by Jean Haus
“It’s our album and that could be our first single.”
“Oh, awesome. Tear out my heart and put it on display for the world. That would make a great song.”
Being a business asshole he says, “What do you think? That great songs come from lame-ass poets sitting in the parks under trees?” He shakes his head. “They come from real people writing about life and what matters to them. And those”—he points to the book—“are awesome lyrics because they’re real and they’re heartfelt.”
My hand grips the notebook until it scrunches. “My fucked-up personal shit is not making it into a song.”
Still digging into a white takeout container with his chopsticks, Sam comes to stand next to Romeo. “He’s right. Fucked-up shit usually makes the best songs.”
I glare at Sam.
He shrugs. “Just saying.”
Romeo leans across the table. “How about this? After we work on the music, give me three practice rounds with it, then on the fourth we’ll record. Then if you say no, I’ll let it go.”
I’m trying to ignore their hopeful faces when from across the room, Gabe says, “Quit being a pussy and just sing your pussy shit.”
“Fuck you,” I say, glaring at Romeo. “Four times. That’s it.”
“Give me the notebook and your pen.” He reaches for his chopsticks. In between shoveling in food, he writes out an arrangement using the lyrics. Feeling nauseous like some nervous schoolboy on his first date, I toss my half-full container of food in the garbage, then stare at the wall while drinking pop to wet my suddenly dry throat. I can’t believe I agreed to this shit. And I’m all too aware of the words he wants to use for the chorus. Words from my mutilated heart I’ll have to belt out in front of everyone.
We head back into the studio and my nervousness intensifies. I watch them learn the song over the next hour. Romeo was right. His simple melody matches my lyrics perfectly.
But when I join them, I can’t sing it. Even after three times through.
Romeo glares at me. “Are you kidding me? Are you doing that shit on purpose? Everyone else has it but you.”
My jaw clenches tighter than his. I’m not kidding, singing this is killing me. I’m not sure I can do it. “I said I’d sing it. I didn’t say I’d do it well.”
“We all know you can sing way better than that. Get your shit together or I’m going to assume you’re screwing up on purpose, especially since this is not only the fourth time but our last session.”
“Lovesick pussy,” Gabe sneers from behind his drum set, and Sam snorts.
“Just start the song,” I snap.
Snickering now, Gabe hits his sticks together.
They play through the chords twice. I take a breath and start singing. This time I let myself think of Allie while I sing, and the words somehow come easier with the vision of her in my head. They’re about her, and I sing them to her. My voice comes out not only clear and in tune but also wrapped in emotion.
The studio is quiet once we’re finished. Even the two guys behind the soundboards, whom we pay a ridiculous hourly rate to, are quiet. Finally, Romeo says, “That will work. He glances at the clock above the glass. “We should be able to get two more in. Let’s do ‘Trace,’ then ‘At the End of the Universe.’”
We’re all shocked by that. Romeo had planned four more songs. Dropping two songs without a Romeo tantrum is unheard of. Since we’ve done the next two songs so many times, it only takes a couple of plays for each before we call it good. While we pack our stuff, Romeo goes into the sound room, playing back and reviewing the stuff we did for the day.
We all pause when the new song comes on. I almost don’t recognize my voice. It sounds raw and emotional, and completely different than I ordinarily sound. I usually work hard at hitting all the right notes and that’s about it. Hearing myself so emotional kind of sucks. Essentially, it really sucks because now I can hear how I feel like shit.
“That is going to go viral,” Sam says, clasping his bass case shut. “No doubt. That one is blasting us onto the charts.”
At the thought of my heartache turning us into real rock stars, I snatch my guitar case and a snare drum from the floor, then march out to load up the van. I should have never agreed to do the song. I’m going to have to relive that shit every time I sing or hear it. The album comes out in a couple of weeks. That song might not be on it. The rest of the band will be pissed at me, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to sing about Allie over and over again if we’re through.
The ride home is quiet as usual. Sam sleeps on the bench. Gabe sleeps in the passenger seat. Romeo drives. And I lie in the back surrounded by equipment, scrolling through pictures on my phone. I have three of Allie. One from the beach on the day of the nature walk. Another of her at the coffee shop. And the last is of her at her apartment the night she made dinner. I look at each long and hard as the highway rolls under me.
She wanted time. She wanted space. But it has been six days since she asked for space, and all we’ve shared is one short phone call during which we talked like strangers muttering hellos. The longer I wait, the more it feels like her needing time and space will last forever. I want so badly to see her, to know what she’s thinking, yet I want to respect her wishes even though they’re killing me.
Back at the dorm, I’m left alone staring at four walls when Romeo heads over to Riley’s. I never used to hang out in my dorm room. Lately I don’t leave it. I clean some of my shit up. Something I never do. Try to read ahead for my communication class for spring term, which starts this week. Toss a tennis ball at the wall. Stare at the wall. Resist the urge to punch the wall.
Feeling caged, I grab my keys—and without realizing it, I’m driving on the highway, driving home. The two-hour drive takes me a little over an hour and a half, but lucky for me I’m not pulled over. I just listen to music and let the drive empty my turning mind.
