by Billie Dale
After watching him suffer several bad days, I worried for the strength of his hair because no one likes a bald musician. I plopped down next to him on the piano bench. He needed a pause from his mania so I begged him to play Name That Tune with me. It took a little prodding, but I was relentless and he gave in. The stress of working a problem, the insane pull to solve the unsolvable and while I’m not a creative type, the pressure of genius is trying. Later when he completed his song, he proclaimed Wednesday our day of rest. I mean if God needed one after making the world, we certainly deserved one too.
When he discovered I could carry a tune, we went from testing our music knowledge to out-singing each other. Despite us both possessing magnificent voices, there was quite a bit of caterwauling. Mazric Vortex is my best friend, and maybe the love of my life, but on that piano bench Hendrix Carmichael became the friend I complained to about the man I couldn’t have.
Many tears landed on his shoulder, which caused animosity between him and Maz. Hendrix took pleasure in goading Maz at every turn. He saw the chemistry and though no attraction existed between us, he used our connection to yank Mazric’s chain.
The man pressed against me looks nothing like my Hendrix but his scent and warmth sends me tailspinning. The smell of ink from always having a pen in his hand, the earthy musk of marijuana he occasionally smokes, and the rich cocoa of the product he uses to tame his hair test my stomach’s tolerance. But he’s safe, and with Preslee and Mazric gone, snuggling in a familiar set of arms is home. My heart splits open dumping every ounce of grief and loneliness down my face, soaking his nice shirt.
His long fingers stroke my head. “I haven’t been home for a while but what’s with the mental break down?” One shoulder dips, lowering the side of his body I’m not clinging to for life, as his palm lands on my butt. “Seems a shame to waste all this.”
The last time Hendrix was home Mazric and I were only pals. I assumed his twin sister would’ve filled him in, but Preslee never knew how deep my friendship with her brother ran. “Right, um.” I swat his hand off my ass, pull away from his hold, and clear the wetness from my face. “We have a long drive. I’ll fill you in on the way, and you can explain to me why you’re wearing a suit that cost more than my first year at college.”
Thirty-Two
SAMANTHA
TREES BLUR PAST THE passenger window, the tires hum on the pavement, and the soft strains of a low song plays on the radio. Hendrix deemed me too emotional for proper road navigation, so while he weaves in and out of the orange barrel-lined road construction, I daze off wondering about Mazric.
Does he miss me? Does he wish he’d never left? Did we destroy our friendship?
“Samantha? Are you going to keep chewing a hole in your thumb, or tell me where your head is so I can help?”
Pain throbs through my cuticle and I pull my hand from my mouth, realizing I gnawed my nail bed to a bloody mess. I fish for a napkin in the glove box. “First tell me about this look,” I say, knowing once we start on the mess of my life we might not get back to his.
“I got a surprise visit from my grandmother. She showed up at the peak of my insanity when I wanted to shred my entire thesis. I was prepared to stand on a street corner busking. For the first time in my life, I hated my synesthesia and since she’s an elite Southern snob who hated my degree path, she used my weakness. We went shopping and she played dress-up. By the time I came to my senses, my hair was gone, my closet was full of Armani, and she’d set up meetings with advertising firms. I would’ve cancelled but she stayed to make sure I didn’t.”
“So why not just tell her you changed your mind?”
“When Nona Gayle Carmichael sinks in her claws, you’re stuck. She’s part of the reason my parents never stay in one place for too long, and why Mom is a missionary and Dad stays with Doctors Without Borders. If Grandad hadn’t left the plantation to my parents, Nona would’ve tossed Vivianne out on her ass. Gayle’s ‘my way or the highway’ attitude pushed her right off the hippy dippy cliff. While I thought I was talented, I still held insecurities, but after a few stuffy, uncomfortable interviews, I needed a way out. Then I met Anna Beth Tucker.”
“And the plot thickens,” I tease, “There’s always a woman where Hendrix Carmichael is involved.”
“Shush.” He shoves my knee. “Coffee?”
