But unfortunately, I do believe all I said today. Our musical venture, strictly as a creative business thing, is solid despite my private misgivings. With Freddy’s drive and the know-how and ethic I absorbed from my family, it’s hard to believe we won’t make it. Gavin has cred and fans both from his Firecracker days and the past three years as a popular soloist. I know how to parlay, and have hatched a plan. It’s what I’m best at. It’s what I would have earned from a stuffy Ivy League education if I’d never left home.
In my weakened state, everything is falling into doubt. Planning for the band makes me wonder if I should have turned down Princeton. I’m realizing truths about Mom’s psychology work that have me thinking that maybe she’s smarter than I allowed, seeing as I’m using it now to make myself feel better and explain what’s happened. What Gavin said about the way she characterized me in the book got me thinking too, and I pulled up a digital copy on my phone to check some stuff out. I’d have to read the entire book to be sure, but maybe it’s not as bad as I thought. Maybe she didn’t paint me as a black sheep. Maybe that’s my baggage, being the youngest kid, adopted, always welcomed but never quite feeling as much of a fit.
Maybe I’ve been wrong all along.
Maybe I haven’t done anything right. I sure didn’t exhibit the best judgment concerning Gavin, despite abundant evidence that I shouldn’t have allowed myself to get so close.
Maybe I should have gone to Princeton for the education that, here and now, might help me drive this band, once it gets its final member. Or maybe the truth is somewhere in between, seeing as I wouldn’t be anywhere near the music scene (unless you count classical) if I’d stayed.
I pull out my phone, sure I’ll call my mom. I want to hear her voice, telling me that everything will be fine. She’ll forgive me, and I’ll forgive her, just like that. Instead, I punch Maya’s number, and a half hour later she pulls into the Inside Scoop parking lot with Mackenzie. I’ve already had a cone because it felt necessary, but I don’t tell them that.
“Thanks for coming,” I say as they get out and walk toward me.
Maya looks confused. “Was this a request rather than an invitation?”
I look down at Mackenzie. She’s nine years old with big, bright eyes and strawberry-blonde hair that hasn’t yet found her mother’s bright red. She’s one of those kids who people say is “nine going on thirty,” probably because she had to grow up fast with a single mom, always working. All I know about Mackenzie’s father is that he left them. As much as I like Maya, I haven’t felt confident enough to ask more.
Mackenzie looks at you with an accountant’s serious, patient expression. Her eyes are so big and blue that she manages to look curious yet earnest, so the eyes-on stare never feels challenging or rude. You have to answer when she asks a question, as honestly as you possibly can. She’s one of those people who says everything even when she isn’t saying a thing, persuasive with a look.
With a final glance at Mackenzie, finding myself unable to lie too directly, I say, “It’s both.”
“Oh, Honey,” Maya says, reading all she needs to know from my body language. “What happened?”
I glance down at Mackenzie. Her big eyes are doing their work. She’s not gawking, but she’s definitely not vanishing into the background. She might be my favorite kid ever, with a precociousness and intuition far beyond her years. But I still don’t want to talk about my botched personal life in front of her.
“Mack,” Maya says, reaching into her purse and pulling out a twenty. “Get me a scoop of rocky road on a sugar cone, okay? And whatever you want, but one scoop is plenty. And for Abigail … ” Maya raises her eyebrows in my direction.
I’m fumbling in my wallet. My request; I pay for everyone. I was just slow on the draw.
“Put your money away, Ab,” she says.
“I want to pay.”
“And I want to be a princess. This is an emergency.”
I haven’t told her what’s bugging me, but she knows. That’s how Maya is. Out of everyone in my life, nobody knows the jilted story better.
“Seriously,” she says. Maya, as wonderful as she is, also has a serious don’t-screw-with-me demeanor. She tolerates Ed because he’s too pathetic to fight, but I fear for him if she ever decides to snap back.
I put my money away.
“Don’t think I won’t ask you to return the favor someday,” she says with a small, broad-lipped smile. “I like knowing you owe me.”
