Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  “Cleo, you have to tell him,” Ben said. “You know you do. It’s his baby.”

  The baby drop-kicked her stomach back under her chin. Little traitor. She’d better not be choosing Team Julian along with everyone else. Tell him, tell him, tell him. Addie and Mitch harped on it constantly, as did her parents, and as of late, even Sherry had jumped on the bandwagon.

  She’d seen Sheik last month. He’d needed to get some items she’d moved out of the studio. He’d gawked like an idiot when he saw her massive form, but he hadn’t asked any questions. Surely, he’d told Julian.

  “Sheik knows,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Well, what did he say?” Ben asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Did you tell him it was Julian’s?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything. We both acted like I wasn’t as big as a house. But I wouldn’t have to tell him. Who else’s would it be?”

  “You need to tell Julian yourself. You’re leaving way too much to chance.”

  She couldn’t bear it if Julian rejected her and the baby to her face. Why couldn’t anybody understand that? “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. He is not good daddy material in any way, shape, or form, and I’m not introducing him as a character into this fun little family film. So zip it.”

  They sat in uncomfortable silence, watching car commercials and listening to Marcus putter about in the kitchen.

  “Would you paint my toenails? I can’t reach them.”

  “Marcus will do it. I’m not that kind of gay.”

  “What did I miss?” Marcus asked, hustling back into the room with a plate of cookies and a cup of tea.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Look, he’s back.”

  Julian was on guitar with the Big Talk Show Band. They played a crappy tune, but he sounded great. When the band finished the song, Julian headed to center stage, where Dave stood with his guitar. Cleo didn’t recognize the drummer or bassist—they certainly weren’t Dean or Gus.

  Andy met Julian at the mic and held up the new album. “‘Playing Cleo’?” he asked.

  The crowd went nuts as Julian nodded.

  “So, is there a Cleo?” Andy asked.

  Julian slipped his Les Paul over his shoulder. “There certainly is,” he said. Then he turned and looked directly into the camera, blew a kiss, and silently mouthed, “I love you.”

  Marcus gasped. “That was for you!”

  How could that possibly be true? Her pulse pounded in her head. If she could reach him, she’d slap him. Then she’d kiss him. God, she hated him.

  “Why don’t you call him?” Ben asked. “You know, feel him out.”

  “No.” Cleo stood up. Her heart beat in an erratic rhythm of uncertainty, and the baby gave her a kick to the kidneys. “I need to get over him, not drag myself back into his ridiculous dramas.”

  Ben stood, too. “So you want a clean break? Is that what you’re saying? Never look back sort of thing?”

  Finally. Jesus, had she gotten through to someone? “Yes, I need a clean break. No more Julian Wheaton. Or Lazros, or whatever the hell his name is. I do not want to see or hear or smell any semblance of him in my midst ever again. Comprende?” Even as she said it, she couldn’t comprehend ever again.

  “Which is why you’re trying to buy his building and live in it? Sis, you’re saying one thing and doing another. If you wait until it’s too late, well, then it’s too late.”

  “Actually, I’m going to buy the building,” Marcus chimed in.

  That was technically true. Cleo didn’t want her name to appear on any of the paperwork, so Marcus would buy it, and she’d buy it from Marcus. And she’d reopen Soundbox if she could.

  “That loft is no place to raise a baby,” Marcus said. “This is a place to raise a baby. We have a nice house, a huge backyard, and good schools.”

  They’d moved on to favorite topic number two: Cleo’s Big Residential Mistake. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  …

  Julian sunned himself in the garden of what had somehow become the band’s L.A. house. He’d just finished his biofeedback session, and the small and stinky Joey Ramone Gutierrez squirmed in his lap. Dave practiced some guitar riffs on an acoustic while Marcie made dinner, so that left Julian playing nanny.

  “This kid has shit in his nappy, and I’m not going to do anything about it,” he yelled for the second time.

  “I’ll get it,” Dave said. “In just a minute…”

  “You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes,” Marcie said from the patio, where she reigned over the grill. “Put down your guitar and change Joey Ramone’s diaper.”

