by Wendy Owens
“Dean heard me getting ready and wanted to join us.” Christian comes into view. “I told him you wouldn’t mind. You don’t, do you?”
I’m frozen, still speechless. My eyes dart to Dean who is now leaning on one of the door flaps. His arms are crossed, and he’s staring up at me from under his lashes with a half-cocked grin. Paranoid thoughts begin to move through my head, as I wonder if he’s here to torment me, if he knows how much he upset me the night before, and if this is just some sick way to rub it in my face.
“I think she does mind,” Dean laughs.
Hopping down the stairs, I barely give him a glance as I announce over my shoulder, “I couldn’t care less.”
“Ouch,” Dean hisses. “That seems passive aggressive to me … what do you think, Christian?”
As if in protest, Christian waves his hands in the air before saying, “Leave me out of this.”
I stop and turn to face Dean. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m here to run, so what are you here for?”
“Why, for the stimulating company, of course.” He smiles, then takes off running in the direction Christian and I had walked the night before. Christian follows him, and in a panic, I take off, as well. Dean turns around, and running backward, he adds, “Oh yeah, and there’s nothing like a little sexual tension in the morning to get your heart pumping, so I’m here for that, too.”
Spinning back around, he picks up his pace. I’m already starting to feel winded, but I yell after Dean anyways, “I didn’t know you were that into Christian.”
He doesn’t turn around, and the distance between us is growing. I hear Christian laughing, and jerking my head in his direction, I snap, “What’s so funny?”
“Was that your attempt at a comeback?” He’s still laughing, slowing his pace so that he’s next to me. I barely have the breath to keep running, even though we’ve only made it out of the parking lot. Christian’s laughter makes me wheeze, and I snort softly with a snicker of my own.
“Yeah, I guess that was pretty bad,” I admit.
“You think?”
I can’t respond anymore, as I’m focusing on keeping my body moving forward. Before I know it, we are rounding the corner, heading past the ice cream shop and into a new area of town. I look up and see Dean at least twenty paces ahead of us.
“Come on, slow pokes!” When I hear him shout this I grit my teeth instinctively.
“Is he always such an ass?” I grumble.
“He can surprise you. He’s been a huge help with all the shit I’ve been going through,” Christian isn’t even breathing heavily. I want to give up and sulk back to my bunk, but that would be far too humiliating.
“If you say so.” I choose the fewest number of words possible in order to conserve my energy.
My legs are burning, and I wonder if Christian can see how much I’ve been struggling up until this point. “How far are we going?”
“I figure once we warm up, we can get three or four miles—nothing too strenuous.” His answer twists my stomach.
Warm up? This is a freaking warm up. I have to stop. I can’t do this. Just as every fiber of my being is telling me to give up, an amazing thing happens. A surge of adrenaline floods my body, and my pace quickens. The sidewalk is a blur under my feet. The steady pounding of my feet echoes in my ears and sends a vibration through my body. My hair is clinging to my forehead. I force the air up my throat and out of my mouth, taking another deep draw as soon as the exhale is complete. The delicious rush of oxygen floods throughout my body, my muscles contracting and stretching outward. I don’t know what has gotten into me, but I feel amazing.
Christian is matching my pace, and we are closing the gap on Dean. At the bottom of the hill I see Dean make a sharp right into a park. We follow closely behind, and he turns his head at the sound of our feet. The wind blowing through my hair, the air pumping in and out of my lungs, I wonder why on earth I ever stopped running. And then I remember: my husband and daughter died, and it all seemed so pointless.
Like a freight train hit me in the stomach, I’m knocked back. There’s a cramp in one of my legs, which causes me to stumble to a clumsy stop, crouching on the ground and rubbing as fast as I can, trying to get the sharp pain to cease. My thighs are still burning, and a bead of sweat that has been gathering at my hairline sets off a chain reaction of droplets running down my face.
