Walking Heartbreak

by Sunniva Dee

  I shake her off. “Yeah, you—”

  “I totes messaged their tour manager on Facebook and told him Emil wanted me there. Sent him a pic too to jog his memory of our make-out session the last time Clown Irruption came through.”

  She’s all grins. It makes me smile too. “Let me guess. He didn’t remember you?” I joke, because who wouldn’t remember Zoe?

  “Right, uh-huh!” The giggle she emits comes from deep within her. It’s the kind of profoundly happy sound I used to make playing in the ocean with Jude. Or when he tickled me. When he teased me. When we ran off to Vegas to get married by the Beauty and the Beast in a tiny church.

  “Emil friended me on Facebook, you know.” If Zoe’s grin gets any bigger, I’m afraid her head might split horizontally and drop to the ground like a heel of bread.

  “And your status? ‘It’s complicated?’”

  “Ah you think you’re so funny. Wait…” She turns to the employee again. Accepts two tickets and holds them up victoriously next to a couple of black all-access stickers. “Score!”

  She’s contagious.

  “He loves you.” I’m smiling big too. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad to come along.

  “And I lust him!”

  A stocky guard with a blue button-up and Security sprawled over a breast—yes, breast—lifts his chin at my insistent friend. “I’m sorry, ma’am, the concert is about to start, and there’s no backstage access until after the show.”

  “No, listen to me. Just ask their manager. Emil wants me there. He needs me like air to prepare. I’m, like, his Prozac. Do you want this to be a lousy show for him because I’m not with him? Because you stopped his love from being at his side?”

  My cheeks heat with embarrassment at the scene Zoe’s making, complete with frantic hand gestures and puckered lips. Ninety percent of the time, she gets her way with her mixture of sex appeal and unwavering dedication. Tonight, she’s convincing as hell. So convincing, in fact, that I’m surprised when the guard doesn’t relent.

  We’re creating a line. People are huffing behind us, wanting to get to their seats inside. “Call Troll,” she insists.

  The man cups her elbow to usher her forward. “As I said, the concert is on in fifty minutes. If you’re not ready to enter, please step out of the line.”

  “‘Troll?’” I ask.

  She yanks free and grumbles as she moves forward. “Idiot. He could’ve gotten him on the phone. Yeah, they call the tour manager ‘Troll’ because apparently he’s Norwegian. Where trolls are from or something? And they turn into stone in the sun—which isn’t a good thing—because then they crack open and fall apart.”

  “Which… is relevant how?”

  “He doesn’t like the sun either. Troll doesn’t. The guy. Stupid-ass security guard. Watch though. We’ll get in.”

  Five minutes later, I slouch in a bright orange plastic seat that’s lined up between four hundred million others in a half circle. Zoe must have made an impact on cute-boy Emil because even I realize that, despite their generic appearance, we have particularly good seats. We’re first row, slightly to the left, and so close to the stage that I can see the sweat at the temple of one of the stagehands.

  Zoe deserts me. I groan as she hops the barricade to the ground floor of the arena and unceremoniously wedges herself in behind the sound desk. The youngest of the two men fiddling with buttons greets her with a polite nod.

  Annnd: let the Zoe-style persuasion ensue.

  I can’t watch her do this. Me, I tip toward introverted, and to witness my fearless, extremely extroverted friend go all out gesticulating, pointing to the stage, clutching her own heart, even mimicking Emil singing, is just… ah.

  The sound guy’s brows arch until they disappear under his bangs. Then he nods once and picks up his phone.

  There’s movement in my peripheral vision. Security. He passes me, descends the remaining few steps, and—great. It’s the guy from the door. Now he’s on floor duty? He grabs Zoe’s arm. She jerks herself free while the sound guy speaks on the phone. Security Nazi doesn’t give up. With calm assertiveness—of the kind that makes Zoe very mad—he guides her away and tucks her behind the barricades. To be sure, he leans his stocky, middle-aged behind against the bar dividing them.

  Zoe’s cheeks flame with anger as she stomps toward me. “Can you believe it? Old dude’s a complete moron. He needs to get a life!”

