When he finally covers me with his body, I’m heaving with desire but also with terror. He kisses me tenderly as he enters me, and everything in my entire being becomes one shining focus of pleasure and pain. Inside, my heart cries out because this is the only place it ever wants to be, and somehow the rest of me knows this will be the last time.
But I swallow my pain, and we lie together in my tiny bed, our bodies moving by instinct—caressing, worshiping, entering, and enveloping. Softly, in unison, we move until I cry out his name and he whispers, "I love you, Tammy. God, I love you."
Walsh
I WAKE at five a.m., my body conditioned to living at the ranch where you’re up before the sun starts to filter in over the horizon. It takes me a moment to get my bearings. Something is familiar yet very different. I turn my head and see Tammy’s face covered by skeins of her long dark hair, the sheets having slipped to expose one perfect breast.
Then it all comes back to me in a flash—a man’s hands on her, the fight, talking, breathing her in like some sort of oxygen I’ve been craving for months. Her skin against mine, the feeling that some missing part of me was returned. The way it felt to be inside her, her dark, dense walls clutching me as she gasped my name.
I sit up carefully, dreading the idea of waking her, having to face her. As powerful as the longings are, the need to flee is greater. I lean down and pick up my clothing, panic washing over me as she makes a little sound and rolls over onto her back. Silent as a mouse, I pull on my boxer briefs and then tiptoe out of the room, the rest of my clothes in hand.
Once I get into the hallway, I slip into my jeans, t-shirt, and boots. I turn and face the closed door to Tammy’s room, my heart beating like it might escape my chest. I place my palm against the cool, smooth door. It’s as if I can feel her heart beating through the old wood, and the pull—her pull—is so magnetic I nearly can’t take the first few steps away. But I do, down the hall, then the stairs, and out into the gray dusk before sunrise.
My mind is spinning, emotions reeling inside of me, rolling through me one after another so rapidly that it makes me motion sick. I’m dizzy, nauseous, and shaking hard. I hear Mike’s words. "I don’t have a fiancée for you to fuck." Then Joss’s. "It’s not what you think." Then Tammy’s. "It was an accident, I swear." I can’t sort through it all. It sticks in my head and in my heart, and the force of it nearly brings me to my knees.
I’m overwhelmed in a way that has me almost unable to stagger down the sidewalk. I try to breathe, try to think of something—anything—that will clear my head, but all I can process is the stunning contradictions of what lies in my heart at this moment. The love, the lust, the complete lack of trust. And ultimately, the complete lack of worth.
Because I’m not worth it—not worth her. If that weren’t the case, she’d have never cheated on me. I can’t blame her, really, and it feels good somehow to finally admit that. As hurt as I was by what Tammy did, it was no more or less than I’d expected all along. Who would want a raging alcoholic? A guy whose biggest accomplishment in life is banging on a piece of plastic with a pair of sticks? Shit, toddlers do it. It’s not like I’m something special. No, Tammy did what most women would have done. She picked my best friend, the guy who has it all—the whip-smart business sense, the movie-star looks, the musical genius to make Lush what it was. And ultimately, to take the one thing I loved away from me.
Until I figure out how to be more like Joss and less like Walsh, I’ll never really have Tammy, and that is killing me. The taste of her last night has only served to drive the point home further. I couldn’t stand the feeling of her pity, the way her eyes told me that she felt sorry for me, that she thinks I’m someone fragile when I ought to be the strong one, the one in control, the guy who can give her the life she deserves.
But no. I’m without a band—without a purpose, really—spending my days hammering nails and digging graves on a cow ranch in the middle of nowhere. I already gave her all my money, so I don’t have that to offer up. My so-called job is based on the fact that I’m a lush, and my only friend is hated by half the Western Hemisphere. I’m a fucking loser, and I know it. There’s only one way to make this feeling that’s creeping through me go away. I can’t take the sick, putrid sensation in my gut. I can’t fight it anymore. I give in. I give up.
