Before Goodbye

by Mimi Cross

  Songs?

  Sitting up, I lean over the phone. Okay, they’re not really songs, but they’re definitely the beginnings of songs.

  I can see that day perfectly. Hear myself humming while I restring my guitar. Not aware that I’m creating melodies on top of Cal’s improvised chord progressions. Or maybe he’s fitting progressions to my melodies. It doesn’t matter. It’s good. The music is good. The songs, they only need . . . words.

  Now I listen to one song idea after another, quietly captured by my phone because I’d forgotten to hit “Done.”

  Because I wasn’t Done. We weren’t Done—we were just getting started.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. How can Cal be gone while I’m here, when we’re both connected to the same immensity, to music? Covering my face, I rock back and forth.

  Finally, decades later, I open my eyes—

  And see movement in the mirror.

  The remnants of this afternoon’s ketamine high? Or—

  Something shifting—there it is again. A play of shadows and light. Fish through water.

  Goosebumps rise on my arms as I stare into the oval mirror that hangs innocuously over the dresser across the room. Feeling like an idiot, I wave both hands. My reflection waves back. I make a horrible face now, and surprise—not—I see me, making a face.

  Another movement, at the window—

  Just a flurry of yellow leaves, the wind picking up.

  But somewhere during the time it takes for my gaze to shift—

  He arrives.

  A breeze that’s not a breeze but more like a touch lifts a few strands of my hair and—

  Cal’s reflection stares at me from the mirror, his face so close to mine that if I turn—

  But then I do turn, and of course he’s not beside me.

  Heart beating hard, I turn back to the mirror—

  And there he is. The mirror shows him clearly, walking away. Black hair swinging as he heads out the door.

  I whip my head around. The door is closed, just like I left it.

  Leaping off the bed, I race to the door and yank it open—

  But there’s only me, in the hall. A girl with a cell phone clutched in her hand, like she’s holding on for dear life.

  WORK

  DAVID

  It doesn’t feel like work. Based on this alone, my father would disapprove of my new job.

  But that’s not why I haven’t told him I’m working at Listen Up!

  I don’t want him coming in here. I don’t want to see him sneer at the rows and rows of records, the dusty shelves of sheet music. Don’t want him in the back of the shop, where there’s a room filled with guitars, their curving bodies and unlikely colors as fascinating to me as their unique sounds.

  Amps, instruments—I’m learning a lot from the kids who’ve worked here for years. Guys who—despite their blue hair or tattoos, their piercings and posing—are really no different from the guys I grew up with. They’re just obsessed with music instead of sports, though my father wouldn’t see it that way.

  So I’ve told him I’m tutoring, which is true—I’m doing that, too. He doesn’t like it, but he hasn’t challenged my choice. At least not yet.

  But this store . . . I’ve been coming here forever—Bryn, too. It feels like home, but better.

  Delsey, a girl who’s worked here as long as I can remember, has taught me the most. Bonus: She talks to me like I’m a person, not a body, or a face, or a potential trophy winner. She’s as obsessed as the guys, has no time for anything but music. We’re all about music—the bands, the songs.

  At first, Rod’s arrival doesn’t set off alarm bells, just tinkling chimes on the door.

  And come on, a Saturday night, two minutes to ten? We’re ready to lock up. The end.

  But then with a “Hey” and an “Aw” and a “Just take a sec,” Rod wheedles his way inside.

  My hatred rises up like a specter. I should have broken more than his nose.

  Phones buzzing, thumbs tapping, drenched in cologne—a half a dozen wet-haired, whiskey-breathed boys trail Rod into the store. Wolverines without football uniforms but wearing uniforms nonetheless: not-warm-enough-for-the-weather T-shirts stretched tight over pumped biceps, snug jeans revealing bulges. Their overbuilt bodies take up the space of twelve instead of six. Game over, they’re ready to play.

  “Make it quick,” Bird says. “We’re closing.” The overhead lights glint off his head.

  Rod stumbles to a stop at this announcement or, maybe, because he finally sees me.

