Twisted in You

by Fabiola Francisco

  “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Mikayla.”

  “It’s great to meet you, as well. Tyler mentioned you when I last saw him.”

  “He’s not home.” I instantly regret it, not wanting her to feel as if she’s not welcomed in her son’s house. “I mean, he’s still at work.”

  “Of course he is. That boy can’t follow a schedule for the life of him. He told me to meet him here so we can go to dinner. Doesn’t surprise me he’s running late.”

  “You can come in.” I open the door wide for her to enter. “He didn’t tell me, so I apologize for my initial reaction.”

  “You don’t need to. I would be hesitant to open the door to a stranger as well.” I nod. “Maybe we can get to know each other while he gets here.”

  “Okay.” I watch her smile. You would never guess this woman lived through an abusive relationship. Her eyes crinkle with kindness, and she walks smoothly into the house. I wonder if she knows that I know. What exactly did Tyler tell her about me? I don’t think he is the type of person to share my personal stuff with someone, even if it is his mom.

  We take seats in the living room, and I wait for her to speak, admiring her demeanor. I don’t know how to make small talk, let alone in a situation like this.

  “Would you like something to drink? Water, tea, coffee?” I ask her.

  “No, thank you. I’m okay for now. How are you adjusting to living here?”

  “I’m adjusting. It’s easier.” I don’t want to give away too much, but I assume she at least knows I met Tyler in Chasing Freedom.

  “That’s good. I’m glad my son has someone here with him. After all he’s been through, having a support system near him will help him. I’ve asked him so many times to slow down on the drinking. Nothing makes me happier than to actually see a change in him. That boy is stubborn, but he’s a good man.”

  “You raised him well.”

  “I don’t know about that. Where are you from?”

  “I’m from Georgia. A smaller town named Gainesville.”

  “It must be beautiful.”

  I shrug. “I guess.”

  We talk some more, and it’s clear she doesn’t know much about me when she asks if I visit my parents often. I keep it simple by telling her they passed. Technically, it’s the truth. For all I know, my biological father is dead.

  Abby is a sweet woman, and I can tell she lives a happy life. Hats off to her for overcoming what she lived through.

  My head snaps up when I hear the door open. Tyler walks into the living room and smiles widely at his mom.

  “Hey, Mom. Sorry I’m late.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I should know better, but I was able to meet Mikayla.” She smiles warmly my way. My returning smile isn’t as carefree as hers, but I hope it’s as nice.

  “Great. Yeah . . . sorry, Red, I should have told you she was coming over. I thought I’d make it here before her.” He shrugs apologetically.

  “It’s okay.” I stand to leave them alone.

  “Would you like to go to dinner with us?” Abby asks.

  “No, thank you. You two go. I have a few things to catch up on.”

  “You can come with us,” Tyler says.

  “I know, but you go spend time with your mom. It was great meeting you, Abby.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.”

  I go upstairs and into the art room, pouring paint into the palette and shutting off the world as I express myself through my art.

  “Mikayla seems like a nice person,” my mom says as she gets into her car.

  “She is,” I confirm, but leave it at that.

  “You like her,” my mom teases.

  “Really?” I roll my eyes. “I’m not some silly teenager, Mom.”

  “I know, but you’re still my son. I saw the way you looked at her.”

  “Whatever.” It doesn’t matter what I feel for Red, it’ll never happen. I can’t ruin what we have now. If I say one thing wrong, it will be awkward living together, or worse, she’ll leave. I can’t risk her leaving. I can’t risk her not being in my life.

  I will hold on to her as long as I can, even as friends. I can wish and pray she heals to the point where she can be with someone. Since my mom doesn’t know what Mikayla has lived through, I can’t quite explain it to my mom.

  “Don’t whatever me. Don’t make excuses, either. Would it be so bad to settle down with a nice girl? All those easy groupies will bore you after a while.”

