The Luckiest

by Wendy Owens

  This new life has completely removed me from my comfort zone, and the things I was once terrified of are now exhilarating. Had someone told me only a year ago that I’d be this happy again, I would have told them they were crazy. Had they told me I was going to find this happiness with a rock star, I think I may have even suggested they seek professional care for their madness.

  Here I am, though, living this life that sometimes seems like at any moment I could wake up from. Tonight’s show was late so the band ate in advance. This means Dean and I will get to go out after the show. I prefer it this way. Night riding on the back of his motorcycle through new and exciting cities is an adrenaline pumping experience.

  Tonight I managed to finish up my after-show snack preps early enough to slip in for the last half of the show. It’s fascinating to watch Dean on stage; he slips into character. He’s always confident, but with me he’s vulnerable. On stage he comes off as arrogant, but oddly enough in a sexy way. When he moves across the stage there’s no hesitation; he owns every step and every note. He’s beautiful.

  Eagerly, I press the button on the face of my phone, checking the time. I’ve never been a patient person, but waiting for Dean is agonizing.

  “Finally,” I start, leaning out of the small travel size bathroom when I hear footsteps on the rubber-covered stairs.

  Storm freezes, staring at me with a puzzled look.

  “Oh, I thought you were Dean,” I explain.

  She grins mischievously. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “No, I wasn’t saying that,” I argue, walking out of the bathroom and flopping down onto my bunk. “Shouldn’t you be with Pete, I don’t know, with your tongue stuck down his throat or something?”

  “Ugh,” she huffs. “Don’t get me started.” She moves into the kitchenette area and pulls out a jar of Nutella and bread. Storm amazingly always eats like a twelve year old, when she eats at all.

  “Uh oh, trouble in paradise?” I inquire, shifting on my bunk so I can maintain eye contact.

  “What’s wrong with men?” she growls, before continuing with her story in the very next breath, wildly waving the Nutella-covered knife as she relays her frustrations. “I mean, really? At what point in life do you grow a pair and start acting like a man? It was hard enough to get Pete to admit how he felt about me, but when my brother says something, he tells me he needs to think about things.”

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I answer sympathetically, making sure I’m not smiling from my lingering Dean buzz.

  “There’s nothing to think about. He knows how he feels; he’s just too much of a damn coward to own up to it. And who the hell does Andrew think he is? He has no right,” Storm snaps, dropping the knife into the sink and pressing together the slathered slices of bread. She rips off a chunk with her teeth, releasing a deep moan.

  “He’s your brother, and he loves you, that’s all,” I attempt to reassure her.

  “Please,” she huffs with a full mouth, shifting the food into her cheek. “Do I stick my nose into his business? How about the fact that he has slept with about three-dozen different women on this trip? Nope, I keep my trap shut, even though that is absolutely disgusting.”

  “That is disgusting.” I crinkle my nose. Storm starts laughing, and I quickly join her. “Just give Pete some time, he’ll come around. Some men are scared to admit their feelings … I don’t get it either.”

  Storm tears off another monstrous bite of her sandwich, chews and swallows, leaning against the wall of windows across from my bunk. “You’re lucky, you got Dean.”

  I smile and sigh. “I am pretty lucky, aren’t I?”

  Storm and I both turn our heads immediately toward the tinted windows, a commotion stealing our attention from the conversation. She heads for the door, and I’m on her heels in only a moment’s time.

  “What the hell is going on?” she yells to one of the roadies running by.

  He shakes his head and raises his hands in bewilderment, continuing in the direction of the crowd gathering at the street. “Some sort of accident.”

  Storm steps off the bus completely, and I’m now standing directly next to her. “Do you see Dean anywhere?” I ask, my heartbeat quickening.

  Storm looks around wildly. “No.”

  I look back in the direction of the crowd. Christian is running toward us, and he’s yelling something, but I can’t make it out.

  “What?” I plead. I can feel vomit climbing up my throat.

  “Call 9-1-1,” he yells again, pausing and looking to us for confirmation of his instructions.

  “What do I tell them?” I ask, the phone already in my hand, dialing.

  “There’s been an accident with a motorcycle,” he replies, and then he’s gone. Before I can process his statement and ask any of the million questions in my mind, he’s gone.

  This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. Everything is okay. It’s someone else. It’s not him.

  “Mac!” Storm yells. “Mac! They’re on the phone.” Her words are not registering. I feel the phone in my hand one moment and then not the next. I see Storm talking on it, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. The blood is surging in my ears, drowning out all other noises.

  I’m shaking; my legs feel as though they might give out on me at any moment. I sit down at the foot of the bus steps, directly on the gravel of the parking lot. I place my hands on the ground, hoping for a comforting coolness, but the grit of the gravel gives me no relief.

  My entire world begins to shift violently. He’s late. He should have been here by now. Motorcycle accident … you know what that means. You’re cursed. You killed him.

  I let out a strangled sob; the scene around me is a total blur. I see glimpses of Storm in my face, waving her hands. She’s saying something, but it’s making no sense. I can feel her shaking my body, but I can’t seem to will myself to look at her.