  “Bennet! The fuck? You work here with the freaks now?” Then he turns, gesturing to his profile, to his nose. “Looking good, huh? You’ve probably been worried about me, yeah? But as you can see, you didn’t do much damage.” He leans toward me as he says this last word, and there is no mistaking his intention. But the door chimes ring again before he can press his point.

  Half the senior cheer squad flounces in, damp autumn air clinging to their hair, their clothes. The scent of decay mingling with the smells of strawberry lip gloss. Shampoo. The boys at the rear of Rod’s posse become distracted. I’m grateful. I can’t take on all of them, just one. I step forward.

  At the same time, Trish pushes through the crowd—

  Now I’m the one distracted.

  In my defense, anyone would be. She’s got some guy’s jacket tied around her waist, only not around her waist exactly. More like her rib cage. As a result, her breasts ride high in a shirt cut low, her exposed milky skin making me think of Rafe Hall’s sister, all that Ren Fair stuff she’s into. Talking ravens, Tarot cards. Push-up bra cinched so tight—when she swung herself on top of me that one night we were together, her breasts rolled in my face.

  Glitter-lashed, candy-mouthed—Trish falls against me, hugging me tight, whispering something slurry in my ear. She smells of peppermint schnapps and that perfume she wears.

  Before I can disentangle her, Blaise Mitchell grunts in protest. Lunges forward—

  The girls ooh but hurriedly pry Trish’s arms from around me.

  Two guys—Studer and White—hold the protester back but look to Rod for direction.

  His eyes glint with malice as he considers the situation.

  Bird says they all need to leave.

  Objecting noisily—“WTF?” “Free country, man.” “Faggot!” “Your head looks like my cock!”—they go, their harmless insults muffled now by the plate-glass windows that front the store.

  Gesturing obscenely, grabbing the girls from behind, my old teammates bump and grind their way into the night. Blaise Mitchell’s gripping Trish’s hair. Rod flips me off with both hands, then grabs one of Trish’s arms. She laughs as the three of them trip through a giant sidewalk puddle. Rod laughs, too, but his eyes are hooded. I hate to think what might happen to her. Hate myself for not trying to keep it from happening.

  Bird looks at me. Shakes his head.

  I shrug, say, “Yeah, I don’t get it.” But I do get it. I just don’t want it. And I was never that . . . low.

  Was I?

  No. I would have never, ever, held tight like that to Trish’s hair. I would have carried her over that puddle like it was a threshold, like she was a bride.

  In the end, what we had wasn’t a big deal, but I’m not a jerk. I knew I’d see her around.

  Knew I’d have to live with myself.

  I shudder. That scene? I don’t want it. Not anymore.

  All I want now—is to destroy Rod Whitaker.

  Instead, I take a stack of advance copy CDs and head out.

  GUEST LIST

  CATE

  “I’ve only heard one song off their CD,” Laurel says while we’re waiting in line. “But it was amazing.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Since you dragged me here.

  We inch forward and I catch a glimpse of the inside of the Winery. It’s definitely a step up from the clubs where Laurel and I usually go to hear music, and easier to get to—we took the boat to Wall Street and walked up from th
ere. We were supposed to grab something to eat, but dinner morphed into cheap drinks. Now I’m glad we had them because it doesn’t look like we’ll be able to afford anything at this place.

  A knot of groomed men in suits huddle at a polished bar to our right, talking to a striking woman in a low-cut blouse. Waiters and waitresses race around with glasses and trays, their work clothes hipper than my best ones—none of which I’m wearing. Not that I care. Okay, I care a little, but really, I’m not up for this, for having “fun.”

  But L had insisted, “You need a girls’ night.” Which only reminds me of all of my friends here, girls from my old school, that I should call to come out. Friends I haven’t seen since I moved from Manhattan. Not that that they’ve been great about keeping in touch.

  Musicians hustle back and forth between the front door and another door next to the stage, carrying guitar cases and amps, mic stands and lumpy duffel bags. The long rows of tables are already packed, mostly with girls and women, their black-linered eyes shining with anticipation.

  Seems like I’m the only person in the room who’d rather be home in bed.