I wander through the streets into downtown, and within a few minutes, I find myself right where I knew I would. The lights in the liquor store are still dim, but I can see a burst of brighter illumination from the back of the store as I press my face against the glass. I head around the corner of the building toward the back. A delivery truck is parked in the alley, cargo doors open and loading ramp released. A guy is bringing a dolly loaded with boxes of liquor off the truck then disappearing inside before coming back out with the empty dolly and starting all over again.
I lean against the side of the building, not hiding, but not making my presence known either, and I watch him make a few trips in and out the back door. I make a mental note of the time it takes him to go in, unload, and come back out. I could do it, but I’d rather not. Somehow it seems even more sordid if I’m reduced to stealing it.
Instead, I step away from the building and casually saunter up to the guy as he’s exiting with his empty dolly.
"Hey, man," I say as he sees me.
"Good morning," he grins. "I didn’t think there was anyone else up this early besides me and Dale." He tips his chin back toward the building, indicating that Dale is inside.
"Yeah, I had one of those nights, you know?" I say, grimacing. "Woman problems," I expand.
He shakes his head as he eases the dolly up the ramp and into the truck. I hear his voice change to a grunt as he lifts each of the three boxes he brings out a moment later. "Yep. The ladies will do it to you every time, won’t they? I’ve got an ex-wife and a girlfriend, and between the two of them, they’re about to put me the fuck underground."
I laugh as he returns, backing the dolly down the ramp this time. "I hear ya," I say, giving him my most charming rock-star smile—because I know it works, and I am working this for all it’s worth. "I think I’m going to get me a bottle of J.B. and just ride this one out. Hope that when I come to, something will be better—or different at least."
He looks at me sharply for a minute. This guy’s in the liquor industry. Even though he’s just a driver, he’s probably no fool. I wonder if he’s been approached like this before. Maybe I should just be wondering how many times.
"Let me see what Dale’s got lying around," he says. Apparently I’m far from the first.
A minute later, a guy who must be Dale comes out, a bottle in hand. I’m reaching for my wallet before I can even think, my eyes riveted to the shiny jewel that’s going to make everything in my world better.
"I’m not allowed to sell before seven a.m.," Dale tells me. "You sure you want this?"
I nod my head. "Yeah, man. I’d appreciate it. It’s just been a hard week, you know?"
He gives me a sad smile. "Yeah, it always is." He holds the treasure out and I take it from him, hoping he doesn’t notice my hands shaking.
"I can’t give you anything for this?" I ask as I clutch it to my chest like it’s my firstborn child.
"Help unload the rest of these cases?" he asks.
"Gladly," I say as I tuck the bottle in the back pocket of my jeans. Then I head up the ramp and into the truck and lift a box.
Twenty minutes later, I lean back against the trunk of an old oak tree in City Park. This tree has probably been here for a hundred years, and as I look up through its branches with their new greenery, I wonder what all it’s seen. Births, deaths, love, loss.
After a hundred years, what would the world look like? Would you be so jaded and destroyed by the tragedies you’ve witnessed that you’d have no faith left in anything? Or would you be amazed at the miraculous way life goes on in spite of all the bad stuff? The way human beings continue to fall in love, have children, give of themselves d
ay after day, century after century, no matter what setbacks they endure personally or as a race. I wish I had the strength to endure in this battle I’ve fought for nearly two years now, but I don’t.
The pain is too much, the loss too profound. I’ve yearned for an escape for so long now, and finding Tammy again has only made it worse. It’s reminded me of what I don’t have, what I can’t have any longer, and it’s like someone has gutted me with a dull blade. I want it to stop, even if just for a few hours. I want the pain to stop. I want the yearning to stop. I want my world to stop. I crack open the seal on the bottle and lift it to my lips. I can smell the pungent, burning scent of the eighty-proof alcohol. I inhale a long, calming breath, feeling better from just smelling the damn stuff. Then I tip my head back against the rough bark of the old tree, wrap my lips around the bottle, close my eyes, and finally let go.