Dean and Christian stop immediately, and Dean appears next to me in almost an instant. “Are you okay?”
I nod, and through gritted teeth, I grunt, “Cramp.”
“Where?” Dean follows up. I don’t reply, but he looks at where I’m rubbing, and before I know what’s happening his warm hands are massaging my hamstring. I stop breathing for a second, but then quickly I’m wheezing again from my recent speedy pace. He’s rubbing me, I think. Why am I letting this guy rub me? Why do I like that he’s rubbing me?
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Christian asks, and I look over to see him extending a hand. I take the offering, which causes Dean to release me from his grasp and take my other hand. They get me to my feet.
“I’m fine,” I insist. Placing weight on the leg causes me to wince in pain.
“You’re not fine,” Dean insists.
“I am; I just need to walk it off,” I argue, favoring the injury, a little relieved I have an excuse not to run any more. The amazing and invigorating feeling running had given me quickly fades.
“Christian, why don’t you go ahead and get your run in, and I’ll walk back with Mac,” Dean offers.
“What?” The word slips out of my mouth.
“Yeah, it’s really no problem. I’m not a huge runner anyway.”
Christian studies Dean and then me. I’m trying to plead with my eyes. Plead for him not to leave my side. He wouldn’t invite me to go running, and then at the first sign of trouble pass me off to this guy he knows I can’t stand.
“Are you sure?” he asks Dean. Damn it! He is going to ditch me.
“Positive. Besides, it will give me a chance to get to know our new resident chef,” Dean replies. I look at Christian with wide eyes and then back over at Dean, and feign a smile. “Well, that is, if you don’t mind having to walk with me?”
What in the hell am I supposed to say? Well, actually, you offended me by not tasting my food last night. Or maybe I should just really put it all out there and tell him what a cocky bastard I think he is.
“No, of course not,” I lie with the stupidest looking grin on my face.
“Great,” Christian continues. “I was really looking forward to getting a long run in anyway. If you’ve got her, I think I’ll go ahead and go for my ten-miler.”
“Eat your heart out, bro,” Dean laughs. With a quick wave from Christian, he’s gone. “Oh, thank God, I thought he would never leave.”
“What?” Shock from his statement overwhelms me. “I thought you and Christian were like best friends.”
“Oh, I love the guy, don’t get me wrong,” Dean protests, then begins to laugh as he leads me over to a nearby park bench. “Like a brother, but damn, it’s hard to act like running that fast isn’t killing me. Sometimes I think the guy can’t be human. At least with him gone I can take a rest.”
He helps me take a seat before sitting down next to me.
Smiling, I offer a little honesty myself, “Okay, confession time, I’m not really much of an exerciser myself.”
“Yeah, not many people hit it as hard as Christian does,” Dean says, scanning the park.
Furrowing my brow, I ask the first question that pops into my mind, “Then why did you come?”
“Honestly?” He looks directly at me.
“Of course.”
“To get to know you better.” His response makes my heart rate quicken. What kind of answer is that? Is he trying to tell me something? What in the hell is happening? Is he playing a game?
“Well, that doesn’t make any sense,” I argue.
He laughs quietly. “And
why is that?”
“Why would you want to get to know someone you are getting ready to fire?” Damn it! Brain, stop telling my mouth to say these crazy things. Just because you think it, doesn’t mean you should say it, Mac!
“Why on earth would you think I’m firing you?” He leans forward to look me in the eyes, which of course makes me look around uncomfortably. He leans a little closer, and in avoiding his eyes, I look to his lips, which makes me think about kissing him. You can’t stand this guy! What are you doing? Are you really this horny after three years? My gaze shifts down to my leg, and though the pain is now dull, I focus my eyes on it as I rub the muscle.
“Last night you wouldn’t eat my food,” I answer at last.
He laughs. “I didn’t eat it because I don’t like pork … well, I take that back. I don’t like pork except for bacon. Everyone likes bacon.”
