Two Different Sides

by L A Tavares

  “But Stasia… Her father…” And I see it. The entire picture. I remember the day she came into the studio and the guys recognized her last name right away. She said her father owned it. She has told me countless times that her father tried to keep her to himself, to his label only, and that she avoided it. She’s been very forthcoming about her father’s power and that his weakness was gambling. Me? I never put any of it together. I was so focused on the money and the game that I never once thought to investigate who I was playing with. My stomach rolls. I feel sick. The earth spins for a second as I forget how to breathe.

  I inhale deeply and realize that every time I take one step forward, I take so many more back. I admitted I have a problem. I sought out help. I am on my way back to my house. And yet, somehow, I just set myself back. More importantly, I set Stasia back.

  “This is what he wanted all along, Blake. In the end, he just wanted her to sign under him.”

  “We have to go there.” My voice echoes through the open city air. “We can’t let her do that.” I step past him and he grabs my arm.

  “Blake.” His voice falls into a sympathetic whisper. “It’s already done. She already signed with MLA.”

  * * * *

  Then

  Boxes are scattered over every square inch of Xander’s and my room in his mom’s house. Our mom, I guess, since I’ve officially started to call Debbie ‘Mom’ without hesitation.

  Xander sits on the end of his bed with his head in his hand. “It’s going to be weird, us not living together. We’ve been under the same roof for so many years.”

  “Xander, we are going to record together. We are going to tour together. We are going to be together so often that we don’t need to live together.”

  The truth is, we haven’t spent a night in this house in… I don’t know how long. We found a small condo to rent as soon as we could afford one. All five of us, together under one roof. This time, though, things are more official, Debbie is selling the house. I put a down payment on a smaller house outside the city, but I have plans for it. I’m going to make it exactly the home I had always dreamed of. I don’t need a mansion. Anything with four walls and a solid roof is a dream-come-true to me.

  Xander went the opposite way. He bought out an apartment with a helluva view and top-of-the-line everything in a stupid-expensive area. That was what he wanted, though.

  “We did good, man.” He puts one foot on one of my already-secured boxes. It’s just weird to really be leaving this time. Moving out all this old stuff we haven’t thought about in years makes it real.”

  I nod, thinking back on all the memories, good and bad, that we had here. Climbing through the windows, the home-cooked meals, my test papers on the refrigerator and my mother showing up at Christmas one year.

  Having a family—having a sibling—was something I always dreamed of. As a kid, family is what I wanted more than anything and now I have it. Plenty of it. The guys, Debbie and Cooper. I’m blessed, and I do appreciate everything they’ve done, but now I want to find out who Blake Mathews can be when he’s not being supported by someone else.

  “This just feels right, Xander,” I say, “places to call our own, our own spaces.”

  “Actually, Julian is moving into the apartment.” He rubs his hand at the back of his neck.

  “Oh,” I whisper. I don’t care what Julian and Xander do. They are more than welcome to share a living space if that’s what they please. I just worry about them together. Xander is impressionable, whether he will admit it or not. I worry about what kinds of things Julian will put him up to and what kind of trouble they will get themselves in. On the other hand, when Julian is maintaining his sobriety, Xander is not the person I want him around. The times when Julian is doing good, his worst vice is caffeine. He doesn’t even smoke cigarettes. Xander’s whiskey-with-every-meal state of mind is sure to give Julian plenty of opportunity to misstep.

  Maybe, somewhere deep down, there’s a little bit of jealousy too. I fear missing out or being replaced. I know living by myself is a good move for me, but I wonder if the bond they create will overpower the ones I’ve made with either of them.

  Xander and I have become brothers in every sense of the word, but Julian and I on any given performance night share an on-stage bond, a mid-show magic that can’t be reproduced. It’s electric, the show we put on behind Xander as he unwinds at the front of the stage. After the show, Julian and I can be found making plans together in whatever city we are in at the time.

