It’s so clearly a brush-off that at first she doesn’t seem to know how to respond. I watch confusion cross her face, hating myself. What I’m doing to this girl isn’t fair. I want her with me, but not too close. I want her for myself, but keep pushing her away. I didn’t like hearing about the man who used to have her, and yet I won’t be next in line. The way I’ve felt lately, if another man touched her, I’d come at him swinging. But then, because I’m a bastard, I’d leave her behind, alone, abandoned and torn.
“Do … do you want to pick it up tomorrow?”
“I really should get some rest.”
It’s not even an answer. What, I won’t get rest tonight? With this early night’s conclusion, played off as too late? I can’t sleep in if I want, given that I have nothing to do in the morning?
“Oh,” she says, suddenly timid. “So … what about … ?” But there’s nowhere to go. Not the way I’ve set the game board. She must be asking about the songwriting stuff — or at least the lyric-writing stuff — but by now I’m practically holding the damned door open and waiting for her to leave. Not literally, of course, but this sudden cold shoulder is something I’m good at. I’ve done it countless mornings, shooing an endless procession of girls out so I can proceed with my day. This feels different, but I can still see myself as if from the outside. I still hate me. I still want to fight for her, against me.
“I’ll talk to Freddy,” I say.
“Because you have songs to write, too.” She’s talking to herself as she comes to her feet. Probably trying to explain this away. Trying to believe that she’s misunderstanding, that nothing has gone wrong. That I haven’t flipped. That I haven’t just become the dog she mentioned earlier, turning around one day and biting her out of the blue.
“Right. Sure.” I force a smile, but I’m sure it’s all discomfort and teeth. “If we’re going to work together, I need time to write with — ”
(Charlie)
“ — Freddy as much as I need time to work with — ”
(Grace)
“ — you.”
I say the words as realization comes flooding horribly in. I feel like a ten-ton weight has struck me in the chest. My gut sinks through my legs and lands on the floor. It’s three years ago, and I have my friends back … except that it’s still now, Charlie and Grace are still dead, and against all odds I’ve finally managed to replace them.
We’re at the door. Now I really am opening it, holding it for her, seeing the abandonment in her eyes, knowing how unfair I’m being, knowing how my scars, today, are helping to form new trauma she’ll regret tomorrow.
“Call me when you can,” Abigail says.
“I will.”
I manage to give her another weak little smile. She touches my arm, and as we part, her fingers are pulled from me, trailing down and away from my skin like two people being forcibly separated. I want to take her back. I want to apologize for all of this. I want her against me, feeling warm. I want to kiss her. To be with her. I want to make love to her, to wake beside her and not nudge her to leave in the morning.
But I can’t. Not yet, and maybe not ever.
The door closes. It takes all I have not to look away before it does, but if this is going to happen, I’ll at least give her the respect of meeting her eyes.
After I’m alone, I turn and lean with my back to the wood, my breath shallow, the rhythm of my nearing panic. I close my eyes and try to make it go away, but somehow I’m sure she’s still there, on the door’s other side, leaning against me, the two of us back to back like bookends.
CHAPTER 26
Abigail
Lisa flops on the couch beside me like an accusation.
“What?” I say.
She’s staring right at me. Most people can’t sit in a way that implies wrongdoing on someone else’s part, but Lisa has it down to an art. This is one of those cases where I know exactly how she wants me to feel and what she probably wants me to say, but I don’t want to play along. I’m wearing earbuds and was in the middle of something, thank you very much, and the only sound I’ve been making is the scratching of my pen on paper. I’ve done nothing wrong. I won’t justify myself to my stoner roommate.
But Lisa keeps staring.
“What?”
She gives me a half shrug. Annoyed, I pull one of the earbuds out. Small and tinny, I can still hear Gavin’s guitar spilling from the miniature speaker. This is easier in person for some reason, but I made the recordings, so I might as well use them. Even if Gavin is being pouty and jerky all over again.
“Spit it out, Lisa.”
