by Quinn Nolan
After they leave, I can’t relax. The boat suddenly feels too small.
I need a beer.
In the house, the refrigerator is stocked. Before I arrived, Somer gave the landlord a list of things I wanted on hand. As I scan the selection of bottles on the bottom shelf, it strikes me for the first time that it must’ve been Ashlyn who did the shopping. I wasn’t specific about the beer—my instructions were something like “no weak-ass pussy beers, local stuff is cool.” It’s the kind of thing I said all the time when we were on tour and somehow, Somer and his army of minions kept suitable beers in the fridge on the tour bus.
I’ve had some beers since I’ve been here, but mostly I just grabbed the first thing my fingers grazed. Now, I crouch down, inspecting the labels. There are a dozen six-packs jammed onto the shelf, and I move them around, reading each one. Mayan Mocha, Vanilla Java Porter, Breakfast Stout.
Yeah, definitely Ashlyn’s choices.
I grab a bottle of Mayan Mocha and pop the top with the bottle-opener magnet on the side of the refrigerator before heading to the couch. After a quick scan of the room, I locate the remote for the TV and flip it on as I collapse onto the couch. Maybe there’s something on, or maybe I can rent something. I can’t remember the last movie I saw, so everything will be new to me. But as I scroll through the channels, I’m not really paying attention to the titles or descriptions.
I wonder what they’re doing now—Ashlyn and Graham. Are they staring at each other over the table at some chintzy restaurant? Is Graham weaving a story about what life will be like once he’s hit the big time? Does Ashlyn believe him, or can she see through his crap? And what do I care, really? So what if she’s taken in by his lies? It’s her life, I’m just passing through it.
Then why does it make my blood boil to think she might be falling for him?
The beer is good—a lot like Ashlyn’s favorite at the brewpub. It’s so good, I grab a second as soon as the first is gone. I hesitate as I pop the cap. Maybe I should find the nearest liquor store and buy a different selection—something that doesn’t make me think of her with every sip.
I need a distraction. I need to be reminded why I’m here. I just need to write some tunes for the next album—songs the label will go for. I sent out the ones I played for Ashlyn. So what if she thought they were derivative? It’s not like I’m trying to imitate another band—I just want the songs to sound like Toxicity. Or, the label does, at least. And if it’s what the label wants, it’s what I’ll do my damnedest to give them.
I head for the couch again but veer left, going instead down the hall to my bedroom. I grab my phone off the dresser, unlocking the screen and tapping the e-mail icon as I move back to the living room. I’m no lightweight, but the combination of water and sunshine with the high-gravity beer has got me off-kilter already. The edges of my vision tilt and sway—just enough to notice—and I’m relieved when I sprawl onto the couch.
I sent the songs late last night and haven’t bothered to check that they were received. My e-mail pops open and the only new message is from Somer, verifying he got the files and telling me he’ll let me know once the execs have had a listen. When I close the e-mail app, I notice I have a new text message. It’s from Chase and it’s short and to the point, much like the man himself: Heard you got some songs in to Somer. They better not suck.
My lips pull back from my teeth—probably more grimace than grin. I wonder what he and the rest of the guys are doing with me on hiatus. I didn’t bother to ask before I left. Besides Chase, I don’t really get along with anyone else in the band. The drummer, Logan Willis, keeps to himself, and any time he says something, he’s a douche. And the bassist, Tristan Cole, is a conceited ass who thinks he’s better than me. Though I’d never admit it to anyone, he probably is better technically at guitar, but he’s not a better all-around musician. He can’t create, only emulate.
We just finished up a tour and were supposed to head straight to the studio for recording, but the songs never gelled. Somer kept convincing the label that I’d have something to record—mostly because I was telling Somer the same thing. When none of the songs I wrote had the right feel for the new record, the label wanted to bring in outside writers, but I fought tooth-and-nail to keep that from happening. I always swore if I ever made it, I’d write my own stuff. Playing someone else’s music night after night would make me feel like a fraud.