  I shut my eyes for a few seconds and breathe. Besides the lack of want for a groupie, part of my recovery is not hooking up with random women or placing myself in situations that will lead to drinking. Partying with a groupie is not a good idea. They love to mix alcohol, drugs, and sex. Right now, I need to stay clean.

  “I know that, but Mikayla has gone through a lot and she doesn’t need someone pushing her for a relationship.”

  “Yeah, I saw her scars,” my mom whispers.

  That’s not even half of her struggle, but I don’t tell my mom that. Not your story to tell.

  “I think it’s great you both have each other to lean on. I want you to get your life back on track. It’s been too long since you’ve been you. I’m starting to see a glimpse of the person you are. But tonight is about me spending time with my son and catching up with his life, not spending time or energy with the past.”

  “Okay.”

  We get to a restaurant in Downtown Nashville that my mom has loved since she was younger and grab a table. I lower my cap over my face to keep my identity discreet and so I can have a peaceful dinner with her.

  We talk about my idea for the new album, my return to the label and my upcoming tour. My mom has always been supportive of me, and she is the one who always made sure I would receive music lessons. It’s because of her that I have gotten so far, and I give thanks for her every day.

  Reality is, that even when I lost my way, my mom would be there to try to get me back on track. I wasn’t always kind to her, but she never gave up on me. I guess that’s what the love of a parent is supposed to be like. She was dealing with her own shit, my dad’s death, and a drunken son, who would make a mess out of things and have a reputation in the media for it.

  It feels good to spend some time with her after being locked up in Chasing Freedom. It also feels good to have a sober conversation with her.

  I look around the restaurant and count how many tables have some sort of alcoholic beverage. Ninety percent of the people are having a drink. I try not to stare too much, but it’s not easy watching others drink and then stare at my water. The flavors don’t compare and the effects are non-existent with water.

  But, I no longer need the effects. I need to look into those groups Grace told me about and add them into my schedule. If I do it for anyone besides myself, I will do it for my mom and the pride she’s looking at me with.

  Despite offering her to stay at my house, she refused, saying she didn’t want to alter any routines.

  “Tyler.” My mom cups my cheek and smiles. “You are so good. Your heart is good. Believe that and believe you deserve someone to love you.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I give her a kiss on the cheek and wait for her to drive off before I walk into my house. I know I deserve love. I accept her love and love her back. Am I what Red needs? I’m not sure I can be.

  Taking a deep breath, I open the heavy, wood doors of the church. I wish I wasn’t alone. I follow the sign that points to the room where the meeting takes place, coming face to face with a small group of people sitting on chairs in a circle.

  After talking to Dana about joining some type of support group, she looked into the ones Grace had given me and we spoke with the director so that my privacy can remain just that, private. Being that I was in a recovery center for three months, I don’t need an Alcoholics Anonymous program. Grace recommended some type of support group to listen and talk to those who have gone through similar experiences.

  I introduce myself to Rob, the guide for this suppor
t group, and take a seat.

  People begin speaking, sharing their stories or how the past week was. Some have been sober for a week, and others for years. Sitting there, listening to what they have to say gives me a different perspective of people who drink far more than they should. Maybe we all don’t have to be alcoholics, to need some type of intervention.

  One man began drinking more and more when his wife died of cancer. A young woman spoke of her struggle. She began drinking heavily when she went to college. She lost control to rebel against her strict parents and ended up too far-gone when she jumped in her car and almost killed a family driving home. I think of how lucky I was all those times I drove after a night of drinking.

  The hour passes and I keep a low profile. I know many of them recognize my face, but no one focuses on my status in music. I’m grateful for that. Truth be told, this isn’t as bad as I thought. I’m not sure I’ll be talking anytime soon, yet it has helped to hear others going through similar situations. I guess the first step is to recognize you have a problem. I chuckle inwardly. What a cliché.