She looks down at my pad, still saying nothing.
“Is Timmy trapped in the well, Lassie?”
Lisa shifts beside me and begins twirling a clump of her blonde hair around one finger. The hair is bedecked with what I’d swear are bits from Lucky Charms cereal, but they must be beads. If they’re not, she’s taking a risk. I’m pretty hungry.
“What are you doing?”
She knows exactly what I’m doing. This isn’t a question that’s being asked in order to get an answer. It’s being asked in a prying way, to make a point about the idiocy of the person being asked.
“Writing,” I answer anyway.
“For who?”
“Herman Melville.”
“Pfft. As if. At least he was writing about Dicks.”
“Do you have something to say, Lis?”
She rolls to sit back, making too overt an effort to lounge back and seem casual. Her body language reminds me of a pimp.
“You’re fixating.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re fixating on Gavin.”
“I’m not fixating. I’m writing.”
“Fixating by writing,” Lisa says. “Why don’t you read me some of these lyrics?”
I grab the loose papers. Even Gavin hasn’t seen them. I’m sure he wouldn’t like what I’m doing because it gives him no input into the compositions. Although come to think of it, that’s how I did the lyrics for that first song — the one he won’t let us touch anymore, even though we both seemed obsessed with it before Friday night. That one was a hit. Too bad I’ve forgotten all of the words I came up with on the spot, and have only retained the chorus. I wonder if anyone was recording that. Surely not, and it’s a shame. That song felt good, even at the same time it was clearly making Gavin feel bad.
“No,” I say.
“Why not?”
“They’re not ready.”
“Oh, come on. If this is such serious artistic work — serious enough to be suitable for fan review, say — then you should let me read what you have.”
“No, Lis.”
“Because you’re fixating? Because the words are all about how much you like him?”
I laugh. “Right.”
Her face becomes uncharacteristically serious. “Okay. Then maybe the words are about a girl who runs away from one life to start another, but it’s hard to find her feet until she meets a hunky musician who helps her through.”
I stare at Lisa, our roles reversed.
“You left your notebook in the bathroom last night,” Lisa explains. “You know, you really shouldn’t write while you’re peeing.”
“My notebook is private.”
“Because it’s kind of gross. Same as how updating social media on the can is gross. ‘I’m pooping.’ Aaaand … send.” She mimes pushing a button on her phone.
“I really don’t want you prying,” I say, my voice still dangerously even. Normally, Lisa and I are pretty open with each other. But realizing I left my notebook around for her to see strikes me as an egregious mistake. And hearing her speak of reading it strikes me as a confession — one I have every right to be angry about.
“It was lying faceup, open to a song, on the sink. I just looked down. Sorry. I didn’t know it was so private. For songs that are supposed to be played publicly and all.”
I watch Lisa, whose expression clearly confers the idea that she’s
caught me. There’s no way for me to logically argue my way out of this one. The lyrics are for Gavin’s songs, not mine, so in any sane world they shouldn’t be personal. And given that I’ve let Lisa read every stilted, go-nowhere word of the short stories and books I’ve attempted, the idea that this piece of writing (which isn’t even mine, really) would be off limits is ridiculous.
Maybe I am fixating. Maybe I am obsessing. And maybe, as Lisa seems to be implying, I really am writing these songs as much for me as for Gavin. Because the way I feel right now, it’s not like Lisa has read my extracurricular writing. It’s as if she’s read my personal diary.
I say nothing. But I do keep gathering papers, not backing away from anything Lisa is saying. Or accusing.
“You’re into him,” she says.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Well, so what if I am? I seem to remember you suggesting I was into him at the start, but back then it was a good thing.”
“Be into him. Fine. But only if he’s into you. Is he into you, Abigail?”
“I don’t know.”
“He either is, or he isn’t. You can tell. And you’re smart enough to know if you’re just fooling yourself.” And are maybe just writing fantasy tales to go with his music, she’s discreet enough not to add.
“Sometimes, he seems like he is.”
“But he’s not fucking you.”
