Page 55 of Grumpy Bear

“They never started out that way. Sage and I dated in high school—"

“Wait. Sage? Was that his sage name?”

He snorted at the pun. “No. It’s his real name. Sage Cartwright. His mom was like kind of a hippie or whatever. Anyway, we went to Nashville together when we graduated high school. Me riding his coattails. His parents bankrolled everything. He was the pretty one.”

“He was the pretty one?”

“You should see him. He’s definitely pretty. On the outside anyway.”

“What happened with Sage? He burn himself out?” I failed to keep a straight face for that one.

“Oh. My. God.” Luke flopped back, banging his head on the headboard and hiding his face in his hands in pretend mortification. “If only you had been there when I could have used these wicked dad jokes.” He took his hands away but continued staring at the ceiling. “Sage sucked all the oxygen out of a room. He was the would-be lead singer. The total package. The music label execs always wanted him. It was all about him. He cheated a lot, always claiming he was doing it for us, for our careers. Total alcoholic. Coke head. I managed to hang around in the background for three years before it eventually imploded.”

“You left him?”

“No, he left me. Isn’t that rich? He threw me out. Said I was holding him back.” He went quiet.

Even though I acted like I couldn’t stand his babbling, I didn’t really want him to stop. “What’s ol’ Sage up to these days?”

“Still sleeping his way around Nashville, I guess.”

I heard the remains of true anger there. The darkness in his tone surprised me a little. Somebody dimming his light like that made me want to beat the shit out of that somebody.

“So after that, and a succession of really shitty jobs, I met this guy, Jeremy, who was a producer. He talked me into moving out to LA. Made me a lot of promises.”

“Let me guess.”

“He trotted me out whenever he thought it made him seem cool. Red carpet shit. He liked having an artist as a boyfriend, but I was basically a pathetic indoor pet. He had a beautiful condo right on the beach in Malibu. I did not surf, but I watched a lot of surfers through those big glass walls.”

I waited for him to go on, watching him track invisible memories in the air.

“I don’t know. Maybe he thought if I made it, I’d leave him.”

“He wanted to keep you dependent on him.”

Luke glanced at me, searching my face before he continued. “The sad thing is, I really loved both of them. I genuinely believed our relationships were more important than any kind of fame or money. I was willing to let them shine. I wanted them to succeed. I really did. I didn’t sulk. I didn’t sabotage anybody. I kept waiting for them to make it, so they’d finally be happy and be happy with me.”

“Even without anything for you?” I willed him to meet my eyes before he answered.

He didn’t. He proclaimed it to the room, but his voice was louder, and he started gesturing. “I’m not not open to some kind of opportunity. If somebody gave me a record deal, sure, I’d take it. If I got the chance to tour, okay, hell yeah. But if I got to play three nights a week at a club in Edgewood and make enough money not to live in a tent. No offense, I don’t mean camping, I mean… living on the street. That’s still a level of dream come true I haven’t made it to yet.” He finally looked at me. “It doesn’t sound that unachievable, does it? I mean, I’m on the way up from nothing here.”

How could I convince him how far from nothing he was? I traced a vein in his forearm with my fingertip.

“Jeremy threw me out too. He met someone. I stayed out there on my own as long as I could. LA is so fucking expensive. I couldn't afford it. I almost waited too long to leave. To come back east.”

I turned toward him, settling on my side. “Going back to Alabama wasn't an option?”

“No. Definitely not. My dad was the first man to throw me out of his house.”

I had this inappropriately humorous flash of me driving a DeLorean back in time to pick him up on the sidewalk. I’d tell him about it later when he could laugh about it.

“Remember the vision board I told you about?” Luke looked away and swallowed. “He made me burn it. He said it was witchcraft.” He rolled his eyes, but the attempt at nonchalance didn’t hide his pain.

The rage I felt at the thought of someone hurting him in that way constricted my voice into a whisper. “He made you burn pictures of your dreams?” The desire to go back in time and rescue a teenaged Luke wasn’t an amusing thought anymore. It now featured me murdering his dad. “What kind of father does that?”

He shrugged. It was a rhetorical question.

I made a disgusted sound. “That’s a special kind of fucked up.” Because I lived with my own memories of abuse, I knew Luke didn’t need me to say I felt sorry for him. He just needed me to know. “What about your mom?”