  Instead of going straight home, I go for a ride on my bike. The weather is great and soon the heat of summer will hit us hard. I stop at a park that’s southeast of downtown Nashville and kill the lights on my bike. I stay seated and look up at the sky. Being away from the city allows me to see more than the artificial lights that shine down on us.

  I think about everything that has happened in the last few months. My mind wanders to Mikayla. I never would have met her had I not gone to Chasing Freedom. She helped me opened up what I had bottled up. It was like she knew the trick to pop open a cap that was rusted from years of not being twisted. It must have been the look in her eyes—the same type of haunted look that reminded me of the one I hid behind an asshole personality and a bottle of Jack.

  The house is quiet when I walk in. The lights in the kitchen shine brightly, and I find a note from Mikayla.

  I made spaghetti. Left you a plate with some in the microwave. Hope your meeting went well.

  She must be asleep. I smile when I open the microwave and find the plate covered with a paper towel. I warm up the food and sit to eat at the island.

  My mind is all over the place, but I do know that I’m glad Red decided to stay at my place. She keeps me grounded, and when I feel tempted to sneak in a drink, I think of her. I won’t pretend that I haven’t thought about it. After a long day in the studio or in and out of meetings, I think about grabbing a beer. Then, I remember I can no longer grab a beer. Not if I want to make a better man out of myself.

  I wash my plate and head up the stairs. Lately, making music hasn’t had the same effect on me as it used to. I’m tired. I’m tired of being the face of country music, but having no real freedom. It is time I take that back, and this new album is the start of that.

  Mikayla and I have fallen into the perfect routine in the last few weeks. I have never had a roommate before, but she’s pretty much the perfect one. She stays to herself, yet we hang out, as well. I try hard each day to make her laugh, or at least crack a smile. I live for that. And if I’m honest with myself, each day I care more for her. Each day I have less patience to pretend I want her only as a friend. Each day I itch to tell her I can be what she needs. And each day I chicken out because I don’t want to lose her to my wants.

  So I continue to be what she needs as I watch her become more and more comfortable with this new life she has. I continue to be her support and her mine. Because without Red, my life will be a boring shade of gray.

  Each time she reaches out and touches my arm or doesn’t flinch when I hug her shows me she’s getting stronger. Each time I don’t reach for a bottle shows me my strength is building. We are two people trying to get back on the path we think we need, but I am starting to believe we can pave a new one that works for us.

  I throw on a pair of shorts and a sleeveless tee so I can get in a quick workout to start my day.

  Mikayla is in the gym already, working on her yoga. Fuck. I groan and try not to stare. As much as I respect Mikayla, and I know what she’s gone through, I’m a man. A man who went from having a lot of sex to none in a short time. I can’t help but notice her ass when it is propped up in the air. Although she’s still skinny, she has built muscle. She no longer looks so fragile.

  “Mornin,’” I say and jump on the treadmill to warm up.

  “Hey.” She doesn’t look up at me as she continues her practice.

  I connect my phone to the treadmill and put on headphones. I lose track of time as I listen to music and push myself further, running more miles than necessary. Mikayla has already finished yoga and moved on to the punching bag. I smile as I watch her hit the bag with passion. She uses all I taught her, from her stance to the way her arm twists as it connects with the leather.

  I dry the sweat off my face with my shirt as I cool down. “You’re doing good, Red.”

  “Huh?” She turns to face me. “Oh, thanks.”

  Grabbing my guitar after a refreshing shower, I sit on the couch, going over a few chords for the new songs. It feels good to have a day off.

  Mikayla comes down the stairs holding a book. “Mind if I sit?”

  “Of course not. If you don’t mind the background noise.”

  “Never.” She smiles. I know she loves to hear my play, so I take advantage and show-off a little.

  As I strum chords on the guitar, I watch her expression as she reads. She does this thing with her mouth and eyes that gives away her emotions as she’s reading. What I’d give to pull her into me so she can rest her head on my shoulder as she gets lost in her books.