Before I answer he exits the freeway. A few turns later and we’re parked in front of Starbucks. The strong aroma of coffee beans is one of my favorites, but once again my stomach disagrees. I have little in there but my body evicts it. “Oh damn.” My cheeks puff on a gag. “I’ll be right back.” My hand slams over my mouth and I run to the ladies’ room.
A full cramping purge and mouth rinse later, I reemerge to Hendrix hovering near the door holding two trademark white and green cups. An internal switch flips and though seconds ago the savory smell sent me racing, now I can’t think of anything but chugging the hot mocha yumminess.
“Sweaty forehead, pasty skin, pale lips. Wow, Samantha, you look like shit,” he comments offering me a cup.
My lips ring the tiny hole in the plastic lid and I take a perfect temperature swallow. The borderline hotness coats my raw throat and a soothing moan slips past my lips. I down half the cup before we push out the door. “Thanks for the compliment,” I jeer, shoving the center of his back.
He staggers forward, using the passenger door handle for leverage. “You’re spry for a sprite.” He laughs, opening my door.
“We can’t all be trees,” I retort.
When we’re back on the road, I encourage him to continue his story. “So who is Anna Beth?”
“First, are you all right?”
“Yeah, just had a run-in with a few apocalyptic creating preschoolers. Now continue.”
“After several boring sit-downs with stuffy people in suits, I suffered the wrath and told Nona no more.”
My mind spins. “Wait, you’re a composer, a musical prodigy destined to write scores and operas. What were you doing interviewing with advertisers?”
He flips the blinker. “Jingles. Nona believes my talents are best used writing the next catchy commercial tune,” he answers, jerking the car into the passing lane.
“Oh. Uh.” I’m stumped. “Okay, well if it’s what you enjoy then bring on the “Smelly Cat,” I guess.”
“It’s not and judging by your scrunched nose, you know it, which is why I cancelled the rest, but the one company I couldn’t get on the phone I met with. Gayle was waiting at the curb. She bellows out the address, and I zone out until her berating the driver yanks me back. We’re parked outside this dive café, and Nona’s road raging about the driver not understanding English and how she’ll never use this service again. I calmed her, offering an apology to Sal, the elderly man behind the wheel, who probably knows the city like the back of his hand and might possess the connections to have Gayle Carmichael waking up next to a horse head.”
I choke on a chortle, spewing coffee on the dash over his Godfather reference; he shakes his head fighting his own grin.
“After rechecking the address,” he continues, “I tell her I’ll make my excuses, reminding her it’s not good to burn bridges. She’s obstinate but agrees. Before I entered the shop, it intrigued me. My other meetings were in high-rises and this run-down coffee shack in Midtown was more my style, so I thought why the hell not. Never judge a book by its cover. Inside the city vanished. All the horns and traffic silenced and soft jazzy pop soothed the air. There were a few traditional tables with wire back chairs; the baristas worked off to the right, and in the back corner plush couches circled the space. The walls and windows shaded with maroon and navy heavy fabrics. But the smell, the sweet scent of smoky caramel, coffee, pumpkin and vanilla; it was like they pumped it through the vents in the perfect aromatic combination.”
“I’m getting old over here, Hendrix, get to the point,” I chide.
“Still a brat. Anyway, Anna Beth Tucker runs her own firm. Her focus is on the l
ittle man getting his voice and she hates the confines of office walls. She drew up a proposal, sold me on her mission, told me to get my ass back to work on my thesis, and said she’d be waiting when I was done.”
“So, you using your genius to write jingles? Gonna spend days wearing expensive cotton suits? You’re selling out?” I slap a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. I can’t take the words back.
“Harsh, my friend.” He side-eyes me.
“Sorry—”
“No, no. You’re right. Anna Beth knows about growing up in the South, more importantly the struggles of a small town. I perform my composition in one month, but a master’s in music does nothing, pays nil. Miss Tucker wants to use my skills part time to help grow her clientele, and in return, I keep writing, playing, creating.”
