by JB Salsbury
My jonesing brain struggles to understand what he’s telling me. The deal. Not rehab. I still can’t look at my brother. “He’s the deal?”
Dave’s face remains stoic, but the flash of pity in his eyes only manages to piss me off.
“After everything I’ve done for you.” I shove his chest harder than I’d think I was capable of in my condition. He stumbles back but quickly recovers, only to come nose-to-nose with me. “You’d be blowing street performers for a chance to represent them if it weren’t for me.” I shove Dave again. “You hear me, motherfucker? You’d be nothing! Nothing!”
“Jesiah—”
I whirl on my brother, looking him in the eye for the first time and daring him to say my name one more fucking time. I haven’t seen him in years, and except for the sensible haircut and button-up shirt, he looks the same. Dark hair, tan skin that he got from our mom’s Italian side, and the strong features we both got from our dad.
Always the pacifist, he holds his hands up in surrender.
“You have a choice.” Dave’s voice calls me back to him. He looks a little pale. “You can leave here, come back to Los Angeles with me, and say goodbye to your career. Or…”
He doesn’t need to finish that thought.
“Jesus.”
My brother cringes.
I run my tongue along my teeth, my mouth dry, my skin itchy, my blood vibrating. “This is bullshit.”
I throw open the door to the limo and crawl inside.
Dave mumbles, “Fuck.”
I want to call him an asshole for not knowing me as well as he should.
I snag the three packs of smokes from the limo and Dave’s Zippo he left in the cup holder, then I crawl back out. Dave looks relieved, and my brother nods solemnly.
I stare at the man who encouraged me to pursue music when everyone else told me to go into something more acceptable. The man who told me I could change the world with one song. The man who never, not once, gave up on me. Until he did.
I nod toward his house. “All right then, let’s fucking do this, Benjamin.”
2
Bethany
There’s just something about Sunday morning, am I right?
The first day of the week. The day I can wash away the mistakes of the week prior and start fresh. Which is what I find myself doing every Sunday. I know I can’t expect perfection—I am only human after all—but really, how hard can it be to go one week, seven measly days, without being a complete moral failure? How hard?
I straighten my lanyard and make sure my nametag is facing outward before plastering on a smile. (That’s rule number one from church greeter prep class.) A big, fat smile. If I pretend I’m centered, secure, good, then that’s the first step to being centered and secure and good. Fake it ‘til you make it!
“Good morning, Mr. Gentry. Mrs. Gentry.” The second rule is it’s important to maintain eye contact as I hand them each a bulletin. “Welcome to church.”
Mrs. Gentry squints through her bifocals at my nametag. “Thank you, Bethany.”
“You’re welcome.”
Mrs. Diego flaps her hand-held fan so hard it blows her gray, curled bangs from her forehead. “Good morning.”
“Welcome to church, Mrs. Diego.” Using people’s names makes them feel important and seen. Rule number three.
I continue working rule one through three until my cheeks hurt. “Good morning, welcome to church, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson.” More smiling. “Good morning. Welcome to church, Mrs. Cash.”
Sadly, she’s not related to Johnny Cash. I asked. Apparently she gets asked often. Mr. Cash was a car salesman and died last year from emphysema.
“Good morning, uh… Mister… um…” Okay, he didn’t seem to care that I don’t know his name, so moving on. “Good morning.” I go on and on until I’m sick of hearing my own fake-cheery voice. “Welcome to church—”
“Do I smell like vodka?” The hot breath accompanying my best friend Ashleigh’s voice practically melts my earring.
More people pass through the doors. I hand them each a bulletin. “Good morning, welcome to church.” I glare over my shoulder and hiss, “No. You smell like tequila.”
She scrunches up her nose then leans toward my ear again. “Tequila… so like, bad morning-after tequila or good margarita tequila?”
My eyes bug out as I push my fake smile to its limit and continue to hand out bulletins. “Does it matter?”