  Xander thinks it’s because of this special bond he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know I have personally sworn myself to babysitting Julian around the clock. I’ve known every time he’s slipped up, I’ve sat through meetings and I’ve talked him down when he’s been about to break. The whole band doesn’t need to know. Cooper doesn’t need to know. But someone needed to constantly be in his corner. It was me.

  Now I guess it’s Xander’s turn.

  * * * *

  Now

  The penthouse is almost silent. The footsteps overhead sound close, then far, then close again, the beat of the sounds matching the distinct path of someone pacing. Otherwise, nothing—no music, no conversation. When I knocked on the door, it opened, not fully closed by the last person to use it. Isabella didn’t meet me in the usual way she does—like she has nothing better to do but sit at that door like a welcome mat, waiting to greet the people who walk all over it.

  My steps feel loud and uneven against the spiral staircase. The harder I try to quiet them, the louder I am. I’m smart enough to know I shouldn’t have come here uninvited, but there has to be a way to get Stasia away from her father. This is the last thing she wanted. MLA was never part of her plan. She took so many steps to get out from under Victor’s watchful eye and now, thanks to me, she’s in his grasp.

  Voices carry down the hall from behind the study’s large doors, Victor’s first then a woman’s. Maybe Isabella’s, but it’s too hushed to tell.

  “All is well that ends well. Am I right?” A haughty brag laces his words.

  “No. This is not what we discussed at all,” the woman says.

  She’s out of view but I can see Victor from where I stand. His body is perfectly visible through the opening in the door.

  “I don’t know what your goal was, dear”—he flicks open a triple-jet lighter and burns the end of his cigar—“but mine was to get Stasia back on the label she was born to be on. This was about Stasia and only Stasia. I did what I had to do to bring her home.” His cigar aroma fills the hallway as he speaks.

  “And what about Blake?” she snaps in a low whisper, but there is bite in her words. My heart beats so hard it makes their words hard to hear.

  “What about Blake? Blake was a pawn. He played the part perfectly, and he didn’t even know he was doing it.”

  There’s a long pause with no rebuttal from the other person. A pawn? Now that I’ve heard my name, I inch closer, back against the wall, tip toeing toward the lion’s den rather than running from it. Victor sighs loudly. He leans into his desk, and his head falls forward in frustration.

  “Stasia sought out Varro and Mathews in that bar. They performed together. The video went viral. I know Gary Cooper. I’ve known him since before he snaked Consistently Inconsistent from MLA the first time around. I knew his next play would be to get her on the track. He’s been wanting to replace Julian Young for years, and he thought she was his ticket. But Stasia is nobody’s ticket but mine.” Victor speaks in slow, dramatic speech, allowing the person he converses with to start putting pieces together. He doesn’t know I’m standing here putting them together too.

  “Ruining Blake’s life was not part of the plan,” she says, and he laughs. She starts to lose her courteous demeanor, a fire starting under her words. “You know no one has even heard from him in days?”

  I will myself to walk away, to not listen to anymore, but the weight of their words paired with my stupidity and regret restrains me in place.


  “Blake was never in danger of any real harm,” Victor says, and my mouth goes dry. I can’t move, can’t swallow, can’t think. Because I just figured out who the other voice belongs to.

  “This, if you recall, was your idea, Sharon. You sent Isabella to him, and you instructed her to extend an invitation to my tables. You keep that in mind the next time you come in here and talk to me like this.”

  Victor walks around the desk and she steps into view. He places his hands on her arms and my stomach knots, threatening to empty its contents all over Victor’s hardwood hallways. “Everything he lost has been returned. Stasia is in a recording studio where she belongs. Blake’s debts have been settled and so have yours. Can’t we just be happy? Why don’t you pour us a glass of something expensive and we will toast to a job well done?”

  My mind is on every planet except this one, stretched too thin over spiraling thoughts of my mother, Victor, their deal, Stasia and how I somehow tied it all together. Making every necessary turn to complete the walk from the penthouse to my own home, I arrive in my driveway at the end of a journey I don’t remember taking.