  “That’s a new tune,” she says without skipping a beat.

  “It is.” It’s not exactly new, but it’s new to her. I won’t show her this song yet. It says too much about how I feel about her.

  “Will you sing it?”

  I shake my head and she looks up at me, raising her eyebrows in question.

  “It’s not done, yet.”

  Mikayla scrunches her brows and mumbles something about it wouldn’t being the first time I show her a song that’s not finished. I chuckle, but choose to ignore her.

  “You hungry?” I ask her when I can’t sit still anymore.

  “Actually, yeah.” She puts the book down, folding the corner, and stands.

  “Nah, I’ll make something. I need to move. Stay and read.”

  “Really? Thanks.”

  I make two sandwiches and grab two small bags of chips and bottles of water. I could live this way forever, Red and me hanging.

  “How’s it going with Sam?” I ask Mikayla as we eat in the living room.

  “Good.” I notice her slight shrug.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s . . . sometimes I feel like I’m not making any progress.”

  “You are,” I say quickly.

  “I know I am, but there are days that . . . I don’t know . . .” she trails off.

  “I’ve seen you transform since day one. You may not see it because you’re constantly judging it, but you have come a long way. You’re working and driving to places. You have a bank account now. Damn, Red, I call that a success. You showed me it was okay to open up and take what was given so I can better myself. Not sure I’d be here, sitting with a bottle of water, if it weren’t for you.”

  She tilts her head to look at me. “You’re saying that last part to make me feel better.”

  “No.” I state and shake my head. “I have been an idiot for many years, rejecting so many things because I created some false persona so I wouldn’t have to deal with who my father was. Then, guilt for the relief I felt when he died, instead of sadness. In your silence, you challenge me to work through that so I can be better. Live life differently. So I can be happy.” I know I’m rambling now, but I don’t want her to think I’m saying this to make her feel better. I’d stay quiet before lying to her.

  “I’m glad you’re doing that. You deserve to be happy and not ha
ve to rely on alcohol or people who don’t care about you to boost your ego.”

  “Are you cracking down on my ego?” I tap her foot with mine and she laughs.

  “Do you remember the first time we met? And the time after that?” I know she’s teasing, but she’s also right. Some people have issues with deserving; I had the opposite. I felt entitled because of my name and career. Mikayla didn’t take it. She said a lot of things to push my buttons, but that’s what made me reflect. I was acting like someone I wasn’t. Someone my momma didn’t raise, and I owed it to that woman to be better.

  “I was a real ass. Asking you if you had drugs and booze.” That seems so far away now as I stare into her brown eyes. “Tell me about your mom.”

  “What?” she stammers.

  “If you want to, I’d like to hear about her.”

  Mikayla crosses her legs and leans forward, her elbows on her thighs and her hands holding her chin.

  “She was a good woman that allowed loneliness to lead her to the wrong person. I don’t remember life before she married my stepdad. I was too young,” she explains. “But my mom was so happy to be married. She loved making dinner and serving him. I can only assume being abandoned by my father while she was pregnant with me hurt her. In our community, it was all about the family life. I swear, sometimes I felt like we were still living in the fifties.”

  I watch as she gets lost in her thoughts, remembering her life growing up. Her expression smoothes, almost to indifference, but I know better.

  “So, having a husband to help her raise her daughter was something she always wanted. It can be very dangerous to live to please others. I never cared about all those societal rules. Then again, once I got older, I understood the mask of a white picket fence and manicured lawn was to hide the disasters going on inside.

  “People are the same way. They pretend to be perfect—hair combed, nails painted, clothes ironed—but inside they are warring with the devils living in them. Anyway, my mom was a good person, but she didn’t want to see what was going on because that meant her dream of the perfect family would be ruined. I hated her for that, because she chose appearances over my safety.” Mikayla shivers and before I can tell her she doesn’t have to continue, she does.