So don’t be stupid, my head says.
I’m not being stupid. I’m thinking clearly, my body replies.
He doesn’t love you. He can’t, and never will.
But I might love him enough for both of us.
Inadvertently, my carnal brain scores a point for the other team with that last one. I might love him enough for both of us? That’s the kind of thing only stupid girls think, and I’m not stupid. That’s the kind of thinking that gets teenagers pregnant and keeps women with bad men who hit them. You can’t love for someone else, and thinking so is asking for trouble.
If Gavin loved me — if he even had a chance of ever loving me — he wouldn’t shut down every time I got close.
If Gavin loved me, I’d know about the accident, Charlie and Grace, and what she meant to him from Gavin himself. But I only know because Chloe told me, and even now Gavin doesn’t really know that I know. He won’t open up. He won’t let me try to help. I’ve told him about the thorns inside me, but he’s told me nothing.
If Gavin loved me, he’d want my help. He’d want me to help make it better.
If he loved me, he wouldn’t run from the thing that most deeply connected us. He wouldn’t have buried his sheet music, or refused to let me try, in his presence, to remember the lyrics. That day, for the spell of three or four minutes, Gavin opened his heart to me. I could feel his ache in the music. I spoke to that pain, and he let me. I told his story — eerily well, according to Chloe. It’s hard not to believe there was something there, and I’ve wanted to try and recapture it since.
But not Gavin. To him, that moment was too real. Maybe too painful.
And if that’s how it is then fine. I understand. It’s clear he loved Grace, but if he can’t even face it with me, it proves he could never love me the same way. Not really. And probably not ever.
And if what I see in his eyes now is merely a physical need, I’m not interested. My body is, but not my heart. So I’ll resist. I’m strong enough to do that. The more time passes with him looking at me this way, it’s like prolonged foreplay, and it’s as if I can feel his lips trailing down my body, kissing my nipples, running his tongue between my legs. But I can fight it. Even if I have to come right here on this chair without so much as a finger touching me, I can do it.
Because I deserve better than just sex.
I deserve all of Gavin if I’m to have any of him.
And if I can’t have all of him, I’ll just keep waiting — and suffering — until we both find someone else.
CHAPTER 30
Gavin
When our little company/band/whatever session is finished, Freddy walks away looking satisfied, thumbing through some notes he made on Overlook stationery. Freddy adjusted to the strangeness pretty quickly, after fighting through the initial shock of Abigail’s new directed business planning. The two of them started yammering back and forth about marketing plans for stuff we haven’t even started writing. Abigail studied much of what she knows in prep for the college she didn’t attend and learned the rest via her parents’ two schools of hard knocks. Both are entrepreneurs, so the kids learned from exposure.
I know this because I know Abigail. There’s a moment when I realize how much more I know about her than she knows about me, but I shake it away.
Freddy gets up grinning, inspired as I’ve seldom seen him, the decision to go indie firm in his mind despite me only having the biggest-picture idea of what that even means. I guess we’re not chasing record companies anymore, despite that being Firecracker Confession’s pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. To me, this feels a bit like deciding not to run fast as a sprinter, but what do I know?
I can tell that Abigail either expected Freddy to take more time gathering his stuff or that she’d be faster because once Freddy is gone she seems in a rush to get up and out, like she doesn’t want to be left alone with me even in the middle of this big, public room.
“Abigail,” I say.
She speaks without looking back. “Yeah?”
“Why did you do all of this?”
Since it’s an open-ended question, I fully expect her to turn. She can’t answer a question like that in a quip, so she’s going to have to rotate and face me. But still I only see her back, trying hard not to disrespect her with my eyes on her ass.
“You want to sell albums, don’t you?”
“The songs aren’t even written yet.”
“They’re mostly in the works. And I’m thinking ‘Betrayal’ would make a good first single, and there’s no sense not looking for production connections for that one now, right?”
“You like ‘Betrayal’ as a single?” In my mind, that’s one of our less spectacular roughs.
“It’s catchy,” she tells me.
“It’s kinda catchy. But there’s also not a lot of substance there.”
“‘Substance’?”
“You know. Meaning. Movement. I like it fine, but it’s not like it says much.”
“Well,” she says, and the word kind of drags like it’s carrying too much weight, “a lot of the songs we’ve greenlit don’t say much.”
If she were looking at me, which she’s not, I’d give her an uncomprehending glance. Not because I don’t understand what she means, but because I don’t understand the loaded way she said it.
“Why?” she asks. “Do you have another suggestion for a single?”
“I’d like to see how the album shapes up first. I feel like you’re putting the cart before the horse here.” And that’s true. Before, we were passing a few songs back and forth as scribblers reveling in the joy of creation. Today, I feel like I’m part of a Fortune 500 corporation, just leaving a board meeting.
“Really.”
“Yes. What’s this all about?”
“What’s what all about?”
She’s still gathering papers. Still not looking at me. It’s hard to do this with only my voice.
“Why all the planning and marketing and strategizing all of a sudden?”
“Someone has to do it.”
