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‘Just the usual stuff that keeps me locked in my house. It was . . . the guy in the Red Sox cap.’
‘He was in there?’ he roars, sitting bolt upright.
‘No,’ I reply quickly, grabbing his arm to settle him back into the seat. ‘It wasn’t him; it was just a guy wearing a Red Sox cap.’
He looks at me with such heartbreak in his eyes. ‘You react that way whenever you see a Red Sox cap?’
‘Sometimes . . . if I’m caught off-guard.’
‘God. I’m so fucking sorry for what they did to you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to stop it before it happened.’
I laugh at this response. ‘You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t even know I existed until you saw me in that parking lot.’
The car pulls up outside Wally’s, but the driver makes no mention of it. He allows us to continue talking and, again, I’m struck by how it’s the little things like being allowed to talk instead of being shoved out of a cab that rich people probably take for granted.
‘I did know you existed, remember?’ He lightly presses his fingertip over my sweater where my bunny tattoo lies beneath. ‘I was on Twitter that night because it was two weeks since Jordan died and I was meeting with a ballistics expert the following day who was supposed to record video of me loading a shotgun. The video was going to be used as evidence to show that I didn’t know what I was doing the night Jordan died . . . I got on Twitter that night hoping to confess that I did know what I was doing. Or, at least, I thought I did.
‘I clicked the local tweets button, hoping to find someone who had heard about the case. I was ready to tell a complete stranger, in less than 140 characters, that I did know how to load a Ruger .270. But then I saw your tweet and . . . it changed everything. I knew Jordan wouldn’t have wanted me to come clean. You showed me that.’
‘I showed you what?’
‘That sometimes the truth hurts more than the lies. That’s why you’re here, because you couldn’t be honest with your family about the real reason for your trip to L.A. And that’s why I’m here, because I never told anyone what really happened the night Jordan died.’
This time I squeeze his hand and turn his head so he can look at me. ‘What would have happened if you had confessed? You would have been found guilty of manslaughter and you might have still been in jail a year later.’
He’s silent for a moment and I want to ask him what happened that night, but I don’t want to push him. He’s been so patient with me, never pressuring me to open up about the things that happened to me.
‘But you said it yourself, you hate that I saved you,’ he replies. ‘And now you want to die. Maybe I should have just confessed instead of sending you that tweet.’
‘I think the thought of never having met you is worse than what happened to me that night.’ I take his hand and close my eyes as I lay it over my heart. ‘This black box is yours to keep.’
He kisses me tenderly and I slowly lose myself in him. All I can feel is his hand on the back of my neck and the light caresses of his tongue on mine, making my stomach flutter. The way our mouths fit together makes me think of a lock and key. I guess the key I was searching for yesterday was right next to me all along.
‘Come on, or Leroy will kick my ass for keeping him hanging tonight,’ I say, pushing the car door open.
The sidewalk in front of Wally’s is pretty desolate on a Wednesday night at 9:08 p.m. There’s a group of regulars who show up just about every night. As soon as we’re inside, Mikki and I squeeze in at the end of the bar so I can wait my turn, and so I can fill her in on the regulars’ basic information. I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable, like she’s sitting in a roomful of strange men. I give her a quick and dirty profile on John, the accountant who’s in the middle of a messy divorce; Ken, the high-school teacher who sometimes brings his students papers in to grade at the bar while he listens to the music; Rowan, who’s in the music program at Harvard, two years under me; and Elijah, the seventy-year-old saxophone player who once played with B.B. King.
‘Elijah tells the best stories of anyone I know,’ I say as Jimmy slides two glasses of water across the bar. ‘He hardly ever repeats a story either. He has a great memory for that kind of stuff. Sometimes, I wish he would slip up and repeat one of my favorite stories he ever told about his sister who sang backup for Led Zeppelin on one of their US tours, on ‘The Battle of Evermore.’ Her impression of the band was hilarious.’
She’s looking at me with a weird expression. ‘How long have you been playing music? The way you talk about it, it seems like it’s in your blood. Your face just lights up.’
I shake my head, trying not to let her see how her comments have made me feel a bit exposed. ‘I started playing piano when I was six, then I started playing the guitar when I was nine. But my grandpa is the one who gave me an appreciation for jazz and blues. None of my friends were ever really into it, which is why I moved out of the dorms last year. Got tired of annoying the shit out of everyone with my music and practicing. I guess it is in my blood, cause I don’t think I could live without it.’
‘So . . . tell me more about your thesis.’
I chuckle. ‘No, you don’t have to pretend to be interested in my thesis. Let’s talk about something else.’
‘I’m not pretending. I really want to know what you know about music. I want to know the science behind the song you wrote for me.’
‘No. There’s no science behind the composition other than general music theory and the standard stuff anyone can learn in a songwriting course. That’s not what my thesis is about. It’s not about writing a song specifically to draw emotion. It’s about figuring out what it is about music that draws emotion across various cultures.’ I study her face as I let this sink in. ‘The more you try to write something solely for one purpose, the more you lose sight of all the other reasons it needs to be written. So it’s better not to write a song to evoke emotion. It’s always best to write a song for a person. A person is not a purpose, so when you write a song for someone, you give everything up to the song. Those are the kinds of songs that evoke emotion. At least, that’s what my thesis is trying to prove.’
Her eyes well up with tears, which she quickly wipes away. ‘Well, now I really want to hear that song.’
