“No. No, he hasn’t.”
“Oh.”
Christian glanced at her, then back to the ring. “But his wallet and his phone are on the kitchen counter, so wherever he is, he won’t be gone long, right?”
It wasn’t the playful eyes or the continual smile that always struck Emily about Christian—it was his unyielding optimism. But it was an optimism she couldn’t share at the moment.
“Wonder what went on, though. Man, it was one hell of a knock-down, drag-out fight. I heard the screaming and the door slamming at the end of it. He usually reserves that shit for Simon. I’ve never heard him like that with Claudia. He adores her, and God knows she loves him like crazy.”
She swallowed at his choice of words and pulled at her jeans, praying that Zoey would return soon.
“But everything is all good—I mean between the two of you?”
“Yeah, absolutely. Sure.”
Mercifully, the sound of Zoey’s scampering saved Emily from lying further.
Christian took the dispenser from her. “Thanks, babe. Okay, now you take a piece of tape and place it over the soot.” He pressed the tape gently but firmly onto the interior of the ring before carefully removing it. “Paper, I need paper.” He shook one hand like a doctor in want of a scalpel.
A stack of pages lay scattered on a nearby table. Emily grabbed a handful, and then caught herself. It was sheet music, and Andrew’s familiar script noted the margins. One of the pages swept from her hand down onto the ground, the word Emily inscribed at the top.
“He…here.” She shoved the rest at Christian, unable to hold them. He took them, frowning in reaction to her ashen face.
“What do you do next?” Zoey asked, excited.
Christian returned his focus to the ring. “You place the tape directly onto the paper. The soot lifts the image of the marks like lifting a fingerprint. And there you go, a nice and easy-to-read copy.”
Three faces peered at the bit of tape on the paper; three hearts beat in suspense. Zoey whooped in delight.
A string of numbers was revealed: 75510791.
“What do you suppose it means?”
“I have no idea,” Emily whispered in fascination, feeling the first bit of hope that day. “But it’s something.”
Word of advice, Andrew wearily noted to himself. Don’t ever attempt to bathe in a university building’s lavatory. The sinks are useless, and the mirrors are for shit. Not that he wanted to see his reflection.
“Christ,” he muttered, standing there, teeth chattering as he wrestled off the tap. “What the fuck have I done?”
“Trashed everything you love, kid,” the mirror mocked, like some smart-mouthed, enchanted looking glass from a fairy tale.
The soap tumbled from his hands; he would know that voice anywhere.
“And by the way, what kind of noble hero-on-a-quest shit are you playing at? ’Cause I ain’t getting it.”
“Nick!” Andrew whirled around. Niiiick echoed back off the tile walls. “Where are you?” Yooooouuuu.
“So let me get this straight. You just flat out told her you didn’t want her?”
Andrew couldn’t see the ghost anywhere. “Yes,” he shot back with venom, about to explain, his eyes still scouring the room for the apparition.
“Were you drunk?”
“No.”
“High?”
“No!”
“Then kindly explain to me how a man who doesn’t have a bottle in his hand or a broad in his bed can be so damn oblivious. That’s your problem, kid. You cock off without thinking things through, without knowing all the facts.”
“I know what I know.”
“You don’t know shit.”
He stared at the mirror, hands quaking in anger and exhaustion. “Bugger off, Nick.”
“You don’t have time to screw up, kid. In fact, you don’t have much time left at all.”
“Stop it. I don’t want any part of this ghost chasing anymore—I’m out. Find someone else. I’m not your man, and stay away from her as well. Go haunt some other goddamn place. She’s suffered enough without death threats from dead people.”
“Ever the hero,” Andrew heard Nick snap at him as he stormed out the bathroom door.
Back in the hidden confines of the practice room, he huddled down next to the piano, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, with no desire to talk to anyone, human or otherwise. Bone chilled and shaking, he wrapped his busted up hand in a spit soaked towel left by some brass player, probably. Wincing in pain, he grimaced at the sight of his swollen fingers.
