Ended?

by Kilby Blades

  That was the other thing I hadn’t had a chance to tell him yet. I’d only found out myself that week: the gig I’d been looking at in L.A. had panned out. Not only that—my on-again, off-again freelance gigs with Rolling Stone had turned a corner and they’d given me a regular column.

  More than anything I’d worked for over these past three years, I’d worked for my own freedom. Because if there was one thing being apart from Jagger had taught me, it was that I never wanted to be stuck. I’d made it a career priority—no, a life priority—to make it so that I could work anywhere I wanted. Because anywhere Jagger was, was where I wanted to be.

  But now you waited too long, and you could be too late, a voice in my head mocked. Attempting to ignore it, I thought ahead to what would happen when I got off the plane.

  Jag and I had played phone tag all day, and then I’d had to get on my early evening flight. With the time difference, I’d be at LAX at 9:00 PM. He’d meet me at the airport and take me to a late dinner. That’s when he’d tell me his news.

  I'd been too scared to mention anything about said news, by the way. My only hope was that he didn't bring her. I doubted he would. We each knew some part of us would always be in love with the other. Unless he was out-of-his-mind starry-eyed and lovesick for this woman, he’d break the news to me alone.

  I was counting on that. My plan was half-baked at best and I needed it to work. I had the script all worked out in my head.

  He'd say the dreaded words: “I met someone, and I think I’m really in love. I want to propose to her, but I want your blessing." He might even ask me to help pick out a ring.

  That would be my cue to make my confession: "If you’re in love, Jagger," I would say, "…then I'm happy for you and wish you all the best. But, if there is even an iota of doubt in your mind, I want you to know you have options."

  See, that there was a problem. The words were accurate, but I couldn't think of the right way to say it. When I said it in my mind, it always came out overly suggestive. I pictured myself covering my hand with his and raising a provocative eyebrow on the word "options". Which was truly disappointing, because I was better than this and should have been capable of a much, much stronger script. I mean, come on…I was a fucking writer.

  What the hell is wrong with me? I thought no fewer than thirty-five times on the plane, almost willing time to go faster so I could just get it over with. But, of course, it didn't, giving me more time to come up with absolutely nothing. I was less confident walking off of the plane than I’d been when I’d gotten on.

  But, when I laid eyes on Jagger, thoughts of my plan disappeared, and I was lost in the smile I loved so much and sage-colored eyes. And then he was hugging me tightly and breathing my name into my hair. Tears sprung to my eyes, and I held him extra long, to give me time to hold them back.

  "You’re more and more beautiful every time I see you, love," he said with a kind smile before taking my bag. He put his hand on the small of my back as he ushered us toward the exit. "Sorry to rush, but I'm parked illegally and we have reservations for dinner in Culver City. It’s gonna take forever to get across town."

  In the car, I stalled; took radio control; ribbed him about his car, a new S5 convertible he hadn’t had six weeks ago. Inside, I was kind of freaking out. We were barely twenty-five and Jag had bought a convertible and gone out and found himself a fiancée? Was there such a thing as an early mid-life crisis? If there was, it was clear Jag had been afflicted.

  “Any word about the gigs you were looking at out here?” he asked at one point. But I didn’t know how much I should tell him. Because if he really had met someone, I needed an out. Then, I remembered Zoë’s scolding: Jag couldn’t walk through a door he didn’t know was open. So I laid it all bare.

  “I got the job.”

  22 To Love You More

  Don't go you know you'll break my heart

  She won't love you like I will

  I'm the one who'll stay

  When she walks away

  And you know I'll be standing here still

  -Celine Dion, To Love You More

  * * *

  Jagger

  "Are you serious?" I asked, uncaring that we'd just pulled up to the restaurant, and that valets had opened both our doors. I couldn't think of a single thing better than Roxy moving to L.A.

  "Is this city big enough for the both of us?" She said it jokingly, but there was something behind her words.

  I wanted to come back with a lighthearted comment. "For you, I'll make room," I would have said, but there was something weird going on with her.

  "Come on, love," I said instead. "Let's go inside and talk."

  I would find out what was going on with her before the night was over, but I was bursting with my news. All day, I'd obsessed over how to tell her and now I just needed to get it out. Wanting to be polite before diving into a heady topic, I decided to wait until we'd ordered drinks and appetizers to bring it up.

  I was blabbing about how this had been an “it"-spot back in the sixties when the Rat Pack had hung out here. My voice was more nervous than I liked when I regaled Roxy with trivia about celebrity scandals that had earned it notoriety in years since. Before I could finish recounting a rumor involving Sheryl Crow, Trent Reznor, and a little too much to drink, she interrupted me with evident trepidation.

  "Just tell me."

  My knee-jerk response was to feign innocence, and I didn't know why. Instead I grimaced. Why was I getting so worked up to tell her?

  "Jagger…why am I here?"

  All these years later, there were only a handful of things of which we never spoke aloud. For the first time in years, I was going to bring up one of them. I liked to think the things we spoke of least were the things we treasured most: we never talked about her song, or about all the times we’d almost kissed, or stolen moments on a summer night in Spain.

