My Life as an Album (Books 1-4): A small town, southern fiction series

by LJ Evans

  I picked up the hardline in the room and dialed Mac’s number. The advantage of having only six numbers in your phone is that they are easy to memorize.

  “Hello?”

  “Mac, it’s Seth.”

  “Hey, kid, how are you?”

  How was I? I didn’t have a response for that, so I moved on to what I really wanted to say.

  “I’m actually in New York.”

  “What for?” Mac asked hesitantly.

  “I’m gonna be on the Today Show.”

  Mac guffawed. “No? You?”

  “Dick,” I said, but it was with warmth and not malice. “Would you like to meet me at the hotel later for dinner?”

  “I’d love to, kid. What time?”

  “I’ll give you a shout when I know things are wrapping up.”

  “Sounds good,” he said, and we said goodbye.

  I showered and changed and left for the show.

  Did you see the show? I made such a complete ass out of myself. Who the hell goes on national television and wrings out their heart? Goddamn wuss. That’s who. I guess I was hoping that it would convince you to come see me. That you’d see it and run to the hotel that Liv knew I was staying at.

  On set, I was uncomfortable. Out of any element I’d ever been in. I craved you. You would have held my hand and made sure that I wasn’t an asshole to everyone. You weren’t there, so I’m sure I was.

  Carson Daly was the one to interview me. They had me seated on a chair across from him, and just before they panned to me on camera, they zoomed in on him as he introduced me as “Seth Carmen, the sexy junk artist that was taking the world by storm.” I snorted. He tried not to smile.

  I wasn’t dressed sexy. Hell, I hadn’t dressed up at all. I was in my normal jeans and a blue t-shirt. Finally, Carson turned to me and the cameras with him.

  “Your waterfall is spectacular,” Carson stated while some guy behind the scenes flashed a picture of my waterfall in Dylan Waters’ house.

  “Thanks,” I told him with that grin my abuela said was the devil’s grin, but that you know now isn’t my real smile. It’s the one I use for show-and-tell. “It was one of my first pieces, and I swore I’d never sell it, but I guess you should never say never.”

  “Didn’t he pay you a million dollars for it?”

  I was momentarily caught off guard by his knowing the price. Then I just grinned again and played along. “A million and a half.”

  Carson whistled. “That’s a lot of dough.”

  When I didn’t respond, he changed the subject.

  “Tell us, what inspires your art?”

  What could I say to that except…you. You inspire me every single day. I wanted to explain that this new wave of art from me wasn’t called trash art, or Kintsugi, or any word the art world already knew. Instead, it was called Bella because it was all you.

  That’s when I lost it. I leaned forward and said something on national TV that I shouldn’t have. More than I normally say at any time. More than I probably said to you.

  “There have been two women in my life that I gave a damn about.” Carson looked intrigued, so I kept going. “They both inspired me.”

  Carson ate it up. “So, love inspires you?”

  “It isn’t just love. It’s the essence of that person. The thing you can’t see but still surrounds them. Like the sparkle on the water at sunset or the shimmer as the water evaporates. It’s there but can’t ever really be captured.”

  “Your current inspiration, she here with you today?”

  That stabbed me in the gut. “No, I lost both the women I’ve loved. The first because I was a drunken, teenage prick who hit her. Losing her forced me to see that I’d become the thing I hated most…my dad, and I swore I wouldn’t be that man again.”

  No one stopped me. I guess the Today Show loved the drama. So I kept at it, spilling my guts like an imbecile in front of America.

  “The second I loved more than everything else in my entire life. I lost her because I didn’t know how to love her and not possess her. I’ll never recover from that loss… I’m still secretly hoping that she’ll give me a chance to prove that I can love her without owning her.”

  When I paused, I realized that the entire joint was quiet. Even the audience. Like they were waiting for lottery number announcements.

