by Penny Reid
“The boxes of wine do seem to make you happy,” Sam agreed.
What I didn’t say, because it was difficult to admit my irresponsibility, was that everything became a joke. I didn’t need Martin. I didn’t need anyone. I could live outside the closet of obscurity just fine on my own. I needed nothing.
“You’re right though, it wasn’t sustainable for me. I’m far too practical and reclusive. Firstly, Red Bull tastes like excrement.”
“It does! Right?”
“And secondly, as much as I enjoyed the time I was actually playing music, I had no patience for druggies.”
Watching people actively choose to destroy themselves felt like watching Martin choose revenge over living his life free from his father. It was during this time I recognized revenge was Martin’s drug and he was an addict.
“So, solid state is denial. Liquid state is anger. That makes the gas state the bargaining stage.”
I cocked my head to the side, studying Sam. “What do you mean?”
“The five stages of grief,” she explained matter-of-factly. “Next is depression.”
I looked at my friend for a long moment, realizing she was right. She was so right. The next state was depression.
“Oh my God, you’re right.” I gave her a sad smile. “Yes, otherwise known as the plasma state of matter.”
Sam’s gaze became sympathetic as it held mine, her features softening with compassion. “Toward the end of the summer, when you started crying again.”
“You heard that?”
“Yes. I heard the crying. And the sad music you were composing in your room. It’s beautiful, by the way. Much better than your Red Bull-slash-gas-slash-bargaining phase music.”
I gave her a soft smile. “Thank you. It was very…cathartic. It allowed me to reflect on the months that came before it. But mostly I think I was trying to wrap my mind around how and why I’d allowed one week—one solitary, singular week—to completely change the course of my life.”
Why had I given Martin Sandeke so much power over me? And why was I continuing to give him power? I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since that terrible day on campus. He hadn’t once tried to contact me, but I hadn’t expected him to try.
And yet…I missed him. I thought about him and our week together all the time.
Sam’s mouth turned down at the corners and she gave me a sincere and sympathetic look. “Kaitlyn, you fell in love with Martin over that week. You trusted him…you slept with him.”
I nodded, glancing down at my fingers. “I know…”
I know I missed the depth of feeling, the loss of control, the surrender to passion, the being lost and found all at once. Being seen. He was still wrapped around my heart and I had no way to evict him. I wasn’t sure I could.
I added, “I know that, before Martin, before our week together, I’d been repressed, stuck without knowing it. But then after we split things were even worse.”
Sam pulled me into a hug as I continued my confession. “He became my compass, my beacon. And before him, I’d been a girl desperately trying to follow the footsteps of expectations even though the shoes didn’t fit.”
“And he helped you see beyond family expectations?”
I nodded against her shoulder. Over spring break I’d started to become a woman who was excited about forging her own path.
I pulled away from my friend, but continued to hold her hand. “Then I left him and he left me. We abandoned each other before I’d discovered what I wanted or who I was. My compass was gone. I couldn’t go back to hiding in closets even though I tried.”
She chuckled at this, adding, “Boy, oh boy, did you ever try.”
I smiled at her. “But the closets don’t fit anymore. Nor do I know how to move forward blindly. I want to be something else, someone else, not Kaitlyn Parker who hides in closets and does what everyone expects.”
“But not everyone has the benefit of a compass or a guide. Most people go blindly into their future.”
I nodded again. “Yes. I figured that out.”
I’d figured out that people did this by trusting their heart.
“Well, we’ve already covered denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. Does this mean you’ve moved on to acceptance?” Sam gave me a wide, hopeful smile that made me laugh.
“Kind of.” I shrugged, my gaze moving over her shoulder as I focused my thoughts. “Think of it this way. The fifth state of matter is a theoretical state—”
“Really? We’re still using the chemistry analogy?”
I continued as though she hadn’t spoken, because the word acceptance didn’t feel quite right. “One could argue the fifth state of matter isn’t theoretical, that it’s a class of states that occur under unusual or extreme circumstances, like Bose–Einstein condensates or neutron-degenerate matter.”
“I have no idea what you just said.”
I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh, but returned my gaze to Sam. “But for the purposes of my stages of grief, I’m going to label the fifth stage as quark–gluon plasmas. It’s a state of matter that is believed to be possible, but remains theoretical…for now.”
“Theoretical?”
“Theoretical because my fifth stage of grief has to do with me getting over Martin, which I admit hasn’t happened yet. And it also centers on finding my purpose, but using only myself as a compass.”
“You can also use me as a compass, you know. I’m very good with the aforementioned unsolicited advice.”
If I hadn’t realized it before, I realized now that Sam was a singularity of awesomeness. “I know, and I will. But it’s more than just moving on from Martin. It’s a stage where I become comfortable in my own skin, happy with where I am, what I’m doing, and who I’m doing it with.”
“So, it’s theoretical.”
“Yes.” I nodded, finally returning Sam’s hopeful grin. “It’s still theoretical. But it’s possible.”
***
-Eight months post-breakup-
I found my mother in the garden.
