by Kilby Blades
“Then you’re an idiot for believing anyone would want to have a soul-deep connection with someone, then not be with that person,” I replied a little testily. “Roxy and I have been apart for three times longer than we were ever together at this point.”
Deck rolled his eyes at me, then brought the bottle back toward his lips to have another drink of his beer. “Annika’s not the only one waiting,” he muttered under his breath, just before he tipped it back.
I quelled the urge to punish his smart-assery, because what if it was true? I’d always hoped that if we found ourselves in the same city again, and if both of us were single, and that if our careers weren’t totally crazy, she’d give us a chance. But that was a lot of “ifs” and something happened that I’d never banked on: we were fucking phenomenal as plain old best friends.
But could Roxy really be waiting? Letting what happened, happen was one thing, but…waiting? It didn’t seem like she was. She’d always done better than me when it came to us moving on. Roxy dated for real. I’d hadn’t been in a proper relationship since high school.
“Just don’t dick her around,” I warned, wanting to admonish Declan in some way and not wanting to discuss my predicament over Roxy. Annika and I didn’t talk often anymore, but we had a connection that had nothing to do with our clique. We’d had some deep talks when we’d volunteered with one another in the NICU and I cared about her.
“I don’t want to string her along.” When Declan swung his gaze back to me, there was only regret in his eyes. “I know I can’t be halfway in. But if I can’t, neither can you.”
When he quieted again, I felt sorry for us both. I looked back out to the gulf. Declan was right—I was halfway in. What good did it do me to be with Roxy in mind and in spirit but not in body or practice? And why the fuck was I waiting for everything to align?
“It’s complicated,” I repeated, as if by rote. It was the same thing I’d said to everyone who I’d ever told my sad story. “The logistics of not living in the same place—“
“—are an excuse,” Declan cut me off. “Dude. You can afford your own jet. Most people in long-distance relationships get by with a lot less…”
I fought back a maelstrom of emotion. When Declan put it like that, it did sound kind of dumb.
“She’s not always single,” I pointed out in a last-ditch attempt to defend my inaction.
“So wait until she is. Jag, no one understands why you and Roxy aren’t together. I know what’s really stopping me from taking the next step in my relationship—not the bullshit reason—the real reason. But can you really say the same?”
It was the best question I’d never asked myself, even though I pined for Roxy every day. The shitty part of all of it was, I didn’t.
It niggled at me for the rest of the weekend—the notion that it wasn’t circumstance. That I had, somehow, gotten in my own way. By the end of the weekend, I reached a shocking conclusion: Declan and I had the same problem. Neither of us knew whether we were what our women wanted anymore.
17 Love's Recovery
Meanwhile, our friends we thought were so together
left each other one by one along the road of fairer weather.
And we sit here in our storm and drink a toast
to the slim chance of love's recovery.
-Indigo Girls, Love’s Recovery
* * *
Roxy
"My petticoats itch," I groused loudly enough for only Jagger to hear.
I was suffering a late September day in the deep south—which meant it felt like the dead of summer anywhere else—in an elaborate, tight-fitting period frock. Keeping scratchy material off of my legs, the hem of my dress off of the grass, and shoe heels from digging into soil was no small feat—especially not when one hand was curled around Jagger's bicep. But I hadn't seen Jagger in what felt like ages, and I had no intention of letting go.
"Shall I hold your parasol?" he asked smoothly, even managing a straight face, though I could hear the humor in his voice. The groomsmen had gotten away with military-themed suits that didn't look the least bit uncomfortable. He was enjoying this entirely too much.
"Maybe you'd better, before I use it as a bludgeoning device to kill Zoë…" I threatened darkly, placing the accessory in his hand so I could tend more thoroughly to my skirts. Ever the gentleman, he made sure the whole of its canopy shielded me from the blazing sun.
I'd tried to talk Zoë down from her plantation-style nuptials—theme weddings are always a bad idea. Unsurprisingly, she'd resisted, so here we were at one of Gunther's relatives’ ancestral homes. I'd thought the get-ups Zoë had chosen for the wedding party would cause us to stick out like sore thumbs, but as I could see from some of the other guests' wardrobes, their friends were pretty into it, too.
I'd handle Zoë later, would let her have her day and all that business. Given my own dating record, I likely had years to find the “maid of honor dress of revenge". In the meantime, I had bigger fish to fry—Declan and Annika had suffered a vicious breakup weeks before, and Jagger and I were running interference. Twenty feet ahead of us, Annika and Declan ignored each other as we made the long trek to the gazebo on the far lawn.
We'd managed to switch things up for the processional—made it so Jagger walked with Annika and I with Declan, but the photo shoot would prove more difficult. Zoë's ten bridesmaids each wore different colored dresses and the trim on each groomsman's uniform had been customized to coordinate to the dress of his partner.
"Closer, please!" the photographer was shouting, making wide squeezing motions with his hands, the universal gesture for instructing large groups to bunch together until everyone fit in the shot.
"Hands off!" Annika hissed rather loudly at Declan, distracting me from my enjoyment of how good Jagger smelled despite the punishing heat.
