The Falling Between Us

by Ash Parsons

  He looks like he could fall asleep without moving anything but his eyelids.

  “Rox.” He speaks in little more than a whisper, resting his voice as much as possible. “Landing gear down. The albatross has landed.”

  He pats the sofa next to him.

  He glances at me, and that little slippy, half-broken smile is there. Like he wants to crack another joke, but is too tired.

  He still wants to make light for me.

  I’d like to make light for him. Literally, to make light. Hold my hands cupped together and bring a ball of light, a tiny sun, glowing between them, sunlight spilling through my fingers, arcing out in healing warmth. I could open my hands, and the warm light could flit, like a small, gentle, straight-flying bird, into his chest. He’d sit up then. Sit up and smile like he used to do.

  The one with no heartbreak in it.

  But I can’t conjure a sun. The most magic I have is to be able to smile back at him.

  “Hey, Rox,” he says, in that soft voice, like he has to comfort me. He lifts an arm, and I curl beside him, tucking in along his long frame.

  He kisses the top of my head. I tilt my face, pressing my lips into the fabric on his chest. He touches my razor-roughed hair, smoothing it away from the edge of my face.

  When I place my ear back against his shoulder, I can hear and feel the subtle workings of muscle, tendon, and joint as he pulls his fingers over my hair.

  Aerialist Lillian Leitzel was famous for her dramatic planges. At the top of the circus tent, she would dangle from a single rope. Placing her wrist through a looped cuff, she would hang, and then start swinging. Her legs would lift, and her entire body would rise, up and over, up and over, her shoulder the axis point as she flipped. The audience would count each one, into the hundreds.

  Each plange dislocated her shoulder, even as her ability to perform them made her a star. Even as each performance damaged her shoulder and her wrist, as the cuff cut into it night after night.

  Joshua pulls his fingers over my hair as under my ear, his workings creak.

  Three rapid knocks sound at the door.

  Artie.

  Santiago looks at Joshua. Joshua nods, and the door is opened.

  Artie click-stab marches over to the sofa. She starts speaking without preamble.

  “Next time try not to give quite the impression that you’re running away. I’ve told you. It just makes it worse.”

  Joshua huffs air through his nose.

  Artie smiles at him indulgently. Then she tilts her head and really looks at him. “Have you eaten?” She walks to the room phone.

  “I’m not hungry,” Joshua says.

  “You have to eat.”

  After she finishes ordering, she’s back in front of us. The indulgence is gone, replaced by efficiency. Artie in manager mode.

  “Okay. A few hours here. Eat, try to rest, relax. Then we’ll go out to The Late Late Show.”

  Joshua heaves a monumental sigh. Under my ear, his heart beats steady and low.

  “All the ramp-up stuff will be over soon,” Artie continues, steamrolling his sigh. “And then it’ll settle down on tour.”

  My voice cuts in before I decide to speak. “Settle down?” Incredulity comes across like I want a fight. “Do you even remember what touring is like?”

  Joshua’s hand drops and squeezes on my side. He doesn’t want me to argue with her.

  Joshua feels obligation like a sickness, and Artie knows it.

  I squeeze him back, and it’s only one part reassurance. The other part is don’t tell me to be quiet.

  Artie ignores me, focusing on Joshua. “I’m sorry we have to go through this part to get to the good stuff. But you’re almost to the downhill slope.”

  I want to ask her what the good stuff is.

  Is it the press conferences? The performances? A barrage of questions shouted at you as you’re blinded by flashes simply trying to get to a car?

  Or is it writing songs that have half the lyrics, the best, most human ones, changed by a committee devoted to manufacturing hits? Songs that lack soul, but hey, you can dance to them.

  Artie stands up straight and pulls the braid over her shoulder. Smooths it there, like an ice princess confident in her powers.

  Let it go.

  “When the food gets here, I need you to eat. You have to keep your energy up.”

  The tone. The mother tone. The one I can’t stand.