She was home for the Congressional Thanksgiving recess. Growing up, I’d always thought it funny that the US government took a recess, like little kids took recess in primary school. I imagined the Speaker of the House hanging upside down on monkey bars and the majority leader shaking down junior senators for lunch money.
I knew we’d be seeing each other because it had been on the Sunday agenda for the last month. I’d been mentally preparing for this meeting. She’d said I needed some time before we discussed my months-long absence from her life and my decision to take a semester off school.
But the time had come. I needed to talk to her about it, even though it was messy and unsettled. I needed her to listen without trying to fix.
When I found her in the garden, I announced to her back, “I want to be a musician. I want to pursue music and major in it and I don’t want to be a scientist or a politician.”
My mother turned as I spoke, stared at me for a beat, her forehead wrinkling slightly, probably because I wasn’t prone to outbursts. Then she nodded and said, “Okay.”
I waited for her to continue, maybe add a, But you’re on your own… or But when you come to your senses… or something similar. She didn’t.
When she just continued looking at me, my suspicions burst forth. “You think this is a phase, right?”
My mom took a deep breath, glanced briefly at the ground, then returned her gaze to mine. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You’re disappointed in me? Because I took off this semester? Because I’m not following in your footsteps? Because I’m—”
She held up her hands and cut me off. “Kaitlyn, stop. Stop. Stop putting words in my mouth. I’m not disappointed in you. I’m disappointed in myself.”
I frowned at her, studying my mother in her navy pants suit, and light blue shirt, and the little United States flag on her lapel. Finally I asked, “Why?”
“Because you obviously need my support and I
have no idea how to give it to you.” She crossed to me, her eyes searching, then pulled me into an unexpected hug.
When she spoke next I felt her chin move against the side of my head. “I’m not…I’ve never been very good at being maternal.”
I laughed, partly because I hadn’t expected her to say it and partly because it was true.
She squeezed me. “I’m good at being rational, methodical, and solving problems with logic and analysis. But, try as I might, I’ve never been able to figure out how to provide the comfort that you’ve needed. And I’m sorry.”
Every one of my internal organs flooded with the warmth of relief that accompanies hope. I squeezed her in return, unable to help myself. “You’re forgiven.”
She stepped back, but her hands remained on my arms. She was clearly frustrated. “I don’t know how to help you or be what you need, Kaitlyn.”
“Can you listen?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Without trying to problem solve or find a superior solution to my issues?”
She hesitated, her eyes narrowing, looking incredulous. “You mean, just listen?”
I nodded.
She stared at me, appeared to be firming her resolve, then said, “For you, absolutely.”
***
-Nine months post-breakup-
“Are you ever going to go out with Fitzy, or what?”
I let my befuddlement show on my face by widening my eyes and looking from side to side.
All I wanted was a bottle of water.
“What you talkin’ ’bout, Willis?”
I enjoyed asking my bandmate this question, mostly because his name was actually Willis. Usually no one my age had any idea that the question was a reference to a 1980s TV show I used to watch with my dad called Different Strokes.
Willis glanced over his shoulder to where Abram the bass player, Janet the lead guitarist and saxophonist, and Fitzgerald our singer and second guitar—aka Fitzy for short—were finishing the sound check. Since Willis held my water bottle hostage, I followed his gaze and found Fitzy watching us. When he saw our attention focused on him, Fitzy averted his blue-eyed stare and began messing with his mic stand, his shaggy brown hair falling adorably over his forehead.
Willis turned back to me, leveled me with his dark brown eyes. Like the rest of us, Willis was dressed in a tuxedo, bowtie, cummerbund, the whole get up. Unlike the rest of us, Willis was in his mid-forties and never minced words.
Unfortunately, he chopped his words instead, usually with a dull blade or a mallet. Willis’s thoughts were often sporadic and hard to follow; as well his analogies didn’t quite make sense.
“Listen, Cupcake. He’s got it bad for you, like a porcupine and a balloon. Now, I don’t care what y’all do in your free time, but I’m tired of losing good people because you kids can’t keep your seatbelts fastened. We lost Pierce, our last pianist, when Janet and he refused to work together after six weeks on a mattress tour. They drew straws and he came up espresso—you see?”
I nodded, trying to follow. “So, Janet and Pierce, your last piano player, were a thing? And it didn’t end well?”
“It never ends well.” Willis narrowed his dark brown eyes and pressed his mouth into a flat line. He was bald, his head completely shaved, and the collar of his dress shirt didn’t quite hide the tattoos on the back of his neck. This didn’t affect our squeaky image since he was our drummer and sat at the back of the stage. Also, he was my boss.
Willis lowered his roughened voice—made gravelly by years of smoking and drinking and laughing too loud—and squinted at me until his pupils were barely visible. “Musicians are like lightbulbs, they burn hot and bright, but can’t be screwed more than once. If you two need to get it out of your system, that’s fine. But you’re a great kid, real goddamn talented, pretty, look good on stage. But Fitzy is also pretty and will be hard to replace—you get my meaning?”
“I think so. You don’t care if Fitzy and I get together, but you don’t want it to impact the dynamic of the band. Right?”
