by Jean Haus
Yet in group, as she sits quietly across from me, it’s impossible not to think of her. Her presence looms no matter where I look. The other idiots in group have become shadows. April sucks up all my vision. Like right now as Jeff drones on, she stares at her hands. I know this even as I stare at the floor, because for every second of group, I’m completely aware of her every move. I was hyper aware of her from the moment I joined group, but lately I’m consumed with her for the entire hour.
It’s been over two weeks since we slept together, weeks of wishing it never happened because I’m addicted. At the same time I’m wishing for more that should never be. She’s right. After life with my pop, I’m fucked up to the point that I can never be twisted back into right. And while I’m more screwed up than her, she’s depressed, or maybe guilt ridden for some idiotic reason, over her cousin’s suicide to the point of obsession. She carries it with her like a hidden badge that shines between the layers of polite perfection if you can get close enough to look.
And I’ve gotten close. Too close.
Besides all of that fuckery, the mere idea of seriously being with someone like April fills me with an unfamiliar anxiety. My past girlfriends, chosen for their empty minds and open homes—the more I could be away from my father the better—never expected much, other than lots of attention. You’re hot, hot, hot. You make me want to fuck, fuck, fuck. And yeah, she does that to me too. More than any of the ones before her. Shit, just peering across the circle at her has me rearing to go. But in those quiet moments of day to day life, my subconscious dares to imagine more.
Me.
Having a real relationship.
With her.
As if fucking possible.
Like my pop would say, Shit for brains, Gabe.
Pissed that I’m in this predicament, I need to get over her. Learn how to deal with it. Move on. Maybe and truly just be friends.
Fortunately, these last few weeks have been busy. The band has become a writing and practicing machine, rehearsing four times a week and almost six hours the last two Saturdays. We have two recording sessions coming over the next two months. One over Thanksgiving break and one after Christmas. Romeo is determined to finish out college, Sam wants to also—just not as bad—and Justin doesn’t give a shit. The rest of us have to follow Romeo’s lame ass schedule so he can get what he wants, a degree. Therefore, we’re cramming practice in between school schedules, work, and my fucking never-ending therapy, which keeps me busy—while the want of April hovers like a desolate ghost lodged in the back of my head—most of the time.
But here in group, my obsessed mind can’t get away from her.
Once Jeff finishes his wrap up and excuses group, April and I are in the parking lot sharing our usual nonsense about day to day things—or more precisely pretending to be friends. While we talk about bullshit, I plan to drop the bomb. The bomb that is the first step toward mending our friendship. And maybe mending her.
Somewhere along the way, I truly began to care about April, so much that my care is a tight knot in my chest that I carry throughout the day and sleep with at night. My own little coil of April anxiety. I want to help her get over her crippling sadness, free her from the guilt that is holding her back, and loosen that knot so maybe I can at least sleep.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a few?” I ask, keeping my tone level as we veer toward her car.
“Ah…I believe we are talking right now,” she says, her smile a touch sardonic.
Damn. She’s so beautiful it hurts to look at her sometimes. “About something important.”
Her brows rise a bit, but she nods as we come to her car.
“So the band’s going to L.A. over break.” Her expression turns confused as she hits unlock on her key chain. My feet shuffle as I concentrate on a way to explain my idea. “And I was wondering if, well, we fly out on Friday, but if you were going to miss class on Monday or Tuesday, you could fly out on Wednesday. Plus we don’t have group that week either.”
She leans back, staring at me with wide eyes. “Why would I fly out?”
“Shit,” I say, thinking my dad is right. I can’t do a damn thing correctly. “I’m not explaining this very good. I emailed that actor, the one your cousin wanted to meet.”
Her pretty winged brows shoot up. “And he agreed to meet?”
“Not yet, but he will.”
She blinks at me, then slowly asks, “Why are you so sure?”
“Told him we wanted to interview him for a video.”
She pauses, her hand above the door handle—her escape. “What video? Romeo agreed to let Michael Thomas in your video?”
