by Layne Harper
Hearing her articulate the thoughts that have run rampant in my head for eight months is damn near panic attack inducing. My pointer finger finds the scarred cuticle skin on my thumb, and I use my nail to scrape it. “Excuse me.” I don’t wait for the usual politeness exchange. Tossing my napkin on the table, I bolt for the ladies’ room. Fortunately, it’s unoccupied.
The message Aaron sent along with the twelve music files a week after he walked out of my life, never to be seen again, echoes in my brain. MK Landry, I’m trying to get better to be the man you deserve. I promise. I guess his idea of “trying” was to leave me raw and exposed for the whole world to examine. For people to speculate about our brief relationship and just assume that we’re still a couple because how can he write those sorts of songs and as Cindy said not get the girl?
Wetting a paper towel, I blot my face hoping to cool my feverish skin. There’s not a damn thing I can do about my racing heart. All the unanswered questions bubble up to the top of my brain and threaten to cripple me to the point that I’m unable to go out in public again. If he truly felt about me like he says in his songs, how could he have completely cut me out of his life?
Deep breathing exercises that I learned in yoga and in the psychiatrist’s office come in handy and seem to help me find my center again—at least enough to finish this meeting.
“MK, don’t let him steal this opportunity from you like he’s stolen the last eight months,” I tell the pale girl in the mirror. She seems to listen and can even slap her fake smile back on her face.
I’m composed when I slide into my chair. “Sorry, ladies.” I beam. Turning to Janet, “You were saying?”
“You okay?” Cindy asks.
“Think I’m just a little nervous,” I reply as if I’m letting them in on a huge secret.
“Understandable.” Janet continues, “We can discuss these points when it’s time to get down to the nitty-gritty details. Are you in? Are we going to do this? Are we going to move forward?”
I choose to ignore the uneasy feeling in my stomach. If I agree, I’ll have to hire an agent and before I sign anything, my no-go topics of conversation will be spelled out. I remind myself of what I just told me in the mirror. “I’d love to.”
The ladies clap and approach me from either side, pulling me into a group hug in the middle of the lovely restaurant. This feels surreal. I just agreed to move forward with turning my life into a reality TV show. That realization causes another tear at the delicate skin surrounding my thumbnail.
***
Later that night, my mom, Bella, Nyall, Tripp, Bethany, and I are huddled around the back-corner table in Eddy’s Bar. We decided to meet here so I could give them an update on how the meeting with the producers went. Frankly, I just didn’t have it in me to repeat the story a billion times.
Extra chairs crowd around the small table, and we look like we’re discussing secret plans for an enemy strike.
Swallowing a sip of my rum and Diet Coke, I conclude my recap. “So what do y’all think?”
Bella, who still has the newlywed glow, speaks up first. “What do you have to lose? You’ve been in a funk for a long time. This at least gives you content for No Pink Caddy even if you decide to back out at the last minute. And maybe people will fall in love with you, and they’ll stop being such jackasses on social media.” She turns to my mom. “Sorry for the cuss word.”
My mom nods and winks. “I think being a TV star would be so much fun. And maybe it’ll help you find a man.” She punctuates her last statement with a sip of Chardonnay.
Rolling my eyes, I quote my favorite teal and orange tank top. “A girl needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.”
Tripp shifts forward as his eyes move to his lap. He thinks he’s being sly by keeping his phone in his hand under the wooden tabletop. He’s not. He’s checking his phone for the hundredth time in the last ten minutes.
“Well, it seems you need to find a business manager, attorney, or someone to help you navigate the unknowns,” Nyall wisely advises with a twist of his wedding band around his finger.
“Yeah.” I wipe the condensation from the table using a bar napkin. “I have a few names of people I can call. I’ve a sorority sister who’s in the LA scene. She gave me some info.”
As she rubs her emerging bump, Bethany asks, “Why aren’t you more excited? Most girls in your position would be doing backflips.” My sister has always seen through my fake smiles and quick assurances that everything is just peachy.