What the hell had happened to his quest? What kind of hero was he? Not the kind Emily deserved, that was certain. She deserved someone sane and stable, someone who wouldn’t hurt her by the very act of existing. Someone safe. He looked at his palm, at those lines. Did Neil have the same ones? Was that what his future really held—that he’d only use women and not stay around to see it through?
Andrew’s good hand groped above him like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver. He found the piano keys. Plink. Plink. Plllllink.
With the determined growl, he hefted himself up onto the bench. Slowly one note came, then another, dredged up from all the anger that simmered within him. Music raged for hours in that solitary room. The intricate chords were an escape—they allowed him to forget. But how could he?
He had attacked his mother, cursed her for her regrets, called her a liar and a whore. Mum, a whore. And she had hit him. Which he deserved.
He had told Emily they were wrong, that he was wrong. Which he was.
He slammed the keys as the crescendo gathered force. Outside, the late evening fog had given way to blacker clouds, a dark reflection of his mood. He was poison to her, he knew that. Whatever twisted way their lives were joined only kept getting more violent, more unexplainable with each passing day. He would end it, cut it off so mercilessly and brutally she would hate him—with an act so heartless, so cruel, she would never look back and wonder. She would never, ever have regrets.
He felt S.J.’s business card cut into his leg, and he slammed the keys harder.
As the kitchen clock ticked on, Emily knew with certainty that Andrew wouldn’t be coming home tonight. He had no wallet, no phone, and the weather was getting worse and worse. But where would he go? Images seeped into her mind: images of him sleeping frozen on the street, huddling cold and alone under an overpass; images of him sitting in a café with a girl offering him a warm place to stay for the night.
“Emily,” Zoey said with a thinly masked attempt at levity as she finished washing the last of the dinner dishes. “Was it just your first fight, or should Christian be looking for a day job?”
Christian shot her a look, having poured himself another glass of wine.
“He only did what Vandin said he would do.”
Zoey put down a plate and stared at her. “Emily?”
“I was the one who had believed in the fairy tale, who let myself think that I could be a part of Andrew’s life, but I was wrong.” She said more to herself than to anyone. She went on to relate the whole conversation she had overheard into their shocked faces. From Claudia’s doubts, to Andrew’s accusations, to Claudia’s confessions, to Andrew’s flight.
“And then…and then he stood there and said, ‘Stay away from me, Emily, I’m not right—I never have been—I’ve lied. We’re…all bloody wrong.’ He really thinks he’s no good. That he’s just like Neil,” she finished, wiping her nose with her sleeve, unaware she had been crying.
“But Neil is wonderful,” Zoey argued. “He’s cool and kind, and he really wants to help the band—you heard him. And he brought us muffins, remember? What kind of horrible man brings muffins?”
Christian quickly poured more wine.
“Maybe Neil didn’t know?” Zoey looked into Emily’s bleary red-eyed mess of a face with her brilliant eye-shining optimism. “Maybe Claudia never told him? You saw how he looked at her, in awe, almost. Maybe he’s alwa
ys loved her? Maybe she never told him she was pregnant and that’s what she meant by not holding him back? So she wouldn’t hurt him?”
“But she has! Don’t you see? She’s hurt him and herself and Andrew most of all. And now…Maybe it’s better this way? Better to deal with it now, get it over with, than let it go on,” she said bitterly. For she knew if she lost herself completely, unspeakable heartache was sure to follow. There would be no turning back from that pain. She would become one of those crazy women poets and perhaps put her head in the oven when he left again, which he would of course—it was in his nature to do so. She wasn’t unrealistic; she knew falling in love with Andrew came with a price. Living in a fantasy world always did. “Andrew doesn’t want…us.”
“No, he didn’t mean it, Emily,” Christian said firmly, cutting her off. “He couldn’t have meant it. He loves you, worships you. He always has; he always will. He probably hates himself pretty bad right now, and he has to be rocked to the core. Shit, I just hope he doesn’t do something stupid.”
