“It was all you— What are you saying?”
“About what? The way I felt about you when we were on tour?”
“I didn’t know—”
Justine gave a soft huff of laughter. “Then you’re the only one who didn’t, I think.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Heat gripped his chest as he stared at her and tried to remember, looking back in time for what he’d so obviously missed.
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Dillon, I know you’re busy with that groupie, but when you’re done, I’m in love with you’?”
The world fell out from underneath him. “You’re—”
“I was.” Justine said shortly. “I got over it. Now we’re friends. And I’m with Ian.”
Just as abruptly, he crashed back to earth. Dillon took a step back and closed his eyes. Justine— his Justine— had been in love with him, maybe from the start. He’d known she felt the same snapping chemistry he felt. He’d thought it had been the same for her as for him, a physical attraction which would get in the way of their friendship. But of course, he’d always felt much more for her and was too stupid and blind to see it. Apparently she wasn’t so self-deluding. Now he stood here overwhelmed with his feelings for her and she was telling him about Ian. And what about him? I got over it.
She stood unmoving in front of him. She was looking at him, her eyes searching his face in desperation. He didn’t know what she was hoping to find. Right now, he felt wrecked.
“Dillon? Talk to me. Please don’t tell me this ruins everything.”
He felt ruined, but he couldn’t tell her. It wasn’t her fault. No, the blame for this disaster lay squarely at his feet. He was the one who left the door wide open for someone else. He hadn’t hated himself so much since the first weeks after Ash died.
Justine needed him, though. He couldn’t punish her for his own failings. He cleared his throat and opened his eyes. “It doesn’t ruin anything.”
“Promise? I can’t lose you, Dillon.”
He reached for her hand, the safety of her hand, just his fingertips gripping hers, only her fingertips. “You won’t lose me, I promise. I’m sorry I did it. I didn’t know.”
She shook her head hard. “No, it’s okay— it’s not— forget it.”
He’d never forget it. He’d remember that moment of his lips on hers as long as he lived. But he forced a weak smile for her benefit. “I got carried away.”
She exhaled, for what seemed like the first time in the last half hour, and smiled, squeezing his fingers. She wanted this. She wanted him to brush it off, relegate it to nothingness. He remembered her face when he first told her about David’s feelings for her. It showed the same desperate fear. She’d been so convinced David’s feelings would ruin her band. And in the end, hadn’t she been right?
Now she was terrified the same thing would happen to them, and the stakes were much higher this time. Their friendship, the music they made together, was all on the line if the feelings got in the way, both her old ones and his new ones. She was desperate for it not to matter. What could he do but try to make it not matter? Because what they had was every bit as important to him. If he pushed, he might ruin everything. And for what? He could bet Ian had never been to rehab and was currently employed. None of Dillon’s experiences with intimacy had ever lasted longer than six hours. It was probably for the best. He’d deal with his own shit himself.
“So—” he tried again, summoning every bit of control he possessed. “You love him, huh?”
“Yeah,” she said, and her face softened, all the anxiety of the last few minutes melting away.
“And he’s good to you? You’re happy?”
“So happy. He’s incredible. He loves me.” She was radiant, lit up from the inside out.
“Well, then I’m happy for you. I really am, Justine.”
And in a way, he meant it. How could he fault anything putting that look on her face? The other part of it, the part cracking him in half, wasn’t her problem. He wouldn’t bring her down with it.
Suddenly he wanted a drink more than he had since the day he went into rehab. He felt nearly frantic with it. He wanted numbing incoherence, the washing away of a reality he couldn’t face. He felt a cold sweat break out along the back of his neck and he knew what he needed to do.
“I’d better go,” he said, backing towards the door.
“Are you sure? You’re okay?”
“I’m sure. I’ll call you tomorrow?”
She nodded. “Sure.”
He turned and nearly sprinted down her long curving driveway to his car. By the time he got his keys out, his hands were shaking. He collapsed into the driver’s seat and scrambled to get his phone free. The number was on speed dial, a precaution Vistas insisted on but he was sure he’d never need. As the phone rang, he closed his eyes and prayed for strength.
“Hello?”
“Keith, it’s Dillon. I need your help.”
Keith didn’t waste his breath with questions. He simply said, “Come right now.”
August, 2011
“Sweetheart? Do you need anything? Do you want a cup of tea?” Ian asked through the bathroom door.
Justine groaned. No tea.
“I’m fine. I’ll be out in a second.”
“Alright, then. Shout if you need me.”
“Okay.”
She waited until she heard Ian’s footsteps retreating before looking down again at what lay on the edge of the sink. Two lines. Pregnant.
This was supposed to be food poisoning. It’s what she told Ian. Weird Scottish food— some sausage she’d eaten, surely. That’s what she got for trying to cram in a romantic getaway before her schedule ramped back up again. She just needed twenty-four hours of rest and she’d be fine. She wouldn’t even let him call the hotel doctor because she was so sure it would be gone by morning. But after worrying about it all day and not being able to remember exactly when her last period had been, the traitorous niggling idea crept in and set up camp. She asked her security guard to get her the test so she’d quit freaking out about it. It was never supposed to be positive. It couldn’t be positive. Except it was. And so were the other three she’d taken.
