by Kate Stewart
Pissed at his hesitation, I took a step back with a forced and defiant grin. “I won’t offer again.” I shouldered past him, blocking the door. My breath caught when he gripped my arm and his head bent so that our lips brushed as he spoke. “This can’t happen.”
“If you say so,” I bit out before I ripped my arm away and pushed through the hot air of the apartment laced with alcohol and bodies before walking out the front door. I needed more air. I needed to stop drinking tequila, or anything for that matter. I’d made a fool of myself. If Paige knew, she would accuse me, as usual, of being overly dramatic.
Because I’d always been an emotional person. I cringed when I heard the words “calm down,” and got highly offended when they were directed toward me. They were like battery acid being thrown at the overly sensitive.
It was hard for me to keep them bottled, a problem for me through most of my life. That was the thing about musicians that I envied most. They could bleed at the top of their lungs for a few hours a day on stage, pouring out their hearts, hurts, or anger into the crowd, and they were worshiped for it. It was not such an epic affair when your emotions bleed into everyday life and have an overabundance of them bubbling to the surface.
One of the most powerful pictures in music history wasn’t on the cover of a magazine. It was a candid snapshot of Kurt Cobain crying backstage. I remember staring at the picture for hours. He was sitting on the floor in ripped jeans and a flannel shirt, one elbow braced on his knee, while he fisted his hair with his other hand, his face twisted in agony, crying freely. Even with his warranted success, his emotions ruled him. That picture should never have been taken. It was a moment of weakness and he deserved to have it alone. But at the same time, that powerful snapshot made me feel like I wasn’t alone in my struggle to keep my emotions at bay. I understood his inability to keep them in check even in the public eye, and especially when it hurt.
I was the crier and puker in the family and constantly scolded by my mother not to take things so seriously. When I got overly excited, I would often throw up, especially at Christmas. It was my mother’s worst nightmare. “Oh, Mommy, Mommy, Santa got me a new doll.” Bleh. “Oh, Mommy, it’s the first day of school!” Bleh. And so forth and so on.
I wasn’t happy about it. I often felt uncomfortable in my own skin, especially as time marched on. It made for euphorically charged, angry periods and days where I had to walk myself stupid to get the aggression out. It was never a pendulum swing of daily emotions type of deal, though I was tested for bipolar and every disorder under the sun. And the verdict always came back the same. “Stella just seems to be an emotionally charged kid. She’s passionate.”
My father put an end to my mother’s scrutiny, telling her she was very much the same way when they were younger. My mother had taken serious offense, and that was one of the biggest fights they had in their marriage, which only proved my dad’s point. He still pokes fun at her about it to this day. I still remember his words to me when I got into a fight at school. I was crying in his lap.
“Boo, listen. You can’t go beating up everyone that pisses you off. Use your words, I promise you they are much better weapons. But be careful with them because bruises heal.”
It was the typical sitcom, father/daughter talk, except his next words resonated the most.
“You are so much like your mother. She doesn’t see it, but I do. Just remember when you’re yelling, you’re hurt. And whoever hurt you probably loves you just as much.”
I was an emotionally charged woman as well—passionate—just with a little better grasp on how to deal with it, and music was my outlet. It was my sanctuary where I could bleed, get angry, or hurt, without consequence.
Everyone, at some point in their life, breathes and grieves through song, but for me, it was daily therapy.
When a certain song plucked those strings in my chest, I felt it all, and it was freedom. Those songs didn’t judge or tell me I was a fool for feeling the way I did. They told me they were with me. It was how I balanced my life and my passion.
Sometimes I envied those girls who had a better hold on their emotions and could reel them in and keep it together. But I wasn’t them, and so I found my solution in sound, and in that, I found my calm.
I ended up walking around the park across the street, drunk and muttering to myself like a lunatic. I heard Paige call my name and ignored her. After several miles of an alcohol-driven nature walk, I went back to the apartment and was met with the furious eyes of Reid Crowne. He glared up at me from the bottom step, stood, and then took off toward his place. Paige was just as pissed off inside. “Where the hell have you been? You’ve been gone for two hours!”