My parents’ home, just north of Grand Rapids, overlooks Lake Michigan. The house is empty of course. It’s large and professionally decorated, the only warmth inside coming from the sight of the sun setting over the lake framed by the floor–to-ceiling windows.
Ascending the steps to my old bedroom, I dial my mother.
Surprisingly, she answers. “Justin, we’re in the middle of a charity dinner. Please make it quick.”
Miss you too. “I was wondering what time you were getting home.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m here.”
“Here?”
“Home.”
“Oh…we should be home a little after eight. See you then,” she says quickly, and hangs up.
Though my room’s the same as it was when I left for college almost three years ago, it’s always strange to come back to it. Except for once freshman year when I saw my parents for all of five minutes, I don’t come home on weekends. Yet as I lie on the bed and watch the waves roll onto the beach, I feel less confined than I did in the dorm. Still, the solitude eats at me.
Eight o’clock comes and goes without my parents returning home. Desperate for someone to talk to, I call Olivia. The one true love from my childhood. My nanny.
“Hello, Justin,” she answers in a bright cheery voice.
“Miss Olivia.” Though she’s been married for over six years, this will always be my name for her.
“Well, this is a lovely surprise.”
“Not too late to be calling?”
“Never too late for you, love. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I religiously call my former nanny on Christmas and on her birthday, but otherwise I’m too busy. Doing what, I’m not sure. But besides that, she has a family now, a husband and two children, and I don’t want to suck up her time. I already sucked up almost ten years of her life.
“Just needed to hear your voice.”
“What’s the matter, Justin?” Her voice sounds worried and caring. After all these years, she still has a wonderful English accent. I loved listening to her read to me as a child. The simple sight of a
childhood book brings back the sound of her voice in my head.
“There’s this girl I met,” I say, clutching my phone and watching the dark waves roll in.
“Someone doesn’t love my sweet boy? How can that be?” she says heatedly, and I’m imagining that if she knew how I’d used women over the past three years, her attitude would definitely change. “Tell me about this girl who has you so devastated you’re calling your nanny.”
I spend the next half hour describing Allie. How her ex hurt her and how I scared her away. Olivia asks questions every now and then, but mostly she lets me talk. Staring out over the rolling water, I realize how much I just needed to talk.
When I’m done, she says, “It sounds like she needs you as much as you need her.”
My sigh echoes in the empty room. “She said she needs time.”
“What she needs is to know you’re there for her. Unlike that other boy.”
I almost laugh at her calling Trevor and me boys. “Maybe…” Hopefully. “I’m not sure what to do.”
“Listen to me closely, Justin. Love isn’t fear. It’s courage. Courage to trust, courage to give, courage to fight. Be fearless and fight for this girl. It’s obvious to me—even from miles away—after forty minutes of listening to you talk that you’re in love. Use your love to be courageous.”
“Damn. You have me feeling like the pussy Gabe called me,” I blurt.
“Words and manners, Justin,” she reminds me, like I’m still five.
“Ah, yeah. Sorry.”
“Now tell me, what are you going to do?”
My mind reels. “Go to her? Talk to her? Tell her how I feel?”
“That’s a start.” Her cheery tone has me imagining her smiling into the phone.
Before we hang up, Olivia makes me promise to visit her this summer. I went to Maine once when I was twelve and felt out of place, but Olivia had only a boyfriend then, not an entire family I’d be invading, But I tell her I’ll visit before hanging up, then getting off my bed and snagging the keys from the dresser.
As I’m walking down the stairs, my parents come in the front doors. They’re dressed to the nines. My mother recently turned fifty, but she has been dressing like a politician’s wife for years. Perhaps that’s her true calling. My father wears expensive tailored suits, but with his graying blond hair down to his jaw, he will never look like a politician.
“Justin!” she says, staring at the keys in my hand. Her forehead scrunches. “Are you leaving?”
“Yeah, got tired of waiting.” I plop onto the marble bench across from the doors and reach for my shoes.
My mother sets her tiny purse on the entryway table. “Well, we’re here now.” She frowns at me. “You made it sound like an emergency on the phone.”
Yes, an emergency you rushed home to, I think sarcastically. I glance at the large modern clock at the end of the entrance. It’s nine thirty.
Behind her, my father takes off his shoes and opens the entryway closet. Like her, he doesn’t so much as offer a hello.
I shrug. “Just needed to get away and clear my head. It’s clear now so I’m going,” I say, sounding even to my own ears like a pissed-off teenager.
“Mix me a drink, darling?” she asks over her shoulder. Turning back to me, she shakes her head. “When are you going to grow out of the melodrama? You’re almost twenty-one.”
My father steps past me and mutters, “Perhaps his emergency had to do with three Cs and one B.” He’s referring to my winter semester grades, which he has access to online.
Irritation shoots down my spine. My hands clench the edge of the bench. They haven’t seen me since Christmas. Though I never come home, I show up unannounced and this is the bullshit they spout? Wrapped in their own little superficial world, they are so clueless, so selfish.
I’m about to blow. My fingers dig into the marble. Anger swells in my chest until I slowly release my grip, and with it I let go of the need for their attention. My body and mind instantly lighten.
