Vibrato

by Tamara Mataya

  “I wish I didn’t have to say goodbye to you, Cello Chick.”

  You don’t. But I keep my mouth shut. I nod and let him unwind my arms from my legs, and wrap them around his neck instead, needing to replace the sting of emotional rejection with something physical. This is really goodbye and I want to wring every last moment I can from this to make sexy memories that will sustain me for the next five years.

  Blaine said we can have flings with other people as long as we’re discreet, but I know I won’t. I’m not built that way—and it’s too dangerous. And pointless. Why start something I’d have to wait five years to finish?

  I trace every ridge in his spine, every corded muscle in his arms, while he nibbles my neck, sucking deeply, sharp edges of pain tinging the pleasure into something perfect.

  I pull his hair, provoking him into giving me more of that roughness.

  I don’t want to remember his sweetness or his care. I want to remember the way he pounded into me, the fierceness of his body and soul. The way his music is exactly the same, all passion and fury and unrestrained ego, but he does everything so well, he’s allowed to smirk.

  I could be his groupie, but I’m his equal. We’re different shapes cut from the same cloth, and being less than that would crush my spirit.

  I need more and he’s not able to give it.

  I can only take what he offers, but when he doesn’t even offer me his heart, the only thing I can take is Blaine’s offer—the one I already agreed to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  In the candlelight, Blaine’s cashmere sweater is the same shade of Dylan’s eyes. My heart squeezes, and I take a deep sip of wine and focus on my plate until I can breathe again.

  Three weeks later and the pain of our last goodbye still hasn’t faded, echoing inside the emptiness inside my chest like it’s a hollow cavern. If he’d only said he loved me... But he didn’t, I remind myself. This is my life now and I have to get used to it.

  “How is the duck?” Blaine takes another bite of his beef wellington.

  “Fine, thanks.” I put another bite in my mouth, barely tasting the dish he ordered for me. I hate duck, but what does it matter now? The flavor’s gone out of my life. Everything has faded to background noise with nothing to focus on.

  These show dates are the worst. We get dressed up and go to the fanciest, hippest places to be seen together. While I doubt anyone’s actually paying attention to us, Blaine’s convinced we’re under the microscope, so every motion is painstakingly choreographed to make it look like we’re a young couple in love having a great time.

  It’s tough to fake something like that when I’ve forgotten how to smile.

  I’m drowning in hatred for this new, exhausting life, but I’m too numb to care or try to fight for my next breath, so I let myself be carried along in Blaine’s wake, doing what he says because it’s easier.

  The only things that make me feel alive are when I’m playing music or listening to Fallen Angels. But hearing Dylan’s voice sends shards of pain like glass straight to my heart, and that’s not what I want to feel, so most days I’m happier to be numb in silence.

  But in the cold hours of the night when I remember the warmth of his body beside me, below me, inside me, I give in and gorge on his music, aching to feel one scrap of connection to the man who let me walk away.

  Blaine leans closer. “Are you feeling all right?”

  I nod. “Just tired.”

  “I imagine it will be worse, once we start...you know.”

  IVF. Blaine decided it would look more authentic if I get pregnant before we get married. It reflects better on him if he knocked me up and then ‘does the right thing’ by marrying me. It also will look better when we part ways. He’s agreed to wait until mid-season for the procedure, at least that way I’ll have time to finish one season and establish myself before the baby comes.

  Even with full time nannies, it will be another year before I can rejoin the orchestra.

  I swallow more wine, drenching the panicky feeling in my gut.

  “Porter!” Blaine warns me with his eyes while shining a smile at Porter Lofthouse, ambling toward our table. “What a pleasant surprise. Care to join us?”

  Porter shakes Blaine’s proffered hand and shakes his head. “I’m here for a meeting with a grants guy. All goes well, we’ll be able to upgrade the lighting. How are you?”

  “We’re fine, just enjoying a nice meal.”

