by Layne Harper
He shakes his head and reaches up, grabbing at his hair in frustration. “Don’t you know, MK?” His head turns to the side and his pained, dilated blue eyes bore holes in my soul. “I told you I loved you. I’ve only said those words to my daughter, my mother, and my sister.” He stands up, towering over my sitting position. He’s shaking when he says, “I’m so fucking scared of losing you. Losing this.” He motions between us. “And I feel like everyone is trying to take away my happiness.” He pauses. In a whisper, he adds, “Even you.”
“But Aaron,” I cry. “Don’t you see that getting married after only a couple of weeks of dating is a bad idea? It’s especially bad when these awful stories are hanging over our head. A wedding should be a joyous occasion. We have all the time in the world. Why now?”
As he glares, I seem to grow smaller on the floor under his penetrating gaze. “Because I fucking love you, and I want you with me all the time. I thought you wanted the same.”
“Wait. That’s not fair,” I plead. “You haven’t given me time to think. You tell me I’m moving in with you. You get rid of my furniture. I’m just getting over a concussion. Can’t I at least have time to recover?”
“Away from me.” He says it as if he’s completing my thought.
“I . . .”
“All you’ve done is try to get away from me. What I’ve demonstrated is that I love you, but you? You’ve shown you could give or take me,” he yells as he clenches his fists and his face turns red with real anger. “How do you think that makes me feel?”
Standing up, I meet him toe to toe. “I can’t love you and want to be with you because I want to sleep in my own bed? Really, Aaron? Does that sound rational to you?” I swallow hard. “I just quit my job to chase my dream of making NoPinkCaddy into something real and big that is a lifestyle site for those girls like me—those girls who are a bit lost. This is my chance to fly using my own wings—alis volat propriis. I can love you and want to be in your life while I have my own dreams.” In my head, I’m screaming I don’t want to be lost in your shadow.
“Come to Austin with me, then. Right now. Grab your laptop and pack a bag. We can be wheels up in two hours.” It’s a challenge. “Prove you love me.” His hair brushes along his chin, not hiding the tic. He’s clenching his teeth so hard the muscle is convulsing.
“I don’t have to move in with you or be by your side every minute to prove I love you.” Tears fall from my eyes. “I haven’t seen Bella or Nyall since the accident. I’ve never gone that long. I’m still healing. I shouldn’t have to fly to another state to prove how I feel. Haven’t I shown you?” I dissolve into sobs which makes my head ache even more.
He swallows hard and his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “What you’ve shown is when the going gets tough, you keep quiet.” He points at my chest. “Dinner? Did you defend me, or did you sit at the table and kept quiet?” Aaron closes his fist and hits his chest over his heart. “When I left the restaurant, did you follow? No. You sided with my band and went to the bar with them when you know I can’t drink.”
This is such a schizophrenic conversation. We began with me trying to clear up the media confusion around my accident, and now we’re arguing because I won’t prove my feelings for him in the ways he demands.
A thought enters my head—a terrible, nagging feeling that I can now identify. It’s been present all day. I feel sick to my stomach with the realization that I’m right. I know I am. My eyes have been opened, and I can now see Aaron for what he is. Dilated eyes. Crazy demands. Bizarre accusations. Uncomfortable in his own skin. Unable to sit still.
Aaron is an addict and he’s high.
Standing up, I walk to him grabbing his chin, positioning it so I can study his face.
“What are you doing?” He does his best bob-and-weave to avoid making eye contact.
“So when you bought coke, you purchased more than just what I found on your bedside table, didn’t you?” I’m in control. My voice doesn’t betray the supreme feeling of disappointment eating away at the lining of my stomach.
His head tilts toward the hardwood floors. By the way his eyes dart back and forth, he realizes he’s been caught. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I bite my bottom lip, drawing blood, trying to manifest my internal pain into something I can tangibly feel. “I can’t believe you’d do that to Jude. You know how worried she is. Drugs took her mother, and the same damn fate is going to take her father. If you won’t stay clean for yourself, just look in your daughter’s eyes, the same eyes as yours, and do it for her.” I spit blood on the floor in disgust over the man I love. “You fucking make me sick.”
