Walking Heartbreak

by Sunniva Dee

  I let him.

  I’m not a rocker girl, but this alt-rock—indie-rock—whatever they call it, is different. I don’t remember much of the last time Zoe and I went to see Clown Irruption. It was at a small club on Sunset. That’s about all I recall because it coincided with a bad period of my life.

  Now that Emil is up front, Zoe clings to me instead. With an arm draped over my shoulder, she screams, “Check out his ass. Isn’t he just so yummy?”

  My eyes go to Bo. The way he cradles his guitar, strumming the first notes of a new song out into the audience. It’s sensual, a deep belief in what he’s doing second nature to every shift he does.

  “Not him, silly. Emil! Emil’s butt,” Zoe says.

  As if feeling my eyes on him, Bo turns his head enough to locate me. A small smile crooks his lip on one side.

  “You know, this is one good-looking band,” Zoe interrupts my stare fest. “Every one of them is, like, drop-dead delish. I mean, are all Swedish guys this sexy? None of their asses have a thing on Emil’s though, and guess what? It’s as thick and firm as it looks, girl. Hell yeah, and I know because I’ve grabbed that ass. Imma gonna grab it again too,” she brags, aware that the last thing I want is for her to launch into specifics.

  “Bo, why don’t you run with this one,” Emil rumbles out, making some girls at the front of the crowd launch into discordant squeals.

  Bo snorts into his microphone and peers at his bandmate. “You always pull this shit on me, Emil. One of these days it’ll work and you’ll be out of a job,” he murmurs. A smattering of laughter trickles through the audience.

  “I looooove youuuuu, Bo!” a single female voice shrieks. “Siiiiiiing it! Siiiiing Never Ever!”

  “Oh that sad-as-shit song?” Emil asks. Beside me Zoe giggles. Come to think of it, she’s been giggling a lot since we got to the arena.

  “Nah, he’ll never sing that one. Will you, sugar-pop?” Securing the mic stand with one hand, Emil rushes Bo’s space, stomping like he’s trying to squish a roach. Bo withdraws his foot last second, looking unperturbed by the mini-attack. These two have played games before, probably since before they became band buddies.

  Bo laughs softly. “Hey, you’re good at singing my pain. Go ahead, wallow. I mean, enjoy.”

  This is a mini-vacation from my life. I have a sunshine-bright kernel growing in my chest, right at the solar plexus, a feeling I haven’t experienced in eighteen months. Back then, the color of my existence switched from glistening gold to black. At present, my days are grey, but tonight, this kernel of something else gives me hope, and—it makes me feel guilty.

  Jude.

  I trail behind Zoe and the band off stage, down the stairs to the dressing rooms. She tries to remain behind with me at first, but Emil scoops her into the air, whooping with an endorphin burst I recognize because I used to experience it too.

  “Eww, you’re all nasty!” Zoe squeaks.

  “If sweat is nasty to you, how do you feel about sex?”

  Soul mates. No. Seriously.

  “Jesus,” their tour manager mutters to himself. “All right, guys. After-show pizzas coming in ten. Refill of beers and wine on the way.”

  “Troll, can you get us a bottle of champagne?” Emil asks sweetly. He sets puppy-eyes on the tour manager, which makes me guess he doesn’t always get his way with him.

  Troll stops and turns fully. “Emil. Did you mark champagne anywhere, I mean anywhere at all on the hospitality writer for this gig?”

  “No.” Emil tries to hold back an embarrassed snicker. “But in my defense, I didn’t know I’d have a sexy-ass girl visiting either.”

  “Don’t you always,” Troll mumbles too low for Zoe to hear. “Sure, not a problem.” I get the distinct feeling it is a problem when he continues louder, “This’ll come out of your per diem, all right?”

  Emil doesn’t take the hint though. “Awesome! Sure, put it on my tab. Champagne, babe,” he croons against Zoe’s ear.

  “Yum!”

  “Just don’t pull anything stupid on me.” Troll lumbers past the lead group and blocks the entrance to the biggest dressing room. “Meet-n-greet. Right here in the hallway since we’ve got no additional space without bothering Luminessence. Got it?”

