by Ina Zajac
He leaned in closer, pried her hands away from her face, and held them. His grip was soft, but his hands felt rough. It took all of her strength just to look at him.
“Please don’t try to be that girl,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. “It’s so cool that you’re not that girl.” He hesitated, like he had a secret to share. “Do you know how many women have cornered me in the men’s room, wanting to give me a back-stall hummer?”
“How many?”
“Never mind.” He shook his head. “I’m a jackass for mentioning it. Let’s just say a lot.”
“And so you turned them all down?” She kept her gaze locked on his.
His half-smile became stiff. He edged in even closer as he whispered, “That’s not my point.”
She whispered back, “What is your point?”
He moved his hands to her waist and leaned her back against the well-groomed carpet. Some of her hair got caught behind her back, but she didn’t want to readjust. She preferred the uncomfortable pull to additional awkwardness. She closed her eyes, and let him breathe her in.
This is what she had needed all along. It was all so sweet at first, and then it intensified and morphed into the most fantastic kiss. Shimmering spots played against the insides of her eyelids. Time turned itself inside out. She relaxed into his hand and felt it glide down the side of her face.
Oh, my God, she thought. He owns me now. I’m going to fall in love with this guy. He’s going to tear me apart. But she didn’t stop him because she figured it was the kind of heartbreak she ultimately deserved.
Time straightened itself out again. When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her, intense and a little smug. He gave her some space and rested on his side. Yes, she thought, a little distance would be good, so she sat up and scooted back a couple of feet. He put his elbow against the now matted carpet. He brushed it back into position with his fingers then rested his chin in his hand, using his elbow and arm as a base. She held her hand down at her side, away from his black-stubbled cheek. She wanted to pepper his jawline with kisses, but knew that should never happen.
“I’ve got to go,” she said as she pulled herself up like a surfer on a board.
He stood up too, seeming so tall and so close. Now he was the one looking embarrassed. “What? I thought—”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. “No, it was perfect.”
He softened his stance, leaned in, and put his arms around her waist. “Good, I thought it was damn good. You feel good.” The last thing in the world she wanted to do was unwrap herself from his arms, but she did it.
“It was two thumbs up, awesome,” she said. “It’s just, I’ve got a ferry to catch.”
He tilted his head and pulled his lips in tight, like he wasn’t buying it.
“Um, it was so nice meeting you,” she added. She couldn’t believe the words coming out of her own mouth. He’d kissed her stupid.
She made her escape down the stairs and slid into her shoes. She pulled her coat from the rack. On TV, a narrator with a British accent was explaining the likelihood of the multiverse where infinite galaxies certainly existed. Nick was sitting on the end of the couch with a bong on the table. The room was infused with the smell of ganja. He was twisting his hands around something in his lap and she thought she heard squeaking.
He whirled his face around toward her, startled. “I’m not jerking off, I swear,” he said. “I’m making balloon animals.” He held up a pale blue dog-like creation. “I made it for you.” He got up and walked toward her, looking so serious, so romantic. “Via, will you accept this balloon animal?”
She opened her mouth, but no words came out. He broke out into wild laughter. He could totally be on The Bachelor. Seemed like he already was.
Matt stared at them from the bottom of the stairs, but didn’t look impressed. Nick turned around, and smirked at him as if to say, “Nee-ner-nee-ner-nee-ner.”
Via snatched the balloon away, picked up her purse from the foyer table, and opened the front door. She wanted to say, “I’m sorry, I can’t do this. See you never.” She was supposed to marry Dan. She shouldn’t be dancing or drugging or kissing hot guys. She shouldn’t even be accepting balloon animals from hot guys.
Matt tapped on the square post that punctuated the bottom end of the staircase. He looked dejected and she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.
She looked to him, over to Nick, and back to him again. “Matt, you have the biggest dick I have ever seen. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
She stepped out onto the porch, and as she closed the door behind her she heard Nick let out an extended, “Duude.”
