by Ashley Grace
She reached down, catching hold of my arm, dragging me up off the ground.
"Come on," she said. "Quit your blubbering. I want all the sloppy details."
She guided me back to my bed, sat me down on the edge of the mattress. Then she pulled her chair up in front of me and sat down on it backwards, leaning on the backrest and propping her chin on her crossed arms.
"Alright," she said. "Lemme hear it."
And so I told her. I told her all of it, from the moment Trace first pulled me up on stage, to the moment he'd walked out through the door to our dorm room. I told her about what I'd heard from Sara Sounding about Trace's last girlfriend. I told her about the fight he'd got into in front of the cathedral, protecting me from that trio of drunk assholes. I told her about the way I'd panicked when I'd seen the scar on his wrist. I told her that he'd said he loved me, and that he'd asked me to come with him to L.A., and that I'd said I couldn't. And I told her how I'd tossed and turned all night, torn between passion and prudence—the desire to go with Trace, and the thought that abandoning school and all my plans would only end in disaster.
Becca listened intently the whole time I talked, her blue eyes fixed on mine. When I'd finally finished, she leaned back in her chair, a thoughtful expression on her face.
After a few quiet minutes, during which she seemed to be turning it all over in her mind, her eyes came back to mine.
"I've just got one question," she said.
I nodded my head, let out a sigh.
"It really reached up past his bellybutton? Like, this long?"
She held her hands up in front of her, about a foot apart.
I dropped my head into my hands. "Damn it, Becca."
She laughed. "I'm just messing with you, Anne. The real question I want to ask is this: what the fuck are you still doing in this shitty little dorm room? Why aren't you in L.A. with Trace?"
"It's not that simple," I said.
"Anne, just because you're trying to make it complicated, it doesn't mean it actually is."
"You think I should just ditch my classes, drop out of school, and go chasing after Trace? All my plans, all the things I've been working toward since middle school, just toss it all out the window?"
"Why not?"
"It's crazy! It's too much of a risk!"
"Anne, life is risk. Everything you do—or don't do—constitutes a risk. Just because a choice is conventional doesn't mean it's risk free." She gave me a look. "Going after Trace might be risky, but that doesn't mean college isn't. The key is to determine if the risk is worth taking or not."
I blinked my eyes. "I'm not sure I follow you."
"Listen. I know that people have been telling you to go to college since… well, since kindergarten, probably. They've been telling me the same thing. But just because everybody says it's important, just because everybody says it's the smart thing to do—that doesn't mean they're right."
She looked me in the eyes.
"When our parents were our age, having a college degree pretty much guaranteed you'd get a good job, so of course they're gonna tell us we have to go. The thing is, that's not true anymore—tons of college graduates can't find work. And since school costs more than it ever did before, school debt actually makes a college degree riskier than it used to be. I mean, haven't you been reading the papers? It's not exactly a secret."
"I don't think I understand your point," I said.
"Anne, stop thinking in terms of risk. Instead, ask yourself: what do you want out of life? What do you dream of doing? What do you want to be?
"I want to be a writer."
"Why?"
"Because… because writing moves me. Because art moves me. Because creating art feels meaningful, and worthwhile."
"Feeling 'moved' is important to you?"
"Yes!"
"And when have you felt more 'moved' recently? When you were in class, or when you were with Trace?"
"I…" The words were at my tongue, but I stopped myself before I said them. A part of me was afraid to say it, afraid to admit it.
But Becca wasn't about to let me off the hook.
"Stop thinking for a second, Anne. What do you want? What does your heart tell you to do?"
I thought of Trace, of the passion I felt whenever I was around him, of the way I felt when he looked into my eyes, when he held me in my arms.
I let my head hang forward, giving in.
"Trace," I said, my chest going tight again, my eyes starting to sting. "I want Trace."
"Hallelujah!" Becca said, throwing her hands up. "And praise the Lord! I swear, Anne, sometimes you're as stubborn as a damned mule. It's been freaking obvious that you want Trace since the moment he got you up on that stage, but getting your mind to accept it has been like pulling teeth!"
She shook her head, exasperated.
"I mean, just think about why you broke down in tears when you found out Trace's note was gone. It's not because you were happy he left."
That started me crying in earnest.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Becca said. "What is it now?"
"The note's gone," I said. "Even if I wanted to see Trace again, I don't have any way of contacting him."
She wiggled her eyebrows at me.
"Well, you do know where he's going to be tonight. You could drop in at his show. Say hi."
"His show's in L.A., Becca. I can't afford a flight, especially not last minute like this. How the hell am I supposed to get down there?"
"Anne, you know I have a car, right?"
I blinked at her. "Are you crazy? It's an eight hour drive!"
"Honey," she said, putting her hand on my shoulder and looking into my eyes. "You've never seen me drive, have you?"