Visions of that terrible Monday evening play through my mind. Aaron’s irrational, schizophrenic behavior. The overwhelming guilt and outrage I felt at learning of the false stories about my accident being told and retold in the media. Then moving on and thinking I was finally emerging on the other side when he published the album, and everything became so raw again. Do I want to open myself back up to the media scrutiny?
My blog is just a little speck of dust in a great big virtual world. Me committing to turning it into a television program is so much—what’s the word—more.
I voice my concerns out loud. “The past months have been difficult. The breakup with Aaron and all the media attention. The loss of my privacy.” I shake my head. I don’t say out loud seeing Aaron with a new girl and experiencing the pain of him releasing the album he wrote about us. “I just don’t know if I can rip the Band-Aid off again and show the world my bloody wounds.”
“Geez, MK.” Bella grimaces. “Do you need to be so graphic?”
Bethany shifts in her chair. “Look, your privacy was gone the first time you chose to post on your site. I’m not seeing what the issue is?”
Bella jumps to my defense. “Bethany, that’s harsh and not entirely accurate. MK has controlled her content.”
I further elaborate. “Yes, my life has been an open book, but I chose to put the details out there, and I’ve managed how I’ve been portrayed. Moving forward with a reality show leaves me vulnerable to how Cindy and Janet want to spin my life.” My tongue swipes over my bottom lip reminding me of the physical injury that I caused trying to manifest the pain Aaron’s drug use inflicted. “And to answer your question, Bella, yes, I need to be graphic. Because that’s what I feel like I’ll be doing if I move forward. My show will be scripted somewhat. I’m sure they’re going to want me to date and talk about it during interviews. Looking for love is a feature of my blog.”
Bethany’s forehead wrinkles. “Are you not ready to date again?”
She’s clueless. She’s been married for so long that she’s forgotten about heartbreak and how difficult it is to open yourself up to a new relationship.
“Sure.” I shrug. “I’d love to meet someone who I fell in love with, who didn’t break my heart into a million pieces, and then give me hope they were coming back, and then never talk to me again.”
Bella adds, “And then date someone close to the age of their daughter.”
I watch as Tripp’s eyes cut to the floor. I know he would be that guy for me. He’d love and cherish me every day I called him husband. But it would be settling on my part, and he deserves to have a woman who loves him as much in return.
“Why do it then, honey?” my mom asks with a toss of her blonde hair. “You’ve had a taste of fame, and it was rather sour. Keep saving your money, and one day you’ll have your store on Magazine Street. You don’t need to do this.”
She’s right, but there’s this nagging suspicion in my brain that if I don’t try, I’ll regret not taking this opportunity. When Janet and Cindy said they were still interested in turning my blog into a show, I was shocked. I’d waited three months before I returned their calls. I just assumed they’d moved on. The meeting had been a shot in the dark, but I’m so grateful they still think I’m relevant.
Tripp, who has been rather quiet this whole time, says, “I’ve known my whole life that you’re special. Your smile draws people to you. Your eyes reassure them they’re going to be okay. Your soul’s pure. You’d be doing the world
a disservice not to host your own show.”
My eyes water. God, that man is incredible. “Thank you, Tripp.” Smiling, I look around the table at my family and friends who love me. Having their support means the world to me. “I’m doing it. I’m going to be a reality-TV star.”
Chapter Three
Aaron
July
Carly Johnson @RockerChick
Oh my Rock God! @RealJohnnyKnite is back and better than ever. #ImStillMoving
Erica Frank @FranklyIDontCare
#PinkCadillac is the best song on the radio right now. Why can’t a guy love me like that?
“Are you playing Wheels on the Bus?” Billy asks with severe disdain lacing his voice.
I chuckle. “Guess I am.” But do I stop? Of course not.
Sam joins in as she slides onto Billy’s lap. Her raspy voice does its best to cancel out the hum of the plane’s engines. “Up and down. Up and down. The wheels on the bus go up and down, all through the town.”
