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“It’s about time it stops,” he says.
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Why do you deny yourself the things you should have?” he asks me, as if he knows my deepest, darkest secrets. How could he?
“Because I don’t deserve to be happy,” I admit, pushing back the tears.
“We’re supposed to be celebrating you coming home, and all of my shit keeps overshadowing that.” I recognize that somehow everything becomes about me.
“We have a lifetime to celebrate me coming home.” He doesn’t know how ominous his statement is. “But right now, you need to get your shit together.”
“I don’t know how to fix this,” I say, shaking my head.
“You know exactly what you need to do.”
I LAY IN bed most nights, staring up at the windows, watching the moon or the palm trees sway in the wind. Then the sun comes up and I wonder if I will ever get a good night’s sleep again.
I’ve been couch hopping again, but this week, I’m staying at my loft while Greta is in San Francisco visiting her parents and her friends. I moved out of the condo months ago. Cash wasn’t coming back as long as I was living there, and I hated the thought of him staying in the loft above the store.
I flip the covers off me and lay on my back. The sun hasn’t come up yet and the moonlight streams in through the windows, casting shadows across the hardwood floors.
This was once a safe place for me, but now it’s full of ghosts. Every time there’s a knock on my door, I’m wishing for it to be Cash on the other side, but it never is. I can’t even eat at the kitchen table without thinking about the Chinese food Cash brought me. Maybe the reason I can’t sleep is that he’s not next to me. I curl up against the pillow and close my eyes to the assaulting memories. My eyes grow heavy and I feel as if I could drift off to sleep this time, if only for a little bit.
My phone rings, and I don’t how long I’ve been asleep. I look over at the clock and wonder who could be calling so early in the morning. It’s a number I don’t recognize, and little waves of panic shoot across my chest.
“Hello?” I say sleepily.
There is silence on the other end, but I can hear someone breathing. I cradle the phone to my ear and close my eyes. He doesn’t have to say anything, and I already know it’s him.
“Jack?” I say into the phone, nervously.
“My Dad is sick,” he says, his voice shaky. “He’s dying.”
“Are you okay?” I know how fragile Jack’s sobriety is, and a derailment like this could send him back to using. Even after all of this time, these are where my thoughts are drawn to.
“No.” I can hear him sigh on the other end. “I am not okay.”
I wonder where he is right now, and how long he has known. It must have taken a lot of courage for him to call me, or maybe he didn’t have to think about it at all. Maybe it was me he called on instinct, knowing that I would always be there for him, no matter distance or time.
There are so many things I want to ask him, but all I can do is breathe.
“I don’t want to go back home alone,” he admits.
“Okay,” I breathe.
“Meet me after my show tonight at The Mint?” he asks of me, my heart leaping into my chest at the thought of seeing him. Coming face to face with him is far different than sneaking into a club to watch him.
I pause for a minute before answering. “I’ll be there.” Of course, I would be there for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
One in a Million
THE BOUNCER SMILES at me and unclips the velvet rope. Once I step inside there is no going back, and I can feel my heart beating against my chest. It feels like little nervous flutters of a hummingbird’s wings. I hear the crowd cheering, and smell the beer and bodies as I make my way backstage.
I hear the low timbre of his voice, and the sound of his signature Fender. Some guys play the guitar, like they fuck, I remember telling Peter. Right now, Jack is playing the way he makes love. He is cradling the guitar against his body, molding it to him like he would a lover. His hand moves down the fretboard, fingers plucking at the strings, building the tension as if he’s trying to pull an orgasm from you. He uses the whammy bar to tighten the strings, pushing the limit almost to the breaking point, and then an explosion of sound, the bursting of a dam before his hand moves rapidly up and down the fretboard, elongating the sound. At the end is a single chord, like the low moan of satisfaction.
I breathe in and out, counting my breaths as I watch him.