  Dave sighed and set the guitar in the grass, then reached for the little shit factory, who let out a scarlet wail before cramming his fist in his mouth. “Go with Daddy,” Julian said. “You stink.”

  Dave and Marcie talked often of moving out, but Julian wasn’t in any hurry for them to leave. All of Dave’s money was tied up in legal battles with concert promoters and record labels, and it was a ridiculously big house, so why not share? He’d bought the place four months ago, and he still felt like a guest. But the loft had had a few offers. It would sell soon, so he’d better get used to it.

  He picked up Dave’s guitar and began strumming. Before he knew it, “Playing Cleo” floated out like orange feathers in the breeze.

  Annoying.

  He stopped, took a deep breath, and began playing something else. When it, too, turned into “Playing Cleo,” he set the guitar down in defeat.

  He still couldn’t believe Cleo had made love to him that night in the loft. She wasn’t the kind of woman who cheated on a boyfriend. So many things didn’t add up. His stomach clenched, thinking about how she must have felt when she found him gone. Boyfriend or no boyfriend, after the night they’d shared, he shouldn’t have left like that. He’d been an ass.

  He jerked in his chair. He’d been an ass. He’d never apologized for that, and Cleo deserved an apology, no matter who she was dating. It was impulsive, but he had nothing to do that afternoon. His heart pounded as his mind hummed with possibilities. What if she wasn’t even with the heart-texting jerk anymore? What if she was completely unattached and available and he was sitting here in L.A., wallowing in self-pity?

  He raced through the house and began a frantic search for his keys. Thanks to Joey Ramone, there was always a frantic search going on for something. Dropping to all fours, he ran a hand beneath the couch. He pulled out three teething toys and a little book about a mouse that, judging from the teeth marks, also served as a teething toy.

  The front door slammed, and he peeked over the back of the couch to see Sheik. “Hey, man. You here for dinner?”

  “What else? It sure ain’t the company. What are you doing down there?”

  “Looking for my keys. I hope they’re not in the fucking toilet.” He stood and scanned the living room.

  “Where are you going?”

  Julian yanked up a couch cushion. “Aha!” He stuffed his keys in his pocket. “I’m going to the airport,” he said, heading for the door. “Hold down the fort.”

  “The airport? Why?”

  “I’m going to see Cleo.”

  Sheik’s eyes almost popped out of his head. He looked stupidly alarmed. “Listen, you need to let her go, remember? We talked about this already.”

  Julian kept walking. “That was before,” he said. “I’ve changed my mind.”

  By the time he got to his car, he was trailed by Sheik, Dave, Marcie, and Joey Ramone.

  “Listen to me,” Sheik said, as Julian climbed into the El Camino. “She’s got a boyfriend, remember? Leave her alone.”

  Julian looked at Sheik towering over his car. “First you told me to leave her alone because she didn’t need a junkie. Then you told me to stop being a junkie and go get her—pestered me for months about it—and now you’re telling me to leave her alone again. What gives?”

 
“Julian, please don’t go. You’ll regret it.”

  He raised his eyebrows. First of all, Sheik never begged anyone to do anything. Second, he never said please. And third, he’d called him Julian, instead of You Pansy-Assed Motherfucker. Something was up, but Julian didn’t care. He had to try.

  He rolled down the window. Sheik bent over and stuck his huge face through it, but before he could say anything, Marcie pulled him out of the way.

  “Go, Julian,” she said.

  Julian sat in the rental car in front of the Guenther House in San Antonio’s King William Historic District. It was a gorgeous summer day, and under different circumstances, he might be tempted to stroll the manicured grounds that sloped down to the San Antonio River. But he couldn’t afford to take his eyes off the restaurant’s entrance. His stomach churned and growled like the worst case of stage fright.

  There was a good chance Cleo would show. It was the first Sunday of September. He checked the time—almost ten. If she was coming, she’d be here soon.

  Car after car pulled into the small lot, expelling women with gift bags. Someone was having a baby shower.