  Leaving the penthouse had been a painful decision. In a way I wanted to bust through those doors and demand answers to the questions that I have. But was it true? Had the reset button been pushed? If I have a chance at a clean slate then there’s no place I’d rather be than right here, all questions aside.

  My feet are planted firmly in the grass at the edge of the driveway. From where I stand, I can see Kelly pacing back and forth in the kitchen. She dries a dish and opens a cabinet, takes a sip of coffee and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She’s absolute—always where I need her to be and always the light in the darkest places.

  She stands in front of sink, the window above it framing her like a picture. For a second she pauses, stares into the drain and cries. Tears drip down her face and into the sink. I lean forward, take a tiny pebble from the driveway and lob it at the window. She looks up at the sound of the ping and her eyes meet mine.

  I smile and wave a light flick of the wrist. She presses her hand over her mouth and sobs into it. My feet sink into the dirt beneath the grass as I start the walk toward the house. She slams the porch door open and runs outside, jumping up and wrapping her arms and legs around me until we’re both falling into the grass in a heap of limbs and tears and relief.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  At the very deepest layer of myself, I know that I am in love with her and I always have been. She is brilliant, resilient, patient, beautiful and a perfect combination of sassy and sweet. When I look at her, everything in me unravels. I let go of all my insecurities and the history I carry around and melt into her. She’s the only one who can make me feel like everything is going to be okay.

  I am in love with her. And that’s apparently enough for her.

  But it shouldn’t be.

  We talked for hours—about Victor, about Stasia, about the band and Julian, about her. Me. Us. If there still even is an us.

  We sit across from each other at the kitchen table. She has one hand laced in mine while using the other to wipe the tears that won’t stop falling. We both took the chance to say our selected versions of ‘I missed you’ and ‘I’m so glad your safe’ then we brought all the catching up and stories to a close.

  Including ours.

  * * * *

  “Where do you think you’ll go this time?” I ask, sitting on the bed with my head in my hands as she throws a few belongings in a bag.

  “My parents, just for a few days. It’s been a while. I’ll visit with them and give Natalie and Xander a break from me…then I don’t know.” She mumbles her words and keeps her eyes fixed on the bag in front of her.

  “Come here.” My voice is quiet. She steps toward me and sits on the bed. I press my lips to her hairline and wrap my arms around her. “I made you a promise once, a lot of years ago. Do you remember what it was?”

  She looks up at me, her lashes sprinkled with tears like dew on grass, and she thinks back.

  “I do.” Her lips break into a hint of a smile with that same shimmer of hope from that day in front of the school. “I told you that you weren’t what I needed, and you said you would be.”

  “I will be,” I repeat. “Someday, Kelly. I’ll be what you need. You’ll see.”

  She bites her bottom lip as tears stream down her face. “Whatever it is you’re looking for, Blake, I hope you find it.”

  “Just me, mostly. Just trying to figure out who I am and who I’m going to be. I need to get myself back together and be a person I can be proud of so I can be someone you can be proud of too.”

  It’s agonizing separating from each other, and I do intend to find my way back to her, but she deserves to float through her life and not be weighed down by mine. For me, there is work to be done. I have to take care of myself now if there is ever a hope of taking care of her in the future.

  She reaches the doorway and turns around to give me one last, longing look over her shoulder. “Hey, Blake?” My gaze glides up to find hers.

  “I’m giving you space because I think it’s what you need, and I understand why you are doing what you are doing. But if you need someone, if you need support or strength, I’m still in your corner. I’m going to help you find that hidden piece of you that you’re searching for.”

  “I know.” I nod. Half of me wishes she would drop her bags and run to me, but the other half wishes she would go and not look back. I just want a quick exit so as not to prolong the pain.

  The latter wish is granted.