Mackenzie turns her gaze on me.
“Chocolate peanut butter,” I say.
“Two scoops,” her mother adds.
I open my mouth to protest, seeing as I already had one. But fuck it.
“Thanks, Mackenzie.”
“Of course, Abigail.”
Maya taught her daughter to address adults as equals, but I suspect Mackenzie would do it anyway. So it’s always nice to see her be a kid, as if she’s trying to remind you there’s still a child inside. I watch her skip toward Inside Scoop. She pauses short of the window to inspect a bug of some sort before Maya puts her hand on my shoulder.
“Tell me everything,” she says.
So I do. I’m embarrassed by most of it because the parts that matter involve me confessing to my own stupidity. Gavin holds little fault in the full version of the story — other than, of course, simply being Gavin. But Maya listens sans judgment, and I only pause when Mackenzie runs back three separate times with ice cream cones and change.
When she returns the final time with her own cone, Maya deftly deflects her to the nearby playground. Even this sliver of mother-daughter interaction fascinates me, seeing how different it is from any interaction with my own mom. Maya’s instruction to leave us alone is closer to a suggestion, but Mackenzie, even knowing she’s being sent away so the adults can talk, goes as if it was her idea then sits quietly on a frog-shaped rocker and resumes work on her cone, napkin dutifully at the ready.
When my story is done, Maya gives me a pressed-lip nod and wraps an arm around me, saying nothing.
“Tell me I’m an idiot,” I say.
“You’re an idiot. But hey, we’re all idiots.”
Mackenzie returns and asks if she can (please) have another cone. Knowing it’s a violation of both the mother-daughter permission structure and Maya’s edict about who’s supposed to be paying, I fish a five out of my pocket and hand it to her. She’s considerate, polite, and discreet. She let me get my poison out without interruption, and I figure I owe her.
Mackenzie returns, hands me my change, says thank you, then gives her cone a lick. The last was strawberry, and this one is chocolate. I applaud her selection. For me, it’s chocolate or nothing, and bonus points if peanut butter is also involved.
“That man over there is grumpy,” Mackenzie says matter-of-factly. Maya and I turn to see skinny, boyishly handsome Kevin Hughes, who might hate his job more than anyone in town, plopping another scoop into a waffle cone with a dumpy expression. We laugh as Mackenzie skips back to the frog rocker to finish her second course.
“You think you were bad?” Maya says. “I know I was certainly an idiot. But that little person over there?” She nods toward Mackenzie, a proud smile finding her lips. “That was the result of my stupidity.”
“I’m not pregnant,” I tell her. “We didn’t even make it that far. It’s not like there’s an upside to this for me.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Maya says.
CHAPTER 32
Abigail
Spending time with Maya and Mackenzie helps, but not in a way I’m entirely proud of. Maya has some advice for me and plenty of listening and understanding — the kind of thing where nothing can be fixed, but at least I can feel better about my misery. But there’s this other thing, too. And it’s the realization that if I have it bad now, Maya once had it a whole lot worse.
They can’t stick around for long, so when we’re done I thank them for coming. I didn’t know Maya would bring Mackenzie, but I should have; I’m ju
st so used to seeing her in work mode that it’s easy to forget what her real life must be like. But I’m glad. Because I needed a friend to talk to, yes — but Mackenzie made me understand that there are bigger problems than mine … and that more often than not, even the worst ones turn out okay.
Maya hugs me before they leave. But when Mackenzie beckons me down for a hug, she tells me, “It’ll all be okay.” I almost cry.
Then I’m back to being alone. And again, I feel weak. It’s like I no longer know what to focus on. It’s like I don’t know how to plan my day. Gavin’s original song — the one he’ll no longer touch — was my mind’s constant companion, and now I can’t even hum it in the privacy of my mind. Thoughts of Gavin preoccupied me at, it seems, just about every turn. Now that I realize I need to knock off the fantasizing, it’s hard to find a substitute.
Should I think about the weather?
Should I focus on the rhythm of my feet as I walk?
