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“It’s just that…” Wade starts to say something that I think is important but we are interrupted by Adam opening the door before he can finish.
“What are you two laughing at?” Adam asks suspiciously.
I try to stifle my laugh by putting a hand over my mouth but it does no good. Wade reaches out and touches Adam’s face innocently. “Fourteen karat gold snatch.”
This is my cue to leave.
“I need to go run some errands anyway.” I make an excuse, spinning on my heel to leave. I wave behind me, flipping my hood over my head. The dust may have settled on the band breaking up, but that doesn’t mean the paparazzi have stopped hounding me. I don’t really want to go out in public, but I have no choice at this point.
“Don’t come back for a few hours this time!” Adam yells down the hallway to me. I groan audibly.
“Really? I think the mood has been killed.” I hear Wade playfully smack him as I hit the button for the elevator. Tapping my foot impatiently, I dart into the elevator as soon as the doors open and hit the lobby button, but not before I hear Adam’s voice.
“Tell that to my fourteen karat gold dick,” Adam says, as the door to the condo slams shut.
It’s too late to un-hear any of that, but I put in my earbuds anyway so I can listen to some music on my MP3 player.
I step out onto the street and walk several blocks to a bodega on the corner, realizing I do need to replace my toothbrush and get some other items because I’m tired of smelling like a boy from using Wade’s body wash. Plus, I need some girl shampoo and conditioner because I don’t want my hair smelling like Old Spice anymore. I’m trying to clean up my act, so I need to start smelling like I actually care about my appearance again.
I head down the hygiene aisle and grab a few things. When I head to the register, I notice how long it is. I’m sure I look odd with my hoodie up, but I really don’t want to be recognized, especially when I glance over and see a tabloid is front and center with my fucking picture on it.
I snatch one of them up and flip through the pages. It’s photos from months ago, and I want to take each and every one of them and rip them to shreds. The article is not especially kind to me, and if I hadn’t been one of the participants on that plane I would think this was all fabricated, but unfortunately, it’s not. It feels as if the plane had crashed and we are all still trying to pick up the pieces of the wreckage.
I slam the magazine back into the holder and notice a different one with Jack’s picture on it. It’s an interview with him, or rather a feature, since I know he doesn’t give interviews. I grab it roughly and flip to the page so I can read the article. It’s about how he signed with Left Turn Records as a solo artist, and the anticipation of a new album coming soon.
I run my finger over the glossy photo of him. Fuck, I mutter to myself. Just when I think I’m getting my life back together, I feel like I’m taking one step backward. I flip to the next page and see an old picture of Jack and me. It’s a candid of us on stage. Jack is front and center screaming into the mic, and I’m standing next to him, my hair flying in my face, a mic buried in the strands pressed close to my lips.
As I stare at it, a crack forms right down the middle of my heart; not because I miss Jack, but because I miss everything. Individually, we are all talented, but together, we had something magical that could never be replicated. Now Jack has a solo career. He’s moving on without us, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
My fingers tingle, missing the feel of those ivory keys and the way creating something filled me up on the inside, making me whole. It’s as if my mind has not caught up yet, because mentally, I am not in the right state to begin writing songs again, but music still reverberates under my skin, flowing in my veins.
My body loves to betray me.
I place the magazine back on the rack and step forward to pay.
The nice man behind the register looks at the magazine and then back at me. He doesn’t say anything though and just takes my money with a smile. Just as I walk out of the store my phone rings, and when I look at the caller ID, I see it’s Bret.
“THANKS FOR MEETING me.” Bret clasps his hand together on the table.
The only reason I’m here is because I can’t go home yet, but I don’t tell Bret that. I check my watch again and calculate how much longer I have to be safe.
I cross my arms over my chest.
“Look, I’m sorry about what happened,” he tries to explain.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I say coyly, mostly because I want to hear him say it. He squirms in his seat, and I’m not used to seeing Bret like this. When he was managing the band, he was mostly frazzled and in damage control mode. This Bret sitting across from me is in control, apologetic, and repentant.
“Mia, don’t make this any fucking harder than it has to be.” He rubs his temple, clearly annoyed with me.
“Bret, don’t be stupid,” I say and roll my eyes.
I cross my legs and take a sip of my coffee as I watch people pass by on the street.I cafe is near Santa Monica Pier, and there’s a lot of foot traffic on the sidewalk. The patio extends outside with an awning covering us from the direct sunlight, but it’s a nice 70-degree day, and a little sun would be welcomed right now.
Bret’s auburn hair is longer than usual and covering his ears in waves. He looks older, and maybe that’s because he’s had to deal with all of us for the past several years, but there’s a boyish charm to him that still remains. Perhaps it’s because he still wears faded jeans and band t-shirts. I smile to myself, thinking back on something Jack had said to me when we first signed with Bret ‘If I ever see him in a suit, it’s time to find someone else.’
“I don’t like this,” he explains, twisting the coffee mug, froth protruding over the top.
“Nobody likes this, Bret, but it is what it is.” I don’t know what he expects from me.
