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The coffee shop is located on the North side of town, a cozy spot I’ve never heard of called Harvest, with a chalkboard sign out front boasting fresh matcha. I walk in and see a blonde woman incessantly checking her phone. She’s young, around Lyndsey’s age, wearing a plain black dress.
She glances up, and her gaze zeroes in on me:
It’s Lyndsey’s Allison.
Fuck.
My heart is crawling up my throat. I don’t know whether I should run, barf, or hide behind the potted plant in the corner. Before I can do anything, Allison zeroes in on me, and she’s not happy.
“Nice try, Vincent, if that is your real name!” She sneers.
I can’t think of a response before she powers forward in her monologue, “You know, I thought it was you. I did, and it makes sense. You’re an up-and-coming rockstar; fans throw themselves at you every night. One of those fans is Abbie Meyers. You two have a night of passion that I don’t want to think about. Nine months later, I appeared. My mom contacts you. You don’t want the responsibility of fatherhood, so you change your name and pretend I never happened. But guess what,Vincent? DNA doesn’t lie!”
If Allison needs a job, she should audition to be a television detective. At the same time, I’m deeply confused.
“I- I Allison, I’ll admit, the nineties were a bit of a blur for me, but I never changed my name. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, you know!” Allison declares, prodding my chest with her index finger.
“I really don’t. Please, let’s sit down.” I gesture to an open table. Allison sits with her back ramrod straight and whips her phone out like she means business.
“See? Michael Exter, father! That’s your real name, isn’t it?” She shows me the app with my brother’s photo, staring back at me.
“Allison, I’m not your dad. I’m sorry, I’m your uncle. Michael is my brother. Quick question: When were you born?”
“Fall of ’95. I’m a Scorpio.”
“There you have it. My brother worked merch for us from the Fall of 1993 to the Winter of 1995. Did your mother ever have a passion for T-shirt design, or perhaps, screen printing?”
“I think she tried to design a t-shirt for you guys once. It had the Lovers Tarot card on it for—"
“Heartbreak. Allison, she didn’t try to design a T-shirt. She won. She got backstage passes to our show at the Wiltern! Fuck, it’s all coming back to me now. Did she have, like, a blunt bob?” I ask.
The memories are hazy thanks to the constant deluge of drugs and alcohol that once populated my system, but I remember Michael being smitten with our contest winner.
Los Angeles, CA.
March 1994.
“Michael, for the last time! Quit flirting with the fans. It’s unprofessional!” Priya exclaims as we troop into the venue for the night.
Michael is holding a massive box full of our latest merch design, and the contest winner whose design is featured is coming to the show tonight.
He plops it down onto a table with a thud and scrounges around for a box cutter.
“What fun is working for a band if you can’t flirt with the groupies?” He whines.
“Well, just keep it together tonight. It would be best if you didn’t scare away the contest winner,” I say. I fish around for the flask in the inner pocket of my blazer and take a pull. The whiskey burns in my throat.
We get ready for the gig while Michael finishes setting up merch. I gave him this job as a favor. It turns out an art degree won’t guarantee you a job after graduation, and our last merch guy quit.
Despite his lackluster work ethic, Michael’s surprisingly good at this job. We’re drawing up a contract so he can design some of our holiday merchandise. Priya wants to make a throw blanket with her face on it for Christmas.
I finish off my flask and wrestle into my leather pants for tonight. Thankfully, the dressing room’s stocked with Maker’s Mark on ice. I pour two shots and hand the second one to Priya, who downs it in one gulp.
By the time I get onstage, I’m just tipsy enough to play the show without having to contemplate that a thousand people are staring at me.
Backstage, I’m surprised to find that Michael abandoned his post at the merch table. His arm is looped around a woman wearing bike shorts and a leather jacket. One side of her head is shaved, and long, jet-black hair brushes her chin on the other. She’s got large brown eyes and a heart-shaped face.
