by Lisa Suzanne
I don’t respond to Steph. She lives in an idealistic world, while my feet are firmly planted in reality.
“That’s how we’re different, I guess,” I say.
The subject is closed for me, but apparently not for her.
“It doesn’t have to be like that. Don’t you think you might be able to find a way to forgive him if you see him in person?”
I don’t think too much about her words. It’s easy to bear a grudge against a man I never knew, easy to pretend like I don’t care when I don’t have a single memory of him. If I go, if I see him, if I let him into my life…all that changes. Then he’s real, we have memories together. He’s no longer just some idea in the back of my mind.
I stand. Turns out the air out here isn’t helping. I flick my smoke into the snowy driveway, where the red butt sizzles out. “Ghosts don’t need forgiveness, kid.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ETHAN
I hate sleeping in someone else’s house. I usually get a hotel anywhere I go; my aunt’s house is the one exception. When I’m a guest, I feel like I need to get up early and help around the house, two things that aren’t exactly in my forte. No one ever taught me how to fix a leaky faucet or patch up some grout—both things that are needed in Susan’s house despite its steep price tag.
I think about calling a plumber and hiring a contractor, but it’s YouTube to the rescue—and before noon, which is a feat in itself. Susan is grateful to have a man around to help. She’s not just physically opposite my mother—they were opposites in almost every way. Where my mom had a revolving door of men, I’ve never once seen Susan entertain a man. She’s one of those stereotypical old single women you only see on television shows, but she fits the role well. She even has cats and wears those knit cardigans with ugly-ass designs all over them. I never understood how two people so different could be sisters. Zoey and I are similar in a lot of ways, but the only similarity I’ve ever caught between my mom and Susan is their blue eyes.
I ponder all this while I keep myself busy fixing things around the house. Zoey took off, and I don’t know if she went to visit friends or if she decided to take a ride to the prison—and I don’t want to know. If she goes to see him, that’s her prerogative. I won’t go.
I have a few friends of my own I’d like to see while I’m in town, so I send some texts letting people know I’m around. I get a bunch of hits back, and suddenly my calendar for the next couple nights is full.
After the kids go to bed, I kiss Susan’s cheek and head out as I say, “Don’t wait up for me.” And then I’m off to the races.
I hit up Sevens first. It’s an old hole in the wall bar Vail played back when we first got our start, and I’m still friends with the owner, Bill. They put up with a lot of shit, especially from Mark and me, and we’re forever in their debt for letting us play early and often…and drunk and high on occasion.
When I walk in, a group of women rushes at me. I sign autographs, smile for pictures, and pretend like I don’t have this whole your-dad-is-dying thing eating at the back of my mind. I talk up the tour and let everyone know we’ll be back in a couple months. I wonder what sorts of things will be different then, but then I realize nothing will change because I don’t want anything to change. I’ll still set my sights on the hottest girl in the place, and I’ll still go home with her. I’ll still be free from commitment and not feel tied down.
And I’ll still damn well like it that way.
Bill is working tonight, and he brings me a tumbler of whiskey before I even have to ask. It may have been eight or nine years since we played this bar, but old habits die hard.
I sit at the bar with a ballcap low over my eyes as I drink with Mike and Jimmy, a couple of my old buddies who still live in the area.
I’m a few drinks in. My friends just left when two of the women who accosted me when I first walked in tap me on the shoulder. From my observations, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be opposed to a three way.
I buy them each their drink of choice—margaritas, naturally. Frozen. My type of girls. What a girl orders to drink is very telling, and margaritas equal tequila, which equals panties on the floor and legs spread wide open. A frozen margarita means the life of the party, young and single and hot. If they’d have ordered it on the rocks instead of frozen, I’d have pegged them as a bit more traditional, a bit more straight-laced. But they didn’t, and after two margaritas each, they both yell, “Wooo!” at everything as they clink their glasses together. We don’t bother with small talk; instead, I simply place my hand on one girl’s back just a little too close to her ass and around the other girl’s waist just a little higher than necessary so my arm brushes her breast.
Every move I make is calculated, right down to my signal at Bill for another round. I’m a few whiskeys deep myself, but it takes a hell of a lot more than that before I start to lose my own sensibilities. The same cannot be said for these two, whose names I didn’t catch.
The song changes as I start thinking about everything I could do to the two of these ladies, and I immediately recognize it.
It’s a Maci Dane song. Her anthem. Over the past couple months, I’ve listened to a lot of her music. I’ve gotten to know her stuff well enough to call myself a fan. While this is her most popular song, it doesn’t hold a candle to some of her others. There’s this one I’ve listened to over and over where her voice is so strong, so full of emotion, so fucking pure it just speaks to this corner of my soul I never even knew existed. “Break Me” is my favorite of hers by a mile, but it’s never even seen the light of radio.
Hearing her voice right now like this, while I’m here in this place flirting with two women—it feels wrong.
I pay my tab, make some excuse to the two women flirting with me, and leave Sevens before the song even ends.