“What? No! That wasn’t on the list of dislikes.”
He smiles. “Because Pete would eat pork for every single meal of the day if he could. I knew if I put that I disliked it, then you would probably choose never to make it. I can’t be that cruel to him.”
“You said the sauce was congealed,” I argue, not believing his excuse.
“Well, it was.”
“Because you guys were a half hour late getting off stage—” As soon as the snarl comes out I regret it. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You’re my boss and—”
Dean is shaking his head. “No, you’re exactly right to say something. We were late, and that wasn’t fair to you. I’ll try and make sure we get you a more accurate schedule in the future.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“Nonsense, I want to enjoy my food. It would be silly of me not to. I’m excited to see what you can do, as I’m a bit of a foodie myself,” he explains.
This completely surprises me. “Really? I would have never imagined that.”
“Why is that?”
I look him up and down, a huge grin on my face.
“What?” he presses again.
“Just the rocker, and all the tattoos—it doesn’t seem to fit.”
“Wow…” He’s laughing. “Don’t we judge a book by its cover? For your information, my mom loved to bake when I was a kid.”
“Oh really? She doesn’t bake for you anymore?”
“No, not possible.” I can tell this makes him uncomfortable.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I just keep putting my foot in my mouth. It’s really none of my business if your mom still bakes for you.” I hate when people ask me probing questions that always seem to lead to the conversation of my dead family. I worry I might have done the same thing to Dean.
“No, it’s fine, just complicated.” His answer piques my curiosity, but I resist the urge to inquire further. “What about you? What made you become a chef?”
I look out into the distance, a smile on my face as I think fondly on the memory I enjoy sharing. “My mom, too. She was the head chef at our family restaurant. We were a farm-to-plate place before it was hip. When she cooked, it was like a dance was unfolding with intricate choreography all across your taste buds.”
“Wow, sounds amazing.”
I look at Dean and softly add, “She passed away when I was twelve.”
He nods. “Hence the stepmom?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh wow, and your dad just died, too. That’s gotta be tough…” He stops speaking, but it feels as if something unsaid is hanging in the air. He shifts on the bench, and I wonder if the discussion of death is something he shies away from. Is it his mother? Did she die? Is that why she doesn’t bake for him anymore?
“We don’t have to talk about this stuff,” I offer.
He doesn’t say anything. He looks at me, then straight ahead, then back at me. “I lost my dad, too.”
“Oh really? I’m so sorry. Was it recent?”
“No, when I was a kid.”
“It’s never easy on a kid.” I think about all the lines people have fed me over the past few years, trying to think of any that were comforting, but I can’t, because they never are.
“I guess,” he replies, barely audible. I can see it on his face, that pain. It’s more than his father, and while I’m not sure what it is, it’s obvious Dean is hurting in a way that is much deeper than losing a parent. I lean in, allowing my shoulder to rest against his. That simple touch of another human being is sometimes the only thing that can bring me any comfort, and I hope it will do the same for him. I wonder if Christian was right and I misjudged this man.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he says at last, his words making me panic. I don’t know what they mean. Maybe there’s no significance in them at all or maybe they matter more than anything in the world. All I know is right now, I don’t want to explore what it means; I only want to enjoy it for the moment.
“Me too,” I offer, then hop to my feet and slap my leg. “Well, seems better. Ready to walk back?”
“Sure, and you can tell me all about the dinner you have planned for tonight. Oh, and maybe we can stop in at that little pastry shop I saw on the way back, but just don’t tell Christian.”
Laughing, I happily agree.
We pull into a town, unpack, I make the food, I go to the store, then we pack up, and the next day I do it all over again. Sometimes we’re on the road the very same night after a concert, but other times we stay put for multiple days. After a few weeks I’m already used to the hectic pace of life on the road. Downtime is spent hanging out in parking lots or green rooms, listening to music, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. This is what people do in the real world. They converse with one another. They live. It felt foreign to me at first, but over time, it’s started to feel normal.
