he’s not mine right now, causes my legs to weaken a little at the knees, threatening to give in if I consider exactly how much this hurts.
Kate flanks me, my only buoy for now, standing so close that I can feel her arms move every time she breathes. She insists that she hates this shit—standing in a room of mostly strangers, all intent on sucking up to her husband and looking through her as if she weren’t there. In a room with Trax, people will always want his rapt attention if they can get it. Trevor is used to it, and after twelve years in this world, his bullshit detector is so finely tuned he picks up even the slightest twinge of subtext. If you tell him one tiny lie, he knows almost before you do. Consequently, as I was recently reminded, that’s why if he even sniffs betrayal from the people closest to him, he freaks the fuck out. At least tonight I got a chin-nudge greeting from him, which I returned. We’ve kept to opposite sides of the room, but the arctic freeze is starting to thaw.
What most of the people in this room don’t know is, once Trevor releases this new record, takes off for two months on the club tour, and spends the summer doing a standard arena tour, he’s packing it in. Kate insists he shouldn’t say the word “retirement” because it’s simply asinine for a thirty-two-year-old to utter that word. No matter the label he puts on it, he’s done. Because he found enough of something else to make him happy. He wants a family and a life that doesn’t include contractual obligations.
With the self-imposed clock ticking on his career, Kate knows she only has to endure a few more of these things before she has him all to herself. Until then, she’s gritting her teeth and trying not to roll her eyes every thirty seconds. Quite possibly, she’s also planning to get blitzed on rosé tonight, because she’s on her third glass, which for Kate is the behavioral equivalent of doing a keg stand, naked, in the middle of a frat party.
“While I appreciate you standing here with me, Devon, shouldn’t you be over there?” Kate wags her finger across the room to where Simon is. “Your favorite distraction is about to get eaten alive by that dingy redhead with the tray of miniature artisanal corn dogs.”
I clear my throat and let out a heavy sigh. “So he can ignore me over there? No, thank you. I’d prefer that he pretend like I don’t exist from here. Slightly less depressing this way.”
The server in question is wearing tight dark-wash jeans and a plain white tank top with an old-school navy blue butcher’s apron tied around her waist. The low neckline of her tank reveals ample cleavage, of the purchased variety, I suspect, enhanced by a sterling-silver cross necklace that dips into said cleavage and perches there like a shiny little beacon.
Without sounding completely bitchy, the girl isn’t even that pretty in the face; she’s mostly cleavage and a tiny waist. Her nose is too big, her lips too small, and her eyes are drenched in a shade of bright purple eye shadow I didn’t know anyone older than thirteen would wear. All night, she’s been tracing a figure eight around Simon and Trevor. She makes her way past again and shoves her stupid tray of appetizers at them for the millionth time. Trevor’s already spied the routine and looks annoyed, like he’s about five seconds away from telling her to just knock that shit off. Bullshit detector, like I said.
Simon, on the other hand, in a move so unlike himself, doesn’t seem to have noticed her. He’s spent the entire night slouching against a wall, making conversation with their drummer, Phil, and their tour manager, Rob.
When Simon drains his beer, the redhead notes a perfect opportunity and swoops by. She makes a gesture to take his empty glass and he hands it off with only a stiff smile before turning away to talk to Phil again. It’s disturbing, really, to see him behaving like a bland version of himself. If I had to choose, I’d take lecherous, dirty, flirting-with-strangers Simon over this. Even when the server returns with a fresh beer for him, she gets only a curt nod in thanks.
“What the hell happened? The last time I say you two, his mouth was all over”—Kate takes her hand and waves animatedly at my chest—“everything.”
“I said something stupid.”
Most women wouldn’t be able to leave a statement like that alone. They would have to know more, but Kate doesn’t. Tonight she only nods her head at my admission, a little drunkenly, but doesn’t say anything else.
We stand in silence for a while, me staring at Simon, while she stares at her husband. The difference is that she’s enjoying him, probably counting all the ways she feels lucky. I’m staring at a man who’s likely decided never to kiss me again and I’m counting the ways I hate my life right now.
“How is it that the two prettiest girls in the room are standing here looking miserable, without a man in sight?” A thick arm circles my waist and the smell of wintergreen chewing tobacco likely means Scott is behind us, taking advantage of Trevor’s absence.
Scott is a music producer, a good one, but he’s also a creep. Harmless, but a creep nonetheless. He just finalized his fifth divorce and is already looking to find Mrs. Number Six, probably tonight if he can. With an arm around each of us, he’s nestled himself between our two bodies, his paunchy belly leading the way. His mop of shoulder-length blond hair and bushy beard do nothing but make him look like an alcoholic lumberjack, but he seems convinced that all that hair makes him appear younger.