He nodded, looking irritated. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Yes, absolutely. I understand loud and clear. Not dating bandmates is one of my life rules.”
What I didn’t vocalize was that Willis didn’t need to worry. Although Fitzy was super hot, super nice, and super talented, I felt no attraction to him beyond the surface of his skin and the attractiveness of his voice. This was because Fitzy wasn’t very bright.
If he were an actual lightbulb he’d be a twenty watt fluorescent. Hard to look at—because he was so pretty—but too dim to make a noticeable difference in any given room.
Abram the bassist, however, was a completely different story. His face wasn’t classically good-looking—with his long brown hair, hazel eyes, big jaw, and hook nose—nor was he book smart. But he was tall and broad and manly-handsome. As well he was shrewd, and wicked sharp. He had a razor wit and twisted sense of humor.
He also always had one or two women in the audience who waited for him after our sets. It didn’t matter if we played a country club wedding outside New Haven, a dive bar in Queens, or a high-rise in Manhattan. Without fail, he never went home alone. As well, at times his jokes were shaded with bitterness; it was easy to see he was jaded.
I was undoubtedly attracted to Abram—the talented, witty, sexy bassist. But I wasn’t attracted to Abram—the serial dating king of the bitterness squad.
I’d come to the conclusion that intelligence was my catnip, followed closely by charisma. And, thanks to my romantic history, I’d realized that just because a person was intelligent and charismatic didn’t mean they were good for me. The brighter the brain, the greater the gravitational pull, the more wary I was.
Therefore, Fitzy was harmless.
And furthermore, I was careful to stay out of Abram’s orbit.
What I needed was a nice guy who understood my jokes. Someone who was friendly rather than charismatic. Someone who was bright, but wasn’t so brilliant he was blinding.
“Get on your perch, lady bird. It’s almost time.” Willis walked past me to his place behind the drums.
I grabbed my bottle of water and followed Willis to the stage. Avoiding Abram’s level stare, I gave Janet a friendly head nod and waved at Fitzy. He waved back, giving me a big, white, perfect smile.
Tonight we were playing a Christmas party at a New York City location we knew well. It was a converted fire station, now a moderately sized concert venue—very popular spot for weddings and office parties. I liked it because the interior was original red brick with cool Norwegian-looking tapestries lining the walls, likely placed purposefully to help with acoustics.
Also, the stage was set back from the dance floor. Though I’d been playing publicly for several months, being close to or surrounded by the audience still felt overwhelming. I liked being in the back, with the piano between me and the audience.
The set started with the basic cocktail hour fare: heavy on the piano, vocals, and saxophone; light on the drums. We would play five sets, each growing progressively louder and edgier as the older crowd left, leaving the young people who wanted to dance.
Nothing was special about this event. I had no expectations, indications, or signs from above (or below) that this event would be any different from the dozens of other office parties I’d played over the last several months. I was cool. I was collected. I was fine. I was doing my thing and wondering if I still had bacon in the fridge, because I had a severe hankering for a BLT.
Then, amidst my bacon preoccupation, my ponytail holder snapped during the fourth set and the bobby pins I’d placed to fasten my bun were no match for the weight of my hair. I was forced to perform the remainder of the set with curls in my face.
It was irritating and distracting. As well, and inexplicably, the snapped ponytail holder was the catalyst for an intense and abrupt wave of self-consciousness. The sensation started with a nagging tingle on the back of my neck. I ignored it. It pers
isted.
I lifted my gaze to Abram and found him watching me with a smirk. I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to my fingers as they flew over the keys, writing off the tingle as Abram-related. A moment later I glanced back at Abram, feeling irritated I could still feel his stare, but he wasn’t looking at me.
Yet, I felt eyes on me. I felt watched. It was a weight, like a hand, and I couldn’t shake the impression. My heart thudded uncomfortably in my chest as I scanned my bandmates. I found them all focused on their instruments.
I told myself I was being silly, but the feeling persisted. It was unnerving, like walking down a dark hallway and hearing the echo of footsteps.
When the set was finally over, I twisted my hair over my shoulder and out of my face. I glanced at the audience as I stood from the piano, scanning the crowd for the source of my discomfort, half expecting to find nothing.
But I did find something.
I found blue-green eyes on a familiar face, dressed in an immaculately tailored suit, with a tall brunette on his arm, a drink in his hand, and his penetrating gaze firmly anchored to mine.
CHAPTER 1
Resonance Structures
“I’m sorry, Willis. I need a minute…I don’t feel well.” I was sitting on an upturned bucket backstage, my hands on my knees. My voice was weak and I truly, truly did not feel well.
Janet was rubbing my back and Fitzy hovered nearby with a plate of food. Abram was leaning against the far wall, his feet crossed at the ankles, his hands shoved in his pockets as he watched me.
Seeing Martin again—just seeing him across a crowded room—had been so much more flustering and mind-bending than I could have predicted. My thoughts on repeat were:
He’s here.
He’s here with someone.
I kind of still hate him.
But I hope he doesn’t hate me.
I think I’m still infatuated with him…
Surprisingly, the loudest and most pressing thought: He’s seen me naked.