I half roll my eyes, half blush. That kind of blunt-hammer statement is trademark Lisa, but I’m neither offended nor annoyed by the ask. I’m maybe a little embarrassed. Perhaps excited by the flat lust her question implies. Because that’s how this began — or rather, that’s how Stage Two began, after I realized he was Gavin Adams instead of just another random customer at the Pit. I changed how I saw him once I realized he had a rock star side, and my expectations have shifted since then. He surely has a side that’s a user and an asshole, and that picks up one girl after another. I’d never want to be another of his one-night stands. But on another level, it bothers me that those girls got what I haven’t.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”
“If he’s not fucking you, how can he be into you?”
“You know what, Lis? You should get a job writing for Hallmark.”
“Look. The way I figure it, there’s only two ways to interpret his lack of dick-interest. The first is that he honestly just sees you as a business partner. I mean, he’s not fucking that other guy, right?”
“Freddy.”
“Right. He’s not fucking Freddy. So why would he fuck you?”
“Can you say ‘fuck’ a bunch more times?”
She ignores me. “But the second option is that he’s so into you that he won’t fuck you.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“You know. Like, he wants more than fucking. Because you’re special.”
“Can you please say sex? You’re making it sound so torrid.”
“I know, right?” Lisa smiles and kind of slithers sexily, and I realize she thinks I’ve given her a compliment. “But either way, I don’t know that it’s a good thing. If it’s the first option, you’re going to get hurt because you’re so obviously into him.”
“I’m not into him!”
“But the second option spells trouble because you’re on some sort of a pedestal.”
That doesn’t sound so bad to me. I wonder what Lisa’s objection is.
“Don’t give me that look,” Lisa says, and I realize I must have been wearing the disbelief on my face. “Boy’s got damage. I called the Overlook asking for you the other night. I got that fat kid actor guy.”
“Will? Will Cusk?”
“Yeah, except that he’s using another name now. He’s trying to be Eminem, but the imitation made me sad. Saw it on YouTube. He’s going by … Douche bag.”
“Dimebag.”
“Right. That guy. Anyway, you hadn’t shown up yet. But I could hear guitar in the background, and I recognized an old Firecracker song, so I asked Fat White Rapper if that was Gavin Adams in the background.”
I don’t like where this is going. Dimebag is overly talkative, and I figure it’s a counterreaction to his time in the spotlight as a kid. He seems to crave attention and will suck up to anyone who will give it to him. Lisa’s a natural flirt, even on the phone, and I’m sure there’s nuance here she’s not telling me. Her air right now is one of confrontation, and this story sounds to me like she’s intending it as evidence. That means the conversation wasn’t casual like she’s making it sound. No, I’ll bet she pumped Dimebag with deliberate motives. And knowing Dimebag, I’ll bet he was too eager to tell the truth.
“And?” I ask.
“Of course he says yes, so I’m like, What’s he like? And the guy tells me he’s real popular with the ladies.”
Again: This wasn’t a casual discovery. Lisa pried, and Dimebag probably doesn’t even know he was used. He probably thinks he’s nabbed an upcoming date with a girl who loves weed. Hell, knowing Lisa and her predilection for quirkiness, she might even have scheduled that date, after getting what she wanted from the call.
“Goes through groupies like tissue, it seems,” she adds.
“I already told you that,” I say, happy to be able to diffuse the bomb she’s trying to set.
“All but with one girl. Douche bag seems to think — ”
“Dimebag.”
“Dimebag seems to think he’s got a thing for one of the waitresses.”
“Really.”
“A waitress and a singer.”
I feel my forehead bunch, my eyebrows drawing together.
“I didn’t think you sang, Ab,” she says.
Shit. She knows. She knows about the song that started our partnership. Lisa honestly isn’t a manipulator, despite her wily ways at mining information. She honestly wants what’s best for me and would only intervene in my affairs when I was doing something stupid and needed saving. That’s why this discussion bothers me so much.
“I don’t.”
