Licks

by Kelly Siskind

  Drink clutched in one hand, I found my guitar pick with my other, deep in my pocket. I pressed the edge into my thumb and waited for him to go on.

  “Thing is, I was always one step behind you. Not as strong on the soccer field. You aced high school without even trying. You were a freak of nature with your guitar. And there I was, always known as August’s brother. The other twin. You don’t know what that was like, but it’s a shitty reason to do what I did. I knew how brutal taking my SATs would be for you. I knew you’d lose your mind over me and Gwen. And hurting her in the process destroyed me. It made me realize I needed to grow up and own who I was. I can’t change what I did. I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry for a thousand things, but I miss my brother and I’d like to have him back.”

  I couldn’t deny missing him. Our innate connection couldn’t be duplicated—laughing at the same jokes, trading a look without having to speak, the comfort of him being in my corner. I’d also been jerked around by promoters over the years, had had issues with my record label. Finch was in the business, knew the ropes. I’d needed someone to talk to, someone I could trust.

  I’d needed him.

  Still, I’d held back from reaching out, nursed my grudge instead. He was right, though. There was no going back. Only forward. What he did had sucked. Holding onto my anger sucked more. “You know what’s really messed up?” I said.

  “Aside from the fact that the girl you wrote hate songs about was looking at you downstairs like you were a blue jelly bean?”

  Her favorite candy as kids. I rubbed my overheating neck. “She looked at me like that?”

  He chuckled. “Dude, you’ve always been blind where Gwen’s concerned.”

  The buzz that filled me burned hotter than my next sip of Scotch. “Trust me, I know. What I don’t get is both you and Gwen resented me on some level as teens. She felt like I made her my charity case, and you obviously had it in for me. I just don’t remember being overly cocky about soccer, music. Any of it. Enough to make you guys feel like shit.”

  “You think the sun notices when it outshines the moon?”

  “Are you writing lyrics now?”

  “You can fuck off. But think about it. Life was good to you. You never struggled. It taints your perception, makes you less aware of what others are going through.”

  I slammed my glass on his filing cabinet, harder than necessary. “I was nothing but aware of Gwen’s situation. I did everything I could to help her through it.”

  He swayed his head side to side, unruffled by my aggressive stance. “Yes and no.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You offered her your quick fixes—the things that made you happy, because you excelled at them. You taught her guitar, but played better than her. You let her win at soccer, and she knew it. You helped her study, because she learned slower than you. Of course she felt like your charity case.”

  “So I was supposed to suck at things?”

  “For a smart guy, August, you’re pretty dense.”

  I bit down on my molars. “Then dumb it down for me, Einstein.”

  “Gwen had to find her answers, the things that made her happy. Like I needed to step out of your shadow and be my own man. It’s not your fault. We were kids. We had to grow up and figure out who we were.”

  “And that makes it okay to steal the girl I loved?”

  “No, man…no.” He hung his head.

  I swore under my breath. We’d seesawed from strained apologies to reminiscing to tense again. We might both be ready to make amends. Didn’t mean the road would be easy.

  “Look,” he said, “you did you back then, and I reacted in a shitty way. Gwen drowned in her self-pity. We all had issues. And the reason you plummeted off the deep end after I slept with her, besides the obvious, was because you’d never had to deal with…well, anything. Nothing was ever hard for you.”

  I crossed my arms, glared at the maroon carpet between us. Going off the deep end was an understatement. For a guy who’d cruised through school and sports, dropping out of college and escaping to Europe had been beyond rebellious. Our folks had lost their minds, begged me to come home and talk to them, a counselor, anyone. I spoke with them eventually, could never erase them from my life, but everything had lost its meaning.

  The easy life I’d enjoyed had lost its luster.

  I guess I hadn’t known disappointment back then, the setback of coming in second, third, anything but first. Fuck. Had I really been that big of a prick?