So, instead of being in the studio recording, the band is on an unscheduled break. While I’ve been given four weeks to write, those weeks aren’t guaranteed time off—if I hit gold and am done early, we’re going right into recording. Last time I talked to Chase, he said he was just planning on bumming around L.A., not wanting to be pulled away from a good time if he went on vacation somewhere.
Not for the first time, guilt bubbles up in me at the thought of Chase, Logan, and Tristan hanging in limbo while waiting for me to come through with the music.
Before the thought has fully formed, I’ve tapped the phone icon and selected Chase’s name. I could just text him, but it’ll be nice to hear his voice. Maybe he’ll take a listen to the new tunes and let me know what he thinks. Strictly speaking, it doesn’t matter if he likes them or not—it’s all about the dudes with the money—but it’d be nice to hear some encouragement. After Ashlyn’s critique, I’ve kind of lost my confidence about them. I thought they were what the label wants, but what if I’m completely missing the mark again? How many more tries will they give me before they bring in outside writers over my objections?
The phone rings once, twice. I do the math quickly in my head—if it’s six thirty here, it’s three thirty there. Yeah, even if he was up till one or two last night, he should be up by now. Ring three. Four.
“Hey.” Chase’s low voice comes over the line just as I’m about to hang up.
“Hey,” I return, something like relief filling me. “What’s up, man?”
“Not too much.” There’s a shuffling in the background and a distant rumble of voices. “You calling to apologize for how bad your songs suck?”
Though the light tone of his voice tells me he’s kidding, my chest still constricts at the words. “Naw. I actually think these hit the nail on the head.” I inject a confidence I don’t feel into my words, hoping what I’m saying is true. “In fact—if you’ve got a couple minutes, I could—”
Chase hollers something incoherent—he must be covering the microphone with his hand. There’s a muffled bang and the murmur of voices. “Sorry about that—what were you saying?”
But the sounds in the background don’t dissipate. “You having a party or something?”
“No—I mean, I just have a couple people over. Logan and Tristan are here with some girls—we’re all gonna do some swimming, maybe grill some food or something.”
“Yeah?” I try not to sound a surprised as I feel. Chase is on better terms with Logan and Tristan than I am—mostly because he’s way more easy-going—but I can’t imagine the three of them hanging out socially. Especially not at Chase’s house. It’s like his baby—it’s the only thing he’s anal about. I was over there once and he got pissed because my shoes were wet. It’s the most worked up I’ve ever seen him. He went on and on about not respecting him or his stuff, about being self-centered and an asshole. He apologized afterward, said he’d gone too far and it really wasn’t that big a deal, but still. I can’t see him willingly having a group of people over there. Too much potential mayhem.
Music starts up, along with shouts of appreciation. It sounds like there are more people than Chase let on. Is this some kind of party?
“Look, Ever—I gotta let you go. I’ll talk to you later, though.”
“Yeah, sure.” Disappointment bubbles in my chest. In addition to really wanting to talk with him, I can’t remember the whole band ever hanging out socially for something that wasn’t for publicity. If I were still home, would I have been invited over to hang out with everyone? “Talk with you—”
The call
ends before I finish.
Chapter Twelve
Ashlyn
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “You are an intelligent woman. A grown woman. You can love someone without having to agree with everything they say.”
It’s one o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and it’s already uncomfortably warm in my car. It’s not so bad while the air conditioner is running, but my car’s been off now for a few minutes and the cracked windows aren’t catching the pitiful breeze. I should just get out of the car and go into the restaurant—being late will only add one more thing to her list of offenses I’ve perpetrated. Today’s lunch should be easy, actually. When she asks me if I’m seeing anyone—as she does every time we’re together, usually waiting until there’s a waiter or waitress nearby—I’ll be able to tell her yes. I’m seeing a guy who seems interested in spending time with me. When he kissed me at the garage door last night, he asked when we could see each other again. He’s attractive, talented, driven.