But even that doesn’t really work because rhythm makes me think of music, and that makes me think of Gavin’s songs all over. That brings up a sense of helplessness within me because I can’t possibly banish all of the songs. Not if I want to be part of this thing, this creative enterprise, this rebirth of a band from its ashes. And I really do want to be part of it. It’s hard to admit, but writing lyrics this last week has unlocked something inside me that has, until now, been a sealed vault. It’s possible to think of myself as a writer now. It’s possible to believe I’m meant to be a creator. It’s possible — for the first time ever — to believe that I was right to leave home, Brian, and Princeton in the pursuit of something better.
Music — along with Gavin and Freddy as creative partners — has made me feel like everything might work out for a change.
I’m damned if I do.
And damned if I don’t.
I wander Old Town for a while, trying to appreciate its charm. I catch a glimpse of Stygian Hart, the big and burly bearded man the kids are all afraid of because of his constant grumbling. Everything annoys him. I hear he’s a supernice guy, once you get past the hate, which few people ever have.
Seeing him, it’s like I tally up a point, as if I’m in a scavenger hunt.
Because I know this town.
And then I realize I’m playing that game Gavin and I played over dinner, trying to determine who knew whom in this delightful burg. The seed of a smile leaves my lips, and I feel terrible again.
Finally, I end up back at my apartment and dodge Lisa for a while. It’s clear she knows something happened, but I eat one of her brownies to dull the edge and pretend to play along as a pothead for a day. Turns out, the brownies are just normal brownies. This isn’t intentional. I’m pretty sure Lisa has no idea, but I don’t want to spoil things for her so I take a nap in my room.
I sleep for an hour and dream. The dream is like claws on my heart.
I get dressed then head to the Overlook with a feeling of grim duty.
I tell myself it’s all fine. Nothing has changed. We had that fight earlier, and for me, its aftertaste is bitter ashes on my tongue. I can hardly think of looking at him without feeling furious or wanting to cry — which it is will be determined, I’m sure, once I finally see him. But Gavin didn’t have a clue. Not one single tiny goddamned clue. And maybe that’s a good thing. I’ve purged some of the poison from my system; I’ve eaten enough ice cream to dampen the fire. Maybe we can pretend there was nothing. This was always just business. Of course it was. There’s no need to feel bad, or be embarrassed.
Still, I feel nervous.
I need to run into the back room to refill one of the syrup boxes feeding Terry’s soda fountain, but I don’t want to because Gavin might be back there somewhere. And I’ll bet he is, too, because he’s usually circulating well before his time onstage. I even think Danny might require performers to be on site before the place is open; I don’t know.
I war between emotion and practicality. Eventually, practicality wins, and I go to refill the stupid syrup box with a feeling of pushing through something unpleasant. I don’t run into Gavin and quickly return to work.
I need a broom. That’s in the back, too.
Eventually, I go to find one. That errand takes heroic levels of courage because while the broom is where I expect it, there’s no dustpan. I have to search hard, and it means poking into most of the backstage rooms.
But Gavin still isn’t there.
By the time the doors open, the worrier inside me is telling tales.
Is this worse than I thought? Is he maybe not as oblivious as I’ve imagined? Is it possible he feels bad enough about what’s happened that he’s hiding? Will he call in sick? He knows I’m regular staff on Fridays and Saturday nights now, meaning we’d need to face each other for two long shifts each week. Could he have possibly quit? Decided he won’t play here anymore so he doesn’t have to face me?
No, that’s paranoid and stupid. He has a career, and it’s clear the music matters a lot more than I do.
But maybe there’s another club. A better club. I don’t know of any, but it’s not something I’m up on. I know that Gavin knows Brandon Grant and Brandon works with Mason James, and everyone knows that Mason is one of the richest people in town. There might be an elite music set that Gavin has been on the cusp of all this time, and now that I’ve ruined things with my tantrums, he’s finally called in a favor.
All I know is that customers filter in and fill the seats. The first acts begin. And Gavin is nowhere to be seen.