THERE’S SUNLIGHT shining in my eyes, and whatever I’m lying on is hard. I mumble and turn my head, rolling onto my side so the light isn’t as intense. I take a deep breath and smell fresh-cut grass. It’s nice. I settle in to go back to sleep. I feel fine, the constant agitation and pain that’s plagued me for months has finally receded. I’ve missed this, this feeling of good. It’s so nice not to have to experience every single fucking thing so intensely. This is much better, just easy and smooth. I think I could actually manage in the world if I could feel like this all the time. I don’t have the urge to hurt anyone or beat my head against the nearest wall. What a fucking relief.
In the distance, I can hear car doors slamming and a lawn mower somewhere too. I briefly wonder what day it is but quickly remind myself that I don’t give a shit. Days, hours, dark, light—whatever. It doesn’t matter because I feel like myself for the first time in I can’t remember when. Right now, my only complaint in life is that whatever I’m lying on is shorter than I am so I can’t stretch out fully, which kind of sucks. But I’ll take it. I’ll take all of it.
I’ll take the good. I’ve always been good with the good.
Tammy
MY PHONE is ringing and it won’t stop. I finally rouse myself enough to reach over to the nightstand and grab it.
"Hello?" I mumble.
"Is he with you?" It’s Mike, and he’s his usual charming self.
"What?" I try to open my eyes and get my bearings.
"Walsh, dammit. Is he with you?"
I look around the room, finally remembering the night before—making love here in the darkness. I’m alone, utterly alone. My heart sinks. "No. He’s not here and his clothes are gone. He didn’t call you for a ride?"
"If he did, would I be calling you?"
Okay. Point taken.
"Do you think he tried to walk home?" I ask as I stand and look around the floor for some clothes to put on.
"I don’t know, but I don’t have a good feeling, Tam. I told you to fucking leave him alone, but would you listen? No. Because you always have to impose your damn will on everyone. If something’s happened to him, this is on you. He was getting better. Fuck."
I’ve managed to struggle into a pair of yoga pants and flip-flops now, and I huddle in the middle of the room, covering my breasts with my arms even though no one can see me. I feel the sting of Mike’s words, and I wonder if he could be right. God, if anything’s happened to Walsh, I don’t know what I’ll do.
"Look, you start on the road into town. I’ll go drive around the neighborhood and we’ll meet up here at my place in thirty minutes, all right?"
"Yeah," he snaps before he hangs up.
I scramble into a bra and t-shirt before racing down the stairs and out to my rental car, bargaining with God the whole way. I’ll agree to anything as long as Walsh is okay.
IT’S AN hour later when Mike and I, now both in his truck, see the figure sleeping on the bench in City Park.
"There," Mike announces, pointing.
"Is that a person?" I ask, squinting.
"It’s definitely a person.”.
Dammit.
We pull up to the curb, and Mike leaves the car in a loading zone. We jump out and speed-walk through the park. It’s a lovely day, the sun is out, and the birds are singing. People are streaming into the Baptist church across the street, all dressed in their Sunday best. It’s like a parade of pastel. Out of all that pastel, it occurs to me that this is Easter Sunday, a day of new beginnings—birth, resurrection, the resurgence of life on Earth. I’ve been so lost in all the drama in my life that I completely forgot. As we get closer to the park bench, my heart beats triple time, and as much as I try to deny it, I already know the outcome of this morning’s search.
He’s asleep, his face so peaceful and beautiful that it’s hard to believe he’s the mess he is. The bottle of Jim Beam is still lying next to the bench, and I’m crushed to see that it’s completely empty, as if that even matters. A drop, a pint, a gallon—it’s all the same to an alcoholic. He made it nearly two years. Nearly two years and now he starts at ground zero all over again. It’s more than I can take.
"Oh God, no," I sob. "Oh, Walsh. Why?"
Mike actually looks at me with some sympathy. "Let’s get him sobered up, and then we can talk about the whys and what to do next."
I nod, tears running down my face.
Mike leans down and shakes Walsh. "Walsh. Rise and shine, buddy."
Walsh mumbles something and tries to shake Mike off.