“I took a walk,” I defended as she shut the door behind me.
“In the middle of the night?”
“Stop worrying about me!”
“Reid walked the complex the whole time. He has a shift in four hours!”
Guilt surfaced as I stood staring at her. “I was at the park across the street. I’ll apologize.”
“No, you stay away from him. His life is complicated enough without bringing in your drama.”
I bared my teeth. “My drama? I took a walk.”
“Stella,” she said on a long breath, “just stay away from him.”
“Who the hell are you to tell me that?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your sister and his best friend. I know you both. This is the last thing either of you needs.”
I pushed, exhausted. “What thing?”
“Look,” she said, ignoring me as she began collecting beer bottles, “we talked about it and we both agree it’s for the best.”
“You talked about it?” I felt my body tense with anger and humiliation. “You had a conversation with Reid about whether or not we can . . . What in the hell, Paige?”
“It’s for your own good and his.”
“Are you kidding me?” I said with my arms crossed, cringing and fuming. “Let’s get one thing straight. No one, not even you, dear sister, gets to make those decisions for me. I’ll be out of here in a few weeks, and after that, your job is done. You get to be there for me, but not govern me. I don’t do well with authority, and you have crossed the fucking line.”
Paige gawked at me. “You hated him.”
“I still do,” I said as I snatched the trash from her hands. “Just go to bed, and thanks for humiliating me.”
“I’m just trying to keep you from getting hurt.”
“The only one that hurt me tonight was you,” I lied. Reid’s rejection stung, but the whole thing was already disastrous and apparently had been decided. “And for someone who speaks so highly of him, you sure are changing your tune.”
“Before you get all fixated on him, you should probably know the truth,” she bit out. “That accident he got into? He was driving drunk, and before the cops came, he put Lia in the driver’s seat.”
I cringed as the gravity of it hit me. “She was almost arrested. He slammed them into a telephone pole and nearly killed them both, and he was willing to let her take the fall for it. And that’s why she left him.”
He couldn’t be that asshole. Not Reid. But maybe he was that asshole. Maybe that night was the cause of the guilt that weighed on his back. His anger went inward. It was plain as day.
“She loved him with all her heart, and he hung her out to dry. Is that the kind of guy you want to get involved with?”
I swallowed hard. “He hates himself for it.”
“And that’s the only reason I don’t hold it against him. He’s trying to make it right, but make no mistake, Stella, that’s who he is.”
“That’s not who he is. It’s a mistake he made. God, do you hear yourself? With friends like you—”
“Don’t you dare,” she warned. “He’s got problems, Stella, and he’s truly trying to straighten his life out. Neil and I are behind him, always, but he’s not for you.” She sighed as she watched me absorb her words.
“Just let it go
, okay?”
“Okay,” I said with a lead tongue.
“Okay, I’ll clean the rest of this up in the morning,” she said as she walked up to me and hugged me tightly to her, a rare show of affection. “I don’t want to fight. I love you.”
I hugged her back. “I love you, too.”
“All bullshit aside, tonight was fun, right?” She pulled away and gave me a genuine smile that reminded me of our mother. “It was.”
“See, I’m not so boring.” She winked.
“I didn’t say you were,” I defended as she closed her bedroom door behind her. My mind was racing as I began to clear out the rest of the trash. No matter what angle I looked at, as far as what Reid had done, I couldn’t for any reason justify it, and I guess that’s where his misery lay. He couldn’t, either. As I scrubbed the counters and floors, I couldn’t stop the racing, the pacing. I was beyond exhausted, but I kept working until the apartment was spotless, only finding sleep when the sun had fully risen and was peeking through the blinds.