“Oh, Scott, we weren’t miserable until you arrived.” Kate elbows him in the side, a jab he probably doesn’t feel, because that thick belly of his acts as armor.
Across the room, Trevor sees the display and waits patiently for Scott to look his way. When he does, Trevor raises his eyebrows and then draws his index finger across his throat.
Kate lets out a huge laugh. “Did you get the message? I can translate if necessary. I speak fluent Trevor.”
Releasing Kate, Scott turns his full attention my way, where I’ve decided to make staring at my shoes a reasonable distraction. They’re the same pair of wedge sandals I wore to Simon’s on that hot afternoon when all I wanted was to put my lips in line with his. Tonight I’m wearing them with a knee-length fit-and-flare white dress that
has little red cherries all over it. If Simon weren’t treating me like an infectious disease to avoid at all costs, we would make a snappy pair, that’s for sure.
“No problem. I’m sure Devon can keep me entertained all on her own.”
When his hand moves up and finds the back of my neck, a loathing shiver erupts across my body. The bare skin there, with my hair up in a loose bun, turns clammy instantly. Then his hand curls around and the tip of his middle finger touches the hollow spot near my ear that belongs to another man. Instinctively, I look up and see Simon, his stare finally on me.
When our eyes lock, Simon raises his beer and drains it, his eyes never leaving mine. Then, with his jaw clenched shut, he slaps Phil on the back to say good-bye and storms out.
If I let him leave again, without saying anything to fix this, I will lose him. That expression, the one he sent from across the room, is him nearly saying good-bye to me. I roll my shoulders and shove away from Scott.
“I have to go.” Turning to Kate, I realize my hands have clenched into fists at my sides. “You good?”
“Go.”
She knows without asking. Kate knows how broken looks, whether it’s in the mirror or on someone else’s face. She can tell that Simon and I are just two fools who haven’t figured out exactly how to take care of each other yet.
Outside, it’s humid, clouds hovering above threatening a rainstorm that hasn’t yet started. Across the parking lot, I can see Simon’s truck, exactly where it was when I got here. The door is open and the interior dome light is shining in the dark night. I start to run, hoping I don’t trip on something before I get to him.
“Simon!”
I see him stop, knowing my voice, and stand there in the open door of his truck with his back still turned to me. My shoes creak a little when I stop a few feet away from him, still clenching my fists at my sides. My breathing turns erratic. Now that I’m closer, I can see he has his hands raised up, fingers grasping the sheet metal at the top of the door opening near the roof. He’s leaning into the posture, trying to stay upright.
“Are you breaking up with me?” I whisper.
A snort from him. “It was inevitable, according to you.”
Silence sits between us, thick and heavy. Simon’s hands drop from the roof, but he still doesn’t turn to see me, instead twisting his body and slumping into the side of the door opening, resting his forehead against it.
“I used to have this love-hate thing about watching you across a room, Devon. I loved watching you smiling and laughing. I loved thinking up what I was going to say to piss you off when I decided to go talk to you. I hated being able to look but not touch.”
His head lolls a bit, his body swaying side to side in reaction. “Tonight, I hated every second of it. You weren’t smiling or laughing, and I couldn’t go talk to you. The worst part is that I’ve touched you now. I know what you feel like, what you taste like. Then Scott put his hand on you. And the fact I couldn’t touch you, but he did, made it fucking unbearable.”
Tears start and I can’t stop them. If the clouds won’t give up moisture, I guess I’ll make up the difference.
“You didn’t answer my question. Are you ending this? If you are, just say it.”
“All I wanted tonight was to hold your hand in a room of people we both know. Nothing more.”
“Ask me again.”
Simon sighs. “Ask you what?”
“Ask me what you asked in the shower. Ask me again.”
“Why don’t you want people to know about us?”
I shove my hands down in a jerky attempt to ground myself to the solid earth as much as possible. “Because I’m scared.”
Taking three steps forward, I press my body against his back, hoping he won’t shove me off. Praying that he will let me feel him. Slipping a few of my fingers between the buttons on his shirt, I can feel his warm skin—just a few inches, but it’s enough for me to feel steady again.
“You think this is easy for me, Dev? You think I’m not having my own daily meltdown about falling into the goddam abyss over you? Except I’m sure I want it. No doubt in my mind, I want this so much it makes me dizzy sometimes. I thought you wanted it, too. Then you went and put a fucking expiration date on us.”
My tears are soaking the back of his shirt, and if he doesn’t stop saying such sweet, perfect things, I’ll make a mess of him. What the hell do I say to that? Do I shout “ditto” at the top of my lungs?