  Porter looks at my plate. “How’s the duck? I always mean to try it, then end up going for the New York Strip instead.”

  “It’s perfect,” Blaine answers for me.

  “Oh, looks like that’s my guy over there. Have a good night, you two.” Porter saunters off toward the bar.

  Blaine’s already rigid posture gets more severe.

  The way they ignored me drives spikes of annoyance right through my temples. Father did the same thing, parading me around at his events, but God forbid anyone actually speak to me, or listen to my opinion on anything.

  “Can we skip dessert? I’ve got a headache coming on.” I massage my temples for effect, though a headache is appearing, strong and fast.

  “Sure.” He leans closer. “It will make it look like we were eager to get home.” He motions for the check and I finish my wine.

  Blaine’s hand dips inappropriately close to my ass as we pass Porter on the way out.

  Porter winks at Blaine, enjoying the show.

  I seethe.

  The valet brings Blaine’s Range Rover around, and he opens my door, waiting until I’m nestled in the seat to shut it for me.

  This whole thing is making me feel less and less like a capable adult. He chooses what I wear, what I eat, where we go, and it’s all for show, not because he actually cares.

  I turn on the radio, punching the pre-set buttons—only classical stations—so I fiddle with the dial, wading through static until a rock song comes on. The crunchy tones of the guitars cut through my numbness a little, and I bob to the bass line. The unfamiliar singer weaves through the rhythm guitar, making an interesting counterpoint that—

  “How can you listen to this noise?” Blaine kills the radio, buckles up, and pulls the vehicle away from the curb.

  “Some of it’s pretty interesting, if you’d give it a chance.”

  He derisively snorts. “You could hand a five-year-old a guitar and they’d accidentally play something as ‘complicated’ as that. It’s like those paintings made by elephants—tuck the tools in their hands and something’s bound to come out that’s salvageable in the studio.”

  The city lights go by, a blur in my window. Was I that snobby once? Will I become that way again if I stay in this world with Blaine?

  Numbness creeps over me once more like a blanket, and I welcome it.

  It isn’t until we pass the gates to his community that I realize he’s not dropping me off at home.

  I sit up and turn his way. “Why are we at your house?”

  He pulls into the driveway and shuts the engine off. “I think you should come inside.”

  “Can we do this another night? I’m really tired and just want to go home.”

  He actually looks sincere. “I’m aware this is tough on you. I can be demanding, but it’s going to benefit us both, you know. Your career will skyrocket.”

  “I know.” My voice comes out with an edge. “Sorry, I really only wanted to go home to bed.”

  He removes the keys from the ignition. “I hate the posturing too, but we’re supposed to be young and in love and out on the town. On the other hand, if we’re going to spend the next five years pretending to be in love, it’s probably a good idea for us to actually get to know each other for real. Spend some time together really talking.”

  I nod because he has a point. It is a good idea to get to know my husband and soon-to-be father of my child.

  “Outside the orchestra, I’m not a horrible guy.” He smiles, and there’s warmth in his eyes, transforming his features into
something pleasant. Maybe I can do this. If this is the man he is when he’s outside work, maybe this won’t be so bad.

  I follow him inside his house.

  I’ve been here before, briefly. Chrome, marble, glass. Tasteful, modern, no personality. It could have been decorated by anyone for anyone whose income was above half a million per year. This is where we’re going to live while married, he said. Probably sooner, since we’ll have no reason not to live together, now that everyone knows about us—and in a few months I’ll be pregnant. I’ll get rid of my little house and move in here.

  It looks more like a museum than a home.

  Blaine shows me to the living room while he goes through to the kitchen to make us drinks. Wanting something for background noise for this odd experience, I find the remote and turn the television on, flicking through the channels to find something appropriate. Not that there’s bound to be anything right for a ‘getting to know my fake husband’ conversation.

  “...on all the things I didn’t say,” Dylan croons into the microphone, singing straight at the camera. “Words I never said, sent you away.”