She was afraid she had overshot the mark. It wasn’t likely Matt appreciated her awkward attempt at humor. That would be for the best anyway, she thought. She wasn’t ever coming back. Was she? No. But then why did she feel she was closing the door on something special? Kissing Matt made her feel a resurgence of something lost, something fundamental. She waited a moment on the porch and listened, heard Matt’s muffled laughter, then beamed all the way to her car.
CHAPTER 11
VIA
VIA STOOD AGAINST the rail overlooking the stern of the Tullikum. She would need new gloves, she thought. Like sunglasses, she never paid a lot for them because she had a habit of losing them. Her hands found the lining of her coat pockets, and a bulk of cash. Nick must have put it there while she was upstairs with Matt. It felt good to smile. She looked down at the frothy water pulsating below her. It churned, spreading out into a triangular wake before dissipating into the past. It reminded her of the bubbles in her champagne on her birthday. She would need to start returning her uncle’s calls, but the thought of talking about that meeting in New York made her want to jump over the rail. Maybe she was coming down from that line of cocaine she had snorted earlier. That had been stupid. Perhaps she was coming down from that kiss. That had been stupid, too. She looked out into the distance and appreciated the rocky beaches and greenery of Lincoln Park while she could. They were already growing faint as the steel workhorse roared across Puget Sound.
Going home to Vashon didn’t feel good to her heart because she just wasn’t ready to step back into her uncomfortable world. She wasn’t ready to face the approaching holidays. It was Day 89, she realized.
The trees in the distance weren’t individual anymore, but a long panel of green draped down toward the shoreline. There had been a time when she’d hated trees. When she had been twelve, new to the Northwest, the sick smell of pine seemed to infiltrate every aspect of her life. What had been left of her life.
Her chest was heavy, and she was reminded of Bethany Christian. Those first few years had been horrendous. As she’d grown up, she had learned to tuck her feelings away because every admission of fear or grief would bring about a prayer circle. “Dear God, we pray for Via as she struggles to understand your plan for her.” Poor, poor little Via.
That’s where she and Dan met, though he had been two years ahead of her. His attention had been flattering and consistent, so when he headed to Western Washington University in Bellingham, just half an hour away, they decided to keep in contact. When she graduated from high school a year early, she had gone there too, but not for him.
Bellingham had a well-earned reputation as a haven for hippies, progressives, vegan astrologers, and hemp-loving atheists. After six years stuck at Bethany Christian, Via had hoped it would be exactly what she needed. But freshman year had ended up being scary for her. The weight and scope of her father’s legacy had become more real. She had known her monthly allowance had come from a trust fund, and had never had any interest in knowing anything more. But after she turned eighteen, her uncle seemed to expect more of her. He wanted her back in New York, but she always managed to weasel out of it. Still, he insisted on explaining the estate. She had gone from knowing it was a multimillion-dollar estate, to understanding it was in the neighborhood of forty million, not including her father’s collection, which Uncle Erik
was advising her to sell. She learned there were complicated tax issues. She had the loft in SoHo to consider. Her uncle hadn’t sold it. He said it would be undignified.
Sophomore year, she had broken her arm, and Dan’s innate dependability had become more and more important to her. He had grown up the son of a pastor, having already visited or lived in eighteen different countries. Her trauma had been nothing compared to the stories he told her about children walking five miles for clean well water. Beth, dream mother-in-law, had been the clincher. When Dan proposed, Via knew his kind, supportive family would be part of the package. While Via never asked him outright, she knew Dan had proposed before her college graduation because of his family, his church. He’d wanted to move her back to Vashon and share a house without raising too many eyebrows. More than once she had heard him assuring some church member that they had separate bedrooms. Whatever, he was no angel. He had gotten lost in the middle of the night on his way to the bathroom more than once. Though that was back in June when the wind off the Sound was refreshing. It wasn’t even October, yet she could already feel its growing cruelty. The holidays were coming.
She heard the announcement telling passengers to return to their vehicles come over the ferry sound system. West Seattle seemed so far away, already. It was cloaked in mist. Focusing her attention there would be a mistake. She left the rail, pulled her coat tight, and made her way back down to the car deck. She got back into her car and watched as the dock came gliding into view. Vashon was undeniably gorgeous. It had its share of fun-loving hippie progressives. She should make an effort to develop some interests outside of Dan’s church. Her eyes locked onto the fast-approaching trees at the end of the dock. Just as green on this side of the water. Don’t think about him, she reminded herself. He’s not the one for you, Dan is.