“Like what?” She wiped at her tears with the heel of her palms, hiccupping down the rest of them.
The sky outside was dark and foreboding, a portent of storms. He leaned over and took a slug of his wine. “He wouldn’t. Nah, he wouldn’t,” he said to the window.
But his face didn’t look convinced.
Beethoven had descended to Tchaikovsky and raged into Schoenberg. Andrew’s fingers could no longer move. He desperately needed aspirin or alcohol.
He got both. Thank God for student unions. He looked at the clock on the checkout stand. Would he be too late?
Zoey had her hand on Emily’s back as they listened to the rain howling in sheets against her bedroom window. Christian had left them a while ago.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” Emily said, slipping her shoulder away from Zoey’s touch.
“When you were lost, he looked for you. He’s lost now, don’t you see? Everything that he’s trusted has crumbled. I love you, but you two are so fucking stubborn I want to knock your little neurotic heads together sometimes. You’re both wrapped up in your own fears, your own insecurities, your own worst case scenarios.”
Emily blinked at her, shocked. “But he said—”
“I know what he said. But do you honestly believe he meant it? After everything you two have been through? Emily, he loves you. You love him. Christian was right. It isn’t that hard. You can sit here and worry, or you can fight for him.”
“But, Zoey, he’s been hospitalized because of this idea of a muse. It’s not some romantic notion to him. It’s real. She’s real. And he truly believes that I’m her.”
“Would you leave him because of that? Because he’s wrestled with that burden as best as he could? He is not a lunatic, Emily. Tortured, yes. Strong willed and driven, certainly. But at the same time he’s incredibly passionate and brilliant. Think about it—he’s had to find a way to live without you his whole life. You’ve only had to live without him for a day, and look at what state you’re in.”
“But what if he’s deluding himself. What…what happens if I’m not really his muse after all? He’ll leave. He’s left already. Don’t you see that?”
“But you’re not his muse!”
Emily blinked. The rain rat-a-tat-tatted against the panes. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
“You shouldn’t be. You’re so much better than her. Just drown the bitch.”
Thunder rumbled. A beautiful sound.
A gang of drunken frat boys spotted Andrew on his way out of the Student Union. They trailed him, laughing and cursing as he pressed on across the quad, his shoulders hunched against the pelting storm. This wouldn’t end well, he knew it.
He should have run, but he’d be damned if a bunch of spoiled, rich prats were going to mess with him; he was in no bloody mood.
“Hey, you,” one slurred, his words coming in fits and spurts in the driving rain. “I don’t like your fucking face. You illegal? Go back to picking lettuce, chico.”
Andrew buried his hands in his pockets; the rain, almost horizontal in its rage, sliced against his freezing body. He trudged on, leaving behind the sound of their boots squashing harshly in the thick mud. But the thundering storm had prevented him from hearing them near, and an alarm shot through him when he realized they were directly behind him.
“Listen here, faggot.” Andrew felt a heavy paw of a hand grab his shoulder. “I said—I don’t like your face.”
He stopped dead. His jacket and trousers slapped to him like a drenched icy skin. He clenched his hands into fists as something inside of him snapped. The exhaustion, the anger, his own self-hatred. He wanted to fight. He wanted to hurt someone. Badly.
“Funny,” Andrew seethed, “I don’t like your fucking repulsive mug either.”
The paw shoved him around and rose into the air, ready to come smashing down on his face. Andrew dodged to the right at the last minute, missing the blow by inches. The owner teetered around in surprise, but not before Andrew drove his fist against the side of his jaw. He hurled backward and fell into the slick, black mud.
Before Andrew knew it a massive form lurched at him from the darkness, and he wheeled to one side as his attacker went flying past him. The heat of the drunk’s anger left a trail in the air as he fell face first next to his friend in the sodden grass.
Andrew bounced backward on his toes like a street fighter, egging them on. “That’s the best you can do, you bloody pricks?”
