Sound Bites: A Rock & Roll Love Story

by Sound Bites (epub)

  I could. I was already dreading the inevitable introductions, even though there was no reason for it because I knew my mother would like him. She liked everyone. She thought we were all “God’s children.”

  I heard my mother mumble something on the other end, and then my father’s voice came booming through the speakers.

  “So, you gonna marry this one, or what?” he demanded.

  “Dad, I think it’s a little early to make that assessment.”

  “Nonsense.” I could picture him shooing me with his hand. “You tell this boy I want grandkids, you hear? Grandkids! I ain’t getting any younger, you know.”

  “Okay,” I quickly agreed as Dylan entered the room. “I’ll get right on that.”

  I hung up the phone and set it down on the table. “My parents,” I explained. “I just broke the news.”

  “Speaking of that,” he said. “I forgot to tell you that my mom wants us to come by this weekend.”

  A slow river of panic rose through me. I was so busy worrying about whether my parents were going to like Dylan, and vice versa, that it hadn’t dawned on me to take his family into consideration.

  “Relax,” he instructed, sensing my panic. “She’ll like you. You’ve seen the other girls I’ve dated right?”

  He had a valid point. I hadn’t thought of that.

  “Sure, this weekend’s fine,” I said. “But what about your dad? Are they still together?” It suddenly occurred to me that he had never once mentioned his father. I knew he was an only child, but that was about all I knew. Dylan didn’t talk much about his family.

  He shrugged. “He died when I was pretty young. I don’t remember much about him.”

  I couldn’t believe that I’d spent the last few months with him and he’d failed to mention this. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not something I really think about often.” Dylan spoke about his father’s death like he was talking about grocery shopping.

  “Or maybe it’s something you try not to think about often.” My suggestive undertone clearly hinted at the Freudian concept I was leaning towards.

  Dylan told me his father had a stroke when he was seven, and he was raised by his mother in Plymouth, a town located on the south shore, just north of Cape Cod. I hadn’t been to Plymouth since I was fifteen, when my mother used to drop Justine and me off at the waterfront so we could roam the streets in search of ice cream and cute teenage boys.

  “Justine and I used to stalk the kid that worked at Richie’s Candy store,” I told Dylan, a bittersweet smile forming at the memory. “She swore he looked just like Kurt Cobain.”

  “Poor kid,” Dylan joked. He disappeared into the kitchen, then poked his head around the corner. “And speaking of foreign subjects, that’s the first time I’ve heard you talk about Justine without mentioning your ex in the same sentence.” He tossed me a knowing look. “Sounds like I’m not the only one who’s avoiding something.”

  ***

  Suffice it to say, boyfriend’s mothers are always a nightmare. It all started when my first high school boyfriend’s mother walked in on us mid-romp, before I’d had the pleasure of meeting her acquaintance, and family parties were always just a bit awkward afterwards. My most recent maternal horror show took place when I met David’s mother, and immediately noticed she had pictures of his ex hanging in her living room. Call me old fashioned, but isn’t it a bit impolite not to remove the ex photos when you know the new girlfriend is coming over?

  Thankfully, Terry Cavallari wasn’t anything like I had imagined. I’d already invented the preconceived notion that she was some overbearing, evil wench, plotting a slow death for the whore bedding her precious little boy. In reality, she was actually very sweet. She had brown hair with speckles of gray, thin wire-framed glasses and soft, friendly eyes that matched her smile. She asked me a lot of questions about myself, and once I answered she would reply by saying “and why is that?” I suspected this was because she wanted to make sure I could form my own opinion, unlike Dylan’s exes who could probably barely form a sentence, let alone an opinion.

  She insisted that I call her Terry, and struck me as the type of down-to-earth mom that you could tell anything to without any judgment, as opposed to my own mother who, every time I refused to do things her way, would run around the house like a spastic Chihuahua screaming and wondering why she’d failed as a parent.

  Dylan disappeared into the basement to get some things he’d left behind, and I took a seat at the kitchen table while Terry began boiling water in a silver tea kettle. She reached out and poured us each a cup of tea, then sat down across the table from me. Above her head, hanging on the kitchen wall, was a picture of Dylan and a man I assumed could only be his father. Dylan looked about six in the picture and showed a strong resemblance to the man, including the same glaring, blue eyes.

  “Why doesn’t Dylan ever mention his dad?” I asked, pointing to the picture. “I just found out last week that he had passed away. He’d never brought it up before.”

  “One thing you have to know about Dylan is that when something bothers him, he shuts it out,” Terry explained, her eyes wandering to the basement door to make sure he was still out of earshot. “I think he probably spent most of his life suppressing the memories of his father until they were non-existent. That way, if he doesn’t remember it, then it didn’t happen, therefore it doesn’t hurt.”

  Terry’s eloquent way with words made me realize where Dylan had acquired his communication skills. They both spoke in the same straight-forward manner.

  Dylan reappeared with a small guitar amplifier in one hand and a duffel bag in the other. He set them down on the floor in the living room, then joined us at the table, where Terry had made each of us homemade chicken salad sandwiches. Throughout the entire lunch, Terry dug for all the details about Electric Wreck, smiling at her son proudly. It was obvious she adored the shit out of him.