  I can’t do this again. The pain nearly killed me the first time. How can God be this cruel?

  “Baby?” A voice breaks through the panic. “Come on, look at me. Macaroon? Are you in there?”

  Pressing my eyes shut for several moments, I try to pull myself out of the haze. When I reopen them, Dean is looking into my eyes. I can’t speak; all I can do is pull him into my body. His arms are wrapped tightly around me, and as he rocks me, I dig my fingers into his back, too scared to let go.

  I watch him as he looks up at Storm. “I was in the shower … what’s going on?”

  “Christian said it was a motorcycle accident, and I just called 9-1-1,” she explains as Dean helps me to my feet.

  “What? Pete—” Dean gasps.

  Storm looks at Dean, her eyes wide and crazy, and asks, “What about him?”

  “I lent him my bike.” He doesn’t even finish getting the words out before his hands release me and he takes off at full speed in the direction of the crowd.

  “What did he say?” There’s a panic in Storm’s voice that I know all too well.

  “I’m sure it’s not—” She doesn’t wait for me to reassure her. She is now running after Dean in the direction of the chaos. I do my best to keep pace with her, and with every step praying in for her that it’s not him.

  The other car comes into view first. A shattered windshield, a dented hood, and what’s left of a motorcycle under the tires. There’s an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair standing next to the driver’s side door, clutching a bleeding wound on his forehead. People are talking to him, keeping him occupied, but the scene fifteen feet away distracts him.

  I push my way through the crowd, staying close to Storm, my chest tightening around my heart as I hear her repeating the words, “No, dear God no, not him.” I know those words; I’ve said them too many times in my lifetime.

  Breaking through the front of the crowd, I see the lights of an ambulance coming in the distance. Storm screams, I grab her arm, pulling her close to me, and the horror comes into view for me as well.

  We see glimpses of Pete’s bo
dy between the circle of people. Christian and Dean are at his side, along with a smattering of people I don’t know.

  “We have to stay here,” I tell her. “He’s going to be all right.” I feel like I’m lying. In my experience, people are never all right. Dean looks over his shoulder and sees me struggling to hold onto Storm.

  In an instant he’s at our side, pulling Storm into his arms, squeezing her firmly. Gripping her cheeks, he pulls her red and swollen face upright so their eyes meet. “I’m not going to let anything happen to him. He needs you, all right?”

  Storm nods, and I watch in awe as Dean takes control.

  “I need you to go with Mac, okay? You’re going to take one of the vans, get some of Pete’s things together, and you’re going to meet us at the hospital. I’ll go in the ambulance with him.”

  “But—” Storm starts.

  “Shh,” he hushes her, “trust me.”

  She pushes the tears off her cheeks with the heels of her hands, acknowledging him again with a nod before turning to me.

  “Ready?” I ask her.

  “Yeah,” she breathes.

  Dean squeezes my arm, and then he’s back at Pete’s side. I take Storm’s hand into mine and guide her through the crowd to do exactly as Dean instructed us to do.

  I know, firsthand, that hospital waiting rooms are hard. I’d been spared the wait when I lost my Travis and Katie Bird, but the hours leading up to my mother’s death were long. My father lived on machines for three days after his heart attack, but he never regained consciousness. There are different kinds of waiting. There are the people waiting to find out what might be wrong with them, there are the people waiting and hoping their loved ones will be all right, and then there are those who know nothing is going to be all right, and they are waiting for death to take their loved ones.

  There was a reason Dean gave me this job. He entrusted me with the responsibility of keeping her focus anywhere but on the fact that the man she loved was probably dying. We start at his bus, pack his belongings. While there, Andrew finds us, but Storm is in no shape to deal with the feelings she has about everything. I assure him I’ll take care of her.

  When we leave, the ambulance is already gone. Storm panics, wanting to be at his side. I convince her he will want comforts when he wakes up, and that we should stop by the store to pick up some of his favorite treats, perhaps a magazine. The idea of him being conscious enough to read seems to calm her.

  But now I’ve done all the stalling I can. Our purchases are made, and she demands to be taken to the hospital. She knows I’ll comply. I rush in behind her, but I know there is no reason to rush. No matter how bad you want answers, they take forever to come.

  We walk into the main room, where there is a huge desk in front of us with two nurses sitting behind it. One is on the phone, while the other is speaking to a mother who is rocking her sleeping toddler in her arms. Storm is pacing in short strides. I place a hand on her back, trying to comfort her, but I know nothing can comfort you in a time like this.

  As the woman on the phone hangs up, Storm rushes to her, pleading for information. She is told there is no news and to take a seat in the waiting room. This flusters her, but we have no choice. We choose one of the large rooms full of other waiting people and sit down. Storm fidgets, and I wish more than anything I could make it easier for her.

  From where we sit, we can see directly into the emergency room every time the doors swing open. When this happens it’s impossible not to hold your breath and prepare yourself for a glimpse of the worst. There’s a bustle of activity, doctors and nurses in their various colors of uniforms moving around, in and out, all with an important mission on their mind.