CHAPTER 12
MATT
MATT’S FOOTSTEPS caused a cascade of creaking as he made his way down the wooden basement stairs. He paused at the landing and felt the familiar rounded triangular shape of heavy plastic in his front jeans pocket. He continued down and over toward the old leather couch where Nick, Alicia, and Kaytlyn sat getting stoned. It was four-tongue o’clock, according to the Gene Simmons KISS clock that hung on the back wall next to the washer and dryer. Their guitarist, Josh, and lead vocalist, Jeremy, were late as usual.
Nick loaded another bowl into his Mrs. Butterworth’s bong. Though he had several store-bought pipes and bongs, as well as a vaporizer, he also crafted his own stoner paraphernalia. Mrs. Butterworth’s Syrup bottles were his specialty. He gave them out at Christmastime the way some people gave out fruitcake. They were precious now that it was hard to find glass bottles.
Matt watched as his friend jumped onto the two-foot-high stage, which ran the length of the room. They had insulated the walls with foam, so their sets sounded pretty tight. Nick sat on his drum throne and the girls perked up, no surprise. Women seemed to smell future fame. “Hey man,” he yelled down. “I want to talk balloon animals.” His tone was serious though he wore a stoner’s grin.
The girls exchanged quizzical glances, but said nothing. They sat, seemingly mesmerized by Nick’s warm up stretches, which were the very same every time. Matt was an obsessive-compulsive, which made him an expert in noticing the repetitive rituals of others. Before playing, Nick always bent his neck to the right and then turned his head to the right, same on the other side. Next, he moved on to his wrist and finger stretches.
“Imagine if you will,” Nick explained from his perch. “I’ll create a balloon animal in seven seconds or less while Mike Dirnt here plays his ‘Welcome to Paradise’ bass solo.” He leaned over and grabbed drumsticks from the bag next to his floor tom.
“Which one is he again?” Kaytlyn asked. As usual, her voice creaked like she was a Kardashian cousin. “The Nirvana drummer you’re in love with?”
Nick held his sticks just above the snare and released them into a subtle roll. His eyebrows hunched in and highlighted his annoyance. “No, that would be Dave Grohl,” he said. He enunciated each syllable like he was talking to a Special Ed class.
Kaytlyn looked confused, like she didn’t even know who Dave Grohl was. Matt took this as evidence she was the president of his Girls I Wish I’d Never Fucked club. He didn’t expect her to know every Foo Fighters song by heart, but Nick talked about Dave Grohl all the time.
“You guys act so old,” she said. “You never listen to anything new.”
Matt just shook his head and awaited the incoming burn. Kaytlyn would need more than a sharp mouth and two-inch eyelashes to stand her ground in this arena.
“We’re in a nineties cover band, and so, duh on your part, Kandy Cane,” Nick called down. He stopped to tighten the bolt on his hi-hat. “You lose ten groupie points.”
Matt found Kaytlyn’s stripper name fitting. When he had first met her, she had seemed a tasty treat, but the rush was short-lived. Now she just made him sick. He picked up his backup bass from the stand next to the couch and put the strap over his neck. It was an old caramel-colored Squier in decent shape; it would need to be restrung soon. He used a microfiber cloth to rub away the pre-dust he feared would form on the neck and listened to his music-snob friend’s snarkfest.
“Too bad Cobain was the only musical genius to ever come out of our little corner of the country,” Nick began. The girls both jumped when he hit the base drum pedal, powered through the toms, and hit the crash symbol twice. Crash! Crash! “Oh, wait,” he added. “There was that Jimi Hendersen guy. He was alright.”
Alicia caught on. “Jimi Hendrix,” she yelled out like a game show contestant. Nick gave her a nod, and then hit a double-snare-cymbal rim shot in her honor—da-dant-ching.