  By the time we were ready to leave, the sun had already started to set. We said goodbye to Terry and hopped into Dylan’s van to head home. But instead of heading in the direction of the highway, Dylan took a left turn and pulled into a parking lot across from the waterfront. I shot him a confused look when he turned the engine off, but he just opened the door and motioned for me to follow him. I had no idea why we were here, but I trailed behind him after he stepped out and started walking towards the water.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  I spotted a jetty in the distance that was made of giant rocks and looked like it stretched forever. When we finally reached it, Dylan hopped on top of the rocks and held out my hand to help me up.

  I was still confused. “This is where we’re going?”

  He nodded and said nothing, so I hopped up behind him and we continued to walk in silence.

  The jetty wasn’t exactly the easiest thing to walk on. Most of the rocks were big and flat so they were easy to step on, but some of them were sharp and oddly shaped and I found myself fighting to keep my balance. After a few wobbly minutes, we came to a wooden bridge that was built on top of the rocks. Dylan sat down on the edge, propped his right foot underneath his left leg and turned to face me.

  “When I was little, this was my favorite place to visit,” he explained. “Every Sunday, my dad used to take me to this bridge to go fishing. Sometimes my next door neighbor and his dad would come with us and we’d spend the whole day here. It’s funny because when I think about it now, it sounds boring as hell. I don’t think my attention span would last more than ten minutes if I tried it today.” He paused, looking out into the water. “But anyways, after my dad died, my mom would never let me come here alone, probably because she was afraid I’d lose my balance and fall in the water or hurt myself. So sometimes after she went to bed, I’d sneak out here late at night and sit on this bridge for hours because it reminded me of him. I know it sounds depressing to immerse yourself in memories of some
thing that’s long gone, but for me, it was the exact opposite.”

  I nodded, curious as to what he was getting at.

  “Anyways,” he continued. “Ever since then, this has always been my favorite spot. Anytime I needed to clear my head, I’d come here by myself and just think. I’d think about whatever I was going through and for some reason, I always felt better when I left.”

  “Wow.” I sat down beside Dylan on the bridge and nudged him jokingly. “I hate to say it, but I think you’re actually starting to open up.”

  “Yeah, well it’s not something I do too often so don’t get used to it.” He forced a smile. “But anyway, every time I go to my mom’s house, I like to come here after. Try to relive the memories before they fade away.”

  I followed his gaze out to the water, to the lighthouse in the distance that kept flashing every few seconds. But even though our eyes were focused on the same place, I knew he was seeing something different entirely.

  Chapter 18

  Entering into a relationship with someone that lives in the same apartment building can be tricky, mainly because you never know whose apartment to sleep in. Somehow, over the past few months, I had gradually moved into Dylan’s without even realizing it. I wasn’t sure how we always ended up at his place instead of mine, but I think it partly had to do with the fact that all his music equipment was there. He occasionally played new songs for me that he’d been working on, so it would have been too much of a hassle to lug his guitar junk down to my place.

  It seemed silly that I still had my own apartment because I was hardly ever in it. I was pissing away money every month for a near-vacant apartment, yet I was too much of a wimp to mention the scary idea of cohabitation to Dylan. The last thing I wanted was to freak him out by rushing things. I elected to causally mention the fact that my lease was going to be up in a few months and gauge what kind of reaction I got.

  Electric Wreck had provided such a good crowd at Chaos that word of mouth had landed them another weekly gig at Crossroads, a bar in South Boston that was always looking for new talent. I hadn’t been there in about four years, and all I remembered was that the walls were covered with bright cartoon paintings and the low ceilings made it feel like you were at a high school party in someone’s basement.

  Dylan was psyched about the gig. He wasn’t your typical everyday aspiring musician. He didn’t dream of becoming the next Steven Tyler or Mick Jagger. Hell, he didn’t even dream about landing a record deal. All the kid wanted was to land a few steady gigs so that he could earn enough money to quit his full time construction job. He had simple, realistic goals and I loved him for that. His philosophy was not to aim too high so that you didn’t set yourself up for disappointment, and that if success did happen, you’d appreciate more if you didn’t expect it.

  When Dylan’s debut at Crossroads arrived, I felt like I’d been run over by a truck. Between all the interviewing and resume writing, combined with Elaine’s daily pseudo-spastic freakouts, I’d just about had it. All I wanted at the end of the day was to throw on my favorite yoga pants and crawl into bed with a bucket of ice cream.

  Dylan looked as though I’d murdered his dog when I told him I was going to skip the show.

  “You’re really not going to come?” he whined. “But it’s our first show there.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m really sorry. I’m just so exhausted. If you want, I can spend the night at my place since I haven’t exactly been giving you much space lately.”

  Dylan did this weird thing with his eyebrows every time he thought I said something bizarre. He would raise his right eyebrow, lower his left one and flare his nostrils. I tried to mimic it once but I ended up looking strangely like Sandra Bernhart.

  “Are you nuts?” he asked, leaping onto to the couch to sit beside me. He leaned in towards me so that our foreheads were touching and put his hands on top of my thighs. “I want you right here when I get home. Got it?”

