Come Undone

by AJ Matthews

  Make eye contact. Make eye contact.

  “Excuse … excuse me.” My gaze drifts from her face to the wood beams crisscrossing the ceiling of the restaurant. I stuff my hands in my pockets and fidget with the fabric lining and picks to calm myself. I snap my eyes back down to Teresa. She smiles, a positive sign, which gives me a little more confidence. I continue. “You were great. Heart was perfect for your voice. I-I’m up next. I’m traveling, and I don’t have my guitar. Do you mind if borrow yours for a few minutes? I promise not to mess it up. I’ve been playing forever.”

  The last words come out in a rushed hush, and Teresa laughs, her round cheeks dimpling with a large smile. “Sure thing. Always happy to help a fellow musician.”

  She reaches behind her chair and pulls out her case, unlatching it and handing me the instrument. It’s nicer than the one I have.

  “Up next—well, from the handwriting, he’s about six years old.” The guy laughs at his joke, but no one else does. He clears his throat. “Is there a Mac Kelly here?”

  “Oh, well, that’s me.” I take the guitar from Teresa’s outstretched hands. “I’ll be back in four minutes and sixteen seconds. The time of the song, plus thirty seconds to get to and from the stage.”

  “That’s rather specific.” She laughs.

  “Time of the song plus walking to and from the seat. Timing is everything for a musician.” I kick myself for repeating my words. I sound like an idiot.

  She laughs again. “So true. Knock ‘em dead, kid.”

  I know she doesn’t mean for me to kill anyone. A figure of speech, another way to say “good luck.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I take the stage and assess the sea of unfamiliar faces, my heart in my throat preventing me from swallowing.

  I search for the one face I know. My anchor. My Trini.

  I close my eyes now, holding tight to the pride and confidence her smile instills in me. My breaths expand my lungs to their fullest, and my muscles relax when I settle on the stool. The guitar is lighter than mine, but the construction is solid, and the strings are textured, like I’m familiar with.

  I set up my fingers for the opening chords of Morning Parade’s “Headlights.” My first notes are unsteady, faltering, and a wad of cotton settles in my throat, replacing my confidence and threatening to choke out my voice.

  I’m about to become one of the “open mic disasters” I disdained earlier.

  Mom calls this “bad karma.”

  I open my eyes again, and Trini’s smile chases away the unsettled nerves in my stomach, what other people call the butterflies.

  Her camera is in one hand, filming me. Despite the frightening idea about being recorded, the words flow, easier than any song I’ve ever sung, even the ones I’ve written. I’m inspired by everything about her.

  I try to remember the advice everyone’s given me about working the crowd and making eye contact, but I can’t. If I glance away from her, I’ll stumble.

  After the rocky beginning, I’m on track to be pretty impressive, and it’s all because of her.

  My cheeks stretch as a satisfied grin breaks across my face.

  I hit the song’s big swelling notes, and she clutches her free hand to her mouth in surprise. Her eyes shine like she might cry, but instead of sad tears, these may be from happiness.

  My heart sings.

  I made that happen.

  I made her happy.

  If I never accomplish another thing in my life, this moment will be mine to cherish forever.

  “When a musician has a triumphant moment, the joy in his voice incites an unrivaled happiness in his audience.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  I AM SO IN AWE of Mac. My heart dances. He pulled it off. The intro was a little shaky, but he finished strong. After healthy applause from the audience, he hops down from the stage and hands the guitar back to the girl who sang first. His face lights up. Amazing.

  There’s no other way to describe the performance. With his sensory processing issues and his fear of everything, he was triumphant.

  Mac sits down at the table and my expression apparently changes. He doesn’t seem happy anymore.

  “What’s wrong? Didn’t you like the song?” He frowns and picks ice out of his drink, chewing.

  I suck on my cheeks. How do I answer him? Of course, I loved it. I think I love him, and not like a brother. He is so brave. Am I arrogant to believe he was brave for me? That his performance was for me as much as for himself? I reach over and touch his hand. He glances down where our skin makes contact. “Yes. It’s one of my favorite songs.”