  The one that pulls every one of Joshua’s strings. Jerks him upright and gets him going. Can get him walking on a hairline fracture, or singing with strep.

  Or performing again, two weeks after Dallas.

  I can feel it in his posture. In the grip that loosens around my ribs.

  Acquiescence. Ms. Kearney, our teacher, would have called it that. She would have taught it to us, wanting us to learn the name of something we already knew by heart.

  A big word that means surrendering another part of yourself.

  That was back when we still did schoolwork. Back when Joshua and I had lessons on the bus, or in a corner of a studio somewhere. When we all thought he and I would graduate high school.

  That was then.

  It wasn’t that long ago that it stopped, only two months. But it feels like a lifetime now. So many different things happened at once when Joshua turned seventeen.

  He got emancipated completely and dropped out of school. Artie let Ms. Kearney go. I finished my semester out doing schoolwork online.

  It’s summer now, but I’ll drop out too, in the fall, when I turn seventeen.

  With Joshua it all happened in a breathtaking series of pen slashes—signatures across papers. A coming of age that wouldn’t ever be shown in a corny montage in a movie.

  But once he was emancipated, he didn’t need Artie to act as his legal guardian anymore. Or Livie to act as his bank. He could control his own money.

  Which, strangely, he started throwing away. He went on a spree that still hasn’t stopped. He bought houses for everyone. Starting with my grandma—a nice, one-level house in a privately patrolled neighborhood.

  He wouldn’t listen to me argue why he shouldn’t spend like that.

  He reminded me what happened the last time we were photographed kissing. A certain type of fan went after me. Hordes of them. Online, spewing hate. Then I got doxed. My old address and phone number got sent out online.

  Grandma called me in tears from the harassment. I helped her move into an apartment.

  Then Joshua bought the house.

  He didn’t stop there. He met with a lawyer, an accountant, a tax specialist. He set up a series of accounts, gifted some to us. Me, his mom, his brother.

  He bought an astonishing amount of property: land, houses, condos, a villa in France, a beachside retreat in Mexico, a Putt-Putt amusement complex near our hometown. He bought them all.

  And then he gave them away. Or most of them, at least.

  He gave houses or land or office suites to all of us, the ones closest to him. I don’t even know how much he’s kept for himself. Not much. There’s a mansion in LA he bought but hasn’t set foot in. And the beach house in Mexico he bought without seeing, just watched a video online and showed it to me, this modest white stucco cottage overlooking the Pacific.

  We haven’t set foot in that one, either.

  I’ve lost track of it all. If he sees something, he gets it. Then he gives it away. Property, cars, music equipment and instruments, and expensive gadgets. Drones, clothes, shoes, entertainment systems, books, tablets, TVs, hover boards, go-karts, pool tables.

  He doesn’t keep much of anything.

  Artie is still looking at Joshua, unsatisfied with his nod. “Do you need me to call Dr. Matt?”

  Our teacher has been let go, but Joshua’s personal doctor is still on the payroll. It’s not lik
e the medicine he dispenses to Joshua is unnecessary. Lots of high achievers have focus problems. Or need help resting. Or need help mustering extra energy. Or need help to get through whatever moment faces them.

  Dr. Meadows gave it to me, Rox. Don’t look at me like that. Just to take the edge off.

  The edge that is always there.

  It’s something else we try not to fight about.

  “I’m fine,” Joshua whispers to Artie. “I just need to be quiet for a bit.”

  So we sit in relative silence. The air-conditioning clicks on and off. Maybe Joshua even falls into a light doze. I certainly do, with my head cradled on his shoulder, listening to the gentle drum of his heart.

  I wake up when Artie directs the food to be placed on the coffee table in front of us. I blink, trying to think what I ordered, then remember Artie ordered for us.

  There’s too much food. An assortment of sandwiches and salads. There’s at least three different varieties of thin broth, a fail-safe food for Joshua.

  Teas and sodas and coffee and designer water.