But just like it was in the shower, I stand there, mute and splintering into bits of weakened shale inside because saying too much might mean giving myself away. Fuck, use your words, Devon. Say something.
“Please don’t walk away from me, Simon.” When he doesn’t turn around and gather me up in his arms, I know what I’m saying isn’t enough. “Just give me some time to get used to being with you like this. The last time I did this, I ended up hurt, and not just a little bit, either. Like, hurt hurt. More than my heart . . . other stuff, too.”
My lungs seize up when I croak out the last words, trying to gauge if he understands the subtext and, if he does, waiting for him to react. Under the press of my body to his back, I can feel his own breath falter. He lets out a small sound, the twist of an exhale and a shudder that tells me he heard everything. The words, their meaning, all the things in between.
Simon’s hands find mine and he bows his head toward the spot where our fingers come together on his stomach.
“Tell me what I’m coming back to, Devon. When we leave next week on this tour and I come back in two months, tell me what I’m coming home to.”
The tears won’t stop, because he’s holding my hands in his and I can feel his heartbeat, and he’s so unbelievably real, it’s scary. Scarier than anything I’ve ever known. Scarier than leaving my hometown with a black eye and two hundred dollars to my name.
“I’m not sure I can be enough. Enough for you to come home to.”
Finally, he turns his body in my awkward embrace and faces me. In the darkness, the clouds have started to mist and tiny, glistening drops of almost-rain cover his hair. I tuck my head into his chest and proceed to stain the front of his shirt with some more tears.
His arms come around me, firmly. Then a heavy sigh passes through him, so pronounced I can feel it raise his shoulders, then release through his entire torso. “Jesus Christ, sunshine, you’re more than enough. If there weren’t anything else, you would be enough.”
He kisses the top of my head and then uses one hand to urge my face up to him. With both hands, he grasps my cheeks to let his thumbs wipe away the last remaining tears and smudged mascara from under my eyes.
“Come home with me so we can make up. Let me do unspeakable things to you in my unicorn sheets. After that, this weekend I’m taking you to mecca, then to Big Sur.”
19
Ten minutes. I left him alone for ten minutes, and in those spare moments, he managed to acquire a harem of swooning college girls wearing tiny shorts and oversized sweatshirts that hang off their shoulders to expose lime-green and hot pink bra straps. We stopped only to fuel up, just off the interstate near Coalinga. I went into the convenience store to buy road-trip food, things I wouldn’t normally eat, but the things that comprise a good fifty percent of his daily diet.
With an armful of Twizzlers, sunflower seeds, Milk Duds, and the atrocious energy drink he requested, I stop in my tracks once I get back outside. He has a map unfolded on the trunk of my car, pointing and tracing his finger over a specific path. The girls are obviously not listening to a word he says; they’re just giggling and nodding. Poor things are going to be so screwed when they get back on the road.
I lean up against a huge cooler full of bags of ice that sits just outside the convenience store and tear open the Twizzlers. Tugging one out, I gnaw a bite off and decide to enjoy the show. Can I blame those impressionable girls? Not really. Do I find it surprisingly adorable to watch him being Simon-y again? Kind of.
Tapping his finger on the ma
p at what I suspect is their final destination, Simon looks up to the girls and spies me just beyond. A smile creeps across his face, and it’s all for me. When he refolds their map and hands it back to the prettiest of the bunch, they scamper off toward a luxury SUV, blathering to one another in a fit of twittering nonsense.
I lurch up from my slouch against the cool freezer and start toward him, plucking a fresh Twizzler from the bag.
“Ten minutes. Assembling a harem of giggling sorority sisters that quickly has to be a record of some sort. Even for you. If I’d left you out here unattended any longer, who knows how many more damsels in distress would have stumbled into your path. We’d likely never make it to the city before dark.”
Simon is intent on taking a more meandering route from LA to San Francisco than I would have chosen, and the math I did indicated we would get to the city in the late afternoon, leaving very little time to luxuriate at the bakery I covet so much. It’s known for fresh loaves of country bread, which are ready for sale each day in the late afternoon, and if we screw around too much, we will miss our window of opportunity to score one, because they usually sell every last loaf within a few hours. If I don’t get his cute ass back in the car, away from any other navigationally challenged ladies, we’re going to end up empty-handed.
He shrugs sheepishly and shoves his hands into the pockets of his baggy shorts.
“They asked for directions. Was I supposed to tell them to get lost? Literally and figuratively?”
“Of course not. Maps are so confusing.” Rolling my eyes, I step around him to the passenger side of the car, handing him the energy drink as I do. “In fact, they can have your goofy ass. You’re boring in bed, anyway. Girls that age don’t know the difference.”