On one side of the room, she had a desk as grand as her piano, dark brown in color, with hand-carved details. On the other was an aged, brown leather chesterfield in front of the fireplace, and completing the seating arrangement, two tufted, high-back chairs in a contrasting taupe velvet.
The room was warm and inviting. The rest of the main floor was decorated in the same neutral, calming tones as her bedroom. The only rooms that broke from that were the guest suites located on the opposite side of the house, as well as the entire lower level, which contained the home theater, the guts to the house’s computer system, the wine cellar, and one other bedroom suite. Mia set that up for Allie. She had been a fantastic help, beyond being a terrific friend. She didn’t want Allie going back to Chicago. So, she set up a place for her until she convinced Allie to get a place of her own out in California.
Mia set up the other guest suites for her bandmates. They didn’t know it yet, but they’d be out in California very soon. The tour was over, as were the holidays. Mia was itching to record their next album—their fourth. She knew she wanted to do this album differently. Todd still hadn’t returned and she didn’t want to record without him. But more than that, she didn’t want to record with someone not part of the band. She could sing. She could play piano and guitar. Maybe she could learn how to play the drums. Maybe between her, Marty, and Clark, they could handle the drum work.
Maybe.
She just couldn’t stomach pouring her soul into her music with someone that wasn’t family. After the album was recorded, a different story. She could play with the replacement drummer, which she’d done for the entire Almost Honest tour. She really hadn’t wanted to, but she’d done it anyway. But this time around, she didn’t want to tour for this upcoming fourth album.
In April, the band minus Todd arrived in Malibu to record. Her house turned into a creative haven. Instruments of all kinds—keyboards, drums, guitars—replaced sofas. White boards covered the walls along with sheet after sheet of music and lyrics, the result of her time after her overdose, her feelings about all that had happened with her and Ethan, her family.
Those songs were not done. The thoughts incomplete. Marty and Clark helped finish them like they’ve done many times before when she’d bring an almost complete piece to the band. But this was the first time that they actually sat down and wrote as a band. The three of them created together with Allie even getting in on it. Allie, surprisingly, could sing and had some very insightful feedback while they were writing. It got to the point where Mia and the guys were constantly sounding off on Allie.
She was glad Marty and Clark felt the same way about bringing in a replacement drummer. So it was just the three of them. This album didn’t feature her piano at all—guitars, bass, and drums, with a little funky keyboard action sprinkled in here and there. She knew what that meant for live performances. She would have nothing to hide behind. It would just be her performing. Another reason to fight against a tour. She really liked to hide behind her guitar and piano.
The tone of the album was angry. The lyrics full of love and memories, the way life could get in the way of dreams and the life envisioned. Many songs touched on the anger she felt towards Ethan right before they broke up. Those songs dominated the album. She didn’t go into her overdose, but she did have one song that hinted at her drug use and at the duality of her recent life—the ugly and the sweet, the neediness and the independence.
Mia hadn’t gone to therapy since moving to Malibu—her music provided that . . . well, sort of. She’d have to find a new therapist and finish what she’d started.
Eventually.
In the end, they titled the album Undone for a couple of reasons: the lack of Todd and his imprint on the music and how she felt she was still a work in progress.
After they finished recording, the guys packed up to head back to Chicago. Mia had been debating going back to check on things, see how she felt being back, and visit friends. Marc was finally back and she desperately wanted to see him, talk to him. It had been a long time since that last happened.
She knew what to do.
It was time to go back to Chicago.
Mia
Chicago, July 2009
Fuck, it was hot!
That was her first thought when Mia stepped out of O’Hare Airport, following the limousine driver who kindly helped her with all her luggage. The hot and muggy air stopped her like a heavy weight was on her chest.
On the drive to her house, Mia thought about being back in Chicago. Whereas it felt familiar, it also felt odd. Like she was a stranger at her own party. She still loved the city, but all the negative things that happened here constantly swatted away all the good.
The moment she crossed the threshold of her house, Mia knew she couldn’t stay there long either. Her home desperately needed an infusion of fresh air. So she immediately cranked the air conditioning on super low, grabbed her car keys from her desk, her purse from the kitchen counter, and took her ass grocery shopping.
As she thought about what and how much to buy, Mia considered how long she’d be in town. Would it be an extended period of time or just a few days? She couldn’t answer that because she just didn’t know. The best she could do was one day at a time.
While loading up her car from her trip, her cell phone rang. As she shut the hatch with one hand, Mia pulled her phone from her back pocket with the other and answered it.
“Hello.”
“Hi, baby girl,” a very familiar and missed voice touched her ear.
“Marc!”
“The one and only.”
Chuckling at his arrogance, Mia got in the car, started it, and jacked up the air. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear your voice. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too. I missed a lot.”
Mia heard the underlying statement there—her overdose. After that she had kept to herself, not wanting to inflict her troubles onto Marc who had been going through rehab at the time. He didn’t need her drama. He needed to get better.