  “I know. I sang it for you and meant every word.”

  My chest clenches. My heart beats wildly against my ribs. I didn’t need to ask. He might hide a lot of things, but he’s never hidden his support for me. Even when I was dating Dean. He never liked him. He never lied to me about his feelings, and his animosity hurt us sometimes. He wanted me to be happy. He’s always wanted me to be happy. Could I say the same about him? I reflect for a moment and believe I was a little jealous when he was dating Jodie. She wasn’t taking time from us because I was away at school and I was still with Dean. Why was I jealous of Mac and another girl? That’s a hard question to answer, but I guess the feelings have always existed, hiding under a surface I’d never dared to scratch.

  But Mac scratched and scratched and scratched, and here we are.

  He really looks at me, his gaze lingering on my lips. His eyes, they’re stunning, but often seem vacant. At this moment, however, they’re a front-row seat to his soul. He’s always been able to see mine, and seeing his soul bared hits me in the heart.

  “Can we go?” I search his face for the answer.

  “Okay, sure.” He chomps on a few more ice cubes.

  I pull out cash and wave Adam down to pay for the food. We walk quickly back to the hotel. I grab his hand and practically drag him down the street. The grip of his hand on mine is beyond comforting.

  The stroke of his thumb on my palm is downright intoxicating.

  Now I regret the room having two beds, because I want to convince Mac we shouldn’t sleep in separate beds tonight. How tonight could be the night for him to, you know.

  Do I dare? Do we dare to cross the line?

  Because there’s no going back after that—once the line is crossed, you can never uncross it. I wish I’d never crossed the line with Dean. In the end, he broke my heart. I sit on the side of the bed closest to the front door, which closes behind Mac with a thud. I kick off my shoes and pull my knees to my chest. I pat the bed next to me.

  “I’m not sure if I can give you what you need.” He glances at the quilted pink bedspread, then back at me. What? Does he think sex is the only thing I get out of a romantic relationship? He’s never told me about having sex, but I imagine in the six months he dated Jodie, they must have … My stomach rolls at the idea, but why?

  I wasn’t thinking about sex before he alluded to the matter when he stared at the beds, but now I can’t stop wondering. I need more than what mattress-dancing provides. Although the notion is appealing … but first things first.

  “Mac?” I hope he agrees to give me what I need. “Can you sing to me? Our song?” It’s probably weird we have a “song” though we’re not a couple. It’s appropriate, though. James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend.”

  Surprisingly, he nods and chokes out one word: “Okay.”

  Why did I believe he would reject my request? Mac may be many confusing things—but music, especially a song by his favorite singer-songwriter, is one thing he will never deny anyone.

  Plus, he’s the most loyal person I know. I mean, he punched someone for me.

  He left Key West, his comfort zone, to make sure I was okay.

  Shit.

  He may be one of the best people in the world, and I ignored him all these years.

  He leans against the door and closes his eyes, his arms extended as he “plays” the notes, humming
them before the words to the song kick in. Unlike at the restaurant, he never opens his eyes. He doesn’t have performance anxiety when he sings for me. Despite the quieter tone of this song, the words are no less powerful, a reminder of everything we share. Friendships like ours come along a mere handful of times in life.

  A love like this?

  People are lucky to experience one—ever. I’m lucky I have found mine when I am so young. Like Mac did earlier, now is my time to take a chance.

  I get up, closing the distance between us. I stand on my toes, close my eyes, and brush my lips to his rough cheek. Run my fingertips across the scar on his forehead. He turns his head, and our lips touch. My eyelids pop open, and I find him staring back into my eyes. We both stiffen like statues.

  He wraps his arms around me, his hands tentative on the small of my back. I shiver.

  Two days ago this was weird.

  Tonight, it’s so right.

  I open my mouth against his and slip my tongue inside. My hands leave his waist and slide down his back and under his shirt to the waistband of his jeans. His body jerks at the contact. I startle when he picks me up and moves me, and then steps away from me. He stares. Says nothing while his gaze travels up and down my body.

