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I met him at the movies, and we watched one of theFast and the Furiousflicks, sitting side by side in the dark. We didn’t talk. We didn’t catch up. We just sat there, Stone like a silent, granite mountain next to me, unmovable. By the time the movie was halfway finished, my craving had subsided, and for one more day, I didn’t use.
When we parted, I managed one word, scraped from the bottom of my soul. “Thanks.”
He shrugged his big shoulders. “Whatever.” But his eyes lingered on me, and only because I’d known him for so many years, I saw his concern. He gave me that laser stare for a long minute, making sure I was okay before he left me alone. When he saw that I was, he went home.
We went to the movies two more times over the next year, both times keeping up the fiction that I had annoyed him on his way out the door. Each time I called, he answered.
Sometimes, your bandmates annoy the shit out of you. Other times, they save your life.
* * *
In my drum room,I sat at my drum set, put on headphones, and called up the music app on my phone. For my solo jam sessions, I’d call up my music library and tell it to play at random. Whatever song came up, I’d play along with, a challenge that kept me on my toes.
I knew all of these songs and loved them. I’d taught myself drums this way from age twelve, playing along with my favorite bands, trying to emulate them. So this was a challenge, but there wasn’t a song on my list that I hadn’t played before.
I hit the button, and immediately I had ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” in my ears, the perfect dose of serotonin. I played along to the chill groove of the tune, letting my body take over and my mind shut down. The drum track wasn’t challenging—the lyrics and the guitar were the stars, the drums keeping a rhythm that was supposed to be joyous, not intense. By the time I was into the third verse, with Billy Gibbons singing about his black shades and white gloves, I was totally into it, singing along, my problems forgotten.
I did that for an hour, spinning through track after track. I couldn’t say my playing was flawless, because it wasn’t. That was the point, to make it so hard that all I thought about was keeping up, trying not to fumble. I had no problem being imperfect. But when I finished, all was right with the world again, and my head was straight.
Brit Creighton didn’t need me coming on to her. She didn’t need me in her bed, even though it would probably be damned good. She didn’t need my complications.
Brit needed something from me. Not orgasms—something else. And I thought maybe I knew what it was.
SIX
Brit
When I slid out of bed in the early gray of dawn for the guilty pleasure of watching Axel leave his house to go running, I was surprised to find a text on my phone.
It had been nearly two weeks since the day at the coffee shop. That day had been so good, and yet I’d backslid almost immediately, hiding again and sleeping too much. Dimly, I knew I was afraid that the coffee shop day had been a one-off, something I could never repeat, that I was unworthy of it. This fear made me hibernate, which ensured that I would, in fact, never repeat it.
I knew what was wrong with me. Iknew. And yet the thought of trying to overcome it was exhausting.
Axel and I had exchanged numbers that day, but I hadn’t called or messaged him. I was too mired in my bad mood, convinced that no one—least of all someone as awesome as he was—could possibly want to hear from me. This was the Bitch, as I called her—the voice in my head that told me I was too stupid, too ugly, toonothingfor anyone to like me. The Bitch had a lot to say recently.
Axel hadn’t texted me, either.
Until this morning, when he’d written,Come running with me.
My thumbs flew over the letters before I could think.Is there a murderer behind me? If so, that’s the only reason I might run. Briefly. Otherwise, running is not something I do.
I had hit Send before I remembered I was supposed to be self-pitying. I had no chance to work up my bad mood before another message came.We’ll walk, then. It’ll be fun.
Fun?I wrote.It’s the butt crack of dawn out there.
And yet you’re up, he replied,and so am I. Suit up and meet me outside in ten.
In my scaled-down wardrobe, I had one set of yoga pants and matching top, the ultra-expensive kind. I’d brought them with me not because I’d planned to exercise, but because they’d cost so freaking much that I planned to leave them to my heirs if possible. I’d bought them in the first place because no woman in L.A., even one who has to special order a size eighteen, is without expensive exercise clothes.
I pulled the clothes on, thanking God they still fit and thinking thatathleisureis the stupidest word ever. I twisted my hair up into a ponytail and put on running shoes. I still looked sleepy and grumpy, but it would have to do.
Axel was wearing the sweatpants of Satan, the fabric lovingly hugging the curve of his ass, and the front—I averted my eyes from the front. He was wearing a tee and an unzipped hoodie, he was shifting his weight gracefully from foot to foot like he was in aRockymovie, and he smiled when he saw me. “There you are,” he said, that line that sounded like he’d been looking for me.
I grunted at him. “I guess we’re walking?”
“This way.”
We started walking. Axel adjusted his pace to mine, and at first we didn’t talk. I briefly wondered if this walk was an opportunity for him to lecture me about how regular walking is a great weight-loss tactic. My mother would certainly have taken that opportunity, and so would Pierre. But Axel said nothing, and for once, the voices in my head shut up. I took a deep breath, tasting the September air. This actually felt kind of good.