“No. It’s just an interview.” I lean a hip on the door, stopping her from opening it.
“Thomas will be pissed when nothing comes of it.”
I shrug. “Don’t care what some washed up teeny bopper actor thinks.”
“Um…”
“Do you seriously care what this guy thinks?”
“Well, no, but it’s rude…”
“Never know, maybe we will use him. Anyway, we all have our own rooms for once. Sam said I can stay with him, so you can have your own room. I mean…”—fuck, I do not want her thinking I’m hitting on her, that’s not what this is about—“I’m not trying to set something up with you. I just—you just—the list is almost done. You should finish it.”
She searches my gaze with her conflicted one. “I don’t need to finish the list, Gabe. My interview for the clinical program is right after Thanksgiving. Jeff gave a good report and Dr. Medina recommended me weeks ago. Once this semester is over, I’ll be done with group too.”
I bend closer, almost over her. “You should finish the list for you.”
She looks past me, drawing in a visible breath. “I—”
“And for me. I think I need closure on that fucker,” I add, like the dickhead that I am hoping to sway her with my needs.
Her expression becomes more conflicted.
I stand up. “Just think about it. I can get your plane ticket.”
Her eyes grow huge. “You don’t have to do that!”
“Think about it.” I turn toward my car, but say over my shoulder, “I’ll text you in a few days.”
I don’t look back, and by the time I get to my car, she’s gone.
Gone. Gone. Gone.
The way it should be.
But I still feel like punching my hood.
Chapter 23
~April~
I haven’t been to California in almost three years. I Skype with my father once a month, but I’ve used school as an excuse not to visit. There is no escape from music with him. It’s in my face twenty four seven whenever I visit. Yet Gabe’s plea that I finish the list for him swayed me more than any of his other arguments. However, I didn’t want to take his room or be trapped with him for five days. It would be too much for my emotions and hormones.
Of course, my father was thrilled when I asked him if I could come for Thanksgiving. Of course, he picked me up from the airport. Of course, we’re at his house. He has always been more of a teacher or a friend, but my father cares for me deeply. My mother is not happy. She expected me for Thanksgiving. That I’m staying with my father has her quite upset. Yet Gabe’s plea hit me harder than even her persistence.
So here I am at my father’s house in Malibu, standing next to a grand piano overlooking the sunlight ocean, as he makes me a latte on his imported machine in the kitchen. The waves roll in, the piano beckons, the sound of cream being steamed sounds. Unable to resist, I lay my fingers on the cool wood of the piano at the far end, away from the keys. Though silent, I imagine the instrument humming for me.
My father holds a cup in front of me and nods at the piano. “Would you like me to play something for you?”
No! I take the cup. This is why I’ve stayed away. I don’t want to hurt him. Turning my back on music is like turning my back on him. I can’t hurt him, so I can do this. I will do this. At least it’s not a damn guitar.
; “Sure, please,” I say and take the cup, my hands faintly shaking.
He looks at me oddly for a long second, then sits on the bench. I imagine him flipping out the tails of a suit coat, clearing his throat, and raising his hands over the keys in a pretentious fashion. Instead his hands find the keys with a subtle poise, and instead of a tuxedo he wears worn jeans and a faded T-shirt. And rather than crazy gray hair flopping as he plays, his brown hair is short with only hints of salt.
My father was trained to be a classic pianist from an early age. My grandparents had big plans for him. In college, out from under their thumbs, he spread his wings. Quit college and joined a rock band. Lived in a rat-infested apartment. Wore spandex on stage. And beat the crap out of guitars. Eventually he found a path half way back to their ideal as a composer for pop and rock acts, but it took a long time for my grandparents to forgive him.
However, he still plays many of the compositions he competed with from age twelve to seventeen, like the one he is currently playing, Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” The notes fill the house, as my father’s expression turns serenely concentrated. The piano vibrates with his beautiful playing, a perfect backdrop to the scene of treetops and roofs slanting toward the ocean.