  “Why won’t they tell us something?” Storm whimpers.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. They’ll come tell us when they know something, I’m sure.”

  “If he’s dead, just tell me,” her voice cracks.

  “Don’t!” I exclaim. “Don’t think like that.” Though I already am.

  The door swings out again, and Dean emerges. He’s looking around the room, a worn and weary expression on his face. Storm hops to her feet, and I next to her. He sees us, rushing across the room to join us.

  Scooping Storm’s hand into his own, he guides her back to a seated position.

  “What’s going on?” she cries.

  Dean stares at Storm, and, squeezing her hand, he tells her, “Pete’s going to be fine. His hip is pretty messed up, some cracked ribs, but he’s lucky.”

  “Oh thank God,” Storm moans.

  Dean keeps talking to her, but I’m no longer paying attention. He’s going to be fine? People are never fine. His words make no sense to me. When people get hurt or sick, they die, that’s just how it is. Or perhaps that is just how it is when it comes to me. Had Dean been the one in that accident, he wouldn’t have survived, simply because I love him. Dear God, I love him. I can’t ... but I think I do ... and people I love die.

  All the dates for the next week have been rescheduled while Dean and the rest of the band audition replacements for Pete. There’s no way he will be able to rejoin the tour. Storm was next to him when he woke up, and like a lightning bolt of clarity, Pete didn’t have any more thinking to do about them. He professed his love instantly. She’ll be staying here, helping him with his recovery, until he’s strong enough to head back to his home in Atlanta.

  Dean’s time has been filled with tour details and visiting Pete as often as possible. I don’t mind; it’s given me a chance to think about everything I almost lost—time to think about what would happen to me if I did lose Dean, like I lost Travis. Most importantly, time to make one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made in my life.

  I slip the letter into the envelope, lick the flap, and press it shut. In it, I thank Dean for helping me heal. For caring so deeply about me and letting me be there for him as well. And then I tell him I have to go. I’ve learned I’m capable of being happy, but I’ve also learned I’m still searching for what I want my new life to look like. I close with the line I hope you understand. Which I know he won’t.

  I pull out my phone and dial Monica’s number. The taxi is already on its way.

  “Hey!” she exclaims as she answers the phone. “I was just thinking about you. How’s your friend doing?”

  “Good, he should make a full recovery,” I reply.

  She sighs in relief. “Thank God.”

  “Yeah,” I add in a whisper.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Is there still room in your apartment for me?”

  “What?”

  “I want to come home,” I answer firmly.

  “What about Dean?” she asks.

  “He’ll understand.”

  “I don’t. Why are you coming home?” she presses.

  “The tour ends in a month anyway,” I say defensively.

  “So why come home now? Did something happen with Dean?”

  “I made a mistake.” My voice cracks. “I’m not ready for this.” I don’t hide the fear in my tone; I want her to know how much I need to come back.

  “You know you’re always welcome, but I think you should talk to Dean first.”

  “I will,” I lie to her. I have no intention of talking to Dean. “Can you pick me up from the bus station tonight?”

  “Yeah, of course, just call me when you’re getting close.”

  “Okay, I will. Love you.”

  “Mac,” she quickly adds, “are you sure about this?”

  I swallow hard. “Positive.”

  There’s a honk outside of the bus. I grab my suitcases and drop them at the bottom of the stairs. Turning around, I prop two envelopes against the steps so they are visible when you enter; one for Christian and the other for Dean.

  “Where are you going?” I hear behind me. My heart catches in my throat. I turn and see Christian looking back at me, his eyes shifting from the cab, to my bags, to my face.

  I lose control at the look in his
eyes; the tears I’ve been fighting back begin to fall. “I have to go.”

  He shakes his head. “Go where?”

  “Home.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “I made some meals. They’re in our kitchenette fridge,” I say, handing my bags to the cab driver.

  Christian moves closer. “You didn’t answer me … why are you going?” I see his eyes connect with the envelopes. “You weren’t going to say anything?” There is so much hurt in his voice I feel sick to my stomach.

  “I can’t do this anymore.” My voice is shaking.

  “Mac, this will kill him.”

  “No—I’ll kill him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not,” I plead.

  “He deserves to hear it from you.”

  “I can’t. If I talk to him, he’ll persuade me to stay,” I explain.

  “Maybe that means you shouldn’t be going.”

  “When Pete was—I—” Swallowing hard, I try to think of the words to tell him the way my world almost ended again. The way everything began to spiral out of control.

  “Dean’s fine. Pete’s fine. I don’t understand.”

  “This time!” I shout.

  “So you’re leaving because you’re scared of what might happen?” Christian argues. “Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

  “Please, just trust me, I have to go,” I reply.

  Christian looks over his shoulder. I wonder if he is contemplating running for Dean. He looks back to me. “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  He opens his arms and pulls me in for a hug. “I wish you’d stay. I think this is a mistake, but I love you, and I know you wouldn’t do this to him if you thought you had a choice.” I think his words are meant to make me realize how selfish I’m being, but I’ve made up my mind. Nothing will change it. Love doesn’t set you free … it only complicates things.