by Elle Bennett
“Of course I was determined to get the song right! I didn’t want to fuck up your album. And I’m aware of how many people would love a fucking record contract, I’m not an idiot. But there’s one problem - I’m not a musician. I’m your girlfriend. Stop trying to make me be something I’m not.”
“You’ve played the piano since you were five! How can you possibly think you’re not a musician?”
I reached around him for the doorknob and opened it. I pushed him out of the doorway with a hand on his chest, his eyes blazing.
“Goodbye, Andrew. Go to your meeting.”
I shut the door in his face and locked it. He had the key, he could reopen it at any point. But he didn’t. I sat on the couch for a full hour after I’d pushed him out the door, but it didn’t open again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I tend to slip under the door
When things begin to fray
But my love
You make me want to stay
“Abandoned Reflexes,” Peristerophobia
For the next few days, I didn’t say a word to Andrew, and he followed suit. He may have been back from tour, but we spoke less than we had when he was gone. I slept on the couch with the television on every single night, Pigeon curled up at my feet, rather than sliding into the bed next to him.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss his arms around me each night.
Every morning, I woke up alone. I took Pigeon for a walk, and by the time I got back, Andrew was out of the bedroom and his keys were gone from the bowl on the coffee table. I wasn’t sure where he was going, but I knew he didn’t want to be near me. Fine by me, I didn’t want to be near him, either.
When we first started dating, I told myself that it was fine, that I could date a musician and it wouldn’t turn out like this, that I wouldn’t use him to make it into the business. And yet, there I was, breaking his heart and pissing him off because he believed in me more than I believed in myself.
I’d knocked him off the pedestal he was on back when we first met. He was no longer this unattainable rock star, he was mine. If I could get him to stop bothering me about the music, we would be perfectly happy.
The more he pushed the music onto me, the more I wanted to push him away.
And yet, I still went back to the keyboard, day after day, messing around with melodies and playing Peristerophobia songs, creating piano parts for songs that didn’t originally have any.
A week of not speaking to each other went by, and I sat at the keyboard, playing out my frustration with everything. I was working on a version of “Anyone Can Be a Straight Pretzel (But Baby, You’ve Got Curves),” when I felt like I was being watched. I figured it was Pigeon, but I turned my head and saw a smug Andrew instead.
“Don’t,” I said. I took off my headphones.
“‘I’m not a musician,’ she says. ‘I hate playing the piano,’ she says. And yet, here you are. Is that a Peristerophobia song you’re working on?”
He bent over the sheet music I was playing around with, where I was writing in notes and crossing them out as I went along.
I wasn’t ready to talk to him again. I sat the headphones on top of the sheet music on the top of the keyboard and walked into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me and locking it.
“You’re going to have to talk to me, April. You can’t literally shut me out.”
I walked over to the record player in the corner of our bedroom and put on an album. The needle touched the vinyl and I turned up the volume. It was a song he knew well, so he sang along through the door. After a few lyrics, he began to speak to me again.
“I see what you’re doing there, April! But you’re going to have to listen to me eventually!” he yelled. I could barely hear him over the music, but my ears automatically listened for his voice, my soul drawn to his. “If you’d stop being a bitch for five seconds and you actually listened to me -”
I stomped over to the door and flung it open, the music still blaring.
“You did not just call me a bitch.”
“Oh, good. You’re talking to me. Great. Let’s fucking talk.”
I grabbed Pigeon’s leash and walked towards the door. “Come on, boy. Let’s go for a walk.”
“No,” Andrew said. He stood in front of the door. “You’re not going out there. I’m done with the silence and the tip-toeing around each other and the fucking sleeping on the fucking couch. I’m done.”
“So am I. I’m done with you trying to force me into something I don’t want.”
“You were literally just playing the piano, April! How is music something you don’t want? Explain that to me for once, don’t just bitch out and stop talking to me. Tell me what’s going on in your mind for once! Have a real fucking conversation with me instead of shutting me out!”
I dropped Pigeon’s leash and pushed Andrew onto the couch. He definitely didn’t want to hear what I had on my mind. But he asked for it.
“Fine. Here’s what I’m thinking. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be with you if you’re going to keep pushing me like this. I can’t. I’m done.”
Andrew’s face fell. He didn’t seem angry anymore. He seemed defeated.
“What?”
“I’m fucking done, Andrew.”
I stood in front of him, and I saw the heartbreak on his face, then back to anger.
“You’re joking,” he said.
“Why the fuck would I joke about this?” I asked.
“You’re breaking up with me? You’re breaking up with me because I want you to be successful at something you’re great at? It’s got to be a fucking joke.”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest and let out a slow breath. I was strangely calm, though my heart felt like I’d taken a knife to it over and over again.
“It’s not a joke, Andrew. You’re being controlling and a dick and I’m fucking done with it. I thought maybe things would be better with us once you were back from tour. That maybe you’d given up on me joining the band. But, no. Of course not. You keep on pushing and I’m done putting up with it. I’m done.”