I looked nervously at Jagger, then at Zoë—who, thankfully, was too wrapped up in gazing adoringly at Gunther to notice. Still, Jagger took a step toward Annika, pretending to fix her hair before discreetly whispering something in her ear. I watched in awe as Annika's grimace melted into a subtle smile.
"What'd you tell her?" I whispered discreetly to Jagger through smiling teeth as the photographer clicked away.
"You really don't want to know."
Two hours later, I'd delivered my toast, kept scheduled events on track, and pretty much fulfilled my duties as Maid of Honor. The party was in full swing, but on auto-pilot, so I figured it was safe to hit the bar.
"Getting soused before battle?" I asked, sliding up to where Jagger and Declan stood, still looking every bit the part of Civil War soldiers. "Don't get so drunk you forget how to use your bayonets."
Jagger rolled his eyes and poured me a shot from a bottle of Patrón. Declan didn't wait before slinging his own shot back. I eyed the c-note in the bartender's tip jar and saw that a third of the bottle was gone. I briefly considered trying to stop Declan from getting totally wasted, but I got the sense that Jagger was handling him and, fuck it, I needed a drink.
Jagger tucked me under his arm, and the three of us stayed there, talking and drinking. It was like old times except Declan couldn't keep his eyes from lifting every few minutes to check on Annika.
"Are you riding back to the airport with us tomorrow morning?", I made the mistake of asking at some point.
"I was 'til Scarlett over there cancelled my fucking flight."
A few heads turned. He'd said it more than a little too loud.
"Time for a walk," Jagger said, grabbing Declan by the shoulder, already pulling him away from the bar. Declan looked back at me, his voice no longer slurred and his gaze momentarily and frighteningly sharp.
"You two did it right…It was better to stay just friends."
I tried to ignore the pang I felt as I passed the bartender back his bottle of Patrón.
Later, while Jagger and I danced and I shamelessly sniffed the aroma wafting from beneath his elaborate lapels, my eyes wandered to a swaying Zoë and Gunth
er.
"They look so happy, don't they?"
I hadn't realized I had been caught until Jagger's voice broke me from my trance. I didn't—couldn't—answer. I was afraid that the longing to have what they had would register in my voice.
That could've been us.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my thoughts away.
"Do you think we made the right decision?" he whispered.
So he'd caught what Declan had said. I opened my eyes and found our friend's slumped form, too wasted to move, but still drunkenly watching his ex.
"Hard to know…" I murmured. "A romantic would say we could've been Gunther and Zoë. But if we'd stayed together…we could've been Declan and Annika."
"Promise me we'll never be like that—" Jagger commanded softly, slowing our dancing to a halt, "…so angry that we can't even remember the friendship…so jaded that we can't even remember the love."
"We'll never be like that, Jag," I vowed and he pulled me close to dance again. "Besides," I said trying to keep the sadness out of my voice, "…it doesn't happen like that for most people. The epic romance? It works great in fairy tales but not so much in real life."
I knew I sounded defeatist. I wasn't, normally, but seeing Jagger, plus the wedding, and the breakup had me doing a lot of thinking. And the tequila wasn't exactly helping my filter.
"Most people hope for something like that, but it usually happens that you just meet somebody one day and fall in love." My verbal diarrhea just continued. "I'm actually surprised someone hasn't snatched you up already."
For weeks afterward, I would imagine whether I'd really heard, or just imagined, him whisper softly, "I'm not."
18 Chained to the Rhythm
Are we tone deaf?
Keep sweeping' it under the mat.
Thought we could do better than that.
I hope we can.
So comfortable, we're living' in a bubble, bubble.
So comfortable, we cannot see the trouble, trouble.
-Katy Perry, Chained to the Rhythm
* * *
Jagger
What are you doing this weekend?
The text sat in the composition window of my phone, written and unsent for the past twenty minutes. Ready to send along with it was a screen shot from her Instagram feed—the one in which she’d just announced that she’d turned her manuscript in to her editor.
She’d been working almost nonstop on the project for the past three months—the authorized biography of a British cult band from the 80s—one that had gained renewed attention after three mega-huge acts had sampled some of its songs. Roxy loved writing about bands like that—unsung recording heroes who had served as influences to other bands. She’d been working crazy hours, but she seemed in her element. I loved that she loved it, but she’d been traveling and I’d missed her.
Her going back and forth to London would have been tough either way—from L.A., the time difference was eight hours. But the urgency with which I needed to see her made it excruciating. Gunther's wedding had pushed me to Code Red. Roxy’s dance floor commentary had sounded alarm bells and shown me how badly I had failed. She’d done the one thing I’d told her not to: forgotten.
All in, I chided myself as I kept sitting and still not pressing send. It reminded me of Gunther’s bachelor party, which, in and of itself, had kicked me into Code Orange. My plan after that had been to do recon and foreshadow my intentions at the wedding itself. Not only had babysitting Declan turned out to be the ultimate cock block—now I had to dispel whatever anti-happily-ever-after cynicism Annika and Declan’s breakup had taught her.
Sleeping.
Roxy’s reply to my question came back right away—you know, after I’d quit being too chicken to press “send”
Come to L.A. We’ve got beds…and sunshine.