  My stomach growls, and I sit up. Behind me, Joshua laughs, a low rumble.

  I turn to look at him.

  He points to his shoulder where my head recently rested. A damp patch darkens his shirt.

  “Guess you were really out, huh?” he whispers.

  “Shut up.” I can’t help smiling at him. I wipe my cheek off.

  “Sleeping Drooly.”

  “Keep it up, Blackbird.”

  “Oh, yeah? Or what?” He forgets and speaks at his normal volume.

  “I’ll start reading Birdie fanfics. Out loud.”

  Joshua holds up his hands, laughing a little. “Anything but that!”

  I grab a plate with a club sandwich and chips and start eating. Beside me Joshua sits up. He looks at the food, then looks away.

  Artie notices and marches over from the periphery of the room. “Eat something, Joshua,” she orders.

  Joshua gives her a look, but he grabs a mug of broth and sips it.

  Artie sighs.

  “I wish you had Rox’s appetite.”

  I feel myself sitting hunched over the plate like someone is going to fight me for it. Unable, even after all this time, to relax when I’m actually hungry. Unable to accept that the food is going to be there again when I want it.

  Like me, Joshua still keeps food stashed in his pockets, protein bars or fruit grabbed off the catering table in the rehearsal hall. Even if he doesn’t eat them.

  Old habits.

  Artie’s words are a dig. Like how she looks at my clothes or hair or combat boots.

  I stay curled over the plate. Tilt my head up at her and take a massive, nearly choking bite of the sandwich. Scatter a piece of lettuce and a bit of meat.

  Then I add a smile.

  Artie glares at me, shaking her head. But she doesn’t say anything else.

  And I leave it at that, because Joshua didn’t notice. And to tell the truth, I wish he had my appetite, too.

  Any appetite.

  I finish my food, and Joshua has more broth, and then it’s time to get ready for his performance on The Late Late Show.

  Joshua hates TV shows, hates backstage, hates the greenrooms, so he waits as long as he can in the hotel and gets ready here.

  DeeDee the stylist arrives, pulling along a wheeled cart with plastic-sheathed wardrobe choices. A makeup holster is strapped low across her hips.

  “I don’t need to change,” Joshua says. He slumps back in the sofa, head propped in the corner.

  DeeDee doesn’t say anything. She simply looks at Artie.

  “Your shirt is ripped. Change that at least.” Artie crosses her arms across her stomach. All perfectly placed talons and sharp elbows.

  Joshua leans forward and scrubs his face with his hands.

  He used to argue with Artie about everything. Big things, little things. Stupid things, just to get her worked up.

  Now he never contradicts her.

  I don’t know when he stopped, and it bothers me that such a fundamental change crept up on me.

  Joshua stands and walks over to DeeDee. He pulls a hanger off the rack. A new shirt, identical to the torn one. He turns away from us before pulling the torn shirt off over his head. Even though we’ve seen the slight, jagged scar across his abdomen numerous times. Even though it’s been photographed for official court records. Even though some of the photos got leaked and it was splashed across tabloids and gossip blogs.

  He still turns away.

  Artie waits until he turns back around and then crosses to Joshua.

  “Let me look at you.”

  He looks down into her face. She smiles approval and squeezes a rare hug into him. More mothering. Joshua leans into it, bending low to return the hug below her uplifted arms. Artie’s arms are tight across his shoulders as a hand pat-pats. A this hug is ending soon gesture.

  She lets go before he does, then leans away.

  Joshua’s arms drop.

  “Let me just . . . ” Her voice trails off as she picks up an eye pencil and retraces his startling eyes.

  He stands as she does it, perfect as a statue. Expression neutral, the shape of his closed mouth, lips full but not lush, hinted smile-curves at the corners, now held flat as he watches her, waiting for her to finish with him.

  Sometimes looking at Joshua is like falling endlessly, knowing it’s happening, unable to stop yourself.

  Artie puts the eye pencil down. DeeDee steps in and fluffs and spritzes Joshua’s floppy Mohawk. After a moment, she nods and steps back.