All the pieces click in place. “You get paid, pad your resume with experience, and continue to do what you love.” He nods, turning quickly he flashes me a full toothy grin before focusing back on the road. “Smart.”
“I came here straight from accepting her offer, to which she told me to never wear a suit again unless I’m meeting with a potential client. Said it threw off my aura and clashed with my gauges. She’s pretty great.”
“I smell a crush.”
“Maybe. I’ve monopolized the first hour of this trip, now it’s your turn.”
“Weeeelllll, it all started with a boy and girl,” I begin, and don’t stop until I’ve spilled every minute of the summer. He stays stoic and quiet, humming and nodding in certain areas of my story. By the end I’m a sobbing mess, again.
Thirty minutes from home, he takes the exit ramp to Seven Mile Forge but swings into Wendy’s in Millersburg. Hendrix doesn’t hold his tongue so this silence makes me crazy. I told him about losing my virginity, falling deeper in love with my best friend, how Mazric can’t find the time to talk to me, and he has no advice or opinion—bullshit.
I order a chili with extra crackers and a large Sprite, drooling over his bacon cheeseburger and fries but the stink of the beef roils my stomach. We sit across from each other in a booth along the windows. “Please say something,” I plead.
He unwraps his sandwich, salts his fries, and takes a drink. “HENDRIX!” I whine.
“Look, Samantha. Nothing I say will be what you want to hear.”
“Maybe not, but let me have it.”
“Fine. You’ve been in love with Mazric Vortex since you were old enough to understand what love is. I remember comforting you through his dates with Asia and all the other girls he worked his charm on. When I left you were content in merely having his friendship, but when he returned the attraction you jumped in heart first. Why would you ever accept a relationship destined to end, knowing you’d never be able to not fall deeper? Then you added sex, compounding the emotional connection. You lied to yourself for months and now the truth is kicking your ass. Mazric didn’t change, he adapted. He’s doing what you told him to and moving on, living. You women think men work in mysterious circles with maniacal minds and dirty intentions. We’re simple and do what we’re asked. Now you need to move on too.”
He’s right but it doesn’t lessen the hurt. I can’t see a life without my best friend, but if I break it down and be honest with myself, it’s more. Friends don’t need to speak to each other every day, they can go months without communicating and pick up where they left off the next time they see each other. I’m struggling with the fear of him falling in love with someone who isn’t me, and him realizing there’s a sea of women who are better.
Tears build on my lids. “I’m stupid. He wanted to stay together but I said no. Why? Why did I do that? Can I change my mind?”
“You’re the smartest person I know, and while I am not the best to offer romance advice, I’m going out on a limb. Saying no to a long-distance relationship with a man who’s about to be thrust in the spotlight and subjected to a different existence than he’s used to seems like a wise decision. While this choice is turning you inside out with agony, you saved yourself some serious heartache.”
“I hate it when you use logic,” I grumble around a spoon of chili, happy my stomach tolerates it.
“If you love it, set it free. If it returns, it’s meant to be...” he singsongs.
“Shut up and eat,” I sass. He doesn’t need to know his words wrap around me like a hug and confirm I was right in the way I handled Mazric.
While that stupid cliché grates on my nerves, secretly it is my hope.
“So bitchy in your old age,” he retorts, to which I flip him off.
Thirty-Three
CARRIE LYNN
VIVIANNE PACES AROUND the kitchen island. I’ve stared at the yellow, green, and blue of her floor length skirt so long it’s a swishing mocking blob, taunting me with bright cheeriness. “Carrie Lynn, what the hell are we going to do about Sammy?”
“We don’t know for sure what’s going on with her. She might just have the flu. I mean she’s only sixteen, and face it, if anyone is smart enough to know better it’s Sammy Lee Gentry. We can’t be certain she’s even had sex.”
“For fuck’s sake, we both caught them two screwing like rabbits.”
I cringe, shivering with a gag. “Yuck, that’s my son you’re talking about.”
“Even the brightest women make stupid mistakes when love and hormones get involved. We at least need to talk to her about it. She leaves for Johns Hopkins in less than two weeks. Do you want her to be out there by herself when she realizes the truth?”