Standing there in the bathroom freaking out wasn’t going to solve the problem, though. The problem that was half Ian’s. She had to tell him. They had to decide what to do. Her hands were cold and clammy as she unlocked the bathroom door. She found him in the bedroom of the suite, laying back on the bed with his laptop on his stomach. He looked up and threw her an absent smile as she came into the room. She took one moment to look at him, like this, before she said the words which would change their lives forever.
“Feeling better?” he asked, eyes still on his laptop.
“Yeah, but it wasn’t food poisoning.”
“What was it, then?”
When she didn’t answer, he looked up to see her holding up the stick. The silence in the room was deafening. Ian blinked. His mouth fell open. He made a sound as he started to speak, then he stopped and swallowed.
“Is that—?”
“Yes.”
“How? You’re on the pill.”
“I know. I think it might have been the trip to Australia last month. I got my days and nights so turned around and I was so jet-lagged. I must have gotten off schedule and not realized it.”
Ian carefully set his laptop to the side and raked a hand through his hair. “You’re sure?”
“I took four tests.”
“Okay. Right, then.”
‘Oh, God, Ian…” She’d been frozen with shock since the first test came up positive. Now she’d said it out loud, her emotions caught up to the moment and she started to cry. Pregnant. She was on the verge of going back into the studio to record the next album. She was supposed to go back out on tour in the spring. She envisioned herself on stage in a bustier and platform heels and a huge pregnant belly, and she panicked. The tears exploded into full-on sobs.
“Hey. Hey,
hey, hey,” Ian crooned, reaching for her and pulling her into his arms. “Shh, sweetheart, calm down.”
“Ian, the album… the tour…”
“It will all be okay. One thing at a time. First, this is between you and me. Forget everything else for a minute.”
She inhaled, deep and shaky, until she felt her sobs start to fade.
“So…” Ian began, his voice so calm and soothing. She rested her cheek on his chest, listening to it rumble through him. “A baby.”
“If we want,” she said softly.
Ian paused, stroking her hair. “Do you want?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’m terrified. But when I try to get past that… maybe? Is it crazy?”
He tilted her face back until he could see her. “Not crazy.”
“What about you?”
Ian’s brow furrowed as he looked away. “It’s not…I wasn’t planning for this right now. The timing isn’t great.”
“Ian—”
“No, Justine. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, it’s not ideal. But it is what it is, you know? If this is what you want, then we’ll figure it out.”
“Is it what you want?”
“I’m not sure it’s the same for guys. I probably won’t know for sure until it’s here. And then we’ll manage. I do know I want you. And whatever comes up, we’ll handle together.”
“Are you sure?”
He laughed nervously. “Not at all. But I’m pretty sure no one is ever sure. Just because it’s a shock and unexpected, it doesn’t mean its bad.”
Justine swallowed hard and sniffed. In spite of his uncertainty, Ian was smiling. She couldn’t blame him for being uncertain. She was, too. “Are we doing this, then?”
“I think we are.”
“I’m scared to death.”
“I’ve heard it comes with the territory. We’ll figure it out.”
Finally, Justine could breathe. In fact, minus the terror, she was starting to feel something very much like happiness. A baby. Children had been so far off in the future they hardly made a blip on her radar. Except now it was all she could see, looming down on her with alarming speed. But Ian was right. It might be unexpected, but maybe it was okay. Good, even. This could be good.
“A baby,” she whispered to him. Ian smiled.
“Our baby.”
“Oh my God.”
“So—” Ian began. His tone shifted. “Do you think—? Scratch that. I think… we should get married.”
Justine’s eyes widened. “You know plenty of people do this without getting married. You don’t have to save my honor or anything.”
“I know.” He slid his hand up to the base of her neck, under her hair, and massaged gently. “I just think we should be married. And it’s not like I didn’t want to anyway.”
“You want to marry me?” Now Justine was sure what she was feeling was happiness. A strange, disconnected, unreal kind of happiness.
“I hadn’t thought of it in real terms, but yeah. I’m serious about you. We’d have gotten there eventually, right? We’re only moving up the timeline a little bit.”
“I guess so.”
“In that case— will you marry me, Justine?”
She took his face in her hands, forcing away the remnants of fear and panic. She didn’t want those feelings polluting this moment when she looked back on it in years to come. She wanted just this— Ian and her and a tiny new thing between them. She pressed a kiss to his mouth and whispered, “Yes.”
She waited two weeks to tell Dillon, and even then, she did it by email. She wasn’t sure why. He’d never again mentioned the night back in the spring when he’d kissed her. He said he’d gotten carried away and his silence on the matter made her think it was exactly what happened. He’d only been out of rehab for a few months. Maybe he was emotionally unstable, terribly lonely… there were a million ways something like that could happen. Within two days, he’d been back in her studio, working on songs like nothing ever happened. She had to believe it was a fluke.
