Ink My Heart

by Jean Haus

  The bag on Holly’s shoulder drops to the floor.

  I dramatically throw an arm out. “On top of everything else, I can’t deal with him right now. Thinking about him makes me crazy. I can’t do crazy with Trevor breathing down my neck.”

  Dropping next to me on the bed, Holly wraps me in her arms. “Did you ever consider Justin might be someone to help you with all this shit, someone to lean on?”

  “Oh, Hol, I’m not going to use him. I called him on Wednesday, but it was just short and awkward with my head caught in a mess.” I wipe my face, surprised that it’s wet because I hadn’t even known I was crying. “I’m super confused with all this Trevor crap.”

  Shaking her head, Holly leans on my shoulder. “I should have never tried to get you to just have fun. It’s always all or nothing with you, isn’t it?”

  As I rest my head against hers, a self-deprecating laugh escapes me because she’s described me perfectly. She lets out a sad chuckle too as we sit there leaning on each other.

  “Why are you crying?” Ben asks from the doorway. He’s dressed in a fuzzy robe but still dripping water on the floor, his face frozen in a fearful expression.

  I try to stand but Holly keeps her arm around me tight. “Sometimes mommies get sad too,” she says. “Everyone has sad days. You know those days when everything seems to go wrong?”

  Ben nods.

  “Your mom’s having one of those days. Why don’t you come and help me hug her?”

  He nods slowly before rushing across the room and jumping in our laps.

  After a long group hug, Holly bends until her nose is almost touching Ben’s. “Should we tickle her?”

  “Yes!” Ben says.

  Their attack is so fierce I fall back on to the bed. In a few minutes, I’m laughing and gasping, “Stop! I’m going to pee the bed!”

  Ben scoots off the bed like lightning. “Yuck!”

  Holly stands and heaves her bag from the floor. “When someone’s threatening to pee, my work is done.” She pauses at the door. “Unless you want me stay in tonight?”

  I wave a hand. “Jake’s waiting. See you later.”

  “All right, but call me if you need chick flicks, booze, and an assortment of Little Debbies.”

  Zebra cakes and rum? Hard to resist but I wave my hand again. “Go. Jake’s waiting.”

  She gives us a wicked grin before taking off.

  After she’s gone, Ben crawls back into my lap. “Why are you sad?”

  Running my hand though his damp curls, I try to find an explanation that doesn’t have to do with his father or with Justin. “Things were crazy this week at work. I’m a little stressed out.”

  “Stressed out?” he repeats slowly, obviously trying to understand the word stressed.

  “Yeah, like worried all the time.” I tug on the belt of his robe. “I don’t want to worry anymore tonight. How about you get your pajamas on and then we can read and relax?”

  “That sounds good,” he agrees, and scrambles off my lap.

  We read books until he falls asleep. I tuck him in, remove his glasses, kiss his soft forehead, and wander through the silent apartment. I fall into the chair next to the window and look outside. It’s almost eleven now, and a few people are coming and going. Some hold hands; others have their arms around each other. The silence grows. It booms loudly through me. Beyond the booming silence is loneliness, the dull ache I’ve grown used to and accepted over the past few years. But tonight it’s more crushing than usual.

  Unable to take the loneliness anymore, I move to my easel in the corner and attempt to work on my most recent painting. The shadows get deeper along the street, but that’s all I can extract from my imagination because thoughts of Justin are filling my mind.

  I’ve refused to think of him all week, but after talking with Holly, he’s all I can think of. His masculine scent. The bright flash of his dimples. The seriousness of his green eyes searching mine. The sound of his sexy voice singing in my ear. The desperate way he wants to prove himself better than his reputation or his past. The lighthearted way I feel when I’m with him. Memories, images, and emotions swirl in my head until I’m rushing to the closet and yanking out a clean canvas.

  I don’t visualize, just let the swirl in my head inspire me while I paint and paint and paint.

  Sometime around four in the morning, I step back from my easel.

  I’m shocked at the sight.

  A picture’s supposedly worth a thousand words.

  Mine depicts many, but mostly…

  The truth.

  Chapter 31

  Justin

  Of course, the last studio session is hell. Romeo is on a perfectionist tear. Sam is hungover. Gabe, as always, is being an asshole. And I’m a depressed piece of shit. Perfect time to play some music and record it. At least there will be an edge to our sound.

  After four hours of playing, we take a breather to eat the Chinese takeout Sam ordered, declaring he needed some grease to help his hangover. I pick at gong bao chicken and pork pot stickers. The windowless break room is essentially a basement, but at least it has several round tables and is large enough that we can also take a break from one another. I’m sitting at a table alone, picking at my food and doodling in a notebook, when Romeo decides to join me. The ass is obviously dense. I’m not in the mood for company. I go to the pop machine for a drink. When I get back to the table, he’s reading over the bullshit I’ve been writing since the drive this morning.

  I plop down at the table. “Didn’t know you were such a curious fuck to invite yourself into my shit.” I hold out a hand. “Give it back.”

  “This is pretty good,” he says, continuing to read and ignoring me.

  My hand reaches to tear the notebook out of his, but he leans back. I fly up and my chair hits the wall behind me. “I’m not fucking around.”

  He still doesn’t look up. “I’m not either. This is really, really good.”

  “Romeo,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “I’ve been working on a tune this would be perfect for.” Ignoring me, he mouths the words from the paper and nods his head, obviously thinking in music notes. “A few tweaks and we could have one hell of a song.”

  With one step around the table, I snatch the notebook away. “I didn’t write if for your album.”

  “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 w
hile 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.

&nb
sp; “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.