Chapter Fifteen
Say Goodbye: Dave Matthews Band
I didn’t see Reid in the back seat the next week, and I didn’t bring him lunch or dinner. I missed his first show, even though Paige and Neil went. At work, I stayed mostly to myself, and on shifts we were scheduled together, we managed to avoid each other aside from shared trips to the kitchen. I caught his eyes on me only once when he’d cashed out and was ready to leave. I gave him my full attention, curious about the words that didn’t pass his lips. He left without saying them, and I let my heart sink comfortably in the disappointment. Despite all my attempts to forget him, he lingered on my mind, in my thoughts. The man had barely touched me, but every time he was near, I rattled. Even in the silence between us, my heart vibrated on edge, and deep need gnawed in my gut. I’d never in my life strongly reacted to another person the way I did Reid. It felt surreal, exhilarating, and exhausting.
After a week and a half, Reid showed up to Paige’s apartment for dinner. I was perched on the couch, earbuds in, laptop open, writing an article on Dave Matthews. “Say Goodbye” drifted through my earbuds attached to my iPod while I tried my best to completely ignore the three of them. Paige and Neil worked together in the kitchen while Reid sat on the end of the couch opposite of me, his eyes straight ahead on the TV.
Taking controlled breaths, I concentrated on the introduction, with its unpredictable bongos and pairing flute, then cranked up the volume as Dave sang a six-minute, lyrical sex poem about friends becoming lovers.
He cut his hair too short.
Since Matthews’ debut album, Under the Table and Dreaming, in 1991, the band crushed the issue of the sophomore slump and sped past it, composing consistent billboard albums and an unpredictable string of hits.
Why in the hell does he use so much soap? I’m so tempted to take a bite of Irish Spring.
South African born Matthews’ unique voice backed by the colorful contrast of guitar, bass, sax drums, and fiddle has led to a unique cult following—a much more hipster version of Jimmy Buffett’s Parrotheads.
His arm is so pale.
With last year’s solo album, Some Devil, which went platinum and earned him a Grammy with the single “Gravedigger,” Dave has managed to push past the commercial- OH FUCK ME, WHY IS REID CROWNE SO GODDAMNED SEXY?!
I miss him. Why do I miss him?
Slamming my laptop shut, I caught the attention of every eye in the apartment, including the green-tinted dark eyes I’d been missing. Plastering a fake smile on my face, I said a curt “Hi” to Reid as Paige looked over at me with a frown. “Words aren’t coming?”
Oh, I had words, too many damn words. “No. I’m going for a walk.”
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Paige said as she looked at my bare legs. I had on a solid black pair of thigh-high boy shorts and a long T-shirt that was hitched over my ass. I walked over to my duffle and pulled a pair of khaki shorts on over them. I was a total mess. My dark hair was piled on my head and held with an I-don’t-give-a-shit-if-it’s-2005 scrunchie. I managed to find that little treasure in Paige’s bathroom while I scrubbed it like the Cinderella I’d become.
At least Cinderella had a ball to look forward to.
“Just save me a plate,” I said, avoiding the watchful eyes of the beautiful bastard on the couch. “I’m not hungry.”
“Okay,” Paige said easily as I slipped through the door and practically ran to the park. Half an hour later, I was covered in the last of the July sun and was tripping over my Chucks as I burst back through the door. I walked straight to the kitchen sink to wash my face, not bothering to take inventory of who was there. Patting my face dry with a paper towel, I looked up to see Reid typing on my laptop. I kept the scream in my throat as I watched his lips twist in a slow-building smirk.
Eyes wide, I rounded the counter. “W-w-what are you doing?”
Paige chimed in from the easy chair. “I told him he could borrow it. I told him just to minimize what you were working on.”
My face flaming, I grabbed a glass from the cabinet and downed some water. He saw it. All of it.
I bit both my lips and double tapped my sister on the top of her head on the way to the bathroom, the way my mother did when she wanted us to know we were in trouble but couldn’t verbally lash us in that moment.
“What?” she said, offended, as I closed the bathroom door and stood under a cold shower. When my body temperature was back to normal, I eased back into the living room with a lowered head, relieved to find Reid was no longer there. Resuming my seat on the couch, I opened my laptop, then my document. He had commented on everything. My heart pounded as I read.