“I think it does.” She huffs into her palm to smell her breath.
“You’re fine, just… we’ll sit in the back row.”
“It’s that bad?” When I don’t answer, she huffs more booze-breath in my face.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll save you a seat.”
She saunters away in her leopard-print skirt and red heels that she’s paired with a sensible white button-up shirt. I don’t know how she does it, but Ashleigh always manages to combine club clothes and church clothes in a way that looks semi-tasteful.
I stare down at my long, floral sundress complete with buttons from the bottom hem to the collar at my neck. I’m a bonnet away from looking like an Amish grandmother. Insecurity crawls over my skin, making me flush from my flat-sandaled feet to the tips of my ears.
“Welcome to church, Mrs. George.”
I blow breaths upward to try to cool my face until the ushers relieve me by letting me know church is about to start. I find Ash in the last couple rows of the sanctuary, but the church is small, so we’re really only twenty-three rows from the main platform.
The worship band plays as Ash leans into me. “So?”
When I look at her, she has one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched over her chocolate-brown eye. “So what?”
Stupid question. I know what. She knows I know what.
I’m thankful for the music because she can’t hear the dying animal sound that crawls up my throat. Appropriate, I think, as it’s the sound of my broken heart.
“Well?”
I slip out my phone and open Instagram, making sure to keep the device low, on my lap, as I go to Wyatt’s page. “He’s not here. Weird though. His most recent post is from here in town, so I assumed he was back.”
“Huh.” She nods and says nothing that somehow says everything.
I’m pathetic. I need to move on. LOSER.
“I know, okay?” I close Instagram and flip the phone face down on my lap. “I just…” I can’t let him go.
“I get it.” She pops a Tic-Tac in her mouth and leans in to talk over the music as they gear up to drop the beat on “Great is Thy Faithfulness.” “Remember when I cancelled Netflix and it practically killed me? I only lasted three days before I went back.”
“Um… okay, but Wyatt isn’t Netflix, and he broke up with me, I didn’t break up with him.”
“Still, it’s almost the same thing.”
“No, it’s not even close to the same thing.”
“Close enough.” She winks. “Why don’t you just call him and tell him you miss him, rather than stalking him and his new girlfriend at church? That’s what I don’t understand. You’re practically salivating for a chance just to see him walk in”—she does a little flicking motion with her fingers toward the aisle—“and walk out.”
“I’m trying to be the bigger person.”
“By stalking him.”
“It’s my church too. Besides—”
“Shhh-shh-shh! This is my favorite part.” She leans to the side to see around a big puff of teased and coiffed white hair. “Oh wow, he’s wearing a green shirt. Good God, he’s so hot in green…”
“Ashleigh, please remember you are not in a nightclub.”
She snaps her fingers in my face. “Easy there, judgy. You have your reasons for coming to church. I have mine.” Her eyes flare as they fix on the subject of her lust.
“Pretty sure there’s a special place in hell for girls who have dirty fantasies about their pastors.”
“I don’t care.” She licks her lips.
“I just want one bite.”
I look at Pastor Langley, and I totally get it. He’s tall, dark, has perfectly balanced features and a seductive smile that has no business being on a man in his position. He always dresses appropriately, but his muscles fill out his oxfords in a way no woman could miss. He has no idea the temptation he flaunts to the women of his congregation. Pastor Langley is hot, I’ll give Ash that, but he doesn’t compare to my Wyatt.
My Wyatt. It’s been two months since he broke up with me, and I still can’t stop thinking of him as mine.
My heart thuds dully. I was really hoping I’d see him today. Maybe him and Suzette—yeah, Suzette, what a stupid name. They showed up at church together shortly after we broke up. What kind of a slut goes after a man who just broke up with the woman he loves—loved?
I squeeze my eyes closed and say a quick prayer that God would forgive my bitchiness—oh, and please forgive my profanity. Wow, great start to the week, Bethany. The sins are already lining up.