  I nodded and kissed him. “Got it.”

  As Dylan was running around the apartment getting ready, the cunning little wheels in my head started spinning, thinking of my empty apartment downstairs.

  When in doubt, play dumb.

  “Hey,” I called to him. “I have a question.”

  He appeared a moment later with his guitar in one hand and his case in the other. “What’s up?”

  “What happens when my lease is up?” I batted my eyelashes and tried to look naïve and perplexed. “I mean, do I have to renew it for another year or does it just go month to month?”

  “Month to month,” he answered, zipping up his guitar case. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I was just wondering since mine is up in a few months.”

  “Oh, okay. Yeah, I think some places just want to make sure that they get a guaranteed monthly check for at least a year. After that, they don’t care.”

  I sighed in disappointment when Dylan disappeared into the other room, completely unaware of my ulterior motive. I debated whether I should start spending more time at my own place so that way he’d miss me and realize that he never wanted to be without me.

  Once Dylan was dressed and ready to go, he sat next to me on the couch again to say goodbye.

  “You’re really not going to come?” he asked, knowing all too well what the answer was. I was in sweats and a T-shirt. I wasn’t going anywhere outside of five feet from where I was sitting.

  I shook my head, motioning towards my attire.

  “I’m going to miss you,” he whispered in my ear.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of girls to keep you company.”

  He grinned and planted a big kiss on my forehead. “The only girl I want is right here.”

  I peered at him suspiciously, well aware that the only reason he was being extra nice was because he wanted me to change my mind and follow him out the door. “You sure you don’t want me to stay at my place tonight? What if you want to bring the guys back here and have a few beers later or something?”

  He gave me the eyebrow look again, but this time he seemed annoyed. “Are you mad at me or something? Or are you planning on having some guy over your place later?”

  I burst out laughing. “Um, no. I’m just trying to give you a little space in case you miss having time to yourself, that’s all.”

  “Do you miss having time to yourself?”

  “No.” It was true. Every second spent without Dylan felt like my soul was dying.

  Dylan climbed on top of me and I moaned in pain. For such a skinny guy, he was pretty heavy. “Listen to me,” he instructed. “I want to come home later and crawl into that bed with my girl.” He pointed to the direction of his bedroom. “And when I wake up, I want to have a few rounds of kick-ass morning sex. Understood?”

  I grinned and nodded in agreement.

  Before he was about to walk out the door, he lingered in the doorway for a minute, scratching his temple.

  “Hey,” he said. “What do you say, when your lease is up, that we both dump this joint and actually look for someplace, I don’t know, nice to live? Between the two of us, I think we could probably afford a classier place than this dump. What do you think?”

  I leapt up from the couch and ran over to him.

  “You really want to?” I asked.

  “Do you?”

  “Well… that’s sort of what I was getting at earlier,” I whispered, my eyes dropping to the floor.

  “Yeah, I know,” he whispered back, smirking like the little shit that he was.

  Transparency. No matter how hard you try to hide it, your true motives always shine through.

  ***

  “What do you think of Quincy?”

  Since my lease was almost up and my last month of rent was already paid for, Dylan and I decided to start looking for apartments. My preference was to move somewhere that wasn’t too far from the city but wasn’t too close either. I hated living in the city. It was nice during the two months of warm weather that graced us eac
h year, but other than that it was miserable. Anytime I wanted to drive somewhere, not only did I get lost because of all the damn one-way streets, but there was never anywhere to park, which meant that I had to park a million miles away and truck my ass through the freezing cold. And the traffic was atrocious. The city was congested with a bunch of ignorant asses in a big rush to go nowhere. There was always the subway, but I hated the smelly, claustrophobic environment of the train even more that I hated sitting in traffic.

  I decided that Quincy was ideal, being that it was located directly next to south Boston, so it was close enough to the south shore that we could avoid the massive amount of city traffic, but also close enough to the city that I could drive in or take the train if necessary. I would’ve loved nothing more than to buy an adorable little ranch down the street from Dylan’s mother in Plymouth, but I didn’t want to be commuting an hour to work every day.

  When I proposed the idea to Dylan, he shrugged casually, as if I was asking him to go to the movies rather than pick a place to live. He was sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on a piece of toast and browsing the classified ads for apartments. Even though he had bed head and was wearing a wife beater and navy sweats, he still looked adorably sexy.

  I was sitting on the other end of the table, propped up in front of my laptop, browsing the online classifieds. In my opinion, the web was a better resource, even though it was more time consuming because there were so many options. But most of the listings came with pictures, so in the long run it was less time consuming because you didn’t waste time traveling from apartment to apartment, only to find out they were shit holes. I explained my theory to Dylan but he was old-fashioned and believed in using the newspaper instead. I knew the real reason was because he was computer illiterate and wouldn’t know how to navigate around a Mac if his life depended on it.

  “Do you really like Quincy or are you just saying that?” I asked.

  Dylan held up his index finger and finished swallowing his toast. He looked alarmed by my question. “Quincy is fine. Why would I mind Quincy?”