‘Do you want to sit on stage with me?’ She shakes her head as I reach for a bar napkin for her to wipe her tears. ‘Are you sure? I don’t feel comfortable leaving you down on the floor with a bunch of guys. I’d rather have you next to me.’
‘Is that jealousy or over-protectiveness?’
‘Both.’
‘Okay, but only because the thought of being more than a few feet away from you in here is making me sick to my stomach.’ She takes a sip from her water and grabs the front of my hoodie, and I have to temper my reaction so she doesn’t know how much this turns me on. ‘Now I want you to tell me how you got away with it.’
The question catches me off-guard. At first, I think she’s talking about Jordan’s death, then I realize she’s talking about the fat piece of shit who raped her then left her for dead in that parking lot. Then a dark thought materializes in my mind and I’m afraid to even think it. She was covered in so much blood, it was pooling underneath her when I lifted her off the asphalt. I didn’t see any knife or gunshot wounds, but then again I wasn’t really looking for them. God, I hope my instincts are wrong.
‘The gun I used wasn’t registered, so I
didn’t hesitate when I shot that guy. And I made sure to pull up at least twenty yards ahead of the emergency room entrance, instead of right next to it, in case there were cameras. And so I could make a quick getaway after I left you there.’
She stares at my chest as she asks this next question. ‘And the evidence? How did you get rid of the gun and the car and your clothes? I mean . . . you must have been covered in blood.’
‘I burned my car and my clothes, then I cleaned up the gun and sold it.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it. I figured they probably wouldn’t be banging down doors, doing a hard investigation into who killed the guy who did that to you. And, with the guy dead, he couldn’t rat out which of his friends were with him that night. And even if they were picked up for questioning, I highly doubted they would want to admit to seeing me there; that would be like admitting their guilt. Can I ask you a question now?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Did they ever show you mug shots or pictures of potential suspects? If they had that guy’s body, they must have known who his friends were.’
She grabs her glass of water again and wraps both hands around it as she holds the rim against her lips. ‘They did, but I told the detectives I didn’t recognize them.’
‘Why?’
Her hands are trembling so I take the glass from her hands and put it back on the bar.
‘Because the first two pictures they showed me were of guys I’d never seen before. I knew they had mixed in photos of unrelated criminals. And I found myself hoping that the next picture would not be one of them either. That’s when I realized I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pick them out in a picture or sit in a courtroom with them. I never wanted to see them again.’
Jimmy smacks the bar in front of us and we both jump. ‘Hey, hotshot. You’re up.’
‘Thanks,’ I shoot back at him, then I turn to Mikki. ‘Are you okay to go up there?’
She nods and I wrap my arms around her one last time, to draw a little more inspiration, and the way she hugs me back fills me up with it. I think I could stand here like this for the rest of my life.
She gives me one last squeeze then leans in to whisper in my ear. ‘Blow out their circuits.’
A guy in a black T-shirt and gray newsboy cap delivers Crush’s guitar to him on the side of the stage from wherever they were holding it for him. It’s a black acoustic-electric that looks sort of like the guitar Meaghan’s ex-boyfriend Randy used to carry around with him everywhere. He clips a black leather strap onto the body of the guitar then slings it over his shoulder with such ease, as if he’s done it a million times; and he probably has.
‘What are you grinning at?’ he asks, reaching into his back pocket.
‘You look so cool, like you were born to do this.’
He chuckles as he rubs the crushed penny his grandfather gave him between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I guess we’ll find out if you’re right very soon.’
‘Some folks just got it,’ Leroy says into the microphone as he glances at Crush, eliciting a few hollers from the crowd. One of them sounds like a female squealing and a jealous fire sparks inside me. ‘Please welcome to the stage the boy who spends so much time here I’m gonna have to start charging this fool rent. The one, the only, Cruuuuushh!’
‘Come on.’ Crush nods toward the stage.
I take one step up onto the tiny stage where two white wooden stools await us. I take a seat on the stool on the left and watch as Crush plugs in his guitar and positions both microphones in their stands: one for his guitar and one for his mouth. My heart is ready to pound out of my chest and he seems so calm.
I want to look out at the people sitting and standing just a few feet from the stage, but I’m afraid I’ll have a panic attack or throw up. Instead, I keep my gaze focused on Crush as he sits in the stool next to me and tilts the microphone until it’s right next to his lips. He winks at me before he turns his attention toward the crowd, and it’s this simple gesture that puts me at ease.
‘Most of you already know me, so I won’t bore you with any further introductions. Tonight’s not about me, anyway. Tonight is about this girl.’ I bury my face in my hands in embarrassment, sensing dozens of eyes on me, hearing their laughter as I attempt to hide in plain sight. Crush places his hand on my knee and gives it a gentle squeeze. I slowly lower my hands and he reaches for my face. ‘This is a song I’ve been working on for a while,’ he continues, and I can’t help but grin. ‘This is called “Black Box”, for the girl who holds the key to mine.’
My stomach is bubbling with so much nervous energy, I’m afraid I might vomit. I take a few deep breaths as I try to focus on Crush. He brushes the flattened penny across the strings and the sound sends a chill over my skin. He takes a moment to tune a couple of the strings, then he clears his throat and begins. From the very first notes he plucks out on the guitar, I can tell that the melancholy acoustic melody is going to make me cry. It has a loose, bluesy feel that reminds me of hot summer nights, lying in bed with a fresh pad of paper and a pen. I find myself hoping that someday he’ll sing me to sleep with this tune.