Then why can’t I get out of the car?
My phone chimes and I pick it up, even though I already know who sent the text message. It’s her: I’m here. Sitting in the usual spot.
I flip up the visor, my reflection disappearing. I take in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. No more stalling. If she sends another text before I arrive, I won’t hear the end of it for the rest of the afternoon.
As I walk toward the restaurant, I smooth my skirt and tug at the hem of my blouse. It’s one of my old teaching outfits—certainly not something I would choose to wear ordinarily. Reagan is forever asking why I still have those clothes taking up precious real estate in my makeshift closet.
Sundays are the reason.
My hand brushes the cool brass of the door handle and I pause, taking in a deep breath. I can do this.
I pass through the small foyer between doors and smile politely at the hostess positioned at the podium to my left. A flicker of recognition crosses her face—she knows me. Of course she does. Even though the topic of picking a different venue for our weekly lunches comes up at least once a month, we always end up here, at the same Mexican restaurant, every Sunday.
I veer to the left and find her just where she said she’d be, at the booth she insists we sit at week after week, convinced it’s the only place in the whole restaurant without too much sun nor too much shade and without a draft from the overhead vents. Her back is to me and I hitch on my brightest smile as I slide onto the bench opposite hers.
“Hi, Mom.”
My mother’s lips are pursed with irritation. She waits until I’m completely seated, my hands folded on the edge of the table, before smiling. It’s not that she’s actually pleased to see me, or that her attitude has changed now that I’m here: Mom always tells me how important it is to behave appropriately for the situation, no matter how you’re feeling inside. If you’re upset, that’s fine—just don’t let anyone see. Be upset when you’re alone. There’s no use inconveniencing everyone around you.
Still, she always lets me know just how she’s feeling—presumably so I can see how well she can cover things up. Hoping I’ll take her cue and be more like her.
She’s always hoping I’ll be more like her. I tried for a long time—but it didn’t work out so well for me.
“Ashlyn, you’re looking...” She tilts her head to the side. “Didn’t you wear that last week?”
Panic flares, heat rising in my cheeks. But no—I made sure before I left. I wore the purple blouse and gray slacks last week. It was overcast, so I didn’t wear a skirt. This week I’m wearing the top she got me for Christmas. I open my mouth to tell her this, but she talks over me.
“Maybe not. I suppose I’ve just seen all your outfits so many times they all blur together in my mind. You should really go shopping and get yourself some new clothes. If you wear the same things month after month, year after year, people will think you’re poor. There are some wonderful sales at Kohl’s, and I’ve got a coupon. If you’ll just let me take you shopping—”
“No.” The word comes out louder than I anticipate and I exhale, dipping my head apologetically. “No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but like I’ve said before, I’ve already got plenty of work clothes, and my other stuff’s just for relaxing—”
“Well at least let me buy you a new outfit to interview in. Sheila—from work—her daughter Daisy works at an elementary school.”
My stomach sinks. I have a feeling I know where this is going, and I’m powerless to stop it. “Um hm?”
“I’m sure I’ve mentioned her.” Mom waves her hand as if by doing so she can conjure the recollection. “But Sheila said apparently they’re doing some hiring and I thought that if you gave your name to Daisy, she could talk with her principal and...”
I close my eyes, covering my face with my hands. “Mom.”
“Because, as they say, it’s not what you know, it’s who you—”
“Mom.” When she falls silent, I continue. “In addition to the fact that I’m not certified to teach in an elementary school—”
“Well, I just thought—”
I cut over her words. “I’ve already told you, I tried teaching. For two years. It’s not for me.”
She tilts her head to the side before shaking it, dismissing the idea. “You just had a bad year. I read that the first three years are the hardest. You’ll see. When you get back into it, things will be better.”
