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“I can’t deal with this right now. You can tell Wade I said goodbye.”
I muster all of the strength I have because I’m not letting him leave until he hears me. “You’re wrong,” I manage to spit out, and that gets his attention. “I do get to make demands. You don’t get to just cut me out of your life. Either talk to me or serve me with divorce papers. Just fucking do something!” I yell at him, my anger palpable in the air between us. Somehow, it makes me feel better to say it, because I can’t keep living like this. He’s angry, fine, I understand that, but just because I made a mistake doesn’t mean I deserve to be punished indefinitely.
He hesitates for a moment and I can see the conflict in his eyes. Maybe he has regrets too, but he turns around and walks away from me. I am left in the middle of the sidewalk, acutely aware of pedestrians moving past me.
I don’t know what I expected from Cash, but I was sorely unprepared for this encounter. I thought time would dull the pain, but avoidance is never the answer. I kept holding out for hope that he still loved me because he hasn’t served me with divorce papers, and it’s been nearly six months. Maybe now I’ll have my answer.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Already Broken
CALIFORNIA DOESN’T TELL you when the season has changed. Everything stays constant as if time has stopped. Fall is here without a splash of color or dramatic arrival. The row of windows in my loft looks out onto the street and to the buildings across from me; simple street lamps and trees that never change color line the sidewalk, and stretch towards a darkening sky.
I’m curled up in my chair with the Fender Acoustic Bass on my lap that I brought home from the studio. I’m still seething about having to work with Peter, and I’m taking it out on this guitar. I know I’m an awful player, but a guitar fits easier in my place than a piano, and I haven’t found a keyboard yet.
I spend a lot of time at the studio because at least I know there are other people around. Here, in my loft, the silence is deafening, and I only have my thoughts to keep me company. That is never a good thing. Music was always my outlet, and at least I still have that. Dark Angel Publishing has proven to be my saving grace.
I’m startled by a knock on the door, and I set the bass against my chair as I get up to answer it. Wade has been gone a couple of weeks now and he was the only one to ever come to visit me. The lofts in this building are occupied mostly by yuppies, rich kids whose parents pay the rent, or ambitious young professionals. They look at me like I’m a squatter. I’m sure it’s because I don’t look like I fit in, so I can’t imagine it would be any of my neighbors inviting me over for a drink.
I can’t help but hope it’s Adam with a bottle of wine or something stronger. I could use that right now.
I pad over to the wide industrial door and peer through the security hole to see Cash standing in the hallway. I rear back, surprised and unsure if what I’m seeing is real. Only Wade or Adam could have told him where I lived. Looking down, I notice I’m wearing an old oversized Mogo shirt and shorts, but there isn’t time to change.
Conflicted, I place my hand against the door as if it could reach through and touch him. I hesitate to open it because even though I have waited for him for so long, I don’t know if this is the beginning - or the beginning of the end.
Cautiously, I undo the chain and flip the lock, opening the door with a heavy creak. His blonde hair is boyishly messy as if he’s run his hands through it nervously too many times. His grey eyes assess me, and for the first time, I can’t read him. His eyes are like a storm, and I can clearly see the conflict waging war in his mind.
My body hums and my heart beats faster just being near him. I want to reach out and place my hand on his shoulder, to snake it around his neck like I used to, but we are not those same people we were on the day we got married. There was so much potential never realized, like a flower’s life cut short by an early frost.
“I shouldn’t have yelled and said those things to you on the street.” He hooks his thumbs in his pockets. “I was just surprised to see you, and when you followed me…” He doesn’t finish because we both know what happened after I caught up to him. I don’t blame him for being angry, and part of me knows I deserved that, but I also deserve closure.
I am at a loss for words because what is there to say? Even though what he said hurt, none of it was false.
I know my eyes betray me when I gaze at him, because what I want, I can’t have. I want to start over. I want to take his hand and tell him that I will never hurt him again, but I can’t make that promise.
“Anyway, I brought you this.” Cash shoves a brown paper bag into my hands with the word Shanghai stamped on the side. I can feel the heat from the food within, and the aroma wafts up to my nose causing my stomach to growl. Shanghai is my favorite restaurant, and Cash knows this. The fact that he went all the way to Venice to pick up food for me warms not only my heart, but my belly.
“You need to eat. You’re too fucking skinny.” The sweet gesture makes my heart ache even more for him.
“Thank you.” My words mean so much more than just for the food. Whatever has happened between us, I hope in some way we can always be in each other’s lives. I love him too much to ever say goodbye.
He points to the Fender leaning against my chair. “Don’t be afraid to wail on that bass otherwise you won’t be able to hear it over the other guitars.”
I smile and nod as I clutch the bag to my chest.
He turns on his heel and walks away from me yet again. I watch him leave, aching to run after him, but I don’t. This visit is bittersweet, because I have to watch him leave again. He was never here to stay, but this visit is a start.
I take the food inside, placing it on my small kitchen table. I unwrap the contents and line the containers up methodically, knowing instinctively that my favorite dishes are inside. I can’t possibly eat all of this, but the fact that he ordered me so much makes me smile. My stomach growls, and with the chopsticks positioned in my hand, I dig in. Each bite is better than the last, because it came from him.
My hunger is sated and my heart is full as I sit in the oversized chair next to the windows. I can see the indigo sky bleeding into night. On the table next to me, I grab my notebook and pen as the beginning of a new song starts to take shape. It’s late and I should be sleeping, but I can’t.
My mind is full of images of Cash.
After all these months, the drug haze has lifted and I can see clearly. I write because that is who I am. It is what makes my heart beat and my soul sing. This notebook catalogs songs that make up my phoenix story, and I’d like to see how it ends.
Sometimes I feel as if I’m fighting against the current, making it so hard to stay afloat when what I need to do is just ride the wave and see where it takes me. This Peter Hayes might be a narcissistic asshole, but he has no idea who he’s dealing with. If his band wants a fresh sound, I will ride that wave and give him everything I’ve got.
With a new sense of purpose, I start to write when there is another knock on my door, pulling my focus away.