“Are you back? Tired of all the rain watering down your coffee?” she asked in reference to him living in Seattle for the past year. Clark told her Marc had been writing a book while there and would return when he was done.
His deep chuckle made her smile. “Something like that. My little brother tells me you bought a sweet place in Malibu.”
“Yeah . . .” Man, Clark and his free-with-her-information mouth.
“So, is that a permanent move?”
“I don’t know. For the time being, I suppose so.”
“I get it. No need to explain.”
Mia knew he would understand. He always did. From the very first day she met him. He may be the only one who did right now.
“I’m in Chicago . . .”
“I know. Clark told me that too. That’s the reason I’m calling. I need a favor.”
Mia didn’t hesitate. “Anything for you!”
Why the hell did I say that? How did I ever agree to dinner with Marc—and Tom?
Mia paced her living room, questions and doubts racing through her head as she wore a path in the throw rug covering most of the space. Marc asked her to go with him to talk to Tom. She hadn’t seen either of them in well over a year. She should be excited, but after all that went down between her and Tom last spring, all she felt was dread. She didn’t want to face what she’d done to him. Mia had hurt him. She knew that and it wrecked her.
Because of her mess of a life, she’d lost a friend, a person who had been family, a part of her crew for many years. She used him to drown out all the pain she’d been feeling about her past and over leaving Ethan.
She had been selfish.
But no longer. Mia would be a loyal friend to Marc. He was her family. The first she met. She’d support him whenever, however he needed her. Even if her stomach was a rolling, fluttery pit of caged butterflies trying to escape. So now she paced away that nervous energy.
How would Tom even react? Not ju
st to her being there, but to seeing Marc again? This dinner could very well be a big, hot mess. The last time she saw Tom, he was so angry—at her, at Marc.
Was Tom still that mad? Could Mia handle it if he was? She wanted to escape and hide so badly. The need to drown out these feelings was strong . . . stronger than they’d been in almost a year.
Marc beeped his horn and Mia rushed out to the car in her excitement to see him. Whipping open the door, she launched herself at him, holding on to him tight.
“I missed you, baby girl,” Marc said, kissing her cheek.
“I missed you too!”
They pushed back and just stared at each other, cataloging all the changes since they last saw the other.
“Your hair . . . it’s still so short,” Marc said, tugging at a strand.
“Yeah,” Mia said, smoothing her now beyond-shoulder-length hair. She eventually changed her color back to her normal chocolate brown, but she had kept the edgier style. She liked it. But Mia also missed the length. So for the past few months, she’d been growing it out.
“You look great, Marc.”
“I feel great.”
She laughed at his exuberance. “Good.”
“You gonna grow your hair back?” he asked, still fixated on that.
“Is it that bad?”
“No! It’s not bad at all,” he said with a smile. “But I’ve known you for close to ten years and it has always been long. Just a little hard to get used to.”
“Haha. You’re telling me. It’s a shock each time I look in the mirror, even though it’s been over a year.”
“I’ll get used to it,” he said, releasing the lock of hair he held. A blaring horn stopped their little reunion and Marc set off.
“Where are we going?” she asked as he headed west on North Avenue.
“I figured we could meet him near his shop.”
Tom’s shop was located in Wicker Park, so close to her brownstone in Lincoln Park. Another reason why she’d bolted to Los Angeles.
It took them about twenty minutes to get to the restaurant, and when they arrived Tom wasn’t there. Mia’s apprehension prevented her from even paying attention to the name of the place. Her only focus at the moment was Tom.
They were shown to a table in the back, away from the people wanting to be seen. This was a welcomed break from LA. Less pressure. Mia could have the privacy she needed right now. She was a bit of a nervous wreck, her leg bouncing like crazy beneath the table. Marc’s hand on her leg was the only thing that steadied her.
They ordered a couple of glasses of wine while they waited, both silent in their own thoughts. Marc had no idea what went down between her and Tom. No one did. She wanted to keep it that way. Mia didn’t want people to know what she’d done after Ethan and before her overdose. She was ashamed—of her drinking and drug use . . . and of how she treated Tom. He deserved so much more than what she’d given him.
Stop. This is not about you. It’s about Marc.
Mia regarded her friend who was just as quiet . . . and nervous. She had to keep it together for Marc. She wouldn’t bring him down because of her weakness. He needed her, and Mia was determined to be that strength for him.
She took a drink of her wine while observing the restaurant. The waitresses chatted at the drink station. A man and his wife argued at the other end of the room. Mia stared longer than she should at the arguing couple, her mind wondering what had made them so mad. When she finally drew her eyes away, they landed on Tom. Her resolve to hold it together almost failed. She wanted to run from this restaurant, away from the onslaught of emotions attacking her.
Marc’s death grip on her leg was the only thing keeping her there.
Part of her had wondered if Tom would even show up. A small part. But Tom was a loyal friend. A good man. He would give Marc a chance to explain even if he had been beyond angry with him.