At home I had a cocoon. It was home—a place I could shield out the world and be alone in my misery. Alone. That’s the perfect word to describe my life in Cincinnati. There was no way for my friends or family to find their way into my life, as I had too expertly crafted the walls around me. In a few short weeks, being surrounded by life had done something to me I never expected. The world that had been standing still has begun to turn again.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss Travis or Katie, but rather than lying in bed, numbing myself with food and television, I’m feeling the slightest tingles of living again. Dean and Christian have made it a habit of visiting the local farmers’ markets with me when the schedule lines up. This strange thing has happened where I’ve started to laugh again. I thought perhaps I was only capable of tears anymore, but they’ve proven there is a small piece of joy inside me, if only just a sliver. There are still friends to be made.
Christian still confuses me. He talks all the time about this girl he was once in love with, Paige, but then in the next breath he’ll tell me how beautiful I look. I wonder if this is his personality—does he thrive on making women feel good about themselves? Travis was that way with me; he never shied away from giving compliments, eager to see me smile or blush. Dean is a different creature. It’s not shocking that he’s the lead singer of a band. He always likes to be the center of attention, and if there’s an opportunity for a cheap laugh, he will always go for it. I like laughing, though—I’ve missed it—so I enjoy having him close. I’m surprised now that I didn’t like him at first.
Storm has softened since I met her; I’ve learned that the rough exterior she shows everyone is just an act. She’s young, and she has been hurt; I think maybe if I hadn’t found Travis so young, I would have ended up a lot like her. There’s a hurt behind her eyes, a loss that is not so easily disguised. Most nights, when she actually sleeps on our bus, she tosses and she turns. While awake, we often joke about how the entire tour is like the roving island of misfits, each of us running from our own demons. Maybe that’s why we’re all here. We’re drawn to this because it gives us a chance to try and forget what waits for us back in the real world.
“Hey Macaroon,” I hear Dean�
�s voice outside the bus. I smile at the nickname he gave me, which annoyed me initially, but has since grown on me.
I exit the bus, shifting the shorts on my waist, which in only three weeks’ time have gone from being skin tight to actually offering breathing room. “What’s up?” I ask.
He looks at me from head to toe, and I suddenly feel self-conscious, tucking a strand of my dark hair behind my ear. “I was wondering if you were hungry?”
“Isn’t that something I should be asking you? After all, feeding you is my job,” I tease.
He looks away from me, dragging his Converse-clad toe through the dirt in front of him. “I noticed a place up the street called The London Underground, and I just thought you might want to grab some lunch.”
“Sure, where’s Christian?”
“Uh— he’s busy,” Dean answers quickly.
“Okay,” I say, my tone suspicious.
“No, really, he is,” Dean insists. “He had to run and get a part for one of the vans. But hey, if you don’t trust yourself alone with me, I completely understand.”
And now I’m laughing. Why is it with him I am always laughing? Raising a finger, I tell him to wait, as I run up and grab a wad of cash from under my pillow before leaping down the stairs.
“Ready?” he asks, a huge smile spreading across his face.
“Yup.”
The bus is parked in the parking lot of an old condemned school. This evening’s venue did not have anywhere for us to set up, so we found the closest space available. I shove my hands in my pockets, and we start off in the direction of the main sidewalk.
“So how far is this place?”
“Not far on my bike,” Dean says, and I realize he is no longer next to me. He has taken a sharp turn, standing near the back of the bus, where his motorcycle waiting for him—for us. He grabs the spare helmet from the back of the bike and hands it to me. I feel my fingers tingle with a rush of adrenaline.
“You can’t be serious,” I scoff.
He says nothing, putting his own black helmet on and fastening the strap. He straddles the seat, grabbing the handles firmly, causing the tattoos on his arm muscles to flex. “No helmet, no ride.”