by Emily Snow
I want to be able to go to the grocery store without being mobbed. I like to see my audiences’ faces when I sing to them. I like driving the car myself, and I don’t want to worry that I’ll wake up with a naked seventeen-year-old in my bed if I don’t have security outside my door 24/7.
As frightening as it is to think about, when I consider my future, what I see is me and Mel, a nice brownstone somewhere near my dad, my own sound studio in the basement, and some summer concert tours to outdoor venues and old theatres. Mel doing her photojournalism, me traveling with her as much as possible, maybe a baby eventually. A little girl that looks just like her gorgeous mom.
Yeah, that’s the kind of life I think I’d like to have. But I know I don’t deserve it, and it would be too much to hope that Mel would ever agree to live it with me. I think though, that if she isn’t in it with me, no one will be. I’ve felt it now, what Tammy and Walsh had. There’s no way to go back to something less once you’ve had that.
One of the few people I can talk to about my ideas is Dave. I give him a call on a Wednesday afternoon as I sit on my dad’s old plaid sofa watching the snowdrifts outside and the kids marching home from school in their fleece and down snow clothes.
“Hey, man, you got a few minutes?” I ask as I pop open an O’Dell 90 Shilling and take a long, cold swig.
“Sure, Joss. What’s up?”
“I’m thinking maybe I want to perform. You know, some of these songs I’ve been writing. Just me. What do you think?”
“I think I need to know more about what you’re wanting. A tour? A single concert? With backup? As the lead-in to a new album? Does this mean you want to start a solo career?”
“Whoa, whoa, Dave. Shit. I don’t have answers to all that. I just want to sing to some people, you know? Be able to see their faces while I perform. Share the experience with them. That’s all. Maybe once, maybe more if it goes well.”
Dave is quiet for so long that I wonder if he’s gotten pissed and hung up on me. Finally he says, “Okay. We’ll start you someplace local here in Portland, friendly, and supportive. I’ve got just the right spot. My secretary’s pulling up the manager’s number right now. If that goes well, we’ll move up and try some more challenging locales, but we’ll keep it quiet. No real promo so we don’t cause a stampede. You just let me know how it’s going as we go along, and keep writing. If at some point you decide you’ve got enough for an album or you want to do an actual planned tour, you tell me.”
“Really? That’s it?”
“Yeah. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Expectations? Pressure?”
“Joss,” he says as I hear him thank his secretary for the phone number to the club, “you create your expectations. You make the pressure. I’m here to help you get paid for making music. However you want to do that is fine with me.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem. I’ll be in touch as soon I’ve got it set up. In the meantime, get together a set list and practice up. You’ve got a debut to perform.”
We hang up and my heart is racing like a freight train. This is real. I’m about to step into the void that will become my new life.
It’s a few days later when I get an email from Mel. It’s the first time she’s initiated the contact.
To: RockStar1
From: picsbymel
When I woke up this morning, Tammy was gone. She left me a note. She managed to get Dave to give up the address he had for Walsh, and she’s been planning on going after him for weeks now. At first I was really worried. I’ve told you some of what she’s been through, but not all of it. When we first brought her home from the hospital, she was like a dead shell, Joss. So depressed she could barely speak. I had to bathe her and dress her and cajole her into eating every day.
She’s been in therapy two times a week for over six months now. She’s on antidepressants and all kinds of special supplements, a strict diet. If Walsh rejects her, I’m not sure she can take it.
But the fact is, she’s been healthy for weeks now, able to handle her own finances, making good choices, taking care of herself. She left me a note telling me exactly where she’s going, and we’ve already texted twice today. She’s sworn she’ll check in with me at least once a day. So, I have to let her go, and now I’m left all alone, faced with everything I’ve been ignoring for six months.
Hope things are well with your dad.
--Mel.
I hit “reply” immediately.