Aaron towers over me, the perfect juxtaposition of a caged wild animal and a beaten dog. “Really, MK? I make you sick? All I’ve done since I met you is try to be exactly the man you asked for on your site. I gave you flowers and took care of you. I arranged a dream date. I’ve tried my best to be exactly what you’ve been asking for. I’m sorry I’m just not quite good enough for you.”
I grab his arm. “You are the man I want, but I want you sober and healthy. Can’t you understand that all the flowers and rented out restaurants in the world can’t compensate for drug addiction?”
He spins on his boot heels and walks to the door. At least he doesn’t deny that he used. As he grabs the door knob, he says in a whisper, “I’m an addict, and I don’t know if I can quit.”
“You can, Aaron,” I encourage him as I stay rooted in my spot. “Get real help this time. I’m not the one to make you better.”
Tears fall down my cheeks for the broken man whose back is turned to me. I wish I could heal him. I’d give up NoPinkCaddy if it would guarantee he’d be well and whole again.
His shoulders tense and rise so high they almost touch his ears. His fist beat against his thighs and his back heaves with short breaths. His voice is choppy. “That sounds like you’re breaking up with me, MK.”
“I’m sorry.” I fall to the ground in a ball. A trickle of blood runs down my chin. “I love you enough, Aaron, and care about your daughter enough, to not watch you kill yourself.” I pause, and my hand swipes over my injured lip. “I will not enable your drug use, and I can’t help you stop.” I swallow the sobs as they try to choke me. “Give me the whole and complete man I deserve.”
The front door slams with such force it shakes my soul loose from my body and it travels off into the evening to live with its rightful owner, my troubled rock star.
***
The next morning, I open the front door and find my beautiful ball gown in a plastic bag draped over the wooden stairs’ railing. My flowery overnight duffle rests underneath it. Inside are all my belongings, so neatly folded that I know Aaron didn’t pack them. My charged phone and his Def Leppard concert T-shirt rest on top.
I empty the contents on my kitchen island countertop, looking for my necklace and hoping there’s a note or something from him. Nothing . . . It’s as empty as my heart.
Epilogue
It’s been a week since the door slammed on my relationship with Aaron. I went to his house the next morning to beg him to get help, but it was closed up. Shutters were locked over the windows, and when I’d peered down his driveway—no red robot car or black SUV. All of the numerous calls placed to his phone have gone unanswered.
Once I refused to Google him. Now, I have Google alerts set up on my computer. I’ve read reports he’s back in rehab. I pray they’re true. His publicist is not returning messages, the media is reporting. Sam and Grace send me to voicemail. I haven’t been desperate enough to contact Jude but the thought has crossed my mind.
He needs help. My mind ping-pongs between the man who scored coke because he was upset and angry with me and then finally used it, I’m assuming because of my injury, and the man who took such tender care of me and his daughter.
Aaron.
Johnny.
Whomever he is, he’s stolen my soul. I know it’s true.
My eyes
are dead. The girl in the mirror looks like a ghost with a giant red slash that runs along her left cheek, now with a cut lip.
I’ve told myself that this is the sign I prayed for. I asked God that if Aaron and I were not meant for each other to please show me sooner than later. But I can’t believe it’s true. If we shouldn’t be together then I wouldn’t feel this miserable, right?
NoPinkCaddy has benefited well from all the publicity. In just over a week, I’ve made more than I did the last four months combined. I have three voicemails from agents which have gone unanswered—not to mention their persistent messages. They promise great things . . . television contracts, endorsement deals with major retailers, book deals.
I’ve created a line item on NoPinkCaddy’s financial statement. It’s called blood money—not earned based on my skills and talents. It’s tainted. It’s ill-gotten gains. These people aren’t fans of mine. They’re voyeurs looking for a dirty piece of gossip.