  * * * *

  There isn’t one other patron in the small hole-in-the-wall bar down the street from my house. I like it that way—just me and Bartender Terry one-on-one like a therapy session but with hard liquor and outdated jukebox selections.

  “Where’s your better-looking half tonight?” Terry wipes a glass with a towel. I’m assuming he means Kelly, but, knowing Terry, there’s a chance he means Xander.

  Either way I shrug my shoulders and take the last sip of my drink. Terry refills it as soon as it hits the bar top. Just another benefit of being the only customer in here.

  The door opens and a gust of cold air fills the bar area. Looks like I’ll have some competition for Terry’s attention and the jukebox selection after all.

  “Good evening.” I don’t have to look up to know who the voice belongs to. “I’ll have what he’s having—and keep them coming. I have a feeling we’re going to need them.”

  There are dozens of empty stools but she takes the one next to me.

  “Blake.” She shimmies out of her coat.

  “Sharon.” I stare ahead and a swell of pride rises in me at my response. She lost her title of anything resembling ‘mom’ or ‘mother’ years ago.

  She beams a smile at Terry as he slides filled glasses across the bar.

  “Of all the gin joints in all the towns…” I scoff into my drink and shake my head.

  “Not a coincidence,” she admits. “I wanted to talk to you. I need a moment to explain something…a few things.”

  “I don’t have that kind of time,” I mumble.

  There’s a long while where we say nothing. We sit in the same bar on neighboring barstools, but we’re miles apart.

  Eventually the song on the jukebox fades out and she fills the void.

  “There’s almost nothing more diminishing than realizing your son hates you.” She rotates the glass on the bar top. “Not just anger or resentment but real, passionate hatred.”

  My gaze finds the dart board at the opposite wall. I stare at the red of the bullseye, focusing my eyes on the center of the board but I stay tuned in to what she’s saying.

  “For me it was the first time I saw you perform. You were so brilliant, so much talent. Of course, you didn’t know I was there. We hadn’t spoken in years. Then you said it. ‘This one is for my mother’. My heart swelled, Blake. For a few seconds there was hope for us. Then you and Xander took turns si
nging a song that was meant to tear me apart—and you succeeded. That was the moment I knew you truly didn’t want anything to do with me.”

  For years I have wondered if she has ever seen my shows—and now I know. I’m surprised.

  “So, since you can’t possibly hate me more than you already do, I’d like to come clean about something.”

  I signal to Terry for my next drink and he nods in response. She can talk all night. There is almost nothing she could say that would interest me.

  “I borrowed a large sum of money from Victor. I was struggling, and I had nowhere else to turn. When I couldn’t repay it on time or by my first extension or even my second, Victor told me to get creative, to find a way to get him his money. He didn’t care where it came from. I was in the same bar as you a few months back—the night Isabella brought you to the penthouse.”

  This captures my ear, though I do my best to keep my attention elsewhere, not letting her know she has any part of me interested in her stories and lies.

  “I watched as you kept pouring more and more money into that cup. I watched the sweat bead across your brow when you thought about saying no. That’s when I figured out that you were more like me than I thought. I knew you couldn’t walk away. You put more money in than the initial pot was even worth, and you didn’t even know it.”

  My neck grows hot. My stomach twists in disgust, both at her and myself.

  “I couldn’t very well just ask you for the money, Blake. I mean, c’mon. A guy that writes that harsh of a song about his own mother isn’t going to loan her anything. Victor told me to invite you to his table. But that’s where things got sticky. He was only supposed to run up your losses to equal mine, Blake. What he won from you was supposed to offset what he’d loaned me. It was a sure thing. It’s not like you were going to beat him.”

  “I did beat him.” I flick my now-empty glass away from me.

  “Please, Blake, don’t be silly. He let you win. He built up your confidence playing with smaller sums so you’d feel like you could keep up with the higher amounts. You won because he allowed you to. You never beat him. He played you over and over again.”