  “Indeed,” I say—she’s not paying attention anyway. She plops her butt on the chair next to me and chews off another layer of nail polish while she waits for the sound person to get off the phone. Once he does, he meets her gaze and breaks into a reassuring smile. Comes over, leans on the railing right in front of us, and says, “Troll’s coming for you.”

  “My Zoay!” Emil rasps out in a road-worn rock-singer pitch. “She’s the coolest chick!” he assures bandmates and a few others wearing black rock ’n roll T-shirts. One looks up from a guitar, mutters, “Hey, Zoay,” and digs back into his work, tightening strings and adding one that’s missing.

  “Where’ve you been since last year?” Emil asks.

  “Emeel.” Zoe draws his name out, long and intimate, the way she does when she puts effort into snagging a guy. “Working and stuff, you know. Saving for college.”

  “College? Bah. College is for pussies.”

  “You’re full of it, handsome,” my friend purrs. “Last time, your buddy told me you did the college dance already.”

  The singer’s eyes narrow with flirty intensity. He bites his lip then lets it go as he scans her body. “Oh really? I’m full of it? Come here.” He crooks a finger, beckoning her closer, and it’s like watching a cheesy, romantic comedy when Zoe saunters forward.

  A few minutes later, I’m even more uncomfortable. I remind myself that Zoe did introduce me (briefly) at one point. It could have been worse.

  In thirty minutes, we need to take our seats, and time seriously just snails by. Everyone else pops in and out of the dressing room as they get ready, while I’m stuck in Zoe-and-love-interest-land.

  Unfortunately, the boy-band-blond singer never covers up. The shirt I suspect is his remains draped over his chair. And Zoe has planted herself on his lap. They’re not kissing yet, but there’s a heck of a lot of nose-touching and murmuring into each other’s ear. Emil’s green eyes twinkle with humor at whatever Zoe says, and when he admonishes, “Oh Zoay, Zoay, Zoay,” and rocks her flush on top of his—

  Anyway, that’s when I take action.

  Zoe is remarkably observant. My hand barely curves around the door handle before she calls out, “Nadia, what’re you doing?”

  Sweat dews at the base of my neck. I can’t stay in this room. “Nothing,” I say. One of the waves she coiled down my chest won’t leave my eye. With two fingers, I push it over my shoulder with the rest of my hair, hoping it stays put.

  A hairband. Once I get to a restroom somewhere in this enormous basement, I’ll wring my purse inside out and find one. “I’ll grab our seats, okay? You come when you’re ready.”

  That does it. Zoe rockets off Emil’s lap and stretches a hand out for me like we’re in some Shakespearean play. “Nadia, no, wait up. I’ll go with you. Sorry, I promise—”

  She doesn’t get far because King Emil of Clown Irruption stands, hovering above her, and draws her back in against his chest. Suddenly two sets of eyes, round with childlike need for control, stare back at me.

  “Dude!” Emil exclaims, losing his Swedish accent on the one word. “I want you two to watch from the side. I’ll talk to Troll.”

  “Where, pumpkin?” Zoe swivels to meet his eyes. I can tell he has no idea what pumpkin means in this context but decides it’s not important.

  “On stage, Zee,” he says like it’s self-explanatory, and Zoe claps her hands.

  “See, Nadia? Emil’s gonna get us the best seats. Behind you
guys, right?”

  These two don’t know each other at all, and yet they’re eerily synced. They act as if life is simple, like they’re boyfriend and girlfriend—this is playground love at a slightly more mature level. Ha, the universe must be on an Emil-and-Zoe wavelength tonight, because what could be better than playground love?

  He nods against the top of her head. “Ja, to the side. Only the best for you.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Hey, I saw that,” my BFF says.

  “Zoe, I can’t stay here.”

  “Oh come on, Nadia, we’ll get to see everyone’s ass while they play. Don’t be a buzzkill.”

  “Oh wine.” Emil’s puppy-pretty features smoothen with his solution. “Duh, your friend wants to get sloshed. Wait, I’ll show you where the booze is.”

  He lets go of Zoe and aims at a side door.

  “No, Pump, she doesn’t. See Nadia, she’s just…”

  I hold my breath, afraid of what she’ll say. I breathe out, relieved when she finishes: “really hungry.” If only she’d stopped there. “Just look at her,” she adds. “She wasn’t always this skinny. It’s her husband’s fault.”