To: picsbymel
From: RockStar1
Mel. Your sister is one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. She’s also loyal, loving, and fierce. I trusted much of my life and my career to her for many years. I trusted my best friend to her, and I still do. I want nothing more than for Tammy and Walsh to find each other again, to be where they belong, with each other. If her going to him will accomplish that then I think she’s made the right choice. I’m sorry for what you and she have both been through, and for my part in all of it. There aren’t words I can say to fix what happened, but you are not alone. As long as I have breath in my body, you will never be alone.
I hit “send,” then close the email and lie down on the small bed in “my” room at my dad’s place, looking up at that dirty ceiling he won’t let me paint. I think about that vision I have for my future. I think about Mel and her big blue eyes, soft auburn hair, and creamy skin. I think about how smart she is and how perfectly she fits in my arms and in my world. I’d give anything if she’d let me try to fit in hers. Maybe we can build a new world together. Maybe it’s not too late.
Chapter Forty
Mel
Tammy’s been gone for two weeks. She texts or calls every day. She’s seen Walsh, but that’s all she’s saying. She sounds solid though, so I guess I won’t be flying down to clean up a mess anytime soon.
I’ve stayed in her house. One of these days soon, I’ll have to see about finding a place to rent in Seattle for the summer so I can finish my class. I just can’t seem to get motivated to take care of it though. I still want the degree, and I’m grateful for the chance to get it, but I know it won’t fix the one thing in my life that means the most. So, instead of apartment hunting in Seattle, I spend my days outside on Tammy’s huge property, shooting pictures, walking, watching Mesopotamia try to catch the koi in the pond.
And thinking about Joss.
I’ve only heard from him once since I emailed about Tammy, and I’m starting to think maybe he’s met someone, gotten over everything that happened and moved on. It slices my heart into pieces just thinking about it, and makes me realize how many fantasies I’ve been harboring all these months we’ve been writing to one another. Fantasies about me and him and some sort of a future.
I know a lot of people would wonder how I could still love a guy who slept with my sister and then hid it. But I know, after watching and listening to Tammy all these months, it was so much more complicated than it sounds. Joss and Tammy never pined for each other. There wasn’t some unrequited love there. They were two lonely people grieving over a common loss. Walsh really was a brother to Joss, and seeing him nearly die was something Joss and Tammy experienced and suffered through together. As much as the thought of them with each other that way makes me ill, I think I understand what happened. And I guess I feel like everyone’s suffered enough for it. It’s time to put it to rest.
I miss him so very deeply that some days I wonder how I lived twenty-four long years without him. It’s as if he’s a part of the fabric of me. Woven into my soul, knit into my heart. To tear him out I’d have to completely unravel who I am, and I’m not sure I’d be able to reconstruct something worthwhile afterwards.
So I walk around Tammy’s exurban estate, I talk to my cat, I take pictures of nature, and I wait, wait for some sign that will tell me if the future I’ve been fantasizing is possible, or if I’m torn in a way that can’t be repaired.
It’s a Friday afternoon when I finally get a new email from
RockStar1. The message is short, cryptic, and thrilling.
To: picsbymel
From: RockStar1
Tomorrow night, 8 p.m., Lonny’s Tap Room across the street from Studio B.
I read that one sentence over and over again. Is Joss here in Portland? The mere idea sets my heart to pounding. I Google Lonny’s Tap Room. The website doesn’t tell me anything. No mention of famous rock stars stopping in to perform or party. Maybe he’s working at Studio B and plans to grab a drink at Lonny’s Tap Room afterwards? Maybe he won’t even be there and he’s just telling me about some show he thinks I’d like. Maybe this email was meant for someone else and he accidently sent it to me. What if it was meant for another woman? If I go there and he’s with someone else, I will die.
I curl up on my bed and start to count the hours until I can get in the car and drive to Lonny’s Tap Room.