  Just as the parking lot’s security guard seemed to be taking a special interest in him, Cleo’s red car zipped into a space not too far away.

  His heart pounded. He clutched the wheel with one hand and grabbed the door handle with the other…then he froze. His brain had yet to choose between staying or going.

  Cleo got out of her car and plopped her purse on top of the roof. Her curly hair had been straightened and shone in the morning sun. Her pink cheeks glowed beneath a pair of big, sexy sunglasses. Every cell in Julian’s body reacted to her magnetic pull, and he opened his door reflexively. He began to stand as she came around the front of her Honda and…what the hell? He hurriedly folded himself back into the rental. She’s pregnant?

  He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Was he mistaken? He crouched low as she passed in front of his car. Bloody hell. She wore a tight blue dress that clung to her very round belly.

  Silent hysteria took over—a kaleidoscope of colors that, miraculously, didn’t blend together—as he remembered the night in the loft with no condom. But that had been four months ago. And Cleo looked much farther along than that. Julian leaned forward and touched his forehead to the steering wheel. It all made sense now. The rounder figure, the fuller breasts.

  Nausea rolled through him. Indecisiveness tormented his gut. Should he run after her? Of course not. She hadn’t gotten herself pregnant. He slammed his fist into the steering wheel. Marcus. He wished he knew what the fucker looked like so he could enjoy the fantasy of smashing his face in.

  Julian started his car and drove off in a daze. Thanks to the biofeedback and mind-training program, the colors stayed where they belonged. He was falling apart, but at least he could see where he was going. He finally stopped in front of a seedy bar on the wrong side of town—one he knew by reputation only. All he had to do was walk through the door, and he’d have everything he needed to dull the pain within minutes.

  He sat in the car for over an hour. Eventually, the door to the bar opened, and a guy poked his head out to stare him down. Parking in front of a drug dealer’s lair, then sitting there watching it, was not a smart thing to do. He pulled his shit together and left.

  Minutes later, he was in front of the loft. He wanted to go inside—he wanted to go home—but it wasn’t his. Not for long, anyway. There’d recently been an offer. And just in time, too, because it had already attracted a homeless guy to its back steps. The man looked up at the sound of the car. Not a homeless guy. Julian’s head fell back against the headrest as Sheik walked to the car.

  “Yo,” Sheik said, climbing in and staring straight ahead. “Did you see her?”

  “You knew.”

  “Yeah. She met me when you sent me down here for those things from the studio. It was hard to miss.”

  “Nice to see where your allegiance lies.”

  “I didn’t want you to be hurt. That’s for real.”

  No air moved in the car, but Julian didn’t have the energy to roll down a window. He would never recover from this.

  As if Sheik read his mind, he said, “I believe in you, Julian. You’ll get through this.”

  “I don’t see how I can.”

  “You’re not gonna go find a dealer, are you?” Sheik asked.

  “No.”

  “Or head to the nearest liquor store?”

  “No.”

  “You gonna cry like a girl?”

  Julian just swallowed.

  “Well, hell. Get it over with, then.”

  Chapter Twenty

  A decent offer had finally been made on the loft. Julian was awash in relief—he was ready to close this chapter of his life—but he was also overwhelmed with an almost debilitating feeling of sadness. He was changing a lightbulb atop a tall, teetering ladder in the L.A. house when Sheik came to tell him about the closing date.

  “Look at those pretty-boy legs shaking.” Sheik laughed, watching Julian balance.

  “Shut up, man. I hate this fucking house. How are we supposed to change out these lightbulbs all the way up here?”

  “You’re in Los Angeles, asshole. You’re supposed to hire someone to change your lightbulbs.”

  “Whatever. Do I have to fly to San Antonio for the closing?” He finished screwing in the lightbulb and sat on the top of the ladder.

  “I don’t think so,” Sheik answered.

  “Who’s buying it?”

  Sheik looked at the paperwork. “Some guy named Marcus Porter.”

  The guy buying his loft had the same first name as Cleo’s boyfriend? A small tingle worked its way up Julian’s spine. “Where’s he from?”

  “Some place called Kerrville.”