Billy lifts her by her thin hips and sets her next to him. He picks up his guitar and plays along, adding bass to the classic hit. Sam’s voice goes high and does an almost spot-on impression of Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday. It’s really quite impressive.
When my eyes move from watching the guitar strings, I spot Grace holding her phone up. She mouths videoing for Jude.
That forces my lips to curve into a smile. Because Jude spent so much time in a tour van, then tour bus, the guys and I would play her this song as if it was the only tune we knew. She’d clap and cheer, and her blonde curls would bounce around her face. I still remember very clearly the day that she came home from nursery school and realized that Wheels on the Bus was not written especially for her, and the other fourteen kids in her class knew it also. She was furious. Hands went to her hips. Her tiny booted foot kicked at the carpet. It was the first of many times that I disappointed her.
Disappointment seems to be a common theme in my life. As I told MK, I’ve ruined everything I’ve ever touched. It’s like God blessed me with a voice, talent, fame, and a fuck-ton of luck but at the expense of absolutely everything else in my life—the woman who birthed Jude took her own life making sure I knew it was my fault, and that I’m a bastard who will never make a woman happy. MK’s words resonate in my brain: Give me the whole and complete man I deserve. Be the man she deserves? I’ll never be that. I’ll never be anything more than a pretty face that stands on stage and makes people forget about their normal lives.
While you’re wishing you were me, I’m wishing to have a family and quiet night on the couch, holding my wife and tickling my kids. Isn’t that fucking poetic?
Laying the guitar on the tiny wood-grain table in front of me, I abruptly end our preschool jam session. I grab my bourbon and water, tilt my head back, and pour the contents down my throat. The burn does little to mask the persistent ache right under my tattooed heart.
Billy yells, “We doin’ more baby songs, or are we playin’ for real?”
“We should be there soon.” In my best impression of a flight attendant, I stand and say, “Time to stow your belongings, put your tray tables in their upright position, and fasten your seatbelt.”
Billy starts playing the opening notes of Stairway to Heaven as we hit turbulence causing my temple to meet the side of the plane. “Shit.” I rub my head as I follow my own instructions by grabbing my glass and finding a seat at the front of the private plane, the farthest from where everyone is huddled which isn’t too far. This plane isn’t large.
Captain Phil comes on the loud speaker. “Sorry, everyone. Couldn’t avoid that one. Came out of nowhere. We should be on the ground in twenty. Probably should buckle up.”
Frank asks, “Where are we going anyway?”
“Indianapolis,” Grace responds in her know-it-all voice.
We’re almost a third of the way through our U.S. tour. It’s easy to forget what city you’re in or going to when we play a different venue every three days. Using my private plane and staying in hotels does make life on the road somewhat easier than when we lived on buses. We used to play every other night, but that killed my voice. Every three days is more manageable, but my vocal chords still get raw.
A sharp pain travels from my elbow and spiders to the tips of my fingers. I open and close my hand, trying to work the stiffness and ache out. This shit started a while ago and seems to happen more often than I care to admit.
Sam plops down next to me and replaces the bourbon in my hand with an amber-colored beer bottle. “Is Viva visiting any time soon?”
My head hangs at the sound of her name. “Why?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”
She’s prying. This is what Sam does. “She’s in some country for some fashion week.” Not that I care. Viva Valdez hit on me one night when I was in my club in Austin. Didn’t have a clue who she was. Apparently, I was one of the only people in the world who doesn’t watch the Victoria’s Secret fashion show. She’s hot as shit and a sweet girl, but we don’t have a single thing in common.
“So I take it that’s a no?” Sam’s eyebrow cocks.
I growl, “She’s busy doing her own thing.”
“I’m tired of you being grouchy. I think we all are. Groupie time?” She takes a drink from her glass as she places her hand on my knee.
“Not in the mood to fuck.” Picking up her palm, I gently rest it back in her lap.
She doesn’t take no for an answer and rakes her long nails across my crotch. “I’ve known you since we were kids. You’re always in the mood to fuck.” Her laughter sounds like a cackling hyena.