It’s a few minutes past eight when I walk into the darkened bar. It’s a simple place, but not grungy, and the clientele is more Portlandia than working class. There are booths all around the perimeter of the main room and tables in the center. Off to one side is a small annex room with the bar, and the twin wing on the other side has a series of very private niches with curtains that pull across the entries. Opposite the front door is a stage raised about two feet off the main floor. And sitting in the center of that stage, guitar in hand, singing into a microphone, is Joss.
A single spotlight shines on him, and he’s singing a song I’ve never heard. It’s soulful and bluesy, and his voice vibrates through me, reminding me of how it felt to have him whisper in my ear at night as we lay together in bed. I stand, caught between the desire to run onstage and throw my arms around him and the need to flee, leaving the possibility of rejection forever a mystery.
As the song ends and the audience claps enthusiastically, I force myself to move forward, looking around for a seat that isn’t too conspicuous. As if I’m wearing a homing device of some sort, Joss’s head whips up and he looks straight at me. The smile that floods his face is so blindingly brilliant, so full of undisguised joy that for a moment I’m unable to catch my breath. I see him motion to someone on the edge of the room, and a moment later, a tall, dark-complexioned man approaches me.
“Ms. DiLorenzo?” he asks very politely.
“Yes?”
“If you’ll follow me. Mr. Jamison saved you a seat up front.”
I walk behind him while Joss says a few things to the audience and tunes his guitar a bit, as if he’s stalling, waiting for me to get seated.
Once I’ve been shown to the table that sits front and center before the stage, Joss smiles down at me again. Then he talks some more.
“Almost a year ago now, I met someone.”
The crowd gives him a hard time. Not rudely, just teasing. Some of the women yell that he’s broken their hearts. The men say, “Thank God too!”
“You guys know it’s been a pretty rough year for me, and I’m afraid I made it a pretty rough year for her too.”
This time there’s sympathy from the audience.
“But tonight is sort of a fresh start, and I hope it can be a fresh start for both of us.”
Then he starts to play, and with the first words that fall from his lips, I realize it’s the song about me. The Girl From Shangri-La. I sit raptly and listen as he sings about a woman who is his paradise on earth. How he fears that what they had didn’t mean the same to her that it did to him. How she taught him to fall in love and now he can’t fall out. I listen to his smoky voice sing what he feels about me, and I realize tears are rolling down my face and pressure is building in my heart.
As he strums the last dying chords of the song, I put my hands over my mouth, afraid if I don’t physically stop myself I’ll cry out how much I still love him. He looks at me from the stage, and somewhere in the corners of my consciousness I hear him say, “I’m going to take a five minute break and then I’ll do another set.” Everyone claps, some house music comes on, and Joss sets his guitar carefully aside as he stands up and hops off the stage, walking straight to my table.
I stand on shaky legs, trying quickly to wipe the tears away. He looks at me, reads me as if I’m a book.
“You came,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I nod, my voice trembling.
“Did you like the song?” He seems genuinely concerned.
“How could I not?” I ask, feeling tears trying to squeeze out yet again.
“Aw, Mel, please don’t cry,” he whispers as he steps closer.
This causes me to break down entirely, and I shake with sobs as he wraps his arms around me and simply holds me, stroking my hair.
His lips are next to my ear, and he’s pressing me to him as if he’s afraid I’ll try to escape. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he says over and over again. “I love you, Mel. You have to know that. I will always love you. Only you. It’s only ever been you.”
I try to catch my breath and stop the tears. The front of Joss’s t-shirt is drenched, and I’m sure I look like hell. He pulls away to look at my face, running his fingers gently under my eyes to wipe at errant tears.
“Talk to me, baby. Tell me what you’re thinking. Do I have any chance at all here?”
I finally look up at him, into those perfect, crystal-clear green eyes. He’s so scared, so vulnerable. I’ve never seen the rock god Joss Jamison look this way. I take his hand and hold it over my heart. “Do you feel that?” I ask.
He nods, his breathing heavy and his hand trembling.