  "I have something to tell you, but I don't know how you'll take it.” I admitted this with sheepish apprehension.

  "What are you afraid I'll say?" She frowned a little bit.

  The anxiety-slash-elation I’d been feeling all day rose higher in my chest. ”I’m afraid you won't approve."

  "And if I don't?" she challenged lightly.

  I answered honestly. ”If you don't, I'll pull the plug."

  "Just like that?" She cocked her head.

  "Just like that,” I said in earnest.

  She thought about this for a moment. I didn’t know what she was getting at, but, then again, neither did she.

  "Don't take this the wrong way, okay?" she hedged. I nodded, and she continued. "Why does my approval mean so much to you? I mean, whatever this is, you said you'd walk away from it. For me. But, whatever it is, it's obviously important."

  Nothing’s more important to me than you, I thought.

  What I said was, ”Your friendship is worth more."

  She looked anguished as she shook her head. “Than your happiness? Jagger, it's a lot of pressure to have this much power over you. What if you ask me and I give the wrong answer?"

  Now I was getting worried. Now it was my turn to frown.

  "There is no wrong answer, Rox. Someone wants something from me but it isn't mine to give. If she wants to have it, she has to get it from you."

  The strangest look crossed her features then: confusion; hope; disappointment. I didn't understand it.

  "What if I'm too selfish to give it up?" she asked.

  I realized two things in that moment: for one, we weren't talking in hypotheticals. I was also fairly certain she didn't know I was talking about her song.

  "You don't have to give up anything," I said quietly, scolding myself not to hope I was right about her code. Because what would have prompted her to come here and talk about that?

  I studied her face unabashedly, too worried about what the hell she was talking about not to look for clues, but too chicken shit to ask the question I’d never been able to bring myself to ask.

  "Wha
t is it that you don't want to give up?" I asked finally, not wanting to push. Whatever was going on with her, I didn’t want to back her into a corner. Roxy looked just about like she was going to cry. It seemed like she kind of already was when she huffed out an anguished laugh that came out more like a sob. She gave me the saddest look I’d ever seen from her then, with knitted brow and shaking head.

  "Something I'm not even sure is mine."

  Holy fuck…

  Our waitress passed by our table. I was too frozen to move. My heart was in my throat and my gaze was still locked with Roxy’s. When my body remembered how to move again, I thrust a shaking hand in my pocket and reached into my wallet for some bills. My hand was still trembling when I rose and extended my hand to Roxy.

  “We’re not gonna do this here.”

  Roxy

  "Wait." Jag was halfway to pulling me up, but I resisted his pull.

  "If I don't say this now…" I trailed off. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. "I'm terrified," I admitted in a whisper.

  It was then that he pushed in next to me, having already come over to my side of the booth. I think we were both trembling when he took my hands.

  "Don't be," he breathed back, the fear that had been in his eyes just moments before suddenly replaced with an encouraging glint. And there he was—Jag my cheerleader—cheering me even into my doom.

  "Remember how we talked about me moving to L.A.?” I began. “It’s not because I miss the sunshine. It’s because I want to give it a try—with you."

  My teeth clamped down on my bottom lip as I watched Jagger blink in surprise, as I watched something tender—possibly pity—come over his face. But I couldn’t stop. I had to go on.

  "The thing is, I'm not scared anymore. I got what I wanted all those years ago—Brown was what I wanted for myself and Juilliard was what I wanted for you."

  "Roxy—" his ragged voice came, springing tears to my eyes. I squeezed his hand to stop him from his talking.

  "I swear I'm not doing this out of fear, or spite, or even jealousy. I was going to ask you, over Christmas, whether it was something you wanted, too. But since I heard your message this morning, I'm terrified that it's not."

  His warm hand came to cup my jaw, his thumb sweeping under my eye, wiping away my tears. His eyes were full of a tenderness I could hardly bear.

  "So, I'm sorry. You weren't supposed to find out this way. I never wanted to back you into a corner. But I can't let you ask me for my blessing on something like this without you knowing where I really stand."

  However strong my desire to close my eyes, to shield myself from his reaction, I fixed him with my gaze. It was the most important and heartfelt of confessions and I needed him to see how much my words meant. But watching him, steeling myself for his reaction—whatever it may be—was the hardest thing I'd ever done. Whatever came, I deserved it. It was me who'd walked away.

  "It's big enough for the both of us," he said gruffly. I had no idea what he meant.

  "Los Angeles,” he explained, determination seeping into his voice. "It's the perfect size for you and me."

  I shook my head to clear the fog. I didn't understand.

  "I'm sorry, too, Roxy…" His eyes softened even more. "I think my message may have left you with the wrong impression."

  23 Heaven

  Oh thinkin' about all our younger years

  There was only you and me

  We were young and wild and free

  Now nothin' can take you away from me

  We've been down that road before

  But that's over now

  You keep me comin' back for more

  -Bryan Adams, Heaven

  * * *

  Jagger

  Roxy was shaking like a leaf. I didn't mean to upset her further, but it still felt wrong to do this here. I held her hand every second that I wasn't shifting gears during the twenty minutes it took me to drive us to my house.