His silence was such a relief, Justine almost convinced herself nothing had ever happened. Until it was time to tell Dillon about the baby. Her thumb hovered over his name on her phone half a dozen times and she could never make herself hit “send”.
She knew she couldn’t wait anymore. He was her best friend and he deserved to know. It was wrong to drag things out. Besides, for all she knew, he’d be happy for her. She typed out the email feeling like a coward, but at least she was finally telling him, even if she wasn’t doing it in person. Her silence was worse.
Dillon booted up his laptop on the kitchen counter as he poured a cup of coffee. The weather was good, sunny and dry, not too hot. He thought about heading up into the foothills and going on a hike. Maybe he could drag Keith out with him.
He sipped his coffee, strong and scalding hot, as he navigated to his email. There was one from Tom, Justine’s dad. It started off with the usual, a summation of his latest financial statement in words a non-accountant could understand. He followed up with a couple of investment ideas he’d had and links to things he thought Dillon would be interested in. The rest of the email was devoted to a lengthy post-mortem of the action movie he’d gotten on Netflix the night before. Tom was still valiantly championing Vin Diesel as the action hero for the current generation. Dillon shook his head and resolved to set him straight with some Jason Statham.
Next up was an email from Justine with the subject line “News!” He smiled as he clicked it open, unaware that what was inside might crush his heart to dust.
Hey Dillon,
So I have some really big news to share. Ian and I got married in Scotland last week. I’m sorry you weren’t there, but it was kind of spur of the moment, and no one was there except the minister and the lady who cleans the church.
And as if that isn’t enough, I have more. I’m pregnant! Sometime next spring, which means I need to rebook the whole tour. But one thing at a time, right?
I’m so happy, and I know you’ll be happy for me.
Love you,
Justine
November, 2011
Days were hard to fill when one was sober and unemployed. Down time was dangerous. Down time meant thinking. About Justine, about Ash, about the band… So as a rule, Dillon tried to avoid down time.
He went to more sessions with Keith than was strictly necessary, and he went for hikes when Keith was too busy for him. Perhaps the most surprising thing about his post-Outlaw Rovers days was how very alone he was. While the band was flying high, there had always been people around. Record execs and the people who ran the band, managers, and road crew and back-up musicians and endless extras and hangers-on. They’d all seemed like friends. They were all gone now.
He got the occasional call from Rocky or JD. Rocky was already in a new band, a metal outfit out of San Diego. JD was picking up work as a session musician. And of course, Justine. Justine was always there, despite everything.
Her marriage to Ian was still a raw wound. If he thought about it too much, he could barely breath. It still felt slightly unreal, since he had yet to actually see them together. They’d been back in LA for a month and Justine had been in the studio hard at work on her new album for most of the time. She called and they talked, usually about music and the songs they’d written together, but he hadn’t seen her, and certainly not with Ian. Truthfully, he hadn’t pushed to see her, knowing he’d have to face him, too.
He made it through most days pretending he was okay with it. He didn’t have much choice. She was married, and having a baby. That door was closed for good. She said she’d gotten over him, but he didn’t know how, now when it was his turn to do it. His feelings for her were too tied up in their friendship, bound together with years of loyalty. It was like what Keith had said about Ash. He wouldn’t get over it, so he’d have to learn how to live with the burden.
As he came back in the front door from picking up the newspaper and the mail, his cell rang on the counte
r. He answered, juggling the phone and an armful of mail. Fucking financial advisement statements were so damned thick.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Dillon paused, shoving the phone under his chin to free his hands. “Justine? Um, I’m opening the mail.”
“Any good news?” Justine asked, although she didn't really sound interested.
Dillon let out a low huff of laughter. “I'm unemployed, so it’s rarely good.”
“See, and that’s just why I'm calling you. Get your ass over to my house.”
“What? Why?”
“I want you to produce my album. And since I've been in the studio for nearly a month already, time’s a-wasting. Move it.”
Dillon closed his eyes and exhaled, trying to focus.
“Justine, what are you talking about?”
She sighed. “You. Me. Record. Produce. What's the problem? You got too many other things going on?”
“You know I don’t.”
“So? Co-ome,” she sing-songed.
“You have a producer.”
“Ugh. You know the label picked him. And you know I haven’t been happy.”
That was true. Most of their conversations had revolved around her struggles with her producer, and her dissatisfaction with the way the songs were turning out.
“He’s a moron, Dillon. He’s never going to get this right.”
“Why me?”
“Well, for the past month, every time I butted heads with the Great Moron, I kept thinking ‘It should sound like the thing Dillon did’ or ‘Why can't he get that effect Dillon had?’ or ‘Why doesn’t he understand what this song is about like Dillon does?’ So I figured it was time to cut to the chase and get you to do it.”
“I'm not a producer.”
“You don't know how to work a mixing board? Will you need a remedial class or something?”
He huffed in exasperation. “You know that's not what I meant.”
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