*
I’m decompressing as I lie on my bed scrolling through my missed texts and emails after spending a nice, sister-centered Christmas day. I could go out if I wanted to, but it’s Christmas. Anyone I meet tonight will just depress me with a sad story about why they’re not with their families, and I’m not in the mood for it. Not today, not after I had a good day with the only family I have left.
Mark wants me back in town tomorrow so we can finalize tour plans even though everything has been in place for months, and I spot an email with my flight confirmation from Vick, Vail’s assistant. We’re meeting with Maci the day after that. I’m staring at a photo of our opening act and trying to place what about her is so familiar to me when Zoey peeks her head in my doorway. “Can we talk?”
I nod and click my phone off before I set it on the nightstand. “What’s going on?”
She sits on one corner of the bed. “I saw him.”
I exhale. “I figured.”
“He looks like shit, Ethan.”
“I don’t care.” I sit up. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Too damn bad. You need to see him.” Her eyes are pleading.
“I can’t. Vick just sent my flight details.” I pick up my phone and flash it at her like I’m showing her the flight information even though my phone is off. “I’m heading home tomorrow afternoon.”
“Then go in the morning.” Her eyes fill with tears, but I stand firm.
“No, Zo. I’m not going.”
“He asked for you.” She whispers it like it might hurt me to hear, and it does.
“So he can squeeze a little more money out of me before he dies?” I realize how blunt I sound, but I don’t care.
She shakes her head and purses her lips. “What the fuck’s he gonna do with your money when he’s dead?”
I don’t answer.
“That isn’t what he wants,” she says. “He wants to make things right with you.”
“He had his whole life to make things right. He didn’t bother, so why does he deserve a second more of my attention?”
“Because he’s your father.”
I shake my head. “My father died a long t
ime ago. He’s just the man who donated sperm to Mom twice.”
Her face twists into a mask of disgust. “Gross.”
“You know how biology works.”
She stands. “I don’t want you to have regrets later when you could’ve done something now.”
“I won’t.” I say. Life isn’t about regrets. We all do things, and maybe sometimes we wish we didn’t, but once something’s done, you can’t take it back. There’s no use worrying over it, no use having anxiety about different outcomes. Life happens how it happens, and fuck the rest.
Ironically, it’s my father I learned that lesson from.
*
I say my goodbyes to my half-sisters and my aunt the next morning. Zoey rides with me to the airport, and I’m worried she’s going to attempt to convince me once again to go see our father, but luckily she leaves the subject closed. Instead, we talk about my upcoming tour dates. She hugs me when we get to the airport, and then I’m on my way back to the City of Angels.
When I step into my house, it’s as empty as it was when I left it. I live in a three thousand square foot, three-bedroom condo with beach access in Santa Monica. The walls are white, the floors are gray, the furniture is black, and artwork is absent from the walls, which casts a cold feel over the place despite the warm beach views. It’s home, though.
I’m not one of those guys who never brings girls home, but it’s rare. Amber, though—she’s my regular friend with benefits—she knows where I live, and she must’ve gotten my text because the doorbell rings ten minutes after I’ve arrived back home.
“How was Chicago?” she asks when she walks through my front door.
I haul her up against me. “You didn’t come here for small talk.”
She laughs as she pushes me away. “No, you’re right. I didn’t. I came here for a big talk.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I ask. I thrust my hips in her direction to give her the big clue as to why I invited her over, not that there was ever any question about it. I lower my head and nip at her neck, something I’ve learned over time that she likes.
Instead of leaning her neck to the side to give me a better angle, though, she places both hands on my chest. She doesn’t push me away, but it’s a clear halting signal.
“I met someone, Ethan.”
I step back in surprise like she just zapped me with a stun gun. “You what?” I ask dumbly.
“I met someone, and as much fun as we’ve had over the past few years, I wanted to let you know it’s over.”
“No more benefits?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Just actual friendship.”
Fuck that. I don’t need more friends. “I’m happy for you, Amber. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to.”
“But I thought you invited me over so we could…” she trails off awkwardly. “You know.”
“I did. I figured we’d be quick and I’d just show up late, but I don’t think I want to be late.” I walk back to the front door and open it for her. “Take care.”
Her face falls, and I don’t know why it feels like someone just broke up with me since this has always been on my terms, just like everything in my life…but it does.
“Let’s talk soon, okay?” she says.
“Sure, babe. See you around.” I close the door behind her and lean against it for a second. If breaking off a friends with benefits situation leaves me with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, I can’t imagine what ending an actual relationship would be like. I think of my mother and father for a minute, about what it must’ve been like to go through a divorce. Even though my dad was a sorry excuse for a human, he still gave my mom two kids. They were married, so they must have had some good times together. There must have been some love there. It’s something I’ll always wonder about—questions I could get answers to if I’d just stop by the prison or even make a goddamn call, but I don’t want to.
And so I don’t.
Some questions are better left unanswered. I’m too busy to deal with stupid shit like jumping through hoops. I’m Ethan Fucking Fuller, and all these unfamiliar feelings filtering through my blood have got to fucking stop.