  “She’s married? How old are you?” he asks, eyes straight on me. I all but bash the door open at his next comment: “A little young to be married, don’t you think?”

  “It’s complicated, Emil. Do you have any food?” Zoe reaches me before I can exit, links my arm with her own, and pulls me back in. “Wait up… pretty please? For me?”

  “Ja! We totally have food. There’re pre-show deli trays in the other room with Bo. Next to the wine, by the way. You want wine, Zoay?” The last sentence he says low in the voice he probably uses on all his girls.

  “‘Ja?’” Zoe giggles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh yeah, it means ‘yes’ in my language.”

  “Swedish,” Zoe croons equally low, and I’m done. Out of here. Sadly, Emil is strong. He hooks an arm around my waist and snatches me back in.

  “Can you guys stop freaking handling me?” I burst out.

  Emil flings the side door open, grabs “Zoay” with his other hand, and all but pushes me in. “’Kay, so here’re the deli trays. Go crazy, Nadia. And the wine’s in there too, Zee, or do you want champagne? I’ll hunt down Troll. He’ll get us champagne if you want.”

  “Naw, wine’s good,” she says. I hear a loud smack then some suckling noises behind me. My urge to flee roars to an unprecedented level. I wish I’d been faster—I could have been in my arena seat by now.

  Twenty minutes until they get on stage.

  The room is even crummier than the former one. Dark, with peeling paint, it doesn’t embody the beautiful arena meeting you upstairs. A small table tilts on three legs against a wall, and two chairs balance, one on top of the other, at the end of it.

  On the opposite side… sits a man with a guitar.

  “Play nice, Bo, okay?” Emil warns him. “These are my guests. Zee-sweets, and Nadia, her friend. We’re grabbing the Jameson,” he adds about the only bottle of hard liquor. Then he tugs Zoe with him back out. The last I hear is my friend’s soft chuckling before my access to her slams shut.

  I don’t do strangers. Unless it’s work, I don’t talk with them, I don’t mingle, and I don’t interact. This isn’t work, and the stranger in front of me is intimidating. I feel his gaze slide over me, but the dark room makes it difficult to read his expression.

  Bo’s focus sinks to the guitar in his lap. His fingers begin to move, caressing metal strings gently. Short and measured, the notes breed until they form a fractured melody. It’s passionate, rich. Slowly, it fills the room.

  Black bangs fall in chunky tips over his forehead, obscuring his eyes. From the shadows, the angles of his face protrude in a firm chin and the peak of a bone above a sunken cheek.

  He plays love and solitude. Longing and sadness of the kind I don’t want to feel anymore. He strums the complexity of life on his guitar. I lean back, my hands falling open in my lap as I absorb the tapestry his notes weave.

  Strong fingers dominate the rhythm and level off the tempo. The volume fades with the slowing speed. His yearning wanes with it too, the shift in him jarring me. When the last raps on the strings reverberate out to the room, they’re objective, concert-quality professional but not pulsating with the ragged intensity he communicated before.

  Bo shuts off his music abruptly and mid-beat. It’s bereaving. Instinctively, I know he has a finished song in his head, that he’s not playing the rest. I want him to continue; he needs to fill the silence, because I can’t be a regular, polite person right now.

  I’m in a crummy room with three-legged tables, stacked chairs, booze, and premade deli trays. And there’s this man sitting here with me. He’s hiding, wanting to be left alone… and yet he played his heart out to me.

  “Hi,” he interrupts softly. The darkness concealing him eases as he sits up, revealing delicate features and pale skin. His cheekbones emerge from beneath hair that still droops low along his face like an anime character’s.

  I can’t form words. The fingertips on my left hand rise automatically, waving my acknowledgment.

  “It’s strange,” he murmurs, not taking my hand, not repeating our names. He does a subtle, fast shake of his head, getting rid of the spike hanging over his eyes. When they come into view, I blink against mid-winter frost irises, the grey so deep it sparks an ache at the center of my chest.