He cut his hair too short. You think? I’ll keep it longer in the future, but only for you, Grenade.
Since Matthews’ debut album, Under the Table and Dreaming, in 1991, the band crushed the issue of the sophomore slump and sped past it, composing consistent billboard albums and an unpredictable string of hits. ←Predictable facts.
Why in the hell does he use so much soap? I’m so tempted to take a bite of Irish Spring. Because I like a clean ass, and I have an extra bar for tasting, but I’m pretty sure the Surgeon General warns against it.
South African born Matthews’ unique voice backed by the colorful contrast of guitar, bass, sax drums, and fiddle has led to a unique cult following—a much more hipster version of Jimmy Buffett’s Parrotheads. ←Boring.
His arm is so pale. I’ll work on getting it tan. Anything else about my appearance that you don’t approve of?
With last year’s solo album, Some Devil, which went platinum and earned him a Grammy with the single “Gravedigger,” Dave has managed to push past the commercial- OH FUCK ME, WHY IS REID CROWNE SO GODDAMNED SEXY?! This is good news. For a minute, I was afraid my hair was too short; I was too clean and pale. And I think you’re the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. Even if you’re wearing a scrunchie.
I miss him. Why do I miss him? I’m right here, Stella.
Reid chose that moment to open the patio door, a cloud of smoke drifting in the air behind him. The lump in my throat refused to leave as I looked up at him over the top of the screen. Paige and Neil were still on the porch laughing when he closed the door behind him. Pulse skyrocketing, I stood as his hazel eyes seared into me, a question and an answer. It took three seconds to close the distance between us, two seconds to lock together like we’d been doing it our entire lives, and that last second . . . that last second when his lips devoured mine was the second I lost a piece of myself I could never get back. His kiss started deep and only delved further as I wrapped as much as I could of myself around him. Heart pounding and clit pulsing, he kissed me with pure abandon, our tongues dueling. I moaned into his mouth and he responded, clutching me tighter to him. He was hard, so incredibly hard as we devoured each other, gripping, grinding, fusing.
“Oh, God,” I breathed as he dipped and took a bite out of my neck while I clutched his back. “Reid.”
&
nbsp; He growled as his lips drifted up, and we combusted, parting only when we heard the chair slide back on the porch. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. Breathless, we stared at each other, filled with need, before Reid leaned in, his breath on my neck. “I miss you, too.”
He was two strides toward the bathroom when Paige opened the door, smiling. “Hey, did you eat?”
My lips tingled from the feeling of his mouth and my neck burned with the fresh scrape of his stubble against it while I tried to hide the undeniable evidence he left. “Not yet.”
Neil took one look at me and suppressed a smile hidden in his lips as he shut the door.
He knows.
My eyes pleaded with his briefly before he winked. Relieved, I tried to act as casual as possible and microwaved my plate as Reid came out of the bathroom a minute later. He was completely cool, his demeanor unchanged as he spoke to Neil and Paige on the couch. “Thanks for dinner. See you at the show tomorrow?”
The question was for me, but he was looking at them.
Paige chimed in. “If we get off our shift early enough. Stella, want to go?”
I took a bite of my enchilada. “Yeah, sure.”
That night I tossed and turned. Heavy. I felt so heavy. I needed air, and that air was sleeping only a few buildings away. Reid said so little, and his kiss had said so much. Everything. It said everything.
I traced my lips as I replayed that kiss moment by moment until I restlessly drifted to sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
Freak on a Leash: Korn
“Don’t sweep at my feet!” I scolded Paige as she chided me with the threat of the broom.
“It’s not true. You think if I sweep at your feet you’ll be single forever? Get real, Stella.”
“I don’t care if you don’t take it seriously, okay? Don’t,” I said as she playfully swung the broom in front of me, inches from the floor. I grabbed the broom that she set down and moved toward her. “What about you, sis?” I said, dangerously close to hitting her feet. She jumped back with a shriek as I closed in. “I thought so.”