  The guys chat among themselves.

  “I said, ‘Got it.’”

  There’s a murmur of weak agreement around us, which makes me smile. High school boys being bossed around by the gym teacher is my first thought. They pay him to boss them around?

  The drummer spews out beer, laughing at something the guitar-fixer-person says.

  “And Troy? Clean up after yourself. Your mom doesn’t work here. Crazy fan-girls will be here in…” Troll checks his watch. “Forty minutes. Should give you more than enough time to eat and—get drunk.” The last part he sighs out.

  “Bo. And you too, Emil. The chicks are here for you. Give them some TLC.”

  Emil wiggles his ass and forms boobs with his hands over his chest, while Bo remains serious.

  “Dork,” Zoe says. “They don’t come for your boobs.”

  “Oh great. Another opinionated addition,” Troll mutters. “Pow.” He holds an imaginary gun to his head before he moves on. When he disappears to berate someone who’s in the wrong dressing room, Zoe whispers, “Troll, huh?”

  The drummer chuckles. “Yeah, because he is one.”

  “Dude, it’s early,” Zoe says, but I need to go home. She’s so happy though, glued to Emil’s side even as he charms the fans coming in for autographs. I sink back a little, out of the crowd, but not far enough to make Zoe search for me.

  People act like Clown Irruption is huge. If it weren’t for Zoe, I’d have never heard of them. Last year the club they played on Sunset was tiny—which according to Zoe means nothing. Apparently even famous bands like to scale down at times and play stripped versions of their shows for an intimate audience.

  When I look at Bo, I see a different man than on stage. A much different person than the one who wrung his soul open in the dressing room before the concert.

  This man is private and guarded. Stance studiously relaxed, his hands nestle deep in his pockets as if trying to hide what he can. He tips his head back, laughing softly at a silly comment from a fan gushing over his talents. Mostly they gush over his looks. Straight to his face. Do they have no pride?

  A girl touches him. Another fumbles for his arms to pull him into a hug. For one uneasy second, I think he’ll snub her, but then he relents, drops his hand from his pocket, and accepts a one-armed embrace.

  The backstage-pass VIP group isn’t large. Twenty minutes in, Emil is roaring with laughter, while Bo’s eyes turn darker by the second. My watch says ten thirty, not at all late. How long is this “party” going to last? Intuitively, I know Bo won’t break. He seems too controlled to storm off—or snap at the girl pressing herself against him right now.

  I’m quietly outraged. Shouldn’t someone step in? At least get them to quit touching him when he so clearly doesn’t want it? I flick a glance at Troll, who’s entertaining a few fans or friends. They’re older, maybe from the music business, nothing like the three teenaged girls corralling Bo like he’s a puppy in a pet store.

  I check out Emil’s situation again. Yes, the girls are there too, but Emil’s personality seems to feed off the situation. In addition, Zoe acts as an unintentional buffer.

  From my seat on top of a table, I slide off and step toward Bo. His peripheral vision finds me, his gaze descending on me before returning to the girl who we now know almost fainted watching him greet the audience at the last concert.

  I’m not sure what my plan is. Oh right, Zoe’s behind him with Emil; I’ll go tell her I’m leaving. I’ll just cab it home alone.

  “All good?” I ask as I pass Bo.

  He turns to me, breaking the circle he’s trapped in. “Yeah
. You want a beer?”

  And against myself, I say, “Yes.”

  NADIA

  Zoe joins me when I leave. It surprises me because it’s not even midnight. The tour manager has just ushered the last fan out of the venue, and the band is being politely chucked out by staff. Apparently, they’ve overstayed their welcome, and judging by the grumbled curses from Troll, it’s a band habit.

  “Guess what? Emil and Bo live in town,” Zoe says, flaking black polish off a nail. Within a day and a half, it’ll all be gone. Sometimes I wonder why she paints them at all. I point at her left front tooth, which now looks like it’s got cartoon-style cavities. She rubs with a fingertip, but ends up whipping a mirror out of her purse and gets rid of it that way. “And they’re off tour for a week. We’re meeting them tomorrow.”