Is it too soon to call for a re-do?
If only I could go back in time to the weekend I took him to Sedona at that quaint little resort. That was when he first told me he loved me. A weekend for a lot of firsts—we made love that night. I really thought we’d end up together. There’s still a chance that we will. We can be there again, back in that bed. Maybe we could honeymoon there.
I add fantasizing about another woman’s boyfriend to my growing list of sins for the day.
Then quickly justify it because he used to be mine.
“This is my favorite part,” Ashleigh squeals and claps as if we’re at a male strip club. Not that I’ve ever been to one, but Ashleigh made me watch Magic Mike.
Pastor Langley takes his place at the pulpit.
“No one fills out a pair of tan slacks like that man.” She groans and earns a scowl from the older couple in front of us. “What? You know it’s true.”
The woman shushes Ash then turns back around in a huff.
“She knows it’s true,” Ashleigh murmurs in my ear.
I grin and shake my head even though she’s absolutely right.
Pastor Langley preaches on patience, on relying on God’s timing rather than our own, but I struggle to pay attention as my gaze continues to scan the room. Maybe Wyatt came in late. Snuck in through a different door?
“What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?” Ashleigh asks while keeping her hungry eyes up front.
“Stop it, you’re not coming to work with me.”
“Oh come on! I have a bet with myself that he looks amazing in sweatpants. What does he sleep in? I’ll drop you off and walk you in—”
“Ash. I can’t risk losing my job just so you can get up close and personal with my boss. If you want to do that, you’ll have to do it on your own.”
“You’re the worst friend ever.”
I snort-laugh, earning another glare from the woman in front of us. “Sorry.”
“Promise me you’ll snap a pic if you see him in sweatpants. And I want the front angle.” She winks and stares forward, tilting her head a little as Pastor Langley walks the platform, speaking animatedly about God. “Just one taste. One. Little. Lick.”
“Oh my goodness, would you please be quiet!” The woman in front of us shakes her finger at Ash.
She and I sink into our pew, giggling until our stomachs hurt.
We manage to keep ourselves together for the rest of the service, and I jump up to open the doors as the final “amen” rings through the chapel. I say my goodbyes while searching for Wyatt’s full head of wavy blond hair. After the door closes with the last of the congregation, I accept that Wyatt isn’t here.
I wonder if he’s sick. Maybe I should call him and check? I could bring him some noodle soup and—
“What are we grabbing for lunch?” Ashleigh hands me my purse. “I’m still hungover. I could use a burger.”
“Whatever.”
“Whoa.” She gives me the side-eye as I pull off my lanyard and we walk to the parking lot. “Do I owe ex-fuckface for this splendid mood you’re in?”
“We’re at church. Easy with the f-bombs.”
“We’re in the lot. Besides, Jesus doesn’t care.”
Now I side-eye her. “I’m pretty sure he does.”
She shrugs. “Agree to disagree.”
“What?” My phone pings in my purse. I almost break the sound barrier getting the device into my palm. “Oh. It’s Pastor Langley.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed. What does he want?”
I click open the text.
Little change of plans for tomorrow.
I text back.
Is everything okay?
The text bubbles appear then disappear, then my phone rings in my hand.
I jump, and Ash squeals when she sees his name pop up on my screen. “Ask him if he wants to meet us for lunch! Ask him if—”
I silence her with a hand in her face and hit Talk. “Hey, Pastor Langley, what’s up?”
“Bethany, I’m driving so I couldn’t text.”
The sun is beating down on my head and my dress is clinging to my legs, so I motion for us to keep walking to Ashleigh’s car. “Okay.”
“About tomorrow.”
“Yeah, is Elliot sick?”
“No, she’s fine. This weekend was crazy or I would’ve reached out to you sooner, but, uh… there’s something I need to discuss with you. Can you come over a little early tomorrow?”
“What time do you need me there?”