  Forcing my good fortune on Gwen, like that would make her happy, probably emphasized what she didn’t have. What she couldn’t do. All she’d ever wanted was my heart, and I’d tried to solve her problems instead.

  “I’m doing it again with her,” I said, dazed and clear at the same time.

  “Doing what?”

  “I leave for Germany Monday morning, and she keeps freaking out about it, won’t get too close to me. I’m a mess over it, but I know we can make it work. We have to make it work. So I keep telling her not to worry, that we’ll figure it out. But I guess that’s me taking control again. Making her—us—my project. I haven’t even asked her what she wants to do.” I tried to swallow, but my saliva thickened. “I can’t lose her, Finch. She’s…just…I can’t go through this again, not after being with her. What do I do?”

  His dark eyebrows winged upward. “You’re asking my advice?”

  His surprise almost made me laugh, something I hadn’t done with Finch in an eternity. It was odd to be with him, angry one second, leaning on him the next. Searching for my twin under nine years of unyielding grudges. He was there, though. He was in front of me, asking my forgiveness. Blocking him out had only embittered me.

  “You know her. You seem to know me better than I know myself.” Even though we’d barely spoken. Finch could always see right through me. “So, yeah—I’m asking for your help. Begging for it, actually.”

  He assessed me, a deep stare that lingered, then he grinned. It wasn’t the easy grin I’d once known, but there was hope in it, thankfulness. It breathed life into my deadened arteries, beating the hardened section of my heart back to life.

  “I appreciate that,” he said, “more than you’ll ever realize. And I know just the thing to do.”

  Gwen

  So focused on the journal, I jumped when Finch settled onto the barstool beside me. He studied the diary. “Must be a good book.”

  A surprising page-turner. I was only halfway through because I’d slowed down. Instead of skimming for clues, I’d read Mary Hamilton’s words carefully, hanging off each one, desperate to learn how I’d been conceived, if she’d sensed betrayal from her man. Another woman in his life. I hadn’t even noticed the band on stage, six guys with a country-rock vibe. Plaid shirts. Beards. Hipsters with a twang and a horn section.

  I pointed to Finch’s scruffy face. “You’d blend in on stage.”

  He massaged his beard. “Makes the talent feel comfortable. I’ll be sporting a mohawk and nose ring for next week’s gig.”

  “You’d look ridiculous with a nose ring.”

  “I’m insulted and offended.” His cheeky smirk said otherwise.

  “You can insult me back. Take your best shot.” Punishment I deserved. Anything to assuage the guilt that had been chasing me since August had revealed the extent of our betrayal. Finch’s fault, largely. That didn’t absolve me of my part.

  Finch tipped up his chin, considering me. “That frilly blouse you wore for all our grade-school class pictures? That abomination burned my retinas.”

  “Which is why I had it incinerated.” The flowered nylon travesty haunted me to this day. “Your neon high-tops broke every fashion law imaginable.”

  “You took your Green Day love to loser levels.”

  “Your soccer jersey phase would have been fine if you’d washed it from time to time.” I fanned my nose.

  “That jersey was the shit.”

  Sitting here,
joking like old times, was the shit. It was also a distraction that didn’t change the past. I sighed and shook my head. “I’m sorry, Finch. For everything that went down. I used you that night. I was lonely, and I wanted to hurt August, two reasons that shouldn’t have ended with us in bed.”

  He ran his tongue over his teeth. “No, they shouldn’t have. But I was just as shallow. I didn’t think so at the time, really thought I’d been in love with you, but I was in love with the idea of you. I wanted what August couldn’t have.”

  The revelation winded me. “So we used each other? To hurt him?”

  “We were quite the pair.”

  The band finished a song, applause and whistles filling the room. I didn’t glance away from Finch. My regrets over what we’d done to August lived permanently behind my breastbone. It also irked me, what Finch had asked of August, falsifying his SATs. But moving on meant accepting our mistakes. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

  “Only if I am, too.”