“Terry,” I say, approaching the bartender. “Do you have the schedule for tonight?”
“Sorry,” Terry replies.
I ask a few of the waitresses. I feel déjà vu, then even more déjà vu when one or two raise their eyebrows. That kind of thing is even more obvious lately because now there’s no question whether Gavin means something to me. Everyone watched me embarrass myself that one night, singing his song. To everyone here, my stupid, naive, girlish heart is right there on my sleeve. They pity me. Poor little fool, in love with someone whom everyone wants, who clearly couldn’t care less.
But despite their annoying grins and knowing looks, I get nothing. I go to Danny, and he gives me a look that suggests I should get the hell back to my station given how packed the club is right now. I find Danny with Dimebag, arguing like a father and son.
I feel stupid asking, but I do anyway.
Where is Gavin? Is he on tonight?
But Danny seems too annoyed by Dimebag. His friendly disposition is at war with his insect-like frenetic demeanor, and he comes off like an agitated Mr. Rogers. He doesn’t want to yell at me any more than he wants to yell at Dimebag, but he’s clearly having a rough night. Maybe because Gavin should be here but isn’t; I don’t even find out before one of the other girls is grabbing my arm, pulling me back, telling me that one of my tables got rammed and all the drinks ended up in broken glass on the floor.
I clean up. I get new drinks. Miraculously, nobody gets cut feet, and that’s saying something because this is flip-flops and sandals weather. The table seems thankful rather than annoyed, but I’m so dizzy and worried, I don’t even notice Dimebag taking the stage.
Only once I’m standing beside Carla back at the bar does the noise assail me.
“Wow,” is all she says, her eyes watching Dimebag rap with an expression somewhere between pity and disgust. We’ve all seen him during the week, but to my knowledge this is the first time Dimebag’s performed on the weekend, in front of a packed crowd. Now the argument between him and Danny makes sense, as does the proprietor’s exasperated expression.
Put me in, coach! I imagine Dimebag saying to Danny. I can step up; I’m ready!
But Dimebag isn’t ready. He’ll never be ready because he’s worse than terrible. Danny keeps giving him stage time because he has a soft spot for the kid, but he’s smarter than to put Dimebag onstage when it matters. It’s hard to believe this was intended yesterday, or possibly even a few hours ago. Maybe
it’s because an act failed to show, and the club had to shuffle, using the people on hand.
I look at the clock. Time has flown. It’s just after ten, and we’re in Gavin’s usual slot.
I was already aching, but this is worse. My heart sinks.
This is my fault.
Gavin is gone. He can’t face me. I fired off at him, and now he gets it. Whether he feels right or wrong inside his head, nothing changes. He left. This is Gavin’s normal time on stage, and now there’s a hideous white rapper pacing it instead.
I put my head down and keep serving. I should feel relieved, given how I felt before about having to look Gavin in the eye after this afternoon, but I don’t.
Because it’s all over.
Not just my infatuation with Gavin, but everything we’ve been building.
Have I seen Freddy around? No, I don’t think I have. Freddy doesn’t always perform on weekends, so that’s not unusual, but I’ll typically see him scuttling around in his black hoodie like an industrious beetle. The fact that I haven’t noticed him wouldn’t normally strike me, but now it feels like a knife in the chest.
No Gavin.
No Freddy.
I was a lyricist for one week. Now I’m a waitress again.
It all begins to collapse inside, with one thought riding its tails: this is my fault.
I’m so preoccupied with hurt and guilt that I don’t hear Dimebag’s set end, just as I didn’t hear it begin. There’s a lull, then it dawns on me that my ears are no longer being assaulted. The new music, once the lights go down, is softer and kinder. And I keep working, knowing that Chloe’s music, at least, won’t make me want to retch, and might even soothe me.
But Chloe’s voice must strike me as different, because all of a sudden my hypnosis pops, and I pause, drink in hand, to look at the stage.
It’s not Chloe who’s come on in the eleven o’clock slot.
The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2) Page 20