I open my mouth, planning to explain, yet again, that my leaving teaching isn’t a temporary hiatus, but the waitress appears at the table, cutting me short. The waitress, a cute blonde probably around my age, introduces herself and lists off the day’s specials—one of which is a special on margaritas. As soon as she’s done speaking, I order one. My mom orders water with lemon, her eyes fixed on my face.
I know what’s coming, and she starts in before the waitress is even out of earshot. “Really, Ashlyn. I thought I raised you better than that. Drinking at barely noon? On a Sunday?”
I don’t always order an alcoholic drink when we’re out—actually, I usually avoid them for exactly this reason. It’s only in the last year I’ve started drinking at all. At first, I tried to keep it from her, but Reagan convinced me it was a bad idea. As part of my new life, the one where I do things that make me happy rather than to make her happy, I needed to be firm and express the things I enjoy. Also, I think Reagan secretly hopes one day I’ll make my mom’s head explode. “It’s after one,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. “And I’m having one margarita with my lunch at a Mexican restaurant—it’s not like I’m doing shots.”
“I suppose you would see the distinction,” she mutters, unfurling her napkin and causing her silverware to clink onto the table.
I almost tell her that the brewpub doesn’t serve shots, just beer, but I know the words will fall on deaf ears.
To say my mother was horrified when I told her that, not only was I quitting my teaching job, I was taking a job as a bartender, would be an understatement. She literally fell back on the couch cushions, fanning herself, claiming she felt faint. She couldn’t bring herself to talk to me for weeks. When she did, she asked if I needed to go into drug counseling or if I needed to be tested for venereal disease—because apparently, in her mind, “bartender” is code for “coke-head whore.”
Instead, I turn the conversation to safe territory—something my mom likes talking about. She’s always involved in planning one event or another for a community organization, and I rack my brain for the latest one. “How did the fundraiser at the library go?”
Mom’s face softens and she launches into a long, detailed account of all the planning she had to do to pull it off. I nod when appropriate and add the appropriate tsks when she tells me how one of the other organizers didn’t come through with her part of the preparation. She pauses only when our waitress returns with our drinks and to take our orders, and she’s so consumed by her tale that she doesn’t bat an eye when I take a few sips of margarita.
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br /> By the time our food arrives, she’s done with her story. She sucks her teeth when the server sets my plate in front of me, the way she does every week. “Really, Ashlyn. When are you going to start watching what you eat? One day, all that greasy food will catch up with you and you’ll put on twenty pounds”—she snaps—“just like that. In fact, I can’t help noticing that blouse is a little snug...”
I press my lips together. I weigh exactly what I did last week, and the week before, and the week before that. While it’s true I don’t have a six-pack, or even a completely flat stomach, I’m not terribly overweight. And I know from experience if I were to lose any weight—like I did my last semester at college—she’d just worry that I was becoming anorexic and insist I eat more. As with so many things when it comes to my mother, it’s a no-win situation. Instead of engaging, I pick up my fork and knife and cut into the avocado cheese crisp in front of me. If I’m honest, it’s probably one of the most fattening things I could choose, but I can’t help it. It’s too delicious.
My mom, on the other hand, spears a piece of fish from her salad.
I’ve seen pictures of my mom when she was my age. She’s always been fuller in the middle than I am, not to mention several inches shorter. Her body has softened with age, giving her a generous spread around the hips, but even still, I never have thought of her as fat.
She takes delicate bites of food, waiting until I’ve shoved my mouth full of cheese, avocado, and bacon before continuing. “You know, sweetheart, I’m just being practical. You’re not getting any younger. Don’t you want to find a nice young man to settle down with? You’ve got to keep your best foot forward. You never know when you’ll meet someone—”
I struggle to swallow. It’s the opening I’ve been waiting for. Without fail, at some point during our lunches, Mom always brings up my lack of romantic attachment. Now, for the first time in years, I have news on that front. “Actually,” I say, eyes watering as the lump of food makes its way down my throat, “I have met someone.”