When I log on, the messages I have waiting for me are from media outlets looking for a comment or people wanting to know more about the man called Johnny Knite. They ask personal questions and want vulgar details. I’ve quit posting. My life is not a soap opera or a sixty-second clip on a gossip show. This is my life, and it’s dead without the person who taught me to live.
I’ve posted one simple message on my site in the past week. My name is Mary Kay Landry, and I fly with my own wings.
But it’s not true. In one day, I lost my friend and my rock star. My life doesn’t seem to have meaning if he’s not cheering for me.
Bella and Tripp have reached out to me in every way possible. I’m not ready to talk about what happened, and I’m not sure I can even vocalize the phrase Aaron is a drug addict.
The police issued a statement clearing him of any wrongdoing, but it doesn’t matter. The allegations were made in print. And as I learned with Johnny Knite’s sex tape, once it’s on the Internet, it’s there forever.
Staring at the computer screen for the thousandth hour, I try to figure out what to write or if I even should post anything.
Johnny Knite
It hurts to even type his name.
Aaron, my boy, is an addict.
It’s not my story to tell, and I’d never hurt him by sharing his demons.
I’m sorry I haven’t posted in a while. I was injured and I’m still recovering.
I can’t write that. It’s an absolute lie. Deleting the words I’ve written, I know at some point I’m going to have to share a version of the truth with my followers. But that day is not today.
The thought of shutting down my blog has crossed my mind. My heart is dead. There’s nothing upbeat to share. Restoring an antique feels frivolous. I can’t cook. Just the smell of food is revolting. All I want to do is sleep.
Then, I remind myself of my saying, alis volat propriis. I don’t need Aaron. This is my time to give NoPinkCaddy wings. Yet, my bread and butter has been writing about my search to find the right guy. I’m pretty sure I had him and let him go because he’s too broken for me to fix.
Searching for something positive . . .
My cut looks much better today, and the bruises are almost gone. Today has also been the first day without a headache.
But it’s because the pain in my heart has replaced the dull throb of my head.
I erase it also. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe I just need one more day to heal and when I wake up, I’ll be inspired to write my best and most provocative post yet.
Sighing, I rest my computer on the floor next to me. As some point, I’ve got to purchase new living room furniture, but my desire to replace my beautiful found pieces is just not there.
There’s a ping in my NoPinkCaddy message box. Begrudgingly, I open it from someone whose username is MyPinkCaddy. I roll my eyes. There’s nothing worse than an unoriginal person.
The message reads MK Landry, I’m trying to get better to be the man you deserve. I promise.
Attached are twelve digital musical files.
Oh my God! MyPinkCaddy is Aaron.
My heart races, and I feel lightheaded as I reread his message. For the first time since he slammed the door, there’s a foreign tingle in my soul—it’s hope, and it’s a powerful feeling. I yell at my computer screen, “Fight, Aaron. Get better and come back to me.” I’d give anything if he could hear me.
I carry my laptop to my room and shut the door. I close the blinds, blocking out the afternoon sun, and turn off the lights.
Staring at the files, I try to predict what they are, but ultimately, it doesn’t matter. They’re from him—a gift after a week of wondering if I’d ever hear from him again.
After a couple of deep breaths, I hit play. As soon as his voice tickles my ears, chills travel over my body. He sounds like silk and sex and my heart recognizes its kindred partner.
The song is upbeat and fun. I can picture him singing with a broad smile on his face, tapping his foot and being the playful, fun Aaron who reminds me of the little boy who never grew up. My very own Peter Pan.
By the second verse, I realize it’s a song about meeting a quirky girl. He sings about how she turns heads in a room by her easy nature and has a smile for every stranger. He refers to her as his sunshine. It’s a catchy song. I can imagine hearing it on the radio.
I think he’s sharing ACE’s new album with me.
The next song is a bit moodier. It’s about a guy who’s studying a sleeping girl wondering how he can capture the wind. Aaron’s voice is higher in parts, which adds to the angst. Some stanzas feel desperate. Holding up my hand, I watch it quiver in the bits of sunlight streaming through the shut blinds, and my stomach clenches.