Mia watched Tom’s gaze momentarily flick to Marc before locking on her. There was shock in his blue eyes. He had not expected Mia to be there. She couldn’t make out if he was happy or mad that she was.
She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. He looked . . . like Tom. His light blond hair still the same, yet not covered by his permanent Cubs hat. He wore well-worn jeans and a baby blue polo shirt. So simple yet so sexy.
Sexy.
Mia couldn’t believe she was thinking in those terms after all that had happened. Tom was no longer hers. She made a choice and had to live with it.
Yet still, she ached for him, for the friendship she used to have with him, and for all the pain she had caused.
Marc stood up as Tom approached the table. Tom surprised her and Marc by pulling his friend into a fierce embrace. After he pushed aside his shock, Marc hugged him back just as hard.
“I’m glad you’re back, man. You’re okay?” Tom asked.
“Now, I am.”
Mia sat to the side, observing this reunion and also wondering how Tom would greet her. Marc backed away, giving Tom space to go to her if he wanted. Mia stayed put, waiting for his move, her eyes staring straight ahead, trying her best not to sob at him being so close to her again.
“Hope you don’t mind that I brought a buffer. I thought you’d be happy to see her,” Marc rambled on as Tom’s heated stare bore into her.
“Mia,” Tom said quietly and she lifted her eyes from his stomach to his face.
And upon that handsome face lay a ghost of a smile. Tom reached out his hand to her and her gaze followed it and then back up to his face. His nod was barely noticeable, but he made sure she saw it.
Biting the inside of her mouth to stem the flow of tears, Mia placed her hand in his. Tom wrapped his fingers around her hand and helped her to her feet. She looked at him with tears clouding her vision, awaiting his next move, because she was letting him call all the shots.
He pulled her to him, his free arm going around her, their joined hands between them. Mia followed his lead and placed her arm around his lean waist, her face against his chest where she inhaled his woodsy scent, taking comfort in it. He loosened his hand from hers and proceeded to wrap it tightly around her, pulling her even closer against his lean yet strong body. They stayed in that embrace for what felt like forever.
Tom placed his lips against the crown of her head and she inhaled sharply. “Tom,” Mia finally managed to say. He squeezed her with those solid arms, his lips pressing harder against her head before releasing her.
Mia reached out to steady herself and then just sat her ass down, her legs a worthless mass of muscles. He sat across from them, directly in her line of sight. All she could see was Tom.
She hadn’t expected that embrace from him. So intense . . . as always. From lowered lashes, she glanced up to look at him and his focus was no longer on her but Marc. With a shaky hand, she reached out for her wine glass and gulped down a good portion of her drink, hoping to calm her erratic heartbeat.
Mia listened with half an ear while Marc and Tom discussed Marc’s time in rehab. She took in bits and pieces since she already knew this information. Marc apologized to Tom for not telling him about his departure. She could see it in Tom’s eyes. He remembered that night when she told him she knew where Marc was. His eyes narrowed a bit before he trained them on her.
“Why did you tell Mia and no one else?” Tom asked, his laser gaze on her.
Marc turned to her as well when he spoke his truth. “She knew what I was going through. A part of me hoped it would push her to get help.”
Her eyes dropped to the table with Marc’s response, big tears fell slowly onto her lap. Her leg bounced to the turbulent beat of her heart. She was so ashamed of what she had done after Marc went to rehab, of the words she’d said in the hospital after her overdose, how she wasn’t like Marc.
She wasn’t, really. She was worse.
Marc reached out for help; Mia ran from it, was still running from it.
Before she spoke, Mia sniffed at her tears. “Well, that plan totally backfired.”
“What? I’m just being truthful. Being honest.”
“Talk to us,” Marc pleaded.
“Tonight isn’t about me,” Mia deflected. She looked up and was so thankful their waitress was coming over. “And here’s our waitress.”
“Baby girl, we are not done,” Marc said to her in a hushed tone.
“We are done,” Mia said just as quietly. “This is something I do not want to discuss in public.”
They both nodded and turned their smiles to the waitress. Mia wasn’t very hungry and only ordered a salad and another glass of wine—a white this time.
After the waitress left, Mia excused herself to the restroom, needing a break from the intensity at the table, but also to give Marc and Tom a chance to talk without her there. Maybe they would forget about what they wanted to discuss with her.
As Mia stood in the restroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror, she knew she had to go back to therapy, had to try anyway. Because being here tonight with Marc and Tom, she felt like a failure—a fraud. Not a pleasant feeling at all.
Tucking her hair behind her ear, Mia took one last glance at herself before heading back to their table. As she walked through the door, an arm snaked around her shoulder. Her head whipped around and she saw Marc beside her.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.
“Of course I am. I just don’t want to talk about my overdose. Old news, okay?”
“It helps to talk about it.”
“It has been talked about enough. The entire world has had a field day with this, dissecting it a million different ways. I am done,” Mia said, slipping out of his arm and returning to her seat, unable to look at Tom. She couldn’t pretend with him. Things were not okay between them. Things never would be.
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