“Not now, they don’t. And you don’t have to do it.” I rush on because that might sound accusatory, like I’m saying she shouldn’t do it. “Not all by yourself, I mean.”
“Freddy’s onboard.”
“And me?”
“Did you have a problem with anything we discussed today?”
“No, but … ”
“But what?”
I pause long enough that she finally has to turn to see what’s barring my response. Her eyes hold a curious mix of emotions. If I had to pin it down, I’d say there was anger and … and fear? But I don’t know what I’ve done to merit anger, and I definitely don’t know what I’ve done to merit fear.
“Well,” I say, “I kind of thought you were just going to help me write some lyrics.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I guess we’ve done that, haven’t we?”
It sounds like a challenge. I have no idea how to answer. Of course we’ve “done that,” but she’s acting like we haven’t, and I’m supposed to feel bad about it.
“Why are you acting like this?” I ask.
“I’m not acting like anything.”
“You call me in. You call Freddy. Then we get this whirlwind session, and suddenly we’re opening a Twitter account and hiring administrative help?”
“We won’t hire admins until we have something profit generating for them to do.”
“But why are you even thinking about admins instead of — ”
“Well, I’m goddamn done writing lyrics, aren’t I?” She’s spun again to confront me, but now turns and gathers the rest of her stuff too fast, desperate to end our encounter. I get a final glare, and then she’s marching toward the back and I’m sitting in the chair with Terry the bartender watching me, wondering what just happened.
I stand to follow.
“Abigail.”
She keeps walking.
“Abigail!”
“You do your job. Let me do mine.”
> “I am doing my job. And you’re doing yours. Why are you mad at me? I just want to know why all of this is happening.”
“Well, are you going to make all our plans?”
We’re almost to the hallway. Terry is discreet enough to move out of obvious earshot, but this is clearly the start of a scene I’d rather not make.
“Look, it’s fine. I’m glad you’re thinking ahead.” I struggle to figure out how to say what’s on my mind because her arguments are all correct: Most of the lyrics are written for the songs we have, we do need plans if we intend to produce and distribute this eventual album ourselves, and I am not the right person to depend on for planning. Out of everyone, I’m the most likely to find us a drummer, but my mind, right now, can’t even stick on that. But despite Abigail’s obvious truth, there’s an edge to everything. Something unspoken is bristling her, complicating every exchange. “I just don’t understand why it’s coming up now.”
“Best to plan early.”
“But you seem so bothered.”
“It just needs to be done, Gavin.” Again she turns, and a moment later she’s in the room with the lockers, banging one open unnecessarily loud.
I follow her inside. I may be clueless on this one, but I’m not an idiot. I know when a woman is pissed at me. God knows it’s happened often enough in the past.
I close the door behind me. Subtly, I depress the thumb lock so that Freddy or Danny or fucking Dimebag doesn’t come in and make this worse than it already is.
Abigail looks up at me. “What?” she snaps.
“I just want to talk to you.”
“You just talked to me for an hour.”
“Just you.” I walk closer. She seems angry enough to hit me but doesn’t back away. But she’s not confrontational, either; she doesn’t stare daggers into my eyes like a dare. Instead, she seems almost embarrassed, her eyes on the ground, fidgeting, her breath coming too fast and hot.
“Not now,” she says.
“When?”
“Not now,” she repeats.
“Just tell me what’s going on.”
“Nothing is going on.”
“Bullshit.”
“Why, because you know me so well?”
“I know you well enough to know bullshit when I see it. You can tell me, Abigail.”
Now she looks up. I have her full attention, and I’m the one who wants to take a step back.
“I can, can’t I? I can tell you anything. And you know it all, don’t you? How many brothers do I have? How many sisters? What did I always want to do when I grew up? What’s my roommate’s name?”
“Do … do you want me to answer these questions?”
“Get out of my way.” She shoulders halfway past me, but I move to put my back against the door.
“Get out of my way, Gavin.”
“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Move.”
“Just talk to me, Abigail.”
She slaps my arm, surprising me. It looks like she’ll say something, but she presses it back with obvious effort.
“What?” I ask. “Just spit it out!”
“I don’t know! I don’t know, okay? Nothing that should bother me, anyway, right? Because I’m not in a place where I have any right to … to … oh, just let me go!”
“What place? Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down.” A deep breath that does nothing to soothe her nerves. “I am calm,” she lies.
“Will you just say what’s on your mind?”
“Will you just say what’s on your mind?” she counters.
“What?”
“You don’t have to say anything, do you? Because you’re the artist. Because you’re the moody, soulful, brooding, beautiful man who just sits on stage and gets girls’ panties all in a bunch. Me, I just write lyrics. Except when I write lyrics that bother you, huh?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I said I was sorry. I said it right away, that first day! I didn’t want to do this. You talked me into it. You got me thinking I had this gift, that we’d be so perfect as a … as a team, I guess,” and she says team the way I’d say poison. “But then it’s like I did this bad thing, and it’s the thing that I apologized for right from the start! You can’t have it both ways, Gavin!”
“What … I don’t understand, Abigail. Have it both ways about what?”