Chapter 12
Trace
The band was in high spirits—Joey especially. He had a grin stretching across his face, his teeth flashing white through the four-day stubble. Sergio and Angel kept trading glances and breaking out in awkward smiles, too, almost like they shared some sort of secret. I even saw Sara's lips curling up at the corners every now and then, a look of uncharacteristic optimism shining in her eyes, her cheeks showing more color than they had in longer than I could remember.
And even though Micah wasn't actually grinning, I hadn't seen him fiddling with his knife even once during the past twenty four hours. Not on the plane, not at the interviews we'd done the night before. Not even now, while the crowds swarmed around us in the club's green room—loud and raucous and more than half-way drunk, even though we wouldn't be taking the stage for another hour. I took that as a sign that he was feeling pretty good, too.
But it was Bernstein, more than anyone, whose good mood impressed me. He didn't show his happiness as openly as Joey—no shit-eating grin stretching across his face—but I could see it in every move he made. The way he kept putting a hand on our shoulders, or patting us on our backs—like a proud father at his son's wedding. The way I'd catch him rocking back and forth on his feet, hairy knuckles clasped behind his back, his round belly sticking out in front of him like a woman in her third trimester. There was a look of comfort and contentment to him—he was glowing with it.
The Belletrists had come through our dark night of the soul, and for the first time in a long time, a light could be seen on the horizon.
I felt it too, though it wasn't the only thing I felt. My emotions were a complicated mix, shifting and changing ceaselessly, like sunlight through a cloud-scattered sky. For once, I felt grateful that the antidepressants were helping to smooth out some of the peaks and valleys. It wasn't numbness I drew from them today, it was an element of added stability.
I'd decided I was ready to try living without them, but I knew mood-stabilizers weren't the sort of thing you could just quit cold turkey. In the rehab center I'd learned that a lot of follow-up suicide attempts happened in those circumstances—people feeling like they'd finally gotten a handle on their depression, and then having their brain chemistry go haywire when they abruptly
stopped their dose. I didn't want anything like that to happen to me. I knew now: I wanted to live.
But that still didn't make me miss Anne any less.
I'd been checking my phone periodically, hoping to see a message or a text from her, and feeling a little throb of sadness every time I saw that she still hadn't called. In between the moments when the band's optimism would start to seep into me, I felt moments of worry—worry that my phone had somehow turned off, worry that Anne had called me and I'd missed it.
Still, the brief time I'd spent with Anne had changed me. Before, my ever-shifting emotions had made up my whole landscape, constantly overwhelming me, keeping me at their mercy. When despair seized hold of me, it was utter despair. When panic caught me in its grip, it was utter panic—and I could imagine nothing beyond it. And when I'd awoken to find Lucy—the girl I loved—dead at my side, the guilt that rolled over me was so utterly crushing that my mind just couldn't cope. Escape, death, had seemed the only option.
And even after I'd survived that attempt on my life, I hadn't been able to face my feelings. And so I'd used the antidepressant drugs to snuff those feelings out, shielding myself from pain by shielding myself from everything.
It was Anne who'd brought me back from that void. It was Anne that had pierced through the blanket of apathy, and reminded me that feeling isn't synonymous with suffering. Desire, and love, and happiness, also exist.
I wished she'd call. I wished I could see her again, and the thought that I might not ever see her again did make me feel truly sad. But even if she didn't call, I'd go on. She'd brought me back to life. She'd set me free.
Ten minutes before we were scheduled to take the stage, Bernstein called us together. He popped open that ever-present bottle of champagne, pouring us each a glass. He raised his glass up, and we all raised ours toward him.
"It's been a long road, my friends," he said. "For a while I thought we'd reached the end. Tonight, I don't feel that way. Tonight I feel there is more road for the Belletrists to travel. And that makes me happy."
He raised his glass higher.
"Mazel tov," he said.
"Mazel tov," we said back to him, and "cheers" and "salud" and "here here." We clinked our glasses together, and raised the sparkling liquid to our lips.
Before I'd lowered my glass, Sara took the champagne bottle from Bernstein's hands. She topped our glasses back up—refilling Joey's, since he'd empted it in one gulp. And then she raised her own glass up again, and we did the same.
She still looked frightfully thin, but I didn't think her face looked skull-like now. The light in her eyes was too vibrant for that.
We stood there, our glasses raised, waiting for her to speak.
"Here's to Lucy," she said. "Here's to her memory, and here's to her peace."
There was a moment of tension, but before it could catch hold, she raised her glass even higher and spoke again.
"And here's to us. Here's to our music and our art and our future. Here's to the Belletrists."
We toasted, and clanged our glasses together, and drank. Sara looked at me, her glass still pressed to her smiling lips. I saw something like joy in her eyes. And in my heart, I felt it, too.
-
The lights on the stage were blue and dim, casting a low shine on the metal rims of Joey's drumset, reflecting from the chrome of the guitar stands. We walked out onto the stage, hearing the crowd responding to us, taking up its cry. I went to my spot on the stage— feeling that growing roar washing over me, my own excitement rising with it—and knelt for a moment by the pedal board, reading the set list by the green and red glow of its lights.