  “No way.” Julian tried to stand, then quickly sat back down, with Sheik holding onto the ladder and looking at him like he was insane. “Are you kidding me? That’s where Cleo lives.”

  Exercising a little more caution, he delicately came down the ladder steps and ripped the paper out of Sheik’s hands.

  “What?” Sheik asked. “What’s wrong with you now?”

  “Cleo lives in Kerrville with a guy named Marcus, you idiot.”

  “Stop calling me an idjit. And I’m sure there’s more than one Marcus in that town.”

  Julian skimmed the documents. Nowhere on them did it say, This is Cleo’s stupid motherfucking boyfriend. But it was too much of a coincidence. Cleo loved the loft, and the guy was buying it for her.

  There was no need for him to fly to San Antonio and hand over the keys to his loft personally. But he felt he had to. Maybe seeing Cleo and knowing she was happy with this Marcus fellow was necessary, like going to a funeral in order to believe someone had really died. Although a funeral would probably be less painful.

  …

  Two weeks later, Julian stared at the parking lot through the loft’s dirty window. His stomach felt like it might rebel against the coffee he’d tried to drink earlier. Waiting was the worst.

  He heard Sheik and the Realtor at the top of the stairs. Sheik was making small talk about property values, but with his gravelly voice, it sounded threatening. The Realtor was probably scared to death.

  “Mr. Wheaton?” the real estate agent said, entering the room. “I’ve left some papers back at the office. Would you please tell the buyers I’ll be back as soon as I can? Then we’ll head to the bank.”

  “Sure,” Julian said. One less person to witness his humiliation.

  As soon as the Realtor left, a black Prius pulled in beneath the pecan tree. The driver’s side door opened, and a long arm emerged, followed by a leg in khaki trousers. Both were attached to a tall man with dark hair. He was trim and fit, kind of buff, actually, and extremely handsome in a wholesome all-American way. Julian’s blood boiled, but instead of red, it was green. Jealous.

  Cleo climbed out of the car and held her flyaway hair out of her face as she looked up at the loft. She w
ore cream-colored leggings and a chocolate-brown sweater, which she filled out beautifully. Full breasts, round hips, and a fertility goddess belly. His pulse sped up, and it took everything he had not to fly down the stairs and take her in his arms. But she wasn’t his. Marcus closed the door and leaned over, planting a kiss on her forehead. Then they shared a long, leisurely hug that made Julian’s stomach heave.

  “Sheik, go down and let them in, okay?”

  Where should he stand? In the living room? The kitchen? Should he greet them by opening the door at the top of the stairs? Since he was frozen where he stood, the dilemma was pointless. He stared helplessly at the door.

  Sheik entered first, followed by Marcus, who stopped cold when he saw Julian. Cleo came around and gasped. She actually swayed on her feet, and Julian reached for her. But Marcus grabbed her first and held on tightly.

  “We were told you wouldn’t be here,” Cleo finally said.

  “Surprise!” Julian said. He tried to smile, but it felt like a grimace. “And congratulations on the loft and…er, everything.” He glanced at her stomach. “I mean, wow. Wow. You’re pregnant, right? Unless you’ve swallowed a basketball. Which is extremely unlikely.”

  Sheik startled him with a slow clap. “Good job there, blabbermouth.”

  Cleo rolled her eyes at Sheik, then went back to frowning at Julian. Marcus merely looked Julian over with interest, like he was a curious specimen in a laboratory. Julian looked back, hoping he appeared more relaxed than he felt. Marcus smirked—smug bastard—and his intensely green eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back in a minute,” Cleo said. Then she waddled around the room, as if looking for a place to sit. There was no furniture downstairs.

  “There’s a folding chair in the closet upstairs,” Julian said. “Let me go grab it for you.”

  Cleo looked at the stairs as if they led to a secret escape hatch. “No, it’s all right. I’ll go have a look around up there…I’ll find it.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Julian said. “I mean, can you even make it up the stairs?”

  Cleo raised an eyebrow slowly. “I can manage. I promise the baby won’t just fall out as I lumber up.”