"Nope. Come on, dude. Time to get up. You’ve fucked up and now you have to face the music. Up and at ‘em."
Walsh opens one eye and squints at Mike. "I’m doing good, thanks. Now fuck off."
"Nope. Get up," Mike continues as he yanks on Walsh’s arm and pulls him into a sitting position.
Walsh leans back against the bench and rubs his eyes. When he opens them again, he sees me, and I can tell he’s trying to remember what happened.
The moment it all clicks, his expression darkens and he puts his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. "Fuck," he mutters.
Not exactly the reaction a girl hopes for when a guy realizes he slept with her.
"Let’s go, dude," Mike says as he leans down and takes a hold of Walsh’s arm again. "Time to hit the diner and sober up."
Walsh nods. "I fucked up, man."
"Yeah, we know."
"I really fucked up."
Walsh
I GAZE across the little patch of lawn at Tammy’s tear-streaked face, and my heart shatters. Everything I’ve worked for, all the time I’ve spent fighting this fucking demon that lives inside me—wasted, blown to hell, burned to ashes in one incredibly fucked-up ball of flames.
I’m so ashamed that I can’t even look at her. My disappointment in her, in me, in the complete clusterfuck that is my life took me back to the one thing I vowed I’d never give in to again. I’ve failed at the only thing I was succeeding at in the last twelve months. I’m not a musician anymore. I’m barely a friend. I’m not a fiancé or a lover. But goddammit, I was at least Walsh Clark, the recovering alcoholic, and now I’m not even him. Now I’m Walsh Clark, the drunk again, and I am eviscerated. Sliced in half, from dick to heart, my ugly underbelly flayed open for the world to see. For Tammy to see.
For me to see.
Tammy
MIKE TAKES Walsh into the diner to eat and clean up a little. Meanwhile, I do what I always do—make the arrangements. I call Ronny and Leanne from the parking lot to tell them what’s happened. Technically, anyone who wants to stay at the Double A needs to have been dry for at least ninety days. Walsh no longer meets those parameters. Ronny’s going to think about what he’s willing to do, and he’ll talk to Walsh when Walsh gets back to the ranch.
Everyone agrees that I can’t come back to work at the Double A. It’s pretty obvious that I’m detrimental to Walsh’s recovery. My heart is breaking into a million pieces, but I know I have to leave town. I can’t bear the idea of going back to Portland though. I don’t know where my life should be right now, or what it should be, but Portland isn’t it.
When Mike and Walsh come out an hour later, Walsh is subdued, his disappointment in himself written all over his face. He stands a few yards away as Mike and I talk about what happens next.
I tell Mike about the conversation with Ronny.
"If Ronny won’t take him back I’ll take him to Cedar Valley and we’ll put him back in rehab. He can’t go to Portland and he can’t be by himself," Mike says decisively.
I nod, the threat of tears lingering behind my eyes again. "I’ll pay for whatever he needs. It’s his money anyway. And I’ll stay out of the way completely. I mean it, Mike. Anything he needs." I choke up at the next words. "You’re in charge. You’re who he needs. Please just tell me how I can help."
He nods, his face grim but determined.
"Can I talk to you about my plans?" I ask.
Mike nods at me although his body language says that he doesn’t particularly want to listen.
"I can’t go back to Portland. Not right now. But I know I need to stay clear of Walsh. I want to take Jenny to Dallas and Austin and see if I can get her booked into some venues. I’ve got plenty of contacts I can start calling to get hooked up with club managers. They’ll want to hear her sing and see her first, so I need her with me."
Mike glances over at Walsh, who’s now lying down on the hood of my rental car, which we picked up on our way over here. He’s on his back, arms thrown out to the sides in a gesture of complete hopelessness.
"No," he growls. "I don’t want you involved in Jenny’s career. Your habit of steamrolling everything and everyone is dangerous. I don’t trust your judgment at this point. Jenny’s got a really bright future, and I want to make sure there aren’t any bumps on the road for her. You’re a risk. One I’m not willing to let her take."
For the Love of a Lush (Lush No. 2) Page 12