When I arrive at the Ashmark offices for our meeting, everyone’s waiting on me. By everyone, I mean the three other guys in the band, Penny, and Vick.
“Nice of you to show up,” Mark says snidely.
“Fuck off,” I say, my standard response when I’m scolded. “My flight just got in. How about thanks for being here instead of a lecture?”
“No lecture today,” Mark says. “We just went over the list of tour stops. Thirty-four shows in under sixty days.”
I whistle through my teeth. That’s a lot of fucking shows.
“We’ve got our set list,” he continues, “and I just want to go over it once more. I feel like something’s missing, like we need one more song for the encore.”
“Three is a substantial encore already. What if we have Maci Dane join us on stage for ‘One for the Road’?” I suggest.
All the heads in the room swing in my direction with varying degrees of shock and surprise in their eyes.
“What?” I ask, holding up my hands in defense. “She’s already got a following, and everyone knows that song.”
Mark looks up at me in wonder. “Holy shit, Fuller. That’s a great idea.”
“Love it,” Steve says, and James echoes his sentiment.
“Vick, make sure we have an extra mic for her. Let’s experiment on the first night and see if she even wants to do it,” Mark says. Vick takes a note down as a reminder. “We’ll spring it on her and see how it goes. I’ve also been thinking about a Vail-Dane collaboration. Thoughts?”
We all nod our consent. Multi-artist collaborations are hot right now, and taking on an already established artist for a collab is a great idea. We should’ve started on this sooner to create hype for the tour, but nearly every city on the tour sold out in the first few hours tickets were on sale.
Penny fills us in on interviews she’s scheduled in various cities, and Mark says, “Vick has our practice schedule for the next few days, and we’ll need to be in Vegas on the thirtieth. Any questions?”
Vick hands out hard copies of our schedules, all set to take place at Mark’s house, where he has a huge room dedicated solely to our practice sessions, complete with instruments already set up so we can just come over and jam, and then we all scatter to our own offices.
Penny knocks on my door just as I open my email.
“Can we chat?” she asks.
I roll my eyes at her, my standard greeting, and she laughs as she closes the door.
“A closed door?” I ask. “Must be serious.”
She sits across from me. “Where are you at on the idea of a solo album?”
She’s been on me to do something on my own for a while. I realize I’m lucky, that only one in a million gets this life, and I appreciate it by living the fuck out of it. I don’t have time to go solo. I barely have time to keep up with shit as it is.
I take a drag from a joint.
“Are you seriously getting high at work?” she asks.
“Don’t tell Mark. I don’t smoke before shows anymore. That’s something, isn’t it?”
It’s hard to catch a drumstick after I toss it up in the air when I’m baked.
That thought gives me an idea.
Flaming. Motherfucking. Drumsticks.
I make a mental note to talk to Mark about that for our upcoming tour.
She lets out a noise of frustration. “So the solo album?” she asks, trying to get back to the point of why she’s here.
I take a few more quick hits before I stub it out. “No, Pen. The answer is still no. Do you think Mark would like the idea of flaming drumsticks?”
“No.” She shakes her head dismissively as she often does at me. “I think he’d tell you you’re an idiot. Why is the answer still no?”
“Are you telling me I’m an idiot?”
She makes a face like yeah, that’s exactly what she’s telling me, and I glare at her.
“Look, Ethan. I need to soften your image a little.”
“Fuck that.” I roll my eyes.
“See what I mean?” She holds up a hand to indicate my response confirms her need to soften me.
“Why?”
“You’re being photographed all the time doing bad things, and I need something to show people there’s a heart in there.” She points to my chest.
“Good luck,” I say with a wicked grin. “There isn’t.”
“You’re alive, aren’t you? You’re breathing. And it’s not just that. I’ve been around long enough to tell you I’ve seen it. I know it’s in there.”
I don’t ask when because I know exactly when. She’s been with us since the beginning. She’s Mark’s second cousin, and for her college internship, she did free publicity for us before we dropped our first album. She’s been a true godsend, and she’s seen me through all the ups and downs—through raising my sisters, through losing my mom, through the women and the drinking and the near-overdoses. And she hasn’t just seen me through them—she’s covered my ass in the media more times than I can count, and I owe her a deep debt of gratitude. We all do, really.
With that thought, I walk around my desk and help her up from her chair. I give her a hug—a brotherly hug, because she’s off-limits even though if I had my way, I’d tap her until it’d hurt her ass to sit for a week. “I’ll think about it.”
She pats my cheek tenderly, in a very sisterly way. “Thanks, Ethan.”
“Now get the fuck outta here so I can get some work done.” I mock push her away from me.
She laughs. “I’ll leave when I get the answer I want to hear, asshole.”
I shake my head and chuckle at our standard nicknames for each other. “You’re such a cunt.”
She grins. “And that’s why you want it so bad.”
I roll my eyes. “In your dreams, Pen.”