He let out a frustrated groan and ran his hands through his hair, which had finally grown back enough for him to actually run his fingers through again. It stuck up on his head in my favorite way, but I couldn’t let that get to me. I had to stay strong. I had to do what I had to do. I had to push him away to protect myself from becoming her. I’d lit the match and it was time to set fire to this bridge.
“This is fucking ridiculous, April. I’m not forcing you into anything. I’m not being controlling. You’re overreacting.”
“No, I’m not. You won’t fucking shut up about me joining your band, even though I’ve told you on multiple occasions that I’m not into the idea. You practically forced me to sing on your album. How is that not controlling? Did Vic even tell you that you couldn’t record ‘My Favorite Month’ without also recording ‘Spackling?’ Because I’m pretty sure that was bullshit to get me to record the damn song,” I said.
He let out a harsh laugh.
“You end this, you walk out of my life, and there’s no way the guys will still want you in the band.”
“Good. That’s what I want. So if it takes ending things with you to also end the pestering to be in your band, then so be it.”
Andrew stood up and looked me right in the eye.
“It’s no wonder you can’t keep a friend. No wonder your own mother left you. You’re done? God. I’m done. I’m done hearing you whine about how you’re not talented and you don’t deserve our praise. You did deserve the praise. But I’m done giving it out. You said everyone leaves you, but you’re wrong. You’re the one that leaves. You’re the one that gives up. So, fine. Go. Leave. Be alone. It’s what you’re best at.”
I picked up Pigeon’s leash again, clipped it onto his collar, and left the apartment without another word. It wasn’t until I got to a nearby park and sat on a bench that I allowed myself to cry. What the hell was I thinking? I shouldn�
��t have said those things. He shouldn’t have said those things. That wasn’t how his return from tour was supposed to go at all. We were supposed to kiss and fuck and be happy. We weren’t supposed to explode.
I should have just agreed to be in the band, accepted my role in life as my mother’s daughter, and hope that it all would work out okay.
With a sniffle, I pulled on Pigeon’s leash and walked back to the apartment. I opened the door and noticed Andrew’s absence right away. His guitar was gone. His drawers were empty. His suitcase was missing. I unclipped the leash from Pigeon’s collar and he walked to the kitchen to get a drink of water. I sat down on the couch and stared at the floor. Tears began to fall again.
I picked up my phone and saw a new message.
Joan Washington:
What the hell did you do to my brother? He’s here and he’s acting weird.
I didn’t know how to answer that. So instead, I ignored it, walked over to my keyboard, and played a song.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I don’t think you could’ve
Taken my heart
You couldn’t have broken it
I never had one in the first place
“Banned,” Peristerophobia
Andrew didn’t come home that night. I didn’t expect him to. I knew he’d leave me someday. Everyone always left. And maybe I did force him to go, but he took the opportunity and ran with it. He barely put up a fight.
I got a message from Ken telling me that there was a launch party for the album that weekend if I wanted to go. It was the same day as my birthday, but I wasn’t exactly looking forward to my birthday anyway. I figured I might as well go to the launch party and support the band. Besides, I was on the album, so it wasn’t like I wasn’t officially invited anyway. If Andrew didn’t want me there, he would just have to deal with it.
Even though we were broken up and I didn’t want to look particularly good for him, I wanted to wear something nicer than a pair of jeans and a tank top or a band t-shirt, like I normally did. I threw on the one little black dress I owned, and my red heels that I only took out when I felt like seducing a man. My fuck me pumps. I wasn’t planning on seducing anyone, but I definitely was going to make Andrew wish he hadn’t said every awful thing he’d said to me.
When I showed up, he barely glanced at me (though he definitely did check me out) before looking away and finding someone else to talk to. He ignored me to the best of his abilities. I talked to Ken and Doug for a while, but Chad was nowhere to be found.
“Did you two really break up?” Ken asked.
“Yes. But he hasn’t fully moved out of the apartment,” I said. “I’m thinking I might. It hurts too much to be there now.”
“Shit. So I guess this means you’re really not joining Peristerophobia. Shame. We could have used you,” Ken said.
“It’s not like we didn’t see it coming,” Doug interjected. “I mean, you guys did seem rocky for a while.”
“We did?” I asked.
As far as I knew, until I refused to go on tour and rocked the boat, we were fine. Until I decided I couldn’t live with myself if I became my mother’s daughter, we were great.
“Yeah, I mean, if you were solid, you would’ve come with us on tour, right?” Doug asked.
“No, we were good then. I just didn’t want to leave my job,” I said.
“Still sticking with that story. Okay, then.”
“Seriously, Doug. That was why I didn’t go. Andrew and I didn’t start to fight until he got back from tour. I mean, we were barely able to talk while he was gone, so that didn’t exactly help…”
“What? He was on his phone constantly,” Ken said.
I sat down the drink I’d been legally consuming.
“Excuse me? Constantly?”