  I pressed my hand to his thigh. Not a sexual gesture. It was grounding, a tether to our past. Hopefully one to our future, too. “Did you guys talk? Work things out?”

  “Mostly. It’ll take a bit to really move on, but we took the first steps. Like you guys did.”

  August and I had taken more than a step. We’d taken a running leap, and I still hadn’t landed. I searched the dimly lit room, no sign of him anywhere. “Where is he?”

  “Taking his next step.”

  Before I could ask what that meant, the voice that had filled my stereo and iPod the past nine years flowed through the speakers.

  August was on stage, mic at his lips as he settled on a stool and introduced himself. The other band members filed off. I held my breath. I’d watched August on YouTube, had listened to each of his albums on repeat. Never had I seen him live on stage, spotlights sharpening his cheekbones, shadows darkening his eyes.

  My broody, sexy man.

  “I’ve had kind of a wild day,” he said as he plucked at the guitar strings, tuning it, learning the instrument. It had always been second nature to him. Like breathing. I’d enjoyed guitar because it was something I could do with August. He’d loved it because it was his oxygen.

  “The kind of day,” he went on, eyes downcast, random notes strummed, “that knocks you on your ass. Reminds you what’s important in life. Teaches you you’re dumber than you realize.”

  The crowd laughed. A nervous sound bubbled out of me.

  He lifted his gaze then, his eyes black from this distance. He stared right at me. “This one’s for the only girl who ever mattered.”

  The emotional distance I’d been struggling to maintain thinned. I wanted to be at the front of the stage, tossing my bra at his feet, slinging my underwear at his face. I wanted to be his groupie and his girlfriend.

  Then he strummed the opening to “Girl with the Black Heart.”

  Now I wanted to light the stage on fire. “What the fuck is he doing?”

  Finch looked horrified. “Not what I told him to do.”

  I punched his shoulder, because I couldn’t punch August. “Does he think he’s being funny?”

  Finch rubbed his arm. “I think he’s lost his mind.”

  Oh, he was going to lose his mind, all right. I’d shake him until he couldn’t form a freaking sentence. My nails bit into my clenched palms, sweat gathering under my bangs. I was going to kill August Cruz and his not-funny sense of humor. How could he think I’d enjoy this? Or was he trying to end things before they got too complicated? Hurt me the way I’d hurt him, gloriously, publicly.

  August sang the opening to his hate song, unwavering attention on my face. After the first chorus, people began glancing at me. There was no mistaking August’s focus and who the lyrics described.

  She turned my world black

  Darkness spewed from a liar

  The only way to seek light

  Was to light her shadow on fire.

  Shame seared my throat. Energy drained from my limbs. It hurt worse than the first time I’d heard the hateful lyrics, and regret reared its ugly head.

  There was hurt in August’s raspy voice, but it wasn’t resentful hurt, like when he’d lit into me at my mother’s. That long-overdue confrontation had been ripe with bitterness. This was different—softer, plaintive—similar to our small fight here, at the bar. Because I’d held him at a distance, like always. Scared to hold on. Scared to love and lose.

  Guess I hadn’t changed much since my pathetic teen years.

  “I’ll fucking kill him,” Finch whispered.

  He should have directed his aggravation at me.

  I’d forced August’s hand. We had less than two days together, and I fought us every step of the way, giving him my body, not my soul. If this was him ending things now, because I couldn’t offer him that chance, trust him with my heart, the fallout could be catastrophic. The type of regret that led to losing the music from your world. Sucking the dance and color from your life. Even so, I wasn’t sure I could give him what he wanted: all of me.

  The song shifted, the chorus changing from the one I’d memorized. I frowned. Then I bit my lip.

  She turned my world black

  Because she owned my heart

  A connection deeper than forgiveness

  The kind that brings a fresh start

  He’d rewritten the next stanza, too, singing of his blindness, his stupidity, his regrets. August’s lyrics were always simple. His voice set him apart. The deep rasp crooned with such emotion the listener couldn’t help but be swept away.