The first song on the list was "A Heart's-Blood Oath."
I stood, pulling my guitar from its stand, slipping its strap over my shoulder. I went through my strings—checking the tuning, watching the green lights glow. I turned to Sara, to Micah, to Sergio. And looked back at Joey, and nodded my head.
He counted off the tempo, and Sergio and Sara came in together, as solid and well-synced as a single mind in two bodies. I closed my eyes, nodding my head in time, letting the music flow into me as the crowd grew quiet.
Micah started his lead, bringing us deeper into the song, hypnotizing us with those eerie notes.
I thought of Anne. I thought of the way her dark hair framed her face. I thought of the luscious feel of her curves under my hands. And I thought of her beautiful eyes looking into mine, the way her soul seemed to shine through those beautiful eyes, the way that the light in her gaze seemed to remind me of my own soul. I thought of the way she made me feel: alive, again.
My left hand clutched the guitar's neck, my fingers pressing a chord. My right hand came up, striking the pick across the strings.
I turned around, bringing my mouth to the mike, getting ready to sing.
I didn't look at the crowd. I didn't need to.
I thought of Anne, and sang for her.
No matter the state of my life
I'll love you
No matter the joy or the strife
I'll love you
No matter if sick or if hale
I'll love you
No matter the cost of the sale
I'll love you…
A commotion in the crowd drew my attention. Was someone trying to start a pit? This wasn't exactly one of our harder-edged songs.
But even as I watched, I kept singing.
My love and my life, I give them both
This is my Heart's Blood Oath
Something white flashed in the crowd, vibrant in the black-light glow. A second later, I realized it was a pair of panties. People were stepping back, clearing the way, in order to not get hit in the face with them.
Panties thrown on stage was common for our shows. But seeing them waved around in the crowd like a flag—not so much.
My heart made a crazy leap in my chest. My eyes followed the arm down, saw Anne's friend Becca making her way through the crowd.
And there behind her: Anne.
I ripped the strap off my neck, dropped my guitar, and leapt off the stage.
The band kept going without me, but I was already climbing the barricade that held the crowd back. Dozens of hands reaching up for me like stalks of wheat in a field. I got another glimpse of Anne—big-eyed and lovely—before I plunged forward into the mob. Bodies surging and moving all around me, trying to touch me, their hands clutching at my clothes. I made my way forward as gently as I could, my body turned sideways and my shoulder acting as a wedge, moving the bodies aside.
And then a gap opened up in front of me—Becca whirling like a dervish, her panties swinging at eye level. She saw me, grinned a wild grin, and then stepped to the side.
And there was Anne.
I moved toward her, she moved toward me. And then we were together, catching hold of each other in the midst of that crowd like shipwreck survivors in a stormy sea.
"Anne," I said, feeling my heart thundering in my chest.
"Trace," she replied, her eyes shining in the dark.
I pulled her body against mine, and pressed my lips to hers, and kissed her with all of the love and hope that I felt surging inside of me.
And she kissed me back.
Chapter 13
Anne
Trace got us up on the stage, and we waited at the side, watching the show from the best seats in the house. It was an incredible show, even better than when they'd played in San Francisco. The Belletrists were on fire, playing with an intensity and a passion that had the whole crowd in a frenzy. Even Sara Sounding and Micah looked focused and inspired. And, with us in the wings, Bernstein beamed with unmistakable happiness.
The high-spirits continued after the show. Joey and Sergio and Angel were excited to see Becca, and she jumped in the limo with them and the rest of the group. The rest of the group except for Trace and me, that is. We got in the towncar.
As soon as the driver pulled away from the club, I unbuckled my seatbelt and swung my leg over Trace's l
ap, straddling him, looking into his eyes.
I caught hold of his face with my hands, feeling his stubble prickling against my palms, and I kissed him so fiercely that I nearly lost my breath. When I came up for air, I could feel his desire for me throbbing against the crotch of my jeans. His hands had slipped up beneath my sweater, his touch electric against my bare skin, holding me like he never wanted to let me go.
I looked into his eyes, dark and deep.
He smiled at me. "You should probably put your seatbelt on," he said. "Just for safety's sake."
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing up against his chest. "Listen, Trace," I said. "Sometimes, you've got to take a few risks."
He smiled, wrapped his arms around me even tighter. His eyes seemed to shine with some secret joke.
"What are you thinking right now, Trace? What do you feel?"
"I feel happy. So happy that my heart is swelling with it, filling up with bliss."
I felt my lips pulling back in a smile that I wouldn't have been able to stop if I'd tried.
"How about you, Anne? What do you feel."
"Love," I said, even though it made me blush to say it. "I think that's the word that best describes it. I think that what I'm feeling is love."
I pressed my lips to his again, feeling the soft fullness of his mouth against mine, drinking me in. Beneath my crotch, I felt his cock throb.
I shifted my hips, rubbing against that throbbing hardness.
"And that's not all I feel," I said, grinning at him.
He squeezed me tighter in his arms, and kissed me again.
The End
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