Sam’s right. I used to have sex to kill boredom, for cardio, because it was ten o’clock on a Tuesday, or I ran out of underwear. My brunette girl changed all of that. I got a taste of what it’s like to make love and since then, the idea of random fucks seems boring, pointless, and believe it or not, a bit gross.
Trying to be cute to deflect this line of questioning, I reply, “Saving myself for the right girl.”
“Ha!” Sam thankfully removes her hand. “Surely the right girl isn’t the twenty-two-year-old underwear model. You know, you’re old enough to be her father.”
My relationship with Viva is not up for discussion with Sam. “Not doing this.”
This time she’s more aggressive. She reaches down and gives my dick a squeeze. It doesn’t even twitch. “You know where I am if you need to play. I love when we entertain a fan.”
Picking up her hand again, this time, I drop it with disgust. “Not in that place right now.” I don’t add that I feel like an old man.
Before rehab and meeting MK, Sam and I would get a wild hair every once in a while, and make a female groupie’s day and night. That seems like another lifetime ago.
Unfastening my seatbelt, I stand up tossing the now empty bottle in the garbage and fix myself another bourbon before landing. My excuse is that I hate flying and especially hate landings. I refuse to acknowledge the real reason. When I’m buzzed, it’s the only time that I don’t feel like death.
***
“How bad is it?” I ask as I struggle to read Doctor Hebert’s solemn face. His bushy mustache camouflages a lot of his expressions.
“Tell me again what happened.” He sits on the upholstered chair in my hotel suite.
I lean back against the couch cushion and prop my feet on the marble coffee table. I do my best not to let the white and grey veined stone remind me of a certain someone and the coffee table that left her gorgeous face scarred, or that Doctor Hebert did the surgery to stitch her up. “We got in early in the morning. I’d been feeling stiff and achy from after the show so I was anxious to get here and go to sleep. I’d been out for like two, two and a half hours, and I woke unable to move my hand.”
“The joints were frozen?”
I nod. “It felt like my fingers were paralyzed except it aches like I put my fist through a wall.”
His head tilts. “Have you?”<
br />
I chuckle. “Fair question. Not this time.”
“And your throat?”
“As if I’ve been swallowing swords like those guys do at the freak shows.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I think it’s time you see a specialist. I’m a plastic surgeon. If you want to look ten years younger, I’m your guy.”
“But, Doctor Hebert, you’re the only one I trust. You took care of my vocal cords when they were paralyzed. You’re the reason I still have a career.” I sound like a whiney bastard.
He sighs. “I was a medical student working in the emergency room of a charity hospital. I got lucky.” He stands. “You got lucky.”
I stand also as I drag my hand through my hair. “What do you think this is?”
“Overuse. You’ve abused your vocal cords most of your life. They look at bit inflamed to me, but I think you’ll be fine. As for your hand, my guess is it’s some sort of arthritis. I’ll find a good doctor.”
“I’ll pay you double.” I’m desperate. I don’t want to start over with a new physician. Besides Jude’s pediatrician, who she still sees because he’s the only guy I trust with my daughter, Doctor Hebert is only doctor I’ll let near my loved ones.
He laughs. “I don’t want your money. Come on. Let’s go grab lunch, and then I need your fancy plane to fly me back to New Orleans. I’ve got a practice to run.”
“But what are we going to do about my hand?” At just the mention of it, I flex my fingers, hoping to work the stiffness out.
“I’m going to call a doctor friend of mine here in Indianapolis and have him come examine you.”
I flop down on the couch while Doctor Hebert walks to the wall of windows and makes his phone calls. The theme music from Wolverine plays in my head, loudly and in stereo. That’s what my hand feels like. Knives have been shoved into my joints like Hugh Jackman’s character. As I stare at my right hand, I feel nothing but fear. My guitar is my life, my sanity, and sometimes the only thing that reminds me that I must keep moving forward. My goal is to die with it in my hands.