  It was hard to fathom what she had just told me at the restaurant—difficult to accept that we'd each had the same plan. Pulling my car into my garage, I cut the engine and hastened to get out myself so I could go around and open her door.

  "Let me show you," I implored.

  She looked as confused as she had at the restaurant, but I extended my hand. It dawned on me, as I noticed how her eyes scanned for details as I led her toward the office, that she was looking for evidence of a woman. How could she not know that she was the only woman for me?

  "We're here," I said as I flipped the light on in the small room that served as my office. It was also a recording studio. One long wall held a desk and all my computer equipment, while the opposite one held a deep bank of desks with sound boards of all kinds. Through the window above the sound mixing equipment was the room where I played my piano. And, it really was my piano—the same Steinway that I'd played for countless hours honing my craft.

  I sat her down on the wheeled stool that stood before the sound boards while I searched my desk for a shallow stack of papers. When I found them, I sat down on my own desk chair and reached forward to roll her forward so she and her chair were much closer, seated loosely between my legs.

  "Read it," I commanded gently, shoving the papers toward her.

  She shot me a nervous look before taking them, as if placing them in her hands would cause her to burst into flames. But she did take them, flipping over the front cover, which simply held a memorandum addressing the item to a Mr. Jagger Monroe from a Ms. Barbara Gerrard of Warner Brothers Studio. I watched Roxy's face carefully for recognition of the name—being in the business, I thought she might have heard of her.

  She read aloud.

  This Confidential Disclosure Agreement is entered into effective May 1st, 2019 ("Effective Date") between Warner Brothers Studio ("Studio") and musical composer Jagger Monroe ("Composer") having a principal place of business at 1401 Joshua Lane, Marina Del Rey, CA.

  Whereas the Studio wishes to conduct activities relating to the musical direction of an optioned film ("Project"); and

  Whereas the Composer is the originator of the musical piece entitled 'Destinata'; and

  Whereas a third party, Ms. Roxanne Vega ("Owner") is the owner of the musical piece entitled 'Destinata',

  The Owner hereby licenses the usage of the musical piece 'Destinata' for the optioned Project and the Composer agrees to arrange additional renditions for the film

  She stopped reading aloud, her lips mouthing the words too quickly for the sound to escape. When she glanced back up, she looked gob smacked.

  "They want to buy your song?"

  "It's your song, Roxy. It always has been."

  "But, how?" she choked. "I thought…you stopped playing it for me. I thought you hadn't played it in years."

  "My sound editor heard it by mistake—he was looking for a different song file on my hard drive. He said it would be perfect for a different project he was working on. When I told him it wasn't for sale, he thought I was just too nervous to put anything out there. He essentially stole the recording and submitted it to a producer at Warner Brothers."

  I studied her face, for any reaction, any indication of what she was thinking.

  "They loved it, Roxy," I whispered. "They want it—bad. I got a call out of the blue for a meeting, so of course I took it. They took me to dinner last night. They thought I was just playing hardball when I kept saying no. They offered me more and more money, but I finally told them I had written the song for you and wasn't at liberty to sell it. So they found out who you were and wrote you into the contract. The revision was on my doorstep before I even got home."

  Her breath was rapid as she looked back and forth between me and the contract. I could tell it was taking a little while to sink in.

  "That's when I called you—late last night after I got home. I figured I'd better stop blocking this and let you decide whether you want to sell," I prattled on, her silence making me nervous.

  "S-so the amazing thing that happened…"
she stuttered in question.

  "…was getting offered a spot for one of my compositions on a major movie score."

  "And the person you met…" she continued.

  “…was a record executive.” I cringed.

  "And you wanted my blessing to sell your song."

  "Your song," I corrected again gently.

  "And you needed to see me in person so I would sign the contract?"

  "No," I said firmly, "I needed you to come because I didn't think it was the sort of thing to decide on the phone. In retrospect, I suppose I could have come to New York but I thought you might want to meet with Warner Brothers yourself and, I admit, I was a little drunk."

  And this was the moment I'd been anticipating, the moment when I learned whether my song still meant anything to her. It helped to know that she still wanted to be with me, but Destinata was something we never discussed. How many times had I played that song when I wanted to feel close to her, no matter how many miles we were apart? I'd made a recording of it once—did she still have it? Did she ever listen to it?

  "So, there's no one else?" she asked, looking broken. "No girlfriend, no fiancé?"

  I tucked her hair behind her ear before cupping her jaws in my palm and leaning in to brush my lips across her soft ones.

  "My Roxy…how could you forget what I told you not to? It's always, only, ever been you."

  Roxy

  The kiss that followed Jagger's confession was of the epic variety, the kind belonging to a type of romance I had mocked just months before at Zoë's wedding. It was desperate, yet sweet. Slow, yet frenzied, hands caressing and urgent, yet fusing us together. When we came up for breath, I was on his lap, straddling him across his chair, leaning my forehead to his.