I internally sigh as the music of my childhood tugs at my soul. My father appears so complacent while playing that I’m jealous. Of my own father. But I sip coffee and keep my features smooth. Inside I want to scream at him to stop or hug the notes and dance around the room with them. Unfortunately, the composition is almost fifteen minutes long. I sip my coffee, tap my foot, and try to appear elated to hear him play. It gets hard as the pace picks up and he rolls out the notes in fast succession.
I smile and sip.
Yup, this is why I stayed away.
My father is music. All types, in any form. On countless instruments. He has never been married, nor will he ever get married. This is his wife, his love, his life.
And he passed his love to me. Through not only genetics, but also through his teaching and his coaching—April, learn piano first, play all kinds of music: Spanish, folk, blues, jazz…never stop learning…don’t just play, feel the music, let it roll into your soul…
And I did until thorny guilt tore at the essence of me.
Internally, I’m becoming a tangled mess as he plays and memories float over me. Away from my father, I can pretend, even believe I’m meant for something else. Here with him and the music of my childhood, it’s very clear I’m living a lie. But those tearing thorns leave me bleeding and prepared to live the lie out.
I finally give in. Set the coffee cup on a nearby table and lay both of my hands on the piano. Close my eyes. Let the notes flow through me, mathematical precision turned into sound as emotional art. Fine. I will always love music to the depths of my soul. Thorns entangle and tear. I bleed. I take a deep breath. Not embracing. Just relishing. The thorns loosen but stay clamped in.
My father finishes and I open my eyes. “No one plays like you.”
He smiles warmly. “From you, I’ll take that as the highest compliment.”
I go around the piano to the bench and sit opposite from him, then throw my arms around him in a desperate hug. “I’ve missed you.” The words are muffled in his shoulder.
“Missed you too,” he says, hugging me back.
Damn. I feel like crying. I hug him tighter, hoping to absorb all of his peaceful energy.
“Everything okay, April?” he asks, his tone edging into worry.
“Yeah,” I sit back, drawing in air before I do start crying. “Getting sentimental in my old age, and your playing brought back memories.” I’ve gotten so good that the twisted truth comes out of me effortlessly. April the exceptionally skilled liar.
He laughs. “Old age. If I could be twenty one again…”
My phone rings with an annoying chirp. I try to ignore it as he pushes off the bench. “Go ahead, I need to call Eddie about dinner on Thursday.”
When I asked to come, I told my dad that I had friends in town. He didn’t mind. My father is the epitome of laid back. I think the endless music in his life keeps him calm.
I tug my phone from my pocket unsurprised at seeing Gabe’s name on the front. His text reads: Told you. The douche agreed to meet tomorrow for lunch at some place called Leaf. 2 okay? Need directions?
I groan. Leaf is a hotspot for stars to have lunch. Meaning the paparazzi stalk the place. This guy is a douche. I text back that I know where it is and that I’ll be there at two. He doesn’t reply. Gabe is like me, not much of a phone aficionado.
I hear my father talking on the phone about turkey and sweet potatoes to his longtime girlfriend, Eddie. If they’re still together. Even when they are not a couple, they remain friends. My father is not into drama. The exact opposite of my mother.
Turning around on the bench, I can’t help but notice the gleam of white ivory keys.
No embracing. Just relishing. I remind myself as I stand and quickly move from the instrument.
Chapter 24
~April~
Leaf is oddly decorated in bright floral prints and loud colored furniture. You’d think, being a celebrity hang out, it would be modern and sleek and cool, but no, it’s loud French country on crack. I’ve actually been here a few times before. My mother used to fly with me back and forth for the summers until I was fourteen. She’d stay for two days at the beginning and the end, so we could do some sightseeing. One of her must stops became Leaf—my father would never want to come within one hundred feet of the paparazzi—and I was never sure if it was to glimpse at celebrities or to feel like one.
When I come in, I ignore the photographers hanging out on the sidewalk and checking me out to discern if I’m anyone worth a lift of their camera. There inspection though is kind of creepy. Although I’m early, the hostess, obviously recognizing me from a description, leads me to a table on one of the patios. Michael Thomas is not here. But Gabe and Romeo are. I’m suddenly flustered, wondering why Romeo is here. What did Gabe tell him?
