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I set the phone down on the kitchen counter in my shitty L.A. apartment. Then I back away from it, as if it’s a ticking time bomb. I bump against the oven behind me and that’s when I feel it. In my back pocket.
I slide my hand into my pocket and retrieve the glass heart Claire gave me last year. I’ve carried it with me every day since the day she handed it to me in Moore Square. I read the words engraved on the surface: ever thine, ever mine, ever ours.
She wants nothing more to do with me. She probably stopped wearing my ring the day I left.
Fine. If that’s the way she wants it.
I hurl the heart across the room and it hits the wall and shatters on the floor in front of the refrigerator.
I came to L.A. because I wanted to follow through on everything I’ve been working toward since I picked up my first guitar twelve years ago. I never would have quit school and worked my ass off the past three years if I thought this would never happen. But … I would have thrown it all away for her. For us.
Now I see that she won’t let me. Maybe this is easier for her than it is for me. Maybe I was just weighing her down. Taking up her time when she could have been studying or partying. Maybe she’s been wanting to breakup for a while.
Staring at the shattered heart, I get a sick thought. Would Claire and I still be together if I had given her an engagement ring instead of a promise ring?
I shake my head at this craziness.
Claire promised to love me forever. I knew forever was too good to be true.
Forever Aching
December, 2012
Senia’s three-year-old sister, Sophie, has become very good at working the TV remote. Watching her flipping through the channels, her chubby finger pressed on the “plus” button, all I can do is smile. She’ll find some cartoon show eventually. Or she’ll get tired of holding down the button and give me the remote so I can find the cartoons.
A few seconds later, my prediction comes true. In the worst way possible. She gets tired of pressing the button and she drops the remote into my lap.
“Cartoons,” Sophie pleads.
But I can’t move. My eyes are glued to the images on the screen. A celebrity gossip show.
“Rocker Chris Knight has been spotted around town with Nicole Priestly, star of this season’s blockbuster, Alive. Rumors are flying that they were spotted making out in a booth at Triple X, a swanky new restaurant-slash-strip club in West Hollywood where all the young celebrities are hanging out these days. Knight’s publicist denies the two are anything more than friends. Hmmm… I don’t remember the last time I tasted the inside of my buddy’s mouth.”
God, I’m such an idiot!
“Cartoons!”
I’ve spent the last five months basically lying in bed feeling sorry for both of us. Feeling like we’ve both suffered with the most difficult decision I ever made; a decision I know I’ll always regret. And there he is, shoving his tongue into someone else’s mouth. Probably shoving other things in other places, as well. I wouldn’t call that suffering.
I knew Chris would move on eventually, but seeing it happen right before my eyes is something else. Now, this nameless girl I imagined him screwing has a face. A very famous face. Imagining his hands on her. His lips on her. His … Ugh! It makes me sick.
“Claire! Cartoons!”
I can’t watch TV anymore. That’s the only way to avoid this torture.
I pick up the remote and change the channel as Senia walks in with two ice cream sundaes; one for me and one for her.
I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Claire, you have to eat. It’s the holidays.”
“Ice cream!” Sophie screams.
“This isn’t for you,” Senia says, and Sophie’s bottom lips juts out. Senia rolls her eyes and sets the sundae down on the coffee table in front of Sophie. “You can have a few bites.”
Sophie digs into her ice cream and I watch in complete wonderment. How could something as simple as ice cream turn a bad day into a good one for a child? What would turn my bad day into a good one?
Don’t answer that question, I chide myself.
Forever Restless
The buzzing noise seeps into my dream and it takes a moment for me to realize it’s my phone. I snatch the phone off the bedside table, squinting at the bright screen, and groan when I see the phone number.
“Yeah. I’m awake.”
“I should hope so. It’s past noon.”
I pull the phone away from my ear to look at the time: 12:34 p.m.
“What’s up?”
“We need you to come in tonight around seven to re-record some vocals on ‘Firefly’.” I can tell by the almost bored exasperation in his voice that Gene Hadley is getting tired of re-recording vocals because I was too parched and hungover on the initial recording. “Get some rest and drink plenty of water.”
He hangs up and I stare at the screen for a moment as the calls disappears. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and the first thing I see is a black bra on the floor. With great trepidation, I turn my head and peer over my shoulder. I wish I could say I’m surprised to find a thin brunette tangled in my bedsheets. Her left breast is exposed and her pouty lips are slightly parted as she sleeps.
I don’t remember what time I got in last night, but I do remember bits and pieces of the party in Tristan’s hotel room. Despite the problems with recording, I managed to convince Gene to allow Tristan and Jake to play bass and drums on the tour that kicks off at the end of this month. Tristan and Jake flew out a few days ago and we celebrated having the band back together last night.
It looks like I got a suite in the same hotel for me and … What’s her name again? Laura? Lara? Lorena? I can’t fucking remember.
I rise from the bed slowly and she begins to stir. I freeze for a moment, but she settles down quickly and continues to sleep. I tiptoe out of the bedroom and into the sitting area. Grabbing a bottle of water out of the minibar, I sit down at a glossy mahogany writing desk.
How can it be that it’s been five months since I last saw Claire and hers is still the first face I see in my mind when I get the urge to write a song? My memories of Claire are relentless. And no amount of alcohol or sex can erase her.
Picking up the hotel pen and pad of paper, I close my eyes and allow myself to remember. The first thing I see is Claire sitting in the shade of a giant oak tree in Moore Square, smiling as I sing to her. I press the pen to the paper and write the first lines: We kissed under the trees, and talked about missing things. I wish I could have held you in; held in the heat of your breath; held onto you and I at our best.
Forever Ours
May 27, 2013
It’s hard not to think about Chris on his twenty-first birthday. But I’m going to try my hardest not to. I know wherever he is today, he’s probably having lots of fun. Drinking lots of booze. Screwing lots of girls. He’s living. So that’s what I’m going to do today. I’m going to live my life without thinking about Chris.
Senia is moving in next week and we’re going to have a great summer. My new apartment in Wrightsville Beach is kind of old and some of the doors and cabinets are swollen with humidity, but it smells like fresh paint. And it’s mine.
Dropping out of UNC just may turn out to be the smartest decision I’ve ever made.
Chris dropped out and look at him now.
Nope! Stop thinking about Chris.
I grab a bottle of water out of the tiny refrigerator that came with the apartment, then I head out the door. I walk through the small parking lot and toward my new workplace: Beachcombers Café. But I don’t go inside. I continue down Lumina to the surf shop next door.
A bell jingles as I enter the shop and I’m reminded of the movie It’s A Wonderful Life. “Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings.” This reminds me of Christmases with my mom and I realize that I didn’t just come here to forget Chris. I came here to forget my mother.
Today, a new Claire emerges from the a
shes of the fire that burned down every good thing in my life.