Yeah. I wasn’t above using the weather as bait. I had more pictures in my back pocket. I’d snagged it from one of those apps that gave snide forecasts about the weather. I’d pulled up the ones for tomorrow in New York and L.A. The L.A. One said, “The sun is shining like a diamond in a goat’s ass.” The New York one said, “Grab your fur coat, pimp. Holy shit, you’re gonna freeze”. I sent them hot on the heels of my earlier text and was pleased when she texted back immediately with three emojis that were laughing their asses off.
Unless you have other plans?
I’d become a master at fishing expeditions. I’d thrown out countless hooks over the years to ascertain her every status.
California seriously sounds great, but I’m warning you…I’m really, really tired.
I didn’t want to sound desperate but I was done with being ambiguous. Like Declan said, no more half.
So we keep it low-key. No wild nights. Besides, I really want to catch up. I miss you, Rox.
The fifty-four seconds that it took her to answer felt ten times longer than that. Because short of her coming here or me going there, I didn’t have a Plan B. I might have held my breath as the gray dots that indicated she was typing bounced across the screen.
I’m in. Gimme a minute. I’ll go in now and book a flight.
Twenty-four hours later, Roxy was, indeed, sleeping. Only, not in her apartment—in my house. As I lay next to her in far more clothes than I usually wore to bed, I ran back over my plan.
Declan’s push back had taught me something: there was no one big reason why we’d never gotten together—no one big Dragon to slay. I had to look at all of the smaller reasons and eliminate them one-by-one. The list was shorter than I’d made it out to be, and each one was medium-sized. My goal for now wasn't to tell her how I felt—it was to triage where each of us was.
Step one was to find out her relationship status. For years, we’d operated on a need-to-know basis. My guess was, I only heard about a guy if she’d been dating him for a while. We’d never told each other about casual flings, or braided each other’s hair while we talked about our crushes. Unless she volunteered something, I would have to ask.
I was trying to avoid that outcome, because I’d be fishing for other intel. If I fished for too much, too soon, things would start to get weird. Number two on the list was finding out the status of her job. She’d done a solid two years with Carson, and was doing plenty of solo gigs. She was rolling along, but I didn’t know her plan.
Number three was finding out whether she’d changed her mind about where she wanted to settle. New York had grown on her, but she was still lukewarm. And with all the time she’d been spending on the road, what if she’d fallen in love with a new city? There was no denying that the music industry was basically New York, Nashville, and L.A. Still, I needed to know which way she was leaning.
And the hardest one was number four: did she still have strong enough feelings for me? Or had I fooled myself into thinking I was more than an old flame? All these years, I’d hoped that our chemistry would trump all else. But I’d had to face a hard fact: most days, what I wished was true, unwavering faith was little more than bravado. The part of me that was terrified I’d lost her warred with the part of me that believed in the indelible nature of true love.
“I’m such a shitty house guest,” her sleepy voice murmured from next to me. “I told you I’d be a drag.”
“You’re perfect,” I came back with a tiny smile, figuring if I wanted out of the friend zone, I’d better double up on my double entendres.
“How long did I sleep?” She yawned and pushed up on both elbows, covering her mouth as she scanned for a clock.
“Long enough that every place in the neighborhood is already serving lunch.”
She blinked, still a bit bleary-eyed, then sank back down onto her back and turned to smoosh her face back into the pillow.
“God, your bed is so comfortable.”
You can stay as long as you want.
It had been nearly six months since I'd closed on the spacious bungalow in Marina del Rey. It was one Roxy had seen with me during an earlier trip. I'd been in the market for a new rent
al—something large enough to accommodate my piano. The place next door was the one up for rental—when we arrived we found out it was taken; I was ready to get back into the car to go see the next place, but since I liked the area, Roxy insisted we check out the one with the 'For Sale' sign.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't take it because she loved it. Her eyes lit up with something I had never seen as we walked through the bright, spacious rooms. It had two large and two medium sized bedrooms which, for me, would translate into a master, a guest room, a recording studio, and an office. Its proudest features were an exceptionally sized backyard, particularly for California, and floor-to-ceiling windows in every ocean-facing room. The master bedroom had a fantastic private deck with a fire pit and a Jacuzzi, and fantastic ocean views.
"This is a great place, Jagger," she'd said. "Plenty of room for your pianos…and so inspiring."
I didn't miss the wistfulness in her voice.
"If I bought it, you could come here and write," I suggested. "…when the New York winter gets too cold, or, you know…whenever you wanted."
“So let’s order in again,” I suggested, bringing my thoughts back to the present.
She’d arrived the previous evening. We’d ordered Thai and eaten on the deck that overlooked the beach. She’d told me everything about the band whose book she’d just finished—about visiting their home towns and their old haunts in England. I’d told her everything about the film I was working on and our vision for the score.
Still, it felt like a segue—like asking questions about what was next would feel like an extension of the previous night’s conversation. We ordered In ’n Out Burger from Door Dash and lounged in bed with me awake and Roxy snoozing until the food came. When I came back in from paying the driver, Roxy was setting up plates in the same spot we’d eaten the night before, except her gaze was caught on something down below.