Page 17 of True Abandon

I tug on the drawstring and see what’s inside: a pair of ripped jeans, green-plaid boxer briefs, a black t-shirt, black socks, and fuchsia-colored, high-top sneakers. They’re, quite possibly, the ugliest shoes I’ve ever seen, and I have pretty eclectic taste.

At the bottom of the bag is his wallet. I prop it open and find his Virginia license. In the picture is a man who resembles the Jackson Davis of my youth. Brown hair, light-brown eyes, and a grin. There’s a little heart on his license stating he’s an organ donor. I’m surprised he’d sign himself up for something so selfless. That said, I’d pity the man who wound up with his cold, loveless heart.

He also has a black Amex, probably being paid off by his daddy. There’s a gym membership, a bunch of credit cards, six hundred dollars in cash and two condoms.

I thumb through the black leather and into the secret pocket that wallets have to find a photo stuck inside. I slide my thumb in and pull it out, but what’s in my hands makes my heart stop.

Me.

A photo taken when I was sixteen-years-old, sitting on a dune by the beach we escaped to that summer. My hair is blonde—my natural color—and woven into a long braid. The yellow-striped romper and canvas sneakers I’m wearing in the picture take me back to another place in time. I’m laughing in the picture, but I can’t remember what was said that was so humorous.

It’s possible this is the same wallet he’s had since then and just never took the picture out. The wallet is very old. It wouldn’t be impossible.

I won’t pretend this means he’s harbored some sort of guilt for what he did or has deep-rooted feelings he hasn’t been able to get over. If the course tone to his voice is any indication of who he is today, the photo in his wallet was just an oversight.

I put the picture in the pocket of my hoodie and close his wallet. There’s also a stick of gum, some loose change, and a cell phone at the bottom of the bag. It’s dead, so I plug it into my charger. Taking a seat, I wait for it to power up and swipe the screen. The password is his birthday—no shocker there—and his home screen is a picture of him performing with his band. Can anyone say, narcissist?

His photo album is filled with selfies. Him sticking his tongue out, kissing a girl’s ass, drinking a beer, playing his guitar, and yes, he even has a bunch of shirtless, bathroom pictures. I won’t lie and say the images he took of himself at the gym aren’t incredibly hot—they’re just uncalled for.

His email icon has a little, red bubble that says seven thousand, seven hundred and fifty-six. I’ve never seen so many unopened emails. I click on the app, and his mailbox appears. Emails from a man named Dexter, who I can only assume in his manager, with show dates, scheduling info and contract materials fill the screen. False Accusations is a small, indie band. If I hadn’t done some Facebook stalking, I never would have heard of them. From these emails, they’re a little more well-known than I gave them credit for with shows all over the country plus a European leg playing small venues.

I read a bunch of emails from his sister, Ella. She sends him weekly updates of his niece, Vivienne. He has a ton of advertisements from stores. Apparently, Jax likes to cybershop. A lot. He recently purchased over three grand worth of sneakers. Just sneakers. And dropped another couple grand at Helmut Lang on a fall wardrobe. Or perhaps just a new outfit for Saturday night, who knows. The man doesn’t seem to have any respect for the dollar.

All these emails have been read so I tap on a subfolder that reads Fan Mail. With an eye roll, I open the folder and am floored to see Jax has hundreds of pieces tucked away—unopened. He just moves them into this little slice of cyberspace.

Due to my lack of self-control, I open the emails and dive in… to naked pictures. Oh my, there are so many pictures of women without clothes on—I can’t fathom what the end game is here.

Why any self-respecting woman would take a picture of her breasts to lure a man is beyond me. My dad had to hire an attorney and a tech team to get my bare ass off the internet. I know it still lives somewhere, but at least there are cease and desist orders on the video. If it goes live anywhere, a note goes out to the domain holder stating the person in the video is a minor and they face legal ramifications for sharing it. Years later and we’re still ripping it down from the web. Here, these women are inviting their bodies to be exploited.

Not every email comes with a naked photo attachment, but I can see why he wouldn’t open them. Half of these girls look underage, and the rest are just desperate.

There are so many notes from people who are true fans of his music. Songs of his helped them get through hard times or inspired them to pursue their own dreams. Beautiful words from gracious people sit here, unread and unanswered.

Moving back to the home screen, I tap an app called Recordings. There are a ton of files with various dates. I select one, and a guitar riff plays through the speaker. The soft strums are soothing as the strings are caressed by the hands of a skilled musician. It’s a slow tune, one I find oddly comforting. Enough so that I prop open the leg rest on the recliner and lie down.

With the phone on my stomach, I settle for the first time since walking into the room. A man’s voice hums from the speaker, and it’s soulful like the sunrise on the Atlantic Ocean. Peaceful in the way it dips low and careens into a sweet ballad. There are no words—just a man and his guitar.

I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else where the pleather chair I occupy is really a lounge chair, and the fluorescent lights above are the sun warming my skin. And those pelting drops against the glass are the crashing waves of the ocean.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” he asked.

I looked up into his warm eyes, and the stars above him, as we snuck away in the night for a chance to see eachother. “I believe that love involves a totality where you are united physically and spiritually, creating one heart and soul, so, yeah. I guess I do believe in soul mates. Why do you ask?”

“Because of this.” His hand gripped the side of my face and rested his forehead against mine. “Because I don’t know if what I feel for you is normal. I always believed we were connected through souls, past and present, but this is fiery and it’s real and it’s scary as hell.”

I laced my arms around his back and held him tight. “You’re awfully poetic. If you don’t become a lawyer you’ll make a great writer.”

He leaned up and looked down at me with a frown. “Are you mocking me?”

“No.” I brushed the hair off his face and caressed his cheek. “I just don’t find any of this scary. I’ve never felt safer in my entire life. And I know love. I’ve seen it first hand from my parents. This, what we have. Is bigger.”

A grin escaped his lips as he leaned down for a kiss. It’s sweet and brief, yet filled with meaning. When he lifts his face he has a grips me tighter. “My parents don’t even look at each other, let alone hold one another. I don’t want to be like that, Trish. Promise me, we’ll always be there for one another. We’ll always kiss and hold hands. We’ll always be connected.”

“I promise. We’re forever.”

chapter FOUR

My neck is creaky, and my back is as stiff as a board. That’s what I get for falling asleep in a chair. I push my spine away from the recliner in an awkward attempt to stretch.