  Oh God, did he change his mind? It’s because I’m fat and disgusting. He realizes everything Dean said is true.

  He’s seen me at rock bottom. I puked on him. He cleaned my vomit off the floor.

  He doesn’t want me anymore.

  No. Mac’s not like Dean. Something else is wrong.

  He covers his face with his hands and bends at the waist, a slow moan coming from deep in his chest seems to rattle the windows.

  At the very least, the sound rattles my nerves, the few I have remaining rubbed raw by the noise.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and paces. “I-I don’t …”

  He bolts to the bathroom and slams the door. I follow, rattling the knob of the flimsy door. Another blood-curdling wail does vibrate the building this time. The handle shakes beneath my fingers.

  “Goon, open the door. Please! You’re scaring me.” My hands shake as I give the knob another futile twist, and a broken sob breaks up my words.

  The toilet flushes and the water runs. He shuts the faucet off but flushes the toilet a second time. More running water, another flush. He’s stimming. The sound of rushing water helps calm his nerves. The knob turns, loosening my grip. I step back, and Mac walks out, his arms covered in angry, raised welts where he scratched himself. Pinpoints of blood dot his skin. He hasn’t been this anxious in a long time.

  He sits on the bed, and I follow. He alternately taps each of his massive feet, and he flaps his fingers. “I can’t, Trini.”

  Self-doubt gnaws at my gut again and I stare at my toes, watch his toes tap tap tap on the floor. “Do you still love me, Mac? Don’t you find me attractive anymore? After kissing me and touching me, you think I’m fat.”

  “Trini, you are not ugly. You’re no super-model …”

  “Gee, thanks.” My voice is edged with sarcasm, but he doesn’t understand. He nods, acknowledging me, but at least he didn’t say “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m no, I don’t know, who do girls like?”

  “Zac Efron?” I supply.

  “Yeah, him. I don’t look like him, but you are beautiful.” He touches my hair, making my scalp tingle. “Don’t ever doubt that. You’re not perfect. No one is, but in every way that matters, you are phenomenal. The way your real smile lights up your eyes. The way your hair always falls into your face. The way your skin goes from light brown to pink when someone compliments you. You’re unbelievably, sometimes painfully, pretty.”

  “I-I …” Words fail me. He’s different, but he is a guy, and guys want sex, right? We’d never discussed the subject, unwilling to cross the boundaries of friendship we’d set. I never talked to him about sex with Dean, and he never told me anything either. “Don’t you want me?”

  “Want you? In what way?”

  He’s going to make me say the words out loud. “Don’t you want to have sex with me, Mac?” Heat creeps to my chest and into my cheeks. I drop my head, mortified.

  “Look at me.” His tone is soft but commanding.

  My gaze slides back to his hazel eyes, which I find shining with tears.

  “Trini, I’ve never done, you know … it.”

  My jaw hits the floor. Yeah, I was way wrong on the Jodie front. I gulp. “I … Mac … why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you what, Trini? How I’m a twenty-year-old virgin freak?”

  “Why, Mac? I mean, why not? I mean, you’re cute and smart and talented.”

  His head snaps back. He’s surprised. I called him “cute.” I said the word out loud for the first time.

  His face flushes bright red. “Jeesh. I told you I’m in love with you. This is not a new development.”

  He stands up, and I take a step back. He pauses but moves closer a second later. He doesn’t touch me, but his body is so close, the heat radiating from his skin seeps through my T-shirt like a mild sunburn. His eyes roll up to the room’s ceiling before he whisperers, “I’ve been saving myself. For you.”

  “Strength in your eyes/Love in your soul/My heart is in your hands/Please hold on and don’t let it go.”—Lyrics from “Tighter” by Mac Kelly

  MY BREATH LEAVES my body in a rush, like I’ve been hit in the stomach with a dodge ball.

  The humiliation of the moment, however, is so much more than getting bullied in an elementary school playground game. Because now she knows I’m a virgin. She’s going to bolt. Before, I was her weird best friend.

