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“So you did it. You gave into the demands of that Neanderthal of a fiancé—”
“Husband,” I corrected.
“Whatever he is now, I don’t care. How could you? This pissing contest has gone on long enough. When will it end? What, am I next?”
“Probably,” I joked. She narrowed her eyes and I stepped away, hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Sorry, too soon.”
“Way too soon.”
“Cat,” I sighed, “you yourself admitted that Andrew is a threat to my marriage. What other choice did I have? I’m with Michael.”
“Exactly,” she said. Her fists looked like they were digging into her hips. “You already chose him. You’re already married to him. Why does it matter if you’re friends with Andrew?” She frowned. “You just got Andrew back, only to lose him again.”
“‘Got him back’? Cat, he wasn’t mine to lose.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” she shot back. “Don’t forget, I remember the utter desolation you experienced after you and Andrew stopped being friends. I may not have been here physically, but I still had to endure weeks of weepy behavior. I don’t know if I can do that again.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“You’re right, it was worse.” She stood in my living room with her hands still on her hips. I sighed.
“Look, you’re right, it was bad the first time around.” I shrugged. “But this time, it’s different. I know what I’m getting myself into. And it’s my choice.”
“But what about Andrew? Shouldn’t it also be his choice?”
“He made his decisions a long time ago without my consent,” I said. I crossed my arms. “I think he’ll understand.”
* * *
For the first couple of weeks, I tried not to torture myself with it. I avoided all social media platforms at all costs; I didn’t even listen to my favorite album because I knew it would elicit memories of being on tour. But finally, I couldn’t resist the pull anymore. I had to see how they were doing.
I started with their social media pages. Clicking through the photos, I watched Yasmine’s eyes first. Even though I could tell that she was putting everything she had into the songs, grief had stolen the light from her eyes. Pain coursed through her every movement on stage, from the way she gripped the mic, to the way she stared into the crowd as if searching for her abuela. Her fans might not see what it cost her to be on the road, to be in front of them, but I knew. The death of a loved one never really fades.
The rest of the band also fell short of playing at their best. Opening up another tab, I watched their videos. From the first video clip, I could hear it. Jean Lee missed the beat several times by a hair. Kevin slumped over his guitar as he did his best to play it off as part of his persona. Even Danny, usually smooth and steady as lake water on a summer day, showed signs of strain as he plucked his bass strings. All of them gave such a good performance that no one else would be the wiser. But I wasn’t just anyone; this was my family. It wasn’t until I was staring into the computer screen with tears threatening to fall that I realized just how close one could get to people in a couple of weeks.
It was clear they all felt the loss of Yasmine’s grandmother. It brought my mind back to what I’d overheard just before we arrived home. It’s definitely better than the way Leroy went, wouldn’t you say? Philip’s question grit into the ridges of my mind, like sand that you couldn’t quite get out of your car. Maybe what I was seeing was the echoes of leftover grief from losing Leroy; maybe it was a new shared grief that washed over them. But now I would never know.
As I closed their video page and resumed clicking through their photos, I felt my breath lodge right below the lump in my throat. Someone had taken a group photo of the band and Andrew. It was a typical hasty photo—Jean Lee’s hand was a little blurry, as well as the corner of Kevin’s face—but the one person whose eyes I could never look away from was perfectly clear. He stared into the camera with his typical intensity, as if he knew that I would look at this photo someday. Eyes alight with mirth, with mischief, or both, found mine, almost caressing the depths of my denial. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, a smirk that was so familiar and so foreign that it made my heart twist. He held up a hand with just the pinky and thumb extended from the fist, a typical laid-back gesture that both fit him so succinctly but was also out of place. Before I could stop myself, I traced the outline of his lips, the face I knew better than my own, hurting at the nonchalant slope of his shoulders, the lure he wore so easily. I longed for this one, the boy I knew, instead of the man I married.
Fine, fine fine.I couldn’t tell if the refrain mocked me in Andrew’s voice or in my own. Everything is fine. Isn’t it, Ace?