  I drew myself back from the edge, put back my cocky grin, and said, “But you asked what inspires me. I guess the truth is that life inspires me. All of it. Beauty, pain, happiness, desolation. The world as we see it and the world as we can only feel it.”

  Carson took a full thirty seconds, an eternity in TV land, to recover, and then he said, “After a speech like that, I bet you’ll get her back, and if you do, you tell us because we want our stories to have happy endings.”

  But I didn’t believe it even then. I didn’t believe that I would ever have a happy ending. After all, you’d told Liv you didn't want to see me when we were in the same city for the first time in 152 days.

  There was no message from you at the hotel and disappointment coursed through me once more. Instead, of you, my shit-for-brains dad showed up. He was waiting for me in the lobby when I went down to find Mac for dinner.

  He was grubby, in baggy, ripped jeans and a sweatshirt that screamed gang. His hood was pulled over his head, hiding the beanie that was underneath. I was pretty sure he was probably carrying a gun, or drugs, or both. The slime that dripped off of him wasn’t just because he hadn’t showered in days. It dripped off of him because that was who he was. Used car oil. Black sludge. Nothing that could be redeemed.

  The asshole sneered at me in a way that was supposed to be a smile. I knew immediately that he was high. He only smiled like that when he was high.

  “Seth!” he said as if I’d be happy to see him. As if he hadn’t let my mom die on his fucking couch and then sliced me up to stop me from helping her. As if I hadn’t testified at his goddamn trial and sent him to jail. As if I’d be happy for a fucking reunion.

  “How the hell did you find me?” I snarled.

  “Well, you’re worth serious money now, right? All I had to do was call around to some of the swanky hotels till I hit the one that would leave you a message.”

  I stared at him. Surprised that he’d have enough brain cells to even think that far. To think past his next hit. It was obvious that he’d seen the Today Show, or someone had and told him about the money. That was why he was there. For money.

  “I suggest you get the fuck out of here before I do something that we’ll both regret,” I said, trying to contain my anger. I crossed my arms across my chest, tucking my hands under my armpits to stop myself from pounding his face into the ground in the middle of a five-star hotel.

  I wanted to pound his face until it looked like Michael’s. I’ve always wanted to kill my father. Since I was a little kid and he hit me. Or my mom. When he’d been sent to prison, that desire had subsided some. There was nothing to stop me anymore. No you. No us.

  “Now, son, don’t be that way.”

  I couldn’t stop myself then. He didn’t have a right to call me “son.” He didn’t have a right to breathe the air I was breathing. I grabbed his ratty sweatshirt and pulled him so that we were nose to nose. “Get. The fuck. Out.”

  He sniggered and pushed at me. I reached my fist back, ready to slam it into his face, but my arm was grabbed from behind. I tried to shake it off just as Mac’s calm, authoritative voice filled my ears.

  “Let him go, Seth.”

  I didn’t. But I didn’t hit him either. My dad was laughing still. Mac pulled us apart, and he looked down at my dad which was easy for Mac-the-Giant to do. “What you doin’ here, Carlos?”

  “Why the fuck you care? He’s my son. Think he should make up for the six years of my life he cost me by ponying up some of that money he’s raked in.”

  Mac pulled out his phone. “Think it’s time for your parole officer to perform a ran
dom drug test, don’t you?”

  Those words got him more than my anger had. The threat of a drug test was more of a deterrent than his son wanting to kill him. How messed up is that?

  The dirtbag backed away. Scorn on his face. “Another time then, Seth. We’ll see each other another time.” And then he was gone.

  Anger. So much anger wafted through me. At so many different things. At the fact that you weren’t coming back. At my piece-of-garbage dad being out. At the fact that he’d probably find some other fucking way to contact me. I wasn’t sure I could control the rage filling me. But I did what Mac, and the shrink, and the AA folks told me. I just breathed. Concentrated on the things around me. Concentrated on Mac. Concentrated on the fact that you were still out there somewhere.