  The final chorus threatened to shatter me.

  I’m hers to break or fix

  A timepiece of fragile parts

  My hour always set to her

  The girl who owns my heart

  “Wow,” Finch said.

  That wasn’t wow. That was everything.

  August’s gaze was fierce, locked on me. I couldn’t look away. Maybe I could do this, be with him while apart. Climb that gnarly wall of fear, a treacherous drop below, and trust I was strong enough to make it. Maybe.

  A roadie took his guitar. August leapt off the front of the stage, took one step toward me, but fans reached for him, wanting to shake his hand, pat his back. Two women hung at his side, too close for my comfort. One whispered in his ear. The other swished her hair from side to side, fluttering her eyelashes.

  That was my man. That song had been mine, angry lyrics and all.

  Who do they think they are?

  Except he wasn’t mine. This was his life, a startling glimpse of the tours and shows and hungry women. A life oceans apart from mine.

  My saliva turned hot and sour, pooling in my mouth. I grabbed my journal and purse, but paused and faced Finch. “Can we go for coffee sometime? I’d like to catch up.”

  He tapped his fingers on the bar top, considering me. “Sounds great. I’m sure the past nine years could fill at least an hour of coffee time.”

  And then some. “Also, my birthday is tomorrow.”

  “You think I don’t know that date?” His raised eyebrow held an air of rebuke.

  “I guess it’s kind of hard to forget.” The anniversary of our epic bad decision would go down in history. “Anyway, as awkward as it might be, I’m going out with August and friends and would love for you to come.” For us to fully move on, not agree to a coffee encounter that might never happen.

  He deflated slightly. “I’d actually love to, but I have plans. Also might be too soon for August and me.”

  His genuine disappointment meant as much as if he’d said yes, another part of my past knitting together. I kissed his bristly cheek. The impetuous move surprised him, judging by his slight jolt, but he smiled in earnest.

  I could barely see August now, flanked by bodies. He pushed up, probably on his tiptoes, and nodded at me. A move to explain his delay. I understood, but I didn’t like it. Waiting for him, being a hanger-on in his outer circle, wasn’t appealing. “Let him know I’m outside,”
I told Finch.

  Without another glance, I worked my way to the door. Fresh air was needed, along with a juicy hotdog. Food. Oxygen. Space from August and his perfect hate-love song that had me wanting to tear back into the club and drag him away from his harem of admirers.

  In the end, I didn’t have to. Footsteps pounded behind me as I crossed the street. August’s voice followed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  I kept moving, didn’t face him. “You were busy.”

  “I was trying to get to you.”

  It was true. He had nodded to me. He hadn’t cared for those women. Not tonight, at least. I put on a brave smile, pulled up my big girl panties, and reached for his hand.

  12 a.m., 24 Hours…

  August

  Instead of leading us to her car, Gwen bee-lined for the hotdog stand opposite the club, her short steps so quick I had to jog slightly to keep up. She glanced over her shoulder, leveling me with nothing but a smile. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  I was about to tell her I was hungry for her lips and her body, for the soft patch of perfection between her thighs, but there was an edge to her voice, a tightness to her smile.

  Because I’d royally screwed up.

  Play her a love song, Finch had said. Tell her how you feel the best way you know how.

  I’d walked on stage, intending to do just that. Pour my feelings into lyrics. Then the lights had mellowed. The venue I’d always wanted to play had come into focus, and a sense of rightness had crested me.

  Destiny.

  Finch and I were on our way to mending fences. The woman of my dreams had been staring at me, stars in her eyes, hesitation flickering, too. I understood then, what needed doing. There was something about coming full circle, traveling every inch of our history, rather than flying over the ragged terrain. It meant more to sing the pain, the remorse, the hope. It meant more to live each sonorous note, the deep, resonant sounds moving through me. It was the only way to show her I’d moved on. That now, finally, I was ready to put her first.