After it’s over, I pause the music file, staring at the dream-catcher piece of art on the wall opposite my bed. The first two songs seem to be about us. However, the little voice in the back of my head says I’m reading too much into the lyrics. Aaron could have written them about anyone. The last song left me feeling uncomfortable in my skin.
Standing up, I walk into the kitchen and grab an already open bottle of red wine—the kind Seamus purchased.
With the open bottle on my night stand and a full glass in my hand, I hit play. The sounds of an ukulele fill my bedroom and I laugh out loud, grabbing a pillow and holding it over my mouth. It’s this catchy tune about a boy eating cereal and dreaming of a girl as he spells her name using marshmallows in the sugary milk. Bongo drums join the ukulele, and I wonder if Whistling Willy contributed. It’s a great song! Like, it’s the kind of silly tune which could be the song of spring break. I find myself humming along and tapping my feet against the sheets.
In fact, I like it so much I play it twice. It’s as if Aaron is in the room with me being his playful self with a boyish glint in his eye. I catch myself—it’s as if I’m scanning the room for a ghost.
The next song is instrumental. I keep waiting to hear Aaron’s voice, but it never joins in. It’s probably a very complicated piece, but I don’t know enough about music to appreciate the complexity, which makes me a bit sad. I make a mental note to look into a music appreciation class at the local junior college. Aaron has opened my eyes to how musically blind I’ve been.
The following two songs are also not my style. One, I would classify as heavy metal. It’s got a hard driving beat, and Aaron screams a lot about being back on top and how no one can hold him down. The next one also has a pretty heavy beat, and I’ve a difficult time understanding him.
I know that’s one of ACE’s signatures—making diverse music. They don’t want to be classified into a particular genre. That’s fine, but I guess I’m just not a heavy metal chick.
Before the next song plays, I take a break. My joints are stiff. I finish my glass of wine in a couple of gulps and perform some of the yoga poses I learned in class.
In my time with Aaron, I only heard him sing a couple of times, and it was hypnotizing. But hearing him in my bedroom without being able to touch him is making me off-balance
. I equate it to how it must be to hear the voicemail of someone who’s passed. My fingers itch to text him. After another round of poses and one more glass of wine, I grab my phone, sending him this message, knowing he’s probably not going to respond. Halfway through. I love it. I love you.
After waiting for thirty minutes with no word from him, I lie back down and play the next song. When it begins, I think for a moment that it’s an Eagles tune. It has a 70s rock vibe which I appreciate. When the lyrics start, my mouth opens wide, and my hands grasp my heart. Aaron is singing about a girl in a pink vintage Cadillac. Her hair is the color of milk chocolate and her eyes are the deepest shade of brown. It’s a fun song. He’s standing on the corner of an abandoned town at the only four-way stop when I pull up in my car. I toss my hair, and he loses his mind for the brown-eyed girl.
There’s no doubt this song was written about me. I’m driving the pink Caddy.
Listening to it again, I stand up, dancing around my room. My phone becomes my microphone as I pretend I’m Aaron on-stage performing. Leaping on my bed, I dance like crazy. My hair whips from side to side as I belt out the chorus. After all, it’s not every day a girl gets her pink Caddy and such a great song written about her.
I send him another text. Only in music does Mary Kay Landry get her pink Cadillac! How fun! Thank you.
Once again, there’s no response.
I hit play. The music begins softly—such a contrast to the fun song before. It makes me weep for the man I know I adore. It’s about a guy trying not to drink the bottle in front of him. He sings about the pressure to stay sober when life is constantly hurling negativity your way. There’s a line about trying to hold on to the one you love when everyone is trying to take her from you. It progresses to a hard driving beat where Aaron’s guitar skills really shine. I don’t have an addictive personality, but after listening to this song, I understand more what he’s struggling with. The instruments stop playing abruptly and Aaron sings the last line in such a haunting voice that tears sting my eyes—I’m the one who made her go.