  Now I’m the biggest loser she knows because I’m twenty and a raging virgin.

  Some guys—like Dean, I guess—are fine with casual sex, but I can’t stand it when most people touch me. The years it takes me to build trust with someone is not conducive to short-term hookups.

  Minutes tick away. My feet tap in slow motion. The song in my head is Green Day’s “Basket Case,” but my fingers strum against my jeans more to the tempo of “Wake Me Up When September Ends.”

  Too fast of a pace usually scares the crap out of me, but this life at a crawl? I sense something bad is about to happen, but I can’t move fast enough to stop it. I want this scene to be over.

  Go. Run. Hide.

  My instincts tell me to bolt. I head back to the bathroom, but change my mind and pivot to the front door. Apparently, Trini isn’t trapped in the same quick-sand reality I am, and she blocks my way, her forehead tapping into my chest. She falls back, but I grab her arms as she clutches at my shirt to keep from falling.

  I let go, but she holds on to me.

  She doesn’t let go.

  My breath catches. My literal self believes she doesn’t want to topple over. My song-writing, soul-baring self hopes beyond hope that her physical clutch reflects her need to hold on to me emotionally. Despite my confession, she doesn’t care and doesn’t think any less of me.

  She stares up at me, but I stare into the distance. I can feel her eyes on my face, though. A quick glance in her direction confirms this. At the same time, she licks her lips, and my crotch jerks a little.

  So yeah, I’m a virgin, but I’m a guy, too.

  Still terrified, though, of what’s to come. Mom and Da had both given me their versions of the “talk.” Liam had introduced me to what he called his “choice” collection of pornography. Most of the movies had two or more girls together, unhelpful in terms of educational value, and the videos with guys seemed unrealistic. How is it possible for the guys to be that big, and/or get all those girls to have sex with them?

  And they never used condoms. Both Mom and Da always said to use condoms.

  “Mac? Mac? Did you hear me? It’s fine you’re a virgin. As for saving yourself for me?” She squeezes my arm, and I finally look into her pretty face. Her light brown skin is flushed pink. “I’m honored. I can’t predict the future, but the decision is respectable.
”

  My skin grows hot, whether from the touch of her hand or from the still-blazing embarrassment I’m not sure. “Y-you don’t think I’m a freak?”

  “Well, of course you’re a freak, but not for the status of your virginity. I’m a freak, too. Both of us are weirdos. We’ll always have that.”

  My urge to flee has vanished, though my nerves still ache from being rubbed the wrong way. I can’t finish this conversation now. My body and brain can’t take any more. “Can we go to bed?”

  I don’t wait for her to answer. I pull out the bottle of pills from my backpack and chew the enormous white trazodone tablet. I’ll be sleepy soon, so I rush to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I come back out and take the bed closest to the A/C unit because the white noise soothes me, and she’ll get too cold if I run the air and she’s in this bed.

  When she goes into the bathroom, I move my bedspread to her bed so she stays warm. While I wish I could be the one to ward off the cold tonight, it’s too much to process.

  If it ever happens, it will be another day.

  And that’s a big “if.”

  “Rejection is inevitable in this business, as it is in all of life. But if you don’t give someone the chance to say yes, the answer will always be no.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  MORE THAN ANYTHING last night, I wanted to crawl into the bed with Mac and slip my arms around him, tell him everything was going to be all right, we’ll be all right. But I didn’t.

  I didn’t because it’s a lie. One thing I’ve learned is the only predictable thing about life is its unpredictability.

  He needed his space last night. I pushed too far. On a high from witnessing his triumphant moment, realizing he is capable of change, I wanted him last night in a way I’d never imagined. In the bright light of morning, I still want him.

  This “a-ha” moment of clarity shocks and exhilarates me, but now is not the time to act. I need my emotional faculties intact for my meeting with my father today.

  Mac asks if I will call the diner to order our breakfast to go, on the stipulation he will go down and pick up the food. He is growing. Helping to share in responsibilities, and not expecting other people to take care of his needs, is a big deal.