Romeo smiles when he sees the hostess gesturing me to a table. Gabe’s expression remains stoic, making me think that he is aware that I’m not okay with the situation. I force myself toward the table.
“Hey,” Romeo says as I sit. “How’s your dad?”
Startled, I give him a questioning look before I recall that he has been a fan of my father for years. I’m a little off kilter because of his presence. “Good, he’s working on a sound track for an independent film right now.” I glance, maybe more like glare, at Gabe, who reads his menu. Ah, he knows I’m upset. “Hello, Gabe,” I say in a flat tone. He appears tired with scruff heavier than usual on his jaw, which oddly adds to his normal surfer look, giving it a hot edge.
Holding his menu, he waves at me with two fingers. “Hey, April, how was your flight?”
His expression is pure innocence, his tenor monotone. I can’t help a scowl from forming. “Fine.” Luckily, our server brings me a water and takes my order for a lemonade. Once the server is gone, I pick the menu up, trying not to obsess how Gabe got Romeo here or why. I’m also a bit irritated with myself for caring. “How’s the record coming?”
Romeo sighs, twisting his glass of water. “It’s getting there. Still ironing out some rough spots. Transitions, beginnings, and endings, you know the shit that can make or break a song.”
Gabe crosses his arms. “He’s being the usual perfectionist asshole.”
I don’t comment. Romeo grins.
Ignoring Gabe, I ask, “You guys working tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Romeo says. “We want to get done with at least half the album this trip. Finishing is more important than a turkey dinner.”
I nod again like a puppet. I’d been toying with the idea of inviting the band to my father’s house for Thanksgiving. Home cooked meal and all that. Now upset, the invitation is sour on my tongue. I clear my throat. “Well, if—”
“Romeo,” Gabe says in a tight tone. “Could you please give
us a minute?”
Romeo pauses lifting his glass of water, glancing between us. He sets the glass down, his eyebrows raised and his look at me pointed.
I tap my menu on the table. Romeo must assume I was lying to him about there being nothing between Gabe and I, which I kind of was. “I don’t think that’s nec—”
“For a few minutes?” Gabe interrupts.
Romeo pushes away from the table. “Yeah, sure.”
Gabe leans forward as soon as he leaves. “I should have called or texted.” He runs a hand through his hair, then grabs the back of his neck. “We’ve been busy, but Romeo agreed to help when I explained we’ve been working on your cousin’s bucket list. He is far better than I am at this business bullshit. And damn, April, he knows about your cousin right?”
He looks so stressed out at upsetting me, it takes me several seconds to say a simple, “Well, yeah.”
He lets go of his neck and drops his hand. “It’s not like I told him you were in group.”
“No, but he thinks there is something going on between us.”
Gabe stares at me, then lets out a gruff laugh. “There’s a lot of shit between us, April. Does it matter what Romeo thinks? Why is it that at one moment you don’t care what anyone thinks, then in the next you’re freaking out about it?”
My mind whirls at his question. Of course, keeping my issues close keeps people out of them, but here in this restaurant where my mother pretended that her career as an actress didn’t dead end with lying across car hoods in rock videos, I’m not so sure. I’m wondering if all her social rules about outward appearance did seep into me over the years.
“Hey,” Romeo says, interrupting my internal breakdown. “Look who I ran into.”
I blink at the boy—well, man in a wavy swooped hair doo over his sunglasses and boy clothes—standing at our table.
Romeo gestures to the open chair next to me.
The man pushes the sunglasses on his head and baby blues twinkle at me, obviously thinking I’m star struck.
Maybe about ten years ago, I’d swoon over him, and that’s a big maybe. Today, not so much. I glance across the table at Gabe, his mahogany eyes hard, his scruffy jaw even harder as he glares at Thomas who appears to be checking me out. Yeah, that face is swoony. I could be imagining his jealously, but it makes me warm inside, which is very wrong.