“Yeah, like, after our interviews or whatever, he was always messing around on his phone. I figured you two were texting like crazy. Sexting and whatever.”
“No, we weren’t.”
“Well, shit,” Ken said.
I walked away from the two of them and searched the room for Andrew. I found him in a corner with a few people that I didn’t recognize and I tapped him on the shoulder.
“Can we talk?” I asked.
He looked at me, his eyes giving my little black dress and the height of my heels a thorough examination before looking at me in the eyes. I told myself that I couldn’t melt, that I was still pissed at him, that he was still pissed at me. It would not be a good idea to fuck him in a back room, no matter how good he looked. I didn’t want him to think I wanted him back.
I didn’t. I really, really didn’t.
Not at all.
Fuck, he looked good.
“I don’t really want to talk to you right now. Who invited you, anyway?” he asked.
It might have been the three shots of vodka or the fact that it had been the worst birthday I’d had since I was sixteen, but I pulled him away from the crowd and shoved him against a wall. The look in his eyes said he wanted to fuck me. Maybe it was the heels I wore, maybe it was the fact that we never did get to have break up sex. Or maybe the look was actually his desire to kill me, not his desire for me. Maybe it was both.
Of course, that was the moment that “Spackling” came on over the party speakers. They had to be fucking kidding me.
I shook my head and remembered the reason I’d singled him out. The reason I’d pushed him against the wall.
“Did you cheat on me?” I asked.
“If I want to fuck someone at this party, it’s my business, not yours. We’re over, April, remember? You’re the one who dumped me.”
“I know that. I meant on tour,” I said. “Ken said you were constantly on your phone, which is weird, because you were never around. You barely sent me texts, let alone called me. I want to know why.”
He let out a sigh and averted his gaze, like he wanted to look anywhere except for where I was.
“Not that it matters anymore, because you dumped me, but I was working. We had social media shit to do online, and our publicist wanted me to take over a bunch of it. I had to do some legwork.”
“Oh.”
“Why the hell do you care, anyway? I thought you hated me now,” he said. He finally looked me in the eyes again, brown meeting blue, clashing with each other like never before.
“I never said I hated you.”
“Sure. Did you ever even like me? Or did you just fuck me because I was the lead singer of Peristerophobia?”
I clenched my fists and took a deep breath.
“If I was just fucking you because you were in a band, I wouldn’t have moved in with you, you jackass. I loved you. I fucking loved you.”
If had just been about that, if I was pulling a full on Cassidy, I also would have joined his band without a second thought. But it wasn’t about that. It was never about that.
“Why don’t you go bitch at someone who cares?” he said with a scoff. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some schmoozing to do.”
“Fuck off,” I said.
“That’s exactly what I was going to say to you.”
I leaned against the wall as he walked off, and the next song on the album started to play. I rested my head against a poster of the album cover and looked down at my phone.
Erica Hall:
Hey, I just realized it’s your birthday! How are you?
Me:
Shitty, thanks. I’m at my ex’s album launch party and having a miserable time. Happy birthday to me.
Erica Hall:
You broke up with Andrew?
Me:
Yeah. Thanks for being there for me. You’re such a great friend.
Erica Hall:
How was I supposed to know? You never told me.
Besides, I have finals.
Me:
Oh, you’ve had finals for the last four months?
Erica Hall:
Remember how you used to be kind of bitchy sometimes in high school, and I’d la
ugh it off, because I loved you as a friend and I liked having you around?
It’s not like that anymore.
Me:
Fine. Yet another person who doesn’t want to be around me. What a surprise.
Erica Hall:
Happy birthday, April. I wish you the best.
I was right. People always fucking leave. And at that moment, I decided I was going to be one of them. So I spun around on my red heels and I left the party without looking back.
I kept going between anger at Andrew, anger at myself, and sadness that I lost something that was once great. I mostly kept to myself, ignoring any calls and texts I got from Joan or the guys. I didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t want to see Andrew. I didn’t want to see anyone who reminded me of him.
Of course, it was impossible to ignore the band when they played a show during one of my shifts at The Walnut Tree. It was a few weeks after their album dropped, and they had new fans there, all cheering and singing along with the songs that I knew better than my own heart.
With their new audience, they could have gone to a bigger venue, but they wanted to play the show at one of their usual spots. The Walnut Tree would always be a home for them, and I was just going to have to deal with that if I wanted to keep on working there.
My heart crumbled as I watched Andrew on the stage. I didn’t feel proud of him, like I used to when I saw him in front of the microphone, his guitar in hand. I mostly just felt sad.
Andrew had reached the top, and he didn’t need me anymore. I was useless to him now. He didn’t need me for a muse, or for my musical talent, however little of it I had. He would have made it to where he was with or without me, and I knew I’d never get to the same point as him.
As he finished the last song of the night, I looked up at him. Our eyes connected for the first time since the launch party, and for the first time since our fight, we maintained eye contact for longer than just a few seconds.