  My finger stalls on the button. I should turn the television off, hit mute, run from the room, but the words he’s singing aren’t from any Fallen Angels song I know and I need to hear them. Only the band ends the verse with a C Sharp Minor chord, and it’s over, and they’re walking over to sit in tall stools in front of a crowd of screaming fans. A blond host claps along with the crowd, light blue cue cards in her hand. I missed the song.

  My heart pounds as I soak in the sight of Dylan’s eyes and scruffy hair as the host shakes their hands and I hate her because she’s touching him, breathing the same air as him, standing close enough to smell his cologne.

  “Welcome back, we’re here with Fallen Angels, arguably America’s favorite band right now, and some of the world’s hottest musicians, am I right?” She looks to the audience who fill the room with their appreciative screams.

  Two words on the bottom of the screen capture my attention.

  Previously recorded.

  How long ago was this recorded? Before my last visit? After? Dylan’s in a dark grey tank top, dark jeans. He’s scruffy—looks like it’s been two weeks since he last shaved and his eyes are haunted—or is that my imagination?

  Blaine walks into the living room and holds out a glass. “Here’s your water. Are you sure you don’t want sparkling water instead of flat?”

  I take it from him. “I’m sure.” Shut up!

  “Wine maybe?”

  “This is fine.” Dylan’s just said something that made the audience swoon, but I’ve missed it because of Blaine’s annoying voice.

  Blaine sits at the opposite end of the couch and swirls his wine in his glass. “I prefer red wine to white, myself, but too many people act like sommeliers these days. The guy at the store who sold this to me...”

  Does he ever shut up? I nod at him, but my ears strain to hear Dylan’s voice over Blaine’s babbling.

  He grabs the remote and changes the channel.

  No! “Put that back, I was watching that.” My hand twitches, but I keep it at my side instead of snatching the remote back and turning it back to Dylan like I desperately want to.

  Blaine rolls his eyes. “Seriously? More of this rock drivel? I wasn’t aware you slum it musically. I mean, I like a few pop songs, but reality show rock bands?” He seems more interested than anything else, but he doesn’t change the show back.

  Frustration and tension tie my shoulders in knots. “Yes. I do. I used to be a terrible music snob, hearing only discordant sloppiness until I heard the right band. Music isn’t only about who can play the most complicated riffs the fastest. It’s about what songs can make you feel. It’s about discovering a musician who opens your mind and your soul to new things you weren’t aware of and makes you feel like they’re your own.”

  “A tad dramatic, but you’ve piqued my interest.” He changes the channel back and the camera’s zoomed in on the host once more.

  “If you’re just tuning in, we’re back, live with Fallen Angels, who gave us a sneak peek of a new, previously unreleased song they’re working hard on. Wasn’t it amazing?” The audience goes nuts and I hate that I missed all but the end of it.

  Blaine sniffs. “Is this one of those mangy musicians who taught you about Feelings? He probably wouldn’t know a pentatonic scale if it bit him on the ass. I don’t know how you can take them seriously when they know nothing about what they’re doing. Do pop stars even know the basics of theory? It’s like they’re lucking into anything interesting they do.”

  “Theory isn’t everything, and he knows music.”

  “Right.” He rolls his eyes, then notices my tension. “Wait, do you have a crush on this guy? You do! That is so pedestrian, Rachel, falling for a rock star. Do you have a poster of him in your bedroom as well?”

  My blush says it all. Blaine laughs and turns the volume up. I don’t care that he’s doing it to torture me, because now I can hear Dylan clearly.

  They’ve cut to a short film of Dylan playing a snippet on his guitar—the one I played in his hotel room. It’s the same song I heard the end of, judging by the mournful notes fading from his guitar and I shiver when I recognize it. It’s got the same progression as the song we made together.

  The show cuts back to the studio, where the host makes a slow show of crossing and re-crossing her long legs and I hate her for trying to dazzle Dylan. He didn’t look at her legs, which makes me feel slightly better.