“‘You should have seen him,’ Dimebag tells me, as if I’m Gavin’s mom. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look at a girl that way.’”
“It doesn’t matter. He blew me off again the other night.”
“He did?”
“Yes. At his apartment. We were working, and he just ended it. Like he ended our one date. It’s over. It’s fine.”
Lisa’s eyes dart to my closed notebook. “I kind of doubt it’s over.”
“He’s not interested. Like you implied.”
“My story implied that he was interested,” Lisa says, apparently content to screw with my head by playing both sides.
“I can see the difference, okay? The songwriting helps him somehow, but he’s clearly not interested in the songwriter. I get that it’s muddled.”
“Muddled,” Lisa says, “and trouble.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Because, Honey, I know how you are.”
“Really. Well then, how am I?” Then, because Lisa knows all about my mother and because the comparison seems so apt, I add, “Mom?”
“Brian ruined you. You don’t trust anyone.”
“I see. How interesting of me.”
“Except that it’s pretty obvious you’re trusting Gavin. And maybe you shouldn’t because he’s not being honest, either.”
“Because you know him so well?”
“Read your own songs, Ab. Just read them, and tell me if that’s not the work of a girl who wants a guy to love her.”
“I don’t want him to love me!” I say the L-word like it’s ridiculous.
“And this is a guy who I don’t think can love. Not based on what I get from the Internet and — ”
“Well, if it’s on the Internet, it must be true.” My arms cross as if by their own accord.
“I’ve seen him perform, too. I’m a good judge of character.”
“How silly of me. To think I might know him
better than someone who’s seen him onstage and on YouTube a few times.”
“You don’t know him as well as you think you do,” Lisa says.
“Really.”
“Or as well as you want to.”
“Well. Aren’t you just the genius?”
“I’m just looking out for you, Abigail. How many times have I tried to set you up with a guy? You’re like the iron bitch. But now, the first time you let someone in, it’s like you’re melting — ”
“I’m not ‘melting’!”
Now Lisa crosses her arms. “Okay, fine. Maybe I don’t know Gavin. Maybe you’re right about him, and I’m wrong. Maybe you’re being perfectly levelheaded. Maybe this is just a business relationship between you and Gavin and this guy Freddy. Maybe the way you keep coming home from seeing him looking like someone stepped on your puppy is perfectly normal and reasonable. But maybe, if you honestly want to know and aren’t just stubbornly determined to believe the fairy tale, you should get someone else’s opinion.”
“Like my mother’s,” I joke.
“Like someone you already know, and who knows better than both of us,” Lisa says.
CHAPTER 27
Abigail
It takes a few days to find the person I’m looking for, but it works out because now I’m only working the Overlook on weekends and the Nosh Pit during the week. Right now, I have no days off, but I also don’t care that much. My Overlook shifts aren’t terribly long, so it’s almost like having weekends free. I don’t have kids, like Maya. Or a dog. Or parents. Or friends outside of work other than Lisa. Or anyone, really.
Gavin doesn’t call. It’s fine; I didn’t think he would. And really, it’s for the best. Eventually, Freddy will force us back together, and he’ll probably try to press us to get those lost lyrics for the untitled song that the Overlook’s staff seemed to have enjoyed so much. But for now, Freddy is either keeping to himself and making plans, or he’s the one monopolizing Gavin’s time, working on chords and melodies. As things stand, we’re two halves of a fractured threesome. Freddy and Gavin are music. Gavin and I are lyrics. In a healthy working relationship (one might even call us a band, if I played an instrument or sang well), we’d probably work together in a group, so the fact that we separate tells me Lisa might be right: Something is probably wrong. I wouldn’t snap at Lisa for looking at my lyrics if I wasn’t personalizing the songs to the point of schoolgirl fantasy. And I wouldn’t cordon off my time with Gavin from Freddy’s time with Gavin if that time wasn’t somehow precious — if I didn’t want to be alone with him for its own sake, even though he’s clearly running from me as much as he’s drawing closer.
The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2) Page 16