With a drunken howl another hulk roared at him. Andrew hauled back and hurled his fist into the boy’s stomach; he doubled back and fell, groaning. Grabbing his burning hand, Andrew bent over, holding it to his body, cursing and grimacing in the white hot pain.
Seeing him falter, a pair of beefy arms seized the advantage and grabbed Andrew from behind, wrenching his arms back. A flash of fear shot through him. Lightning bolts of searing fire tore up his hand. Not my hands, fuck, not my hands.
“Who you calling a prick, you faggot? You got a little gay boy voice, you fucking queer!”
The figure of a man lurched out of the dark rain, reeking of beer, and spat in Andrew’s face. Andrew struggled against the clamped grip on his arms, but the iron hands wrenched him brutally back, exposing his chest like a punching bag.
The man leaned back and slammed his fist into Andrew’s jaw; he felt the breath leave his lungs in a painful gasp. Another fist smashed into his gut. He doubled over, struggling to breathe.
Not my hands, please God, not my hands.
The headlights of an approaching car forced them to back off. With snide curses, they heaved Andrew onto the ground where he landed hard on the muddy grass. He plastered his hands into his body as he heard feet approach and the sound of boots seeping into the sodden ground.
Laughing, they ran, stumbling off into the night.
Groaning, Andrew lay writhing in a puddle of mud and grass. The freezing rain mixed with the heated trickle of blood from the gash along his eyebrow. The sound of gurgling seemed to be coming from his lips. He convulsed onto his side, holding his bruised gut, and coughed up what he prayed wasn’t his teeth. Raw skinned and throbbing, he curled onto his side, fighting off the waves of pain.
“Fuck, I want to go home. Please, anyone, I just want to go home…”
Teeth chattering, he curled deeper into the ground, his cheek scraping against the cold, hard gravel. The taste of blood and stones stung his mouth.
What seemed like an eternity passed, filled only with darkness and bitter rain, the far off sounds of traffic, and the smell of the earth.
“Get up, Hayes!” A voice shouted in his head, stronger and more aware than he. “Get up, or you’re going to damn well drown here, kid. Get on your feet!”
He felt himself dragged to his knees and struggled to stand. Nearly tripping, he blinked into the driving rain searching for the voice. Raising his face into the sky, blood and rain seeped down his throat. “I want to go home,” he pleaded to the voice
, or to God, or to whoever would listen. “Please, I just want to go home,” he begged, his shoulders shaking.
Please.
Emily’s voice whispered in the sheets of rain. Home. He stumbled, falling on one knee. A dagger of pain lanced up his leg. Home.
No, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
No.
It was wrong. He was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
His bruised and bleeding hand found S.J.’s card.
“You’ve been afraid ever since you met Andrew. And you’ve been running from him or shutting him out every chance you get. I don’t know what the answers are. But don’t you want to find them together and not let someone else dictate them to you? Fuck nature. So maybe his father made some mistakes, and his mother too. But he’s out there somewhere in the dark, in this torrential downpour, cold, alone, and heartbroken. Don’t you think he needs a hell of a lot more nurture right now?”
“But he isn’t coming home. Not tonight. He’s running.”
“No, you’re the one running. Did you ever trust him, ever believe in him? Or were you in your own fantasy world? If you had trusted him, believed what he told you, you would have run after him the moment he turned and headed out that door. You would have grabbed hold of his shoulders and shook him until he faced you. That’s what people who love each other do. Did you ever think that he never told you about his problems because he was afraid you would do precisely what you’re doing right now—abandon him?
“It’s late, Emily. Don’t let him do something he’ll regret. You’re the only one who stands between him and something that will make him hate himself more than he already does. So what’s it going to be?”
Trembling and stumbling like a wounded man, Andrew collapsed against the phone booth. His hair glued to his cheeks, he watched the rain trace bloody trails down the back of his hand as he fumbled the numbers. Finally, with chattering teeth, he crumbled against the metal ledge, the receiver in his hands. The entire world had gone silent except for the promise of the ringtone.
Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story Page 33