  “Give me two minutes,” Mac said, and he called Dad’s parole officer even though he’d already left. Maybe it would end up with my dad back behind bars, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

  After Mac and I sat down at the restaurant, my fury slowly eased. My breathing slowly came back to normal. And as the anger faded, the thirst kicked in. God, I wanted a drink. Or I wanted to lose myself in your skin.

  But I couldn’t do either. Instead, I thought of Keith, and Locke, and Liv who had all been keeping me sane and sober. I thought of Becca filling the house with food and drink so that I wasn’t tempted to hit the grocery stores with the liquor aisle. I thought of Mac stopping me from hitting my dad.

  I had all these people taking care of me. Half of them had entered my life because of you. Even though you weren’t there, they were still looking out for me. And I knew I couldn’t let them down. It felt odd to have people in my life again that would be disappointed if I let them down. Abuela would like that. I even thought you would like that.

  “You didn’t tell me he got out,” I said to Mac after we’d ordered and I was calm enough to speak.

  “Didn’t want you to think about the asshole.”

  “The cops in L.A. didn’t have the same consideration,” I told him.

  “What you doing talking to cops in L.A.?” he asked, worry creasing his forehead.

  So I told him the whole story. You. Your family. The craziness with Michael. All of it. Even the part about falling off the wagon. And it felt good. To talk to someone. And I realized I should have been talking to you like that. I should have been telling you everything I told you in these stupid letters in person at the time I felt them. I’m sorry that I didn’t.

  We sat in silence after it all.

  “You’ve weathered some pretty tough situations in your life. Your grandparents would be proud of you. I’m proud of you.”

  I’m not a seventeen-year-old kid anymore, but sometimes, you need to hear that from someone you respect. That they’re proud of you. And I knew with Mac that it wasn’t some condescending bullshit. It was the truth.

  And suddenly I realized something.

  There was something else I needed to do so that not only Mac could be proud of me, but so that I could be proud of myself.

  I had to truly let you go. Not just to New York. But for good. Forever.

  There are a million reasons why I have to say goodbye to you, but there are three that I can put adequate words to. Three that are all evident as I reread this letter from the beginning.

  Reason one is the fact that I threw my phone across an airport terminal. That I was ready to murder my father. I barely controlled myself today. And I’ll never be quite far enough away from the passion and anger that surges through me to be sure that it won’t ever bounce back and hurt you. I’d never hit you. I never should have hit Cam. I’d even known that as a stupid ass teenager. I control myself better now than I did then. But even though I’d never hit you, even though I’d never hurt you on purpose, I still fight for control every damn day. I fight to control my anger as much as I fight my desire for alcohol, and neither of those are good things. You deserve more than that. You deserve someone who is full of joy and not addiction.

  Reason two is the asshole who showed up at the hotel. The asshole who threatened to see me again. I’m never going to be able to escape who my father is and who I am as a result of it. I’m a gang kid. I’m a drug addict’s son. He’ll always want money. He’ll always want a piece of me, and I won’t let him get a piece of you by association. I want to keep you a million miles away from his screwed up life. And I can’t do that if you are by my side where I want you, selfishly, to be.

  Which gets me to reason three. I had to call Liv to try to see you. I don’t have your phone number on my phone. Why? Because I’m Michael. I’ve insisted that you're mine just like he did. As if I could own you and put a stamp on you. I’ve written you letters that are full of demands that you come back, that you come home, and threats to come get you if you don’t. I am Michael.

  The only difference between him and me is that I know now that you aren’t mine. You belong to the world. To shine and glow and burn brightly like the queen of the fairies should. Like Titania. Smart and beautiful and ethereal.

  I told you in my first letter that we belonged together and that none of the other stuff that you worried about mattered, but some of it does, doesn’t it? I can’t possess you and love you. It doesn’t work that way. But I can love you and let you go. And I will. I am.