  “Let’s go,” Joshua says.

  He takes my hand and squeezes like he’s slipping into ice-cold water.

  5

  THE CLAWS OF BIRDS

  The ride to the studio is quick and uneventful, then we’re through security onto the studio lot, and arriving at the backstage door.

  I walk with Joshua, with Artie behind us, through the crowd of waiting greeters and crew.

  I feel their eyes on me as I walk with him, and the growl curls in my stomach, an anger I can’t express. Because I can’t hold his hand. Can’t squeeze it gently, sending him strength. Can’t prompt him to look at me. Because we are in public, and I’m not his official girlfriend.

  We walk to the privacy of the greenroom, where we’ll only wait a few moments.

  Once inside, Joshua takes my hand. His smile is somehow . . . sad.

  “Thanks, Rox,” Joshua says. “I know you don’t like this part.”

  As if there were any part left that I do like.

  “It’s okay, Shu,” I say, the old nickname from back home.

  “Rox.” There’s that sad smile again.

  I dart a quick kiss on his cheek.

  “Shu.”

  The rock in his shoe.

  While we wait, a nervous production assistant hovers nearby, rattling off an unnecessary list of instructions. Joshua ignores the PA and the table of food and drinks. At the bar, Stevie, the bassist, mixes himself something dark and strong and downs it in one go.

  The PA puts her hand to her ear, then stands and moves to Joshua’s elbow.

  “Okay, they’re ready,” she says.

  It’s not a long way to the studio stage. We push though fire doors, then stage doors. Although we can’t see the audience on the other side of the curtain, their cheers are overpowering.

  The house band plays out to a commercial break.

  Speed nods at me, twirling a drumstick in his long fingers. The stage lights silhouette his floppy Afro as he walks over to join us.

  He clasps Joshua’s hand and gives him a one-armed hug. Speed knows better than any of the others how depleted Joshua is right now. Speed’s been there, talking to Joshua and me, or listening, or just quietly showing care with light to
uches on my head or Joshua’s shoulders, a presence like a scaffolding, holding us up.

  Speed frowns and steps close to me, tucking his drumsticks in his back pocket. I take his hand, lacing my fingers through his, pale through dark, like a negative exposure each of the other, meshed in the backstage gloom.

  He turns and takes Joshua’s hand.

  The three of us stand linked: Joshua, Speed, and me. A fragile chain.

  “Okay.” Joshua takes a deep breath.

  Speed squeezes my hand and lets go of both it and Joshua’s at the same time.

  A crew member gives Joshua a guitar. Joshua holds the guitar loosely by the neck as the other band members huddle in.

  I step back.

  Santiago moves to the edge of the yellow-taped visibility line, standing behind the curtain out of sight from the cameras. He scans the front row of the theater, the aisles, the exits.

  Artie smooths her bleached braid and adjusts her shirt, as if she will be taking the stage instead of her client.

  Joshua and his band walk out onto the stage as the host announces them.

  The director has allotted a few extra precious seconds to allow for all the screaming. Then the band rocks into the new single, “Forever or Never.”

  Joshua sings and plays perfectly. More than perfectly. He’s transformed, smiling, making eye contact with the camera. It even looks like he’s having fun.

  When the song ends, the Birdie-packed crowd screams fit to shatter glass. The host can barely make his sign-off heard.

  Then it happens. A fan rushes onto the stage from the front row. It’s a young woman wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with Joshua’s face.

  She pushes through the band, buffeting past the host, who lets out a startled “whoa!” She grabs on to Joshua, hanging off his neck, dragging on him with a hug that is half tackle.

  My hands are balled-up fists, in my head a thunderclap of anger and the buzzing fear-dump of adrenaline.

  Santiago moves onto the stage instantly and crosses to Joshua. He takes the fan’s arm and lifts, pulling her off him.

  Another fan runs forward. Then another. Then ten more, a rush like the tide.