  “Music is everything.” His knuckles hit the wooden carcass of his guitar. A brief, hollow rhythm, sure beneath his fingertips, cuts the air. “Not notoriety, not being discovered by legends like Luminessence and invited on the road with them. Fans, fame—”

  He hums out his amusement, a tune, the choked, musical version of what-was-I-thinking. “Nothing is truer than a guitar. You know why it’s hollow?” he asks me, his stare glinting in the gloom around us.

  “No…”

  “It needs room to house the musician’s soul.”

  I swallow, and he laughs quietly. Fingers drum against the wood, move up and down, pulling muted calls of love back from the instrument.

  “You hear it?” he whispers but doesn’t wait for a response. Curving in over the guitar neck, he adjusts a knob and gives me a taste of his voice. I don’t recall how Emil sings, but Bo’s voice is smooth, a silky, rich and husky sort of sound that makes me swallow again. Halfway into the second bar, he interrupts himself with a chortle, and—God, I think, I hope he sings on stage too.

  “I hear you,” I respond, and a nugget of something forms close to my heart, because for me it’s rare to feel kinship. To understand.

  Suddenly the minutes breeze by fast. The darkness creeps away as Bo becomes more and more visible. Him—he does. Eyes arced with a need to share, he doesn’t tell me his stories. He sings them, knocks them out in rhythms against the guitar’s body, folding in soft laughs. Songs I’ve never heard, tunes he invents while he speaks. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, and it makes me forget. I listen—just listen—and I nod. His presence sucks me in, his beauty musician-strong and fragile at once, androgynous, urban yet primeval—I’m overcome with an urge to film him.

  Instinctively, I know he is what legends are made of. For the genius I sense in his music and for the charisma elevating him above regular people. Eternal personalities clip through my mind like in a kaleidoscope. Presidents, actors, rock stars. People who, simply by being in the room, claim your attention. Jimi Hendrix, Marilyn Monroe, Jim Morrison, James Dean. I’m no expert, but Bo is Kurt-Cobain material.

  I sense tragedy in Bo, and I hope it’s in the past. Not—not—in the now. I fumble with my camera app, trying to be subtle. It’s for me, not anyone else. I want to brand the imprint of this moment to a photo, make it last long after it has left me because I know about past moments. They don’t ever return.

  “Wha
t are you doing?” he asks gently.

  My heart skips. “Oh just looking up your songs.” My finger trembles. Shoots a single picture of him while my cheeks flush warm.

  “I’ll give you my songs,” he says. Bo sets his guitar on the floor, rises slowly, and zips a backpack open on the table. It’s the first time I see him without a guitar. Sharp shoulders with no padding rock as he retrieves a stack of CDs. His eyes aren’t on me, so I study him freely.

  He’s young, a few years older than me maybe, but the contour of a wrinkle already sits firm between his brows. He draws them together now while he searches for the right CD. Blows air out through his nose in a short, unconscious breath.

  The door flies open. Bo looks up, expression alert and grey eyes expectant. “Now?”

  Troll stands in the doorway, the silhouette of him against the fluorescent hallway light doesn’t reveal his face. “Yep, grab your shit. We’re on in five. Emil’s ready. And—hey.” He bobs his head at me.

  “Hey,” I reply.

  “Your girl—Emil says they’ll watch from the stage?” he says to Bo.

  “Ah right,” Bo improvises.

  “’Kay, it’ll be to the left, next to monitors. No seats though. You good with that?” he asks me.

  I nod quickly. A small rush of excitement hits me, like I’m the one going on stage. The tour manager ducks his head into the hallway to shout out orders and questions. I don’t hear the answers.

  “Here.” Bo slips me two CDs. Our eyes lock as our fingers meet, but then Troll returns, all attention on Bo.

  “Ready, man?”

  Bo holds a guitar up high. It’s not the wooden acoustic guitar he’s been playing. This one is black and electric. “Sure, boss.”

  In the hallway, Emil, Zoe, and two other guys wait for us. Zoe is under Emil’s arm, their mouths colliding between smiles and giggles. I guess once they started kissing in the dressing room, they never stopped. Zoe breaks free to call out, “Nadia, there you are.”

  “Go. Go,” Troll orders, and together we walk down one long, white concrete hallway, then another. Bo checks for me over his shoulder. When I’m slow around a corner, he stops and waits for me. Shifts his guitar over to his left hand so he can grab mine with the other.