“Sometime around seven or eight? If that’s okay?”
“Sure.”
“Great. I’ll see you then. Thanks.”
The line clicks off, and Ashleigh stares at me through wide eyes. “He wants you there early! He likes you. You slut!”
I open the passenger side door and climb inside. “He’s a pastor! He made vows or signed a contract or… I don’t know how that works, but I’m his daughter’s nanny and he’s not some horny frat boy.”
“He’s a single man and I know single men. They all want sex.”
“You should start paying more attention in church.”
“Whatever. So if he’s not having you come early to proposition you for sex, then why?”
“I know this might come as surprise to you, but a large majority of the population have entire lives outside of sex. And it’s nice to know you listen to all my phone calls. Snoop.”
She blows that off and turns the engine. “Oh! Maybe he’s banging some chick in the church and he wants to talk to you about how he’s going to handle it with the congregation or whatever.”
“Have you not been listening to a single word I’ve said?”
She slams her palms on the steering wheel. “Whoever she is, she is so lucky!”
“Easy there, Miss Assumption.”
“He’s banging Anne-Louise. I’d bet my savings account.”
“You have less than fifty bucks in your savings account.”
She lifts a brow in my direction. “Now who’s the snoop?”
3
Jesse
There have been a couple times in my life when I’ve wanted to die.
Once when I had the flu and was about to go on stage in front of a sold-out arena in Sydney. I had a temperature of 103. Dave kept saying we should cancel, but there was no way I would let down my fans because of a stupid microscopic virus. I planned to die on stage. Instead, I made that virus my bitch and had one of the best shows of my life. I collapsed before the last song and was rushed to the hospital, but fuck, it was so rock-n-roll.
There was another time when I wished I were dead, but I refuse to think of things that happened back before I was Jesse Lee, so fuck that.
I will say, even after those times, this here, lying on some crappy spring mattress covered in cheap, itchy sheets in a tiny cluttered room that’s plastered in framed photos of the same smiling face… yeah, I’m ready to meet my maker. My body won’t stop shaking, my skin is constantly wet, and I
’m thirsty, but every time I try to drink water, my stomach rejects the fluid. That must be the reason for the handy-dandy bag hanging beside me and attached to the IV in my arm.
Curled into a ball on my side, I moan as a fist grips my guts and squeezes hard. Everything hurts—from my head to the tips of my fingers. Even my toenails feel as if they’ve been crushed with a hammer.
I need a bottle or a bag of coke or a fucking casket.
I push out a breath and groan. Hold my breath and hope to pass out and die. Flip onto my back—nope, that’s worse. Roll to my other side, shove my face in a pillow, and want to scream, but I’m afraid the act of opening my mouth with any kind of force will send me into a fit of dry-heaving muscle spasms.
A deep murmuring comes from my side, and my eyeballs feel as though they’ve been peeled when I open my lids to find the source of the sound.
Ah, I should’ve known.
My brother sits in a chair close to the door, his Bible open on his lap. His gaze slides along the words as his lips barely move. Praying. Why am I not surprised?
“Do something… worthwhile… and get me a drink,” I say between convulsive shivers.
His chin tilts up. I hate that he looks concerned. The two of us haven’t been able to be in the same room without fighting since the night I grabbed my guitar and took a bus to LA.
“You’re awake.” He closes his Bible and sets it on the table next to him. “I wondered what kind of drugs they were giving you to keep you asleep for so long.”
“Benzos.” I shake so hard my teeth chatter. “Tell the nurse to stop being so stingy with the pills.”
“You want me to grab Pete?”
My left leg cramps up hard. “Who the fuck is Pete?”
The dark, judgmental stare pinches his expression, and the beast inside me whips his scaly tail with the challenge.
“Love what you’ve done with your room here, Benjamin.” I motion as best I can with one arm at all the photos.
His expression grows even tighter, and I catch a flicker of warning in his eyes.