She tries to push past me again, and again I block her way. We’re going to have this out, whatever it is. She gives up easily enough, but now I can see that her eyes are wet. I break a little because I’m doing this to her. And worse: whatever’s at root of this argument now, I caused that, too.
I don’t want to make her cry. I never, ever want to make this pretty girl cry.
“Why won’t you talk to me?”
“I’m talking to you right now. You’re the one who doesn’t want to talk.”
“But why won’t you open up? Why won’t you let me in?” She doesn’t let me answer. Her face twists into a bitter grimace, as if there’s lemon on her tongue. “But again, I guess I have no right to demand it. Why should you tell me all your secrets? I’m just your partner. I’m not your … ”
“My what?”
“Fuck you, Gavin! Fuck you and how stupid you are!” She’s pummeling me with her little fists, and then it hits me. I really am stupid. But I’m out of practice with this stuff; it’s been years since I’ve had to deal with a woman as more than a transaction. But I see it now. And I’m through fighting. I’m through sabotaging myself. I’m through pushing Abigail away. If this is our problem, then there’s no problem.
I’ve treated her like hell because my demons have hooked me. But I’m ready to push past it, and it scares me to think of how close I’m coming, right now, to losing her.
“Hey,” I say.
The simple word stops her. She looks up, and her makeup is running a little. Her hair has threaded into a web across her face, but I reach up to brush it away and she lets me. I’ve grabbed hold of her wrists to protect myself, and I still have her left in my occupied hand. Right now she’s not pulling away, or pushing back.
Her eyes lower a little. Her body sags. She seems to lean in. And so, emboldened, I lower her fist and let go. I reach out with my left hand, my guitar hand, and lift her chin to meet Abigail’s eyes.
I could crush her with a word. I could destroy her with the wrong thing said. Knowing it kills me, as I see what all of this is about. She thinks I’m using her, or that I have used her, or that I will use her. She thinks that the man everyone knows I am is who I want to be with her. But I have to make her understand. I haven’t pushed on because I care for her so much. I haven’t done what I usually do because she’s not like the others. The others are pretty. But Abigail is beautiful to her core.
With my fingers on her chin, I use my thumb to wipe away her concealer. Her tears make it simple to do, and then I see what she’s trying to hide, like the flaws I’ve tried so hard to bury, until now.
“What is it?” she says, her voice suddenly soft, delicate.
“You’re beautiful just as you are,” I say.
She swallows, her breath still too short, too shallow. Her skin is warm to the touch.
“And you?” she says.
“I’m just a guitar player — ”
She doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t fight. She just sighs and cuts my sentence in half by reaching behind me and turning the knob.
“Have a good set tonight, Gavin,” she tells me. Then she moves past me, and I’m alone.
The second half of my sentence hangs on my still-parted lips.
— who’s lucky enough to be in love with you.
CHAPTER 31
Abigail
I leave the Overlook just before two o’clock, feeling like my chest is being squeezed in a vice. It’s a terrible feeling, and one I haven’t had for a long time — one that I hate myself for feeling because it means I’ve allowed myself to care for Gavin way t
oo much despite knowing better on every level. I didn’t even feel this squeezing sensation with Brian when we ended things. By the time I broke off our engagement, I hated Brian more than I liked him, let alone loved him. Even the first time I found proof he was cheating, I didn’t hurt like this. It’s sad to think about, but I suppose I always knew.
But this, now, is like something structural has been tugged out of me. Without realizing it — surely without meaning to — I must have built a home for Gavin inside my heart. I was a stupid little schoolgirl again, the way I was a stupid little school girl before Brian, kissing at an age where I had to worry about my braces locking with another’s. I’d made a fantasy despite knowing he was bad news, and that fantasy must have become part of what kept me going. In retrospect, it even seems obvious. I’ve been buoyant these past few weeks. I’ve been optimistic. I’ve written something substantive for the first time ever, and of course I’ve written it to Gavin’s music.
Sprinkled throughout me are these little pieces of him. Bits of reinforcement and glue that have worked to prop me up. I’ve thought about calling my parents. I’ve imagined standing up to Roxanne. I’ve felt a bit kinder, more generous. My future as a career waitress suddenly seems less black and white, all because he’s been remaking me from the inside out.
And now it’s gone.
The fantasy has collapsed. Finally, after that last confrontation, I know with all my head, heart, and body that we would never work. I feel so dumb for ever, apparently, being fooled into thinking we might. I’m just another fish on the line, naive enough to believe that I was the one the hungry fisherman would keep as a pet. But now that we’ve had it out and he’s remained … well, who he is and always was … I can no longer pretend. I get it. And now all that he’d been filling inside me has collapsed, leaving me weak.
I have to work tonight at the Overlook, and obviously Gavin will be performing. I don’t know how I’ll face him. Worse, I know I have to — eventually if not tonight. The possibilities of the unnamed collaboration between me, Freddy, and Gavin is one thing that my collapse has left undamaged. There was never any false hope there, but I almost wish there was because then I wouldn’t be facing a future of fighting with Gavin, warring with feelings like this.
The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2) Page 19