  She sniffs and stares out the cab window like it’s her job to rule my schedule.

  “You—? Nuh-uh. Don’t include me in these things, Zoe.”

  “What? Like you have anything better to do. How long has your life been on standstill, Nadia? Is it going to get any better unless you—you—take action?”

  “Zoe!”

  We have the same damn cab driver. What are the odds? He’s turning up the music again, and this time it’s reggae.

  I don’t want to have this conversation. I do not.

  “You never look at anyone the way you looked at Bo tonight, Nadia. Admit it: you’re fascinated. You didn’t take your eyes off him through the entire after-party.”

  “Really? You’ve never seen me look at someone like that? Try Jude,” I yell. “My. Husband.”

  “Exactly—not since your husband was good for you!”

  I breathe hard. This is a lot even from Zoe. The damn reggae roars from the speakers in the front. It distorts, adding to the showdown Zoe wants to keep me in.

  “Just leave it alone,” I sigh.

  “No. Because I love you. We’re best friends, Nadia—we’ve been through a shit-ton together, and you’re stuck with my crazy ass for life, all right?”

  I cover my mouth to stop my chin from quivering. “Just don’t push me.”

  Her arms go around me and pull me close. She cradles my head against her like I’m little. Today had been good, but here I go, unable to stop the tears from leaking out again. Every day. Every, every day.

  “You had fun. I saw it. Will you lower the damn music!” she shouts at the driver. He turns it down infinitesimally. “More! Asshole.” She mutters the last part, knowing he’d probably toss us out right here, in downtown L.A., if he heard.

  “Girl, I’m not sure what made you glow tonight, but something did, and I think it had to do with Bo. I don’t care if it was something he said, or if you’re being shallow and getting off on how eerily beautiful he is.”

  “Zoe—”

  “No, listen: I just want you to forget a little bit. Lose the gloom, baby, like you did in there. Tomorrow won’t be a date, okay? We’ll just hang out.”

  I’m quiet as we pull onto my street, contemplate her suggestion. I could come with and be her chaperone. Yeah right. There’s no chaperoning Zoe.

  “We’re going to the park in plain daylight, Nadia. No candlelit dinner on a rooftop. You and Bo can watch us dry-hump on a blanket. No, kidding!” she adds when I groan and wiggle free of her embrace. “Imma gonna kiss him tho. Kisses are fine, right?”

  I hold back a smile at her silly monologue.

  “You and I. And two pretty boys in the park. Feeding ducklings. And flying kites. We’ll buy breadcrumbs for the crazy geese. They’re so dangerous!” she adds to bring my smile out all the way.

  “Oh stop,” I say, pursing my lips to hold back; I don’t think I can stomach an over-the-top victory gloat from my friend tonight if I give in.

  At my doorstep, she offers to sleep over. I’m not sure why. For me this is late, and I need my husband—alone. I want the past with him, the memories. I want to block out our future because I’d rather not deal.

  His parents come by once a month for dinner at some fancy place to make me feel better. I love them, but what can they do besides dole out money? Now they dole out money. Now, now they do. I wish they did before.

  I leave the light off when I let myself in. The neon sign across the street bathes the living room in an alien glow. The neighbors must be asleep, because it’s silent in here. So silent. Too silent.

  I swallow as I sit down and pull my feet in under me on the seat meant for lovers like us. I cross my legs and push two fingers against my eyes. I wish he were here instead of across from me. Wives are supposed to be in their husbands’ arms.

  “Do you know how much I love you?” I ask, not expecting a reply and not getting one. Heck, he knows.

  My forever, my baby.

  Under his gaze, I grab matches and light the three fresh tea lights, a citrusy scent instantly infusing the air.

  “You’d traveled so far that day. From San Francisco and aaaall the way down to sweet little Payne Point, leaving everything behind because of your bad choices.” I smile at the story he told me years ago. He’d been part groaning adolescent, part thankful that his dad had been so insistent:

  “I have an addictive personality, Nadia,” he’d said, grinning as his fingers traced my belly button. Half-heartedly, I’d pushed them away.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Drugs, you know. Just marijuana, but then they found me with something harder in my pocket.”