“Crap.” A headache throbs behind my eyes. Since the first time I caught Sam vomiting after smelling my meatloaf, I’ve been on the verge of an anxiety attack. If Vivianne is right, the future of Samantha Gentry and my son is screwed. Mazric just started on his path, but despite my wanting to keep my head buried in the sand, we need answers and soon.
Gravel under tires alerts us to their arrival. Sammy’s smiling and laughing with a lightness I haven’t seen since the day Mazric left. Vivianne knew this too, damn it. Seems bringing Hendrix home is just what my poor broken-hearted, next-door neighbor needed.
I COOK WHEN I’M STRESSED. If I don’t find a solution, we’re all going to weigh a thousand pounds. Jellies, jams, cookies, cakes, pies, and huge elaborate dinners; I’ve run out of freezer space. One last-ditch test before I sit Sam down for a chat, I’m making a meatloaf for dinner.
The pungent smell of onions and seasoning hangs in the kitchen. Hendrix went to shower off his travels and Sam is in the living room watching television. I sent Viv home because one crazed woman in this house is enough.
Sam hasn’t bolted past the kitchen door headed for the bathroom yet. Promising. “Butter, salt, cream cheese.” Pretending I’m on a cooking show is one of my favorite things to do, plus it provides a mental checklist to ensure I don’t forget an ingredient. Mid-whip of my favored mashed potatoes; over the roar of the electric mixer I hear the ring of the landline. “Someone grab the phone,” I holler, cursing the loudness of Joe’s old appliance.
Sammy Lee skids around the corner, her socked feet slipping on the worn-out hardwood floor. Everything in this farmhouse needs an overhaul, but it reminds Joe of his wife and the stubborn man refuses to change even if the farm could afford it.
“Hello,” Sam cheers. “Hey, yeah, it’s me.” Her lips turn high and the dreamy love set of her eyes tells me Maz is on the other end. I turn down the beaters, can’t eavesdrop with all the racket. Don’t judge me, if I’m only able to hear one side of the conversation then damn it, I will listen.
“How’s camp?” she asks. “Uh huh, wow. So your teammates welcomed you, that’s awesome.” She falls quiet. “Yep, I’m ready. Leaving a week from Monday.” The long curling phone cord wraps around her index finger, “Carrie’s making her famous meatloaf and taters to celebrate Hendrix coming home.” The smile on her face fades to a thin pinched line, “I picked him up from the airport today, and he’s my copilot on the drive to Maryland.” Whatever he’s saying turns her pallor pale. �
�Seriously? It’s Hendrix. Your hypocrisy is astounding,” she barks. “No, you don’t have five minutes to share with me every night because you’re too busy bro-bonding with your team, but yet you’re jealous over our friend.” Her free hand flails around while she continues and anger stiffens her shoulders. “This is bullshit, Mazric.”
The oven timer bleeps. I turn, stop whipping, slip on oven mitts, and pull the meatloaf from the oven. My mind races with ways to help these kids navigate their feelings. She’s yelling about the agreement they made before he left when her face turns ashen. A palm slaps to her mouth, the phone hits the floor, and she bolts down the hall.
“Damn it.” I set the pan on the counter, slip off the gloves, and grab the handset. “Hey, honey.” Eyes pinched shut, I squeeze the tiny skin between my brows.
“What’s wrong with Sam?” he asks.
“She caught the flu from the kids at the daycare center.”
“What the hell is she still doing working with those brats? She doesn’t need the experience for her college application, not that she ever did.” His frustration carries through the line.
“Stop with the bonehead attitude, Son. Perhaps she enjoys working with the children. She’s depressed since you left, but after a day with the toddlers she comes home with a smile.”
“Oh.” With one word his anger fades and those two letters sighed through the mouthpiece show he understands. “I’m sorry, Ma.”
“I know. Well, dinner’s ready and I need to go check on Sammy. Are they feeding you well?”
He laughs. “Yes. Will you tell her I’ll call her later?”
“Sure. Love you.”