As usual, I hate admitting it but Romeo is right. I need to grow up. I got dealt a shitty hand when it came to parents. But it’s time for me to step up to the plate of life. First of all, there are people out there like Gabe, whose cards are far shittier. Second, there comes a time when you have to let go, man up, and let your actions speak for you instead of letting the past or your parents or any other bullshit define you. A man needs to define himself.
My parents are my parents, not the worst, sure as shit not the best, but there’s no fixing them. But there’s a girl who I’m madly in love with. I need to talk to her, be with her, and prove myself to her. Wasting anger or time or emotion on something I can’t change suddenly makes no fucking sense.
Ice clinks in the kitchen as my father mixes drinks. I slip on my boots, then face my mother as she crosses her arms. “Guess I got homesick for a minute, but I really have to study tomorrow.” I bend and kiss her cheek. “See you in July.” And with a newfound feeling of freedom, I close the heavy front doors on her startled face.
Chapter 32
Allie
It’s almost midnight by the time I get home. Like Todd last weekend, I got burned with a walk-in just before cutoff time at nine. The guy’s eagle took me until almost eleven o’clock to ink. Normally, I don’t mind late walk-ins, especially since Ben stays at my parents’ house on Saturday nights. But this week has been crazy. After dealing with Trevor’s antics all week, I’m drained.
Alone finally, I’m debating if it’s too late to call Justin. All day I’ve been thinking of how to explain the realization of my feelings through the painting I made last night.
Yet no sooner are my boots off and my butt on the couch when a knock sounds at the door. Having an awful suspicion about who’s on the other side, I stay on the couch, but the knocking grows loud enough to irritate my neighbors. A look through the peephole confirms my suspicions.
Trevor flies in as soon as I release the dead bolt.
“I’ve been driving past your place all night,” he says almost too fast for me to understand the words. “You’re lucky you’re not out with that douche bag.” As he leans on my dining room table like he owns it, I notice his wrinkled clothes. His bruises have healed and without them to distract me, I notice the dark circles under his eyes.
“You should have tried the shop,” I reply. “I had a late walk-in.” Pushing the door closed with my foot, I ignore his gesture for me to sit in a chair. I’m not sitting. The sooner he’s gone the better. “Why are you here?”
“First off,” he says, yanking an envelope from his back pocket and waving it in the air, “I got this in the mail today.”
I cross my arms. This riddle talk has been coming out of him all week. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”
“It’s a court date. For my arraignment. You were supposed to tell douche boy not to press charges.”
“We haven’t been talking much lately, but I doubt that has anything to do with Justin. The police came. People were arrested. The state or city or whatever is pressing charges.”
He folds his arms over his chest. “Well, that’s good news.”
“What?” I’m confused why he would be happy that charges are being pressed.
Pushing out his chest, he steps toward me and places his hands on my shoulders. “I’ve decided I want to work out things between us. I want you, Ben, and the shop back.”
Part of me feels like he has socked me in the gut. Another part is pissed. We’re divorced. That he believes I would take him back is beyond egotistical. A third part of me is completely confused. Trevor has been halfheartedly pursuing me in his own twisted way since he got back. I assumed his main purpose was to get me in bed. Trevor has always used booty calls to boost his ego. But the old connection we used to have is dead. It’s almost like he’s been going through the motions. Now this? And including the shop in his statement? Who includes business during a conversation about getting together with their ex-wife? Suddenly, I recall his ch
ild support payments. They’ve always been erratic. I never count on them, just put half in Ben’s college fund and the other half in an emergency fund, but it’s been months since his last payment.
My hands ball into fists on my hips. “What’s going on?”
His expression turns sly as he grabs my upper arms. “I want us to be together, babe.”
Ugh. The “babe” has come out. I tear away from his grasp. I’ve always feared a part of me would want Trevor. He was my first love. My first heartbreak. And second. He’s the father of my son. He was my husband. But since last night’s revelation while painting, I can say without a doubt I do not want to be with Trevor ever again. I’m finally totally over him. However, even if I wanted him, there’s obviously something going on here I’m unaware of.
“What about your tattoo business in California? And your girlfriend there?”
He reaches for me again, but I sidestep him.
“I broke up with Lexi before coming here, and California isn’t for me.” He clasps a hand across his wrinkled shirt over his heart. “You and Ben are for me.”
His blue eyes are strangely dark. I look closer. Because his pupils are huge. Maybe I don’t want to know what’s going on with him. In the end, it doesn’t matter.
“We’re not getting back together. Ever.”
Confusion fills his crazy-looking eyes and his jaw tightens. “Why?”
Because I can’t stand you. Because there’s someone else. Rather than either of those truths, I say, “It was over when I filed for divorce. Two years ago.”
He steps closer to me. I step around the table. He steps around the table.
“We belong together. We have Ben and the shop. We belong together,” he repeats rapidly with confidence.
I step away again. Between the sidestepping and his ridiculous chanting, I’m getting dizzy. “It would be best if you left.”
He takes a huge step and towers over me. “We are getting back together.”
“We’re not,” I say firmly. “And you need to leave.”