“It needs you, Joss. I need you. Only you.”
There is no warning at all as his lips crash into mine. His big, warm hands cradle my jaw and his fingers dig into my hair. I feel the shock of the kiss from my chest all the way to my toes. There are no preliminaries, no gentle touches, just sheer, unadulterated need. His breath comes in gasps, his biceps under my hands are tensed, and his tongue invades my mouth with hot longing. I hear a small squeak come from me as he surprises me with the force of his onslaught. But then I give in to it and feel as if molten light is being poured through my body, warming all the places that have been so cold and dark without Joss.
As his hands start to wander from my face and skim down my sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts and then working down to cup my ass and draw me closer, he breaks the kiss and rasps in my ear, “We should probably go home to finish this.”
I giggle, slightly embarrassed. “You’re probably right,” I gasp out.
“I have one more set. I’ll go fast. Will you sit right here and wait for me?”
I answer by wrapping my arm around his neck and rocking his world for a few more seconds. I leave him breathing heavily and quietly swearing as he tries to adjust his jeans so he can go back onstage. He gives me one more hard, quick kiss and then walks up to his stool, grabs his guitar, and sits down.
The house music stops and the spotlight comes back up.
“Portland,” he says, grinning. “Is this a great fucking night or what?”
When Joss is done performing, he asks me to come backstage with him. I wait in the hallway while he ducks into the dressing room, grabs his jacket, and puts his guitar in its case. Then he strides out, guiding me down the hall to the exit. We walk out into a cool spring night, moisture in the air creating a soft, filtered look to the lights in the parking lot.
“Did you drive here?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I answer, pointing to my little Subaru hatchback parked nearby.
“I’ll bring you back to pick it up later?”
“Okay.”
He leads me to a long dark sports sedan. I notice the hood ornament.
“A Jaguar?” I ask, squinting at him.
He shrugs. “Why not?” He opens my door for me, and I realize that I’ve never been driven in a car by Joss. We’ve always ridden with chauffeurs. It strikes me suddenly that, while we spent all day and all night together for months, I’ve never seen where Joss lives and I’ve never had him d
rive me somewhere. We’ve never been to a grocery store together or cooked a meal with each other.
I sit in the car and wait for him to walk around to the other side and get in. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“I’m hoping to my condo,” he says, one eyebrow raised.
As he starts the car and the engine literally purrs to life, I observe, “You know, I’ve never ridden with you driving.”
He stops for moment, thinking. “I guess that’s true. Are you scared to drive with me?” He winks.
“No, but you have to admit we had a weird relationship.” He turns out of the parking lot and heads toward downtown. “I’ve never seen where you live, yet I called you my boyfriend most of last summer.”
I quickly realize that the Jag is in fact the perfect car for him. It’s as smooth and sleek as Joss, and he drives it as though it’s an extension of him. He doesn’t respond to my observations, instead turning on some Bonnie Raitt. Her gravelly voice fills the darkened car as we speed along Portland’s urban avenues until we come to a medium-sized building, obviously a depression-era WPA project with Art Deco design details.
Joss turns sharply into the parking garage beneath the building and winds around until he gets to a row of stalls with doors. He punches the button, and after one of the garage doors opens, he pulls the car inside then shuts the door. We exit the car and he leads me through a small door into a hallway that ends at a set of elevator doors. He’s still silent, and I start to worry he’s changed his mind or I’ve made him question the whole thing by mentioning that we’ve never done normal things.
Inside the elevator, he punches the number three and up we go. When we get off, I see that there are only two doors on the floor. Joss leads me to the one on the west side of the building and unlocks it as he ushers me inside. Lights go on automatically as we enter, and I’m faced with a large open floor plan. A living room, a kitchen, and a dining room are all within view of the foyer. The floors are dark wood, and the walls range from taupe in the living room to a creamy white in the kitchen. All the rooms have high ceilings and thick white wood trim.