  So, this is my last letter. From now on, I will battle my desire to possess you as much as I battle the desire to absorb alcohol. I want you to be free of the ties that bind us. Don’t feel guilt or regret or self-loathing. Just be who you are, because I swear to God, Bella, that you is enough to take the whole fucking world and put them in your pocket. I do love you. Will always love you. But I truly get that I have to let you go. May all your unknown wishes come true. May all your dreams that you haven’t even dreamt become your reality. May you love and be loved in all the ways that matter most in this screwed up world.

  Yours forever and always,

  Seth

  PJ After Letter Eleven

  REAL LIFE

  “This is real life,

  This is real love,

  This is real pain

  Tthat I’m sure of.”

  -Bon Jovi & Childs

  Pj is crying silent tears that fall in unceasing drops by the time she gets to the end of his letter. The letter he’d sent yesterday. The letter that got to her today because he’d mailed it from New York after she’d refused to see him.

  Her tears are flowing because he is right, and he is wrong, and she can’t tell him that in person now because he went home… Home.

  He’s right that she never called any place home. It wasn’t a conscious thing. But he’s also right that it was probably because her home had been torn from her at thirteen. But what he doesn’t know is that the place she felt most like herself, the place she felt most comfortable, the place that felt most like home…was when she was in his arms. It didn’t matter the wood or metal or sand that surrounded them. It was still home.

  She’d known that at the time, even if it was subconsciously. It was probably the reason she’d run more than any other reason. Because she’d been afraid to call someplace—someone—home. Afraid that she’d lose it all again. So she’d been unwilling to let down that final wall that was keeping her heart safe from the heartache of losing that person. That home.

  It had been overwhelming that he’d tried to embed her into him like an arm or a leg that couldn’t move without him controlling it. But she also knows that the only person to ever make her feel like she was enough, the only person to love her with all her flaws after knowing them, was Seth. He’d seen her when she was bitchy, and kind, and stupid. He’d even seen the emotional strength in her that she hadn’t known had existed.

  It carves a hole in her heart that he thinks he’s Michael. Michael hadn’t known her. Like the Taylor Swift quote, he’d known the version of herself she’d allowed him to see. Seth may have cussed, and swore, and threatened to drag her home as his way of saying that he miss
ed her, that he needed her, but he wouldn’t have ever done it. He wouldn’t have drugged her, and stuffed her in a trunk. That was Michael.

  Seth wanted her, but he also respected her. He wanted her to want what he wanted as much as he did. Seth would never treat any woman the way Michael had treated her. Sure, Seth wasn’t always a prince. He hadn’t always done the right thing when he was angry or drunk, but then again, neither had she.

  Bottom line is that he isn’t that screwed up kid anymore. He’s a man who loves deeply. Who knows what he wants and goes after it.

  He isn’t Michael. She hates that she’s made him feel that way by not giving him her number. As if he’s a stalker that she has to hide from when really she’s just been hiding from herself.

  She finally realizes that she’s never going to get any better because she’s missing the thing she needs most: her home. And that home is with Seth, wherever he is. And she isn’t there but needs to be.

  She’d wondered before if she’d ever be able to get back what she’d run from. If she’d ever be able to make right what she’d done to him…to them. But she hadn’t done anything. Instead, she’d sat in New York waiting. As if it was all going to resolve itself like the universe wanted. But God gave us free will for a reason. The universe gives us paths to choose from, but you have to actively get on a path. You can’t just sit at the beginning and hope that someone will carry you to the end.

  She knows that it’s time. Time to stop running. Time to stop waiting for something to happen. Instead, it’s time to do something. Time to be the fighter that Justice and Seth both think she is. Time to fight for the thing that matters more than what she does for a living or what others think of her. Time to fight for the thing that will stay with her when she departs this world. The thing her parents had left behind. Time to fight for love.

  Time to get a plane ticket.

  And maybe, just maybe, it won’t be too late to get back what she might have lost.

  After the Letters

  THANK YOU FOR LOVING ME