  She flips to the next cue card, then focuses on Dylan again even though there are other band members. “This new song is a little more personal, am I right?”

  Dylan shrugs. “All of our songs integrate parts of our lives into them. I think regret is something universal. Who hasn’t made a decision they wish they hadn’t, or said something they wish they could take back.”

  The host leans toward him like a flower angling itself to the sun. “Why is that a topic you’re interested in, specifically? There are other things that are universal as well, as you said. This song seems more personal. Why regret instead of another theme?”

  Every cell in my body perks up, waiting for his answer as he fidgets in his seat, foot making his knee bounce up and down agitatedly. He runs his hand through his hair and sighs as the camera zooms in to him. “Like I said, regret’s something we can all relate to. It can bring us to our knees, haunt our days and nights. Regret’s like this dark cloak that people wear so close to their skin, they feel it every minute. Feel it shift when they move, it’s there when they’re still. It’s more than a cloak. I guess it’s not like clothing; it’s a part of you. It’s skin, sensitive, damaged skin, like a burn—something harder to shed or hide. Hard to get rid of no matter how they try, and even if they try to hide it underneath their clothes, it’s always there, searing your body and soul.”

  “Wow. So what would your advice be to our viewers about regrets?”

  “Avoid doing things that will create them—because that’s easier than remedying them after the fact.” He stares at the camera and I can’t breathe. “Some things you can’t take back. The wrong job, the wrong partner. Passing up an opportunity to get away from it all with someone who’s perfect for you. With someone who knows your soul and would give you his world if you’d just say yes...”

  Is he talking about me? My skin prickles. He is, I know he is.

  He continues, “You might think a decision you make is a means to an end. Maybe it even gets you what you think you want. But those easy decisions have consequences. They’re not throwaway things you’ll be able to live with.”

  Blaine snorts. “This guy’s pretty preachy. Is he angling for a talk show? He should stick to singing his auto-tuned three-chord progression songs.”

  I take a gulp of my water, wishing I’d accepted a wine instead. “You’re right, I don’t want to hear this. You can change it if you want.”

  Blaine pulls up the guide, which, unfortuna
tely only shrinks the picture of Dylan and the band, keeping the sound painfully clear when the interviewer says, “That sounds like good advice. Do you avoid regrets in your life?”

  Dylan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, scrubs his hands down his stubble—and I see a flash of familiar fabric, wound around his wrist.

  My scarf. The scarf. I’d lost it in his hotel room that night...but he’d kept it the whole time?

  Dylan slumps in his chair. “No. I’m carrying the biggest of regrets at the moment. For a woman. For the woman. I offered to take care of her. I offered her my lifestyle, thinking that’s what she’d want to hear. I tried to impress her by sharing the fantasy instead of the beautiful reality we created when we were together.”

  The girls in the audience sigh, eyes wet with tears.

  Mine are too, but I can’t even move to blink them away, scared he’ll stop talking.

  Dylan looks at the camera. “I offered her all these things trying to sweep her off her feet, to try and get more time with her. Things aren’t important to her and I know they’re not. But I somehow didn’t mention that I loved her. I’m an idiot. I love her and I let her walk away, and that’s the regret biting at me like I’ve been dipped in acid. That’s why I wrote the song for her.”

  Blaine changes the channel, breaking the spell, enabling me to finally find my voice. “You know what? I can’t do this.”

  Blaine sets his wine glass down. “That’s fine, I can call you a cab if you’re not up to it.”

  With shaking hands I set the water on the table. “No. I don’t mean this night. I mean the whole thing. The marriage. I’ll regret it in the future if I made the wrong decision, but I regret it today. It’s over.”

  Blaine’s face darkens, but his voice is calm. “You can’t do that. We have an agreement.”

  “An agreement to have a child neither of us wants. What the hell are we doing?”

  “You don’t have a choice.”