“Thanks, little lady. We also would have accepted The Melvins, Mud Honey, Death Cab for Cutie, Alice in Chains, Sound Garden, and then there’s...” Nick paused to give them a literal drum roll. “Pearl Jam. Technically, Nirvana wasn’t a Seattle band,” he said, coming off like the Seattle-sound snob that he was. “Aberdeen gets credit there, and DC.”
Matt frowned. “To infinity, okay? You’ll never name every Seattle-area band.” He swallowed hard. Son of a bitch. That old familiar feeling sprang from his stomach, into his throat. He needed to refocus on something else before his compulsive madness could take hold.
“You forgot to mention Macklemore and Ryan Lewis,” Alicia said. “And Sir-Mix-A-Lot.”
“Please don’t encourage him,” Matt told her. He tried to keep his voice kind and calm. Nick was in a cougar phase, so Alicia was high on his wish list at the moment—he’d been calling her Alley Cat and fetching her lattes. They saved their best behavior for chicks they hadn’t nailed yet. That’s when women held the most power.
“I’m good,” Matt mumbled, trying to inconspicuously soothe his nerves. “I’m good. I’m good,” he told himself. Intellectually, he knew it was stupid. But what if they forget to mention a band and then something horrific happened to any of its members? He would have to live with himself.
But Nick wouldn’t shut up. “Alley Cat, you remember the Screaming Trees, out of Ellensburg? I can totally see you as a grunge girl.”
Don’t panic, Matt told himself. Nick was branching out to Eastern Washington now. That meant the whole state was now in play. What about all of the Olympia bands, all of the riot grrrl bands?
“Sleater-Kinney,” Matt screamed up to Nick, who responded with a what’s-your-damage head tilt. Matt just kept going. “And Bikini Kill.” His throat began to itch, and his cheeks and his neck. “Shit, who else?” And then it hit him. “Ah hell, and Kenny G.”
Nick brought his sticks down and shot back a look of concerned recognition, like he could feel Matt’s desperation flooding the stage. “Hey, it’s cool,” he assured him. “We’ll do it later today—name them all. Later though, okay?”
“And Mother Love Bone.” His brain was flaming out. “Candlebox. Mad Season. Unnatural Helpers. Who else? Modest Mouse. The Presidents of the United States of Am
erica.” And he couldn’t forget their quirky favorites. “Yuni in Taxco,” he added. “Pickwick.”
“Dude, stop it,” Nick was saying.
But he couldn’t just stop. What about the dozens of local bands Obliviot had opened for? He swiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. God, he realized. “Obliviot!”
“That’s enough,” Nick said. He was leaning forward on his stool now. “We’ll google that shit later. Promise. Be cool, alright, Matty?”
Nick called him Matty when he was seriously worried. Nobody else was ever allowed to call him that. It worked though, like a slap in the face. Time to chill. He took in a slow breath. “Cool,” he said, just under his breath. “Cool, cool.” That feeling faded in defeat, crawling back down into his stomach. And, just like that, it was gone.
Nick got back to business and made his way down the toms, then to the crash, then back again. A dirty grin sprang to his face as he leaned forward, reached out his hand, and stilled the crash. “So, dude,” he said. “The other morning, Short Skirt, Long Jacket, called me Tré Cool.” He twisted his face and stuck out his tongue. “I’m thinkin’ she has a thing for drummers.” He punctuated his point with some “Blister in the Sun” snare—da-dant, da-dant!
Alicia started humming the classic Violent Femmes song.
“See?” Nick asked him. “See, that part makes that whole song.” His sticks issued another da-dant, da-dant against the snare. “How could Short Skirt not be vibin’ me?”
Kaytlyn interrupted, “Who are you talking about?”
Before Matt could decide how to answer, Nick tossed down a save. “Think drummer, think Green Day.”
“I mean Short Skirt.”
Matt joined in. “Short Skirt, Long Jacket. You know, like the Cake song.”
Nick yelled down, “Ooh, Kandy Cane, I have another one. Who played bass for Guns N’ Roses?”
She shrugged and glared back at him, but said nothing.