  Finally, the guy at the door is squinting at our fake IDs. We try to look bored.

  After a minute he says, “Twenty-five each. Show starts at eight. Seven-thirty rolls around and you’re not in your seat? We sell it. Label showcase tonight. The boys want a full house.”

  “We’re on the list,” Dee says, pushing in between Laurel and me.

  Oh well. I’d hoped she’d gotten lost in the ladies’ room. Laurel elbows me. I sigh.

  The bouncer cocks his head. He’s waiting for us to pay. Or leave. Although when Dee launches into a tirade—“The singer is my cousin. He said he’d put us on the list! Check again. Dee Carson plus one”—I think maybe he’ll just toss us out. Laurel looks embarrassed. I look past the crowd at the wide stage littered with cables and effects boxes.

  There’s a guy standing onstage with his eyes closed, whispering into a mic. He’s wearing a black-leather jacket, black jeans, black boots. His dark, slightly curling hair has fallen forward, partially obscuring his face. Now he makes a low sound in his throat. A shiver goes through me. He says, “One—one two.” Then steps back. Suddenly his eyes snap open—

  And look directly into mine. Blue sky. The déjà vu hits a heartbeat later.

  Dee waves and the boy’s dark brows lift. Leaning once more into the mic, he says, “You made it.” But he’s still looking at me.

  He jumps off the stage and joins us by the door. The bouncer says something to him about the guest list, about numbers. I remember what Dee said: “Dee Carson plus one.”

  The boy looks at Dee, at her arm around Laurel’s waist. He looks at me. Then the bouncer.

  “No can do,” the bouncer says, holding up a hand. “Gotta stick to the count tonight. Lot of VIPs, couple pricey seat fillers. I’ve got this girl’s name.” He nods at Dee. “Plus one.”

  Thanks, Dee. But I don’t really care. I’m happy to go home and start to say so.

  The boy interrupts. “Cool.” The word has a slight Southern bend to it. “So my cousin and her girlfriend can take a seat at the band table. I’ll take care of Angel here.” He puts his arms around me and draws me up against him. My stomach drops down around my knees.

  “Sorry,” the bouncer begins. “But—”

  “But nothing,” the boy says. “Gotta have my girl with me.” I try to back out of the circle of his arms, but he tightens them around me, brings his lips to my ear. “Play along,” he whispers.

  At the same time he shifts his weight—or does something, moves somehow—so that he appears taller, even than the bouncer, who’s actually taller than him. The light nearest us slants across his eyes now, eyes that are currently fixed on the bouncer with laser intensity.

  The intensity is in direct juxtaposition to the boy’s voice, to the Southern lean of it. His voice is a rocking chair, tilting back. Come up on the porch, sit for a bit. His eyes are an endless sky. Look too long—you’ll lose yourself.

  I like the way the edges of his words are rounded, any sharp corners smoothed off by the South. I’m not so sure about the intensity.

  Apparently the bouncer likes his voice too, or maybe he’s just helpless against the battery of understated threat and Southern charm. He waves a hand and we walk in, weaving between tables, heading toward the soundboard. One of the boy’s arms is still around me, looser now, his grip matching the lazy smile he’s giving me. He points in the direction of an empty table for two.

  Laurel says, “Cate Cat, are you good with this?” But she’s grinning, eyes darting between me and the boy.

  What choice do I have? I nod.

  She waggles an eyebrow. I pretend not to notice, and Dee whisks her away.

  The boy’s arm drops from my shoulder. “Is this cool? Sorry I can’t seat you with Dee.”

  “Please. You’re doing me a favor.”

  “What’s that?” Southern sway.

  “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind standing.”

  His smile is quick now. White lightning. “Enjoy the show.” He starts to turn away, then stops. “Hey, you’re about to see me bare my soul—how about you tell me your little secret.”

  “My secret?” Reflexively, I scan the room.

  He spreads his hands out. “What’s your name, Angel?”

  He’s right—there’d been no time for introductions. But before I have a chance to say anything, someone shouts from the stage. A thin girl with an electric guitar, a muscle-bound drummer, and two horn players are already in place. Now they begin to play.