  “Crack. Before you’d even tried it.”

  “Yeah. The old man. Damn, he was on me.” He chuckled, and I sat up in my bed, tall enough to kiss him. We had our ways, Jude and I, even with my grandparents around, to claim the intimacy we both craved. “Yep, Dad locked me up, called his secretary, who pinged a moving company and rented us a house. Whoosh, three days later, we were out of there. Mom and I—that look you say we had on our faces when we came into the church? Let’s just say it’s not every day you get thrown into a car and hauled off forever.”

  “And now?” I asked. “Are you a total drug addict?” I bit my lip in anticipation because over the last six months, his answer had been exhilarating variations of the same response.

  “Yeah, even Payne Point has drugs. My drug of choice is called ‘Nadia.’ It’s in ready supply—”

  I swatted him. “Shut up!”

  “—and I’m the only one who gets any. Mm-hmm, your village is okay.”

  Since I was thirteen, I’ve loved this man. Now, I look over the candles and deep into those sweet, blue, dear eyes I’ve stared into for eight years. “There’s no one like you.”

  The loss of my family still paralyzed me when my paternal grandparents took me from my country. At seven years of age, a new world met me, wide, affluent, and incomprehensible. I saw cornucopias in Payne Point, an abundance I did not know existed, and the world spoke a language I did not understand.

  My grandfather chose Payne Point, Southern California, for his elder brother, the erector, owner, almighty ruler of the Heavenly Harbor, an old bachelor who spent his energy on literal interpretations of the Bible.

  I suddenly had a new uncle in Tío Rafael, one I had not known about. As the months passed, “Tío Rafael” disappeared in favor of “Elder Rafael,” and “Grandmother” and “Grandfather” gave way to “Mother” and “Father,” because they were there, while Mom and Dad were not.

  The first year in Payne Point was drenched with tears, but Elder Rafael preached of accepting the will of the Lord. Small sins came with big punishments. Good Christians repented, he said, while my child heart clearly did not. And so I learned. Stopped confessing my grief. And I tinned my sadness until it transformed into guilt.

  During the first summer, neighbor girls my age afforded me temporary reprieve. My grandparents were wary but allowed me to play. In the ways of children, my new friends chattered, assuming I understood t
heir curly words, asking questions and answering themselves when I couldn’t reply.

  In those sixty days of summer heat, I learned English. In another month, I found sanctuary from my guilt at the public elementary school.

  Mother would walk me to class from Elder Rafael’s house where we lived. I’d subdue my excited-yet-anxious smile, while Mother’s frown fixed me until the school gates slammed her out. Every day she returned before the bell rang, and she squeezed my hand the whole way back home.

  The first years, Mother allowed me to play with the neighbor kids several times a week. Then playtime was limited to Saturdays. By the time I was ten, the congregation of the Heavenly Harbor had grown enough for Elder Rafael to open a school, and I was among the first enrolled.

  I didn’t mind going in the beginning. I had not been provided the luxury of nurturing friendships at the public school, and at the church, I knew the children.

  At the age of ten, I spoke Spanish and English. I kept my sins to myself. And, like in Buenos Aires, I played with other children—during the breaks between classes. For a while, life was okay.

  I love these moments before I’m fully awake. Sleep-soaked and confused, I’m happy.

  “I had the best dream,” I murmur. I extend an arm and gather Jude beneath me. “You were in it. We were— Remember our first time?” His side of the comforter sinks under my fingers. I pat it. He’s not there.

  I roll back, heaving a leaden eight-o-clock sigh. I remember now; it’s Saturday, and Zoe and I are both off from work. We’re going to the park. Nothing crazy. Just bringing kites and spending time with friends, with—

  Bo.

  I don’t like how I felt with him last night. His grey eyes smattered with small silver speckles, they kept my mind busy. A too-familiar sensation of guilt seeps in at the thought.

  People change when they love and lose. They gain soul, they gain depth, and their colors glow richer without being louder. Bo harbors a sadness I know well, only he doesn’t wear it like me. For him, his sadness is a means and a remedy, the stories he told me already lyrics in the making. Bo, I realize, is a lover who has lost.