  “Oh man,” the boy breathes. He bounds over to the stage and hops up, grabbing an upright bass off a stand. Then he steps up to the mic.

  The drummer plays a languid, suggestive groove on an earthy-sounding snare, and a simple guitar line unwinds like the start of a story, possibly a bedtime story, but definitely not one for children. A keyboard player near the rear of the stage who I hadn’t noticed before plays a few sparse figures, his tone reminiscent of an organ. Finally, the bass slides in. My hips start to move.

  When the bass takes the melody from the guitar and drags it down low, I can feel the thud of it in my chest. And when the dark-haired boy arcs his body over the upright and starts singing—stage lights washing out his sky eyes, glinting off his dark hair—something deep in my belly melts a little. If the timbre of a person’s voice coincided with a time of day, the sound of his voice would be dusk. I love it.

  The girl behind the soundboard frowns in concentration, one eye on the band, the other on the board, her fingers constantly adjusting the levels. I don’t know if it’s what she’s doing or if it’s the acoustics in here, but the sound is amazing—I can practically hear the pads of my new friend’s fingers sliding on the strings, little whispery cries adding another dimension to the notes.

  Now one of the horn players takes several measured steps in time with the kick drum, approaching the dark-haired boy. He leans in— and their mouths nearly meet on the mic.

  When I hear their two voices together, an ache settles in my chest. I might just die of pleasure. The bass line pops against my sternum. I close my eyes.

  When I look next, God-I-can’t-believe-I-don’t-know-his-name is wrapped around the gleaming upright, and the band is drifting into another song, something about fortune-tellers, escaping, and a leap of faith.

  Staring at the boy, at the way he’s curled around the bass, I find myself wondering how it would feel to take its place . . .

  Then I wonder how it would feel to take his.

  AFTER PARTY

  CATE

  The band’s energy is still buzzing through me as I make my way toward Laurel and Dee.

  “So is it love?” It’s the singer. He and the drummer are working the room, handing out promo postcards, passing around a mailing list.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  He laughs, the music still in his voice. “What’d you think of the sho
w?”

  “Actually—you guys are amazing.” I watch the drummer dealing with a bunch of fangirls. Lots of kisses. Wandering hands. He’s wearing a smug expression, but hey, who cares? He’s got awesome chops. “I’ll probably have a pretty bad case of post-concert depression,” I add.

  The singer laughs again, and I kind of startle. Except for Laurel, I can’t think of the last time I made anyone laugh. I am definitely not laughing; I’m thinking of this guy’s voice, of the music. Of the band’s last song, which is still humming through my head—

  “Medicine is on its way down . . .”

  It feels like that song—all their songs—is the first thing I’ve really heard in a long time.

  I look up at the singer, but he’s looking down at his cell phone, his hair falling around his eyes—

  Like Cal’s hair. My lower lip finds its way between my teeth.

  The boy glances at me. “That’s cute,” he murmurs. “The way you bite your lip like that.” He looks back down at his phone, then slips it into a pocket. “Dee’s new school, that’s where we met and yet didn’t meet, right? Another brick-in-the-wall place out in Middleburn, where all the horsey folk live. Politicians. Hot moms. Springsteen land. I’ve spent a lot of time there, but I remember that day. You were checking me out.”

  “Pff. Right.” But I’m a beat late. He grins, running his eyes down to my toes and back up.

  And it’s that—the I-can-see-through-your-clothes once-over—that jogs my memory. Suddenly, I know why his face is so familiar. His face is famous. Not from movies or TV, but close. It’s a face made famous by marketing, by an ad campaign that ran about two years ago, I just can’t think—

  “Cologne,” he says, looking away now. “Don’t strain your brain. No one remembers the name.” He drops his voice a little—he knows the musician’s secret to being heard over a crowd: speak softly, don’t shout—and I notice the way it resonates in his chest. “Hey, at least it got me into video. Started at NYU after that gig. Film major. But, yeah, I told them, people aren’t going to remember a string of Italian words, even if those words imply that whoever buys this shit’s gonna get laid every night. They’re going to remember my face.”