THE LAST SHOT: by

by Matayo, Amy

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jane

  I might consider it.

  I barely slept last night. What was I thinking? I practically threw myself at the guy over text, though he was too decent to point it out. Unlike me, who isn’t decent at all. I have a boyfriend, one I’m currently waiting for at a coffee shop across from Pike’s Market downtown. It’s nearly noon, and I’ve been here twenty minutes already. He’s a little late, but I was a little early, so I suppose the two even out somehow. I sip my pumpkin latte and stare out the window, watching for him, and working to up my holiday mood. The day is unseasonably warm, and by warm, I mean the sun is making a rare appearance and temperatures are hovering in the high fifties.

  People are milling everywhere, carrying bouquets of flowers from the fish market in one hand, and paper Starbucks cups from the original store just down the street in the other . Tourists don’t know about this place, thank God. I mean, I frequent Starbucks like every other patriotic American, but you’ll never catch me standing in that particular line.

  I sigh, depressed by the flowers and the coffee…depressed by life in general, actually. Loss and near-death experiences cause you to reevaluate your life, but rather than accentuating everything that makes you thankful, it highlights everything wrong. I’ve lived inside a decade of wrong, but I’m just now starting to face it. Instead of feeling enlightened, I’m sad. Becoming aware of your own character flaws isn’t always as empowering as you think, at least not at first. I roll my cup between both palms and take another sip.

  There’s still no sign of Ben; he’s now twenty minutes late.

  Thanksgiving is next week, and I feel about as thankful as one might feel after stepping in chewed gum or dog poo. Why do bad things happen to good people? A cliché for sure, but it turns out it’s oddly appropriate.

  I catch a flash of red, recognizing Ben’s jacket before I see his face. He pushes through the front door and meets my carefully controlled gaze. I’m annoyed and working hard not to show it. A small smile helps, I think, though it feels a little too forced. I stand and kiss him on the cheek and am greeted with a rigid jaw I choose to ignore.

  “What took you so long?” I ask, inserting a lightness into my tone that I don’t feel.

  “I’ve been thinking. Walking around the block, making sure what I wanted to say before I walked in,” he says, sitting across from me without smiling. I see the hurt in his eyes and the resignation. Emotion makes it hard for me to respond because I know what’s coming. It’s the way every relationship ends with me. I’m emotionally unavailable, physically detached, incapable of letting anyone in. It’s all true, but I wish it weren’t. My baggage has taken a seat between us and will not leave quietly. I know this from experience.

  As for Ben, he’s never wanted to acknowledge the baggage or carry any of it for me. Maybe if the bags weren’t so heavy, our relationship wouldn’t strain from all the effort.

  “Okay.” I shrug and reach for my latte to have something to do. “I thought maybe you got held up by something.”

  Ben glances out the window. “I ran into a buddy of mine from college in front of the market. He wanted to hear all about the shooting and how you’re doing. He was impressed with how you handled things.” There’s no inflection in his words.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you were fine, but I’m not sure that’s true.” He rubs his hands together and stands up. “Still, I can’t wait for the day when people aren’t constantly asking me about it. Doesn’t look like it will happen anytime soon.” He walks to the counter to order a drink, and I watch. I take in his mannerisms, his smile, his lean in her direction, and then his head shake, his hands that flail when she says something he doesn’t like. I look away, uncomfortable with the judgment I’m sending. They say not to let outsiders into your relationship, and maybe that’s what I’m doing, comparing him unfairly to someone else. I pull out my phone and consider deleting my texts with Teddy, innocent enough as they are. Possibly deleting his number altogether. I hold it in my palm and weigh the pros and cons, fully aware of the heaviness that settles around me when I make the decision to delete.

  “You’re never gonna believe what she wanted to know.” Ben falls into the chair across from me. It scrapes against the tile floor with a loud screech.

  “What?” I ask cautiously, setting my phone down. I’ll delete the messages later.

  “If you were the girl from the news. And if you could introduce her to Teddy Hayes, as though you’re best friends with him now or something.”

  I glance at the barista, who excitedly waves at me. “The answer to that question is no,” I say, my eyes once again on Ben.

  He just stares at me. “That’s what I told her, but she barely listened.” Instead, he mimics her. “‘Is she the girl from the news? Does she know Teddy Hayes? Did you know your girlfriend is a hero?’”

  That last one bothers me. I take a breath, then another, thinking. Thinking.

  “You’re really annoyed by all this, aren’t you? You know I was just doing my job, right? That I would do it again if I had to?”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” he mutters.

  “Meaning? You want me to quit?”

  He picks up his mug and blows across the top of the foam. “I didn’t say quit. Just…stop taking so many high-profile jobs.”

  I look at him. “That’s the only high-profile job I’ve ever gotten.”

  He takes a sip and swallows loudly. “Yet it sure worked out for you, didn’t it?”

  That’s it. My blood is boiling hotter than my latte. “Actually, it worked out pretty poorly from my perspective. I can’t sleep, can’t even close my eyes without imagining a gun pointed at me. I can’t shower without jumping out every time I hear a noise. I’m afraid to walk alone at night, not the most convenient thing for a security guard. There’s a list. Want to hear more?”

  Ben sighs. “Look, I’m not saying I don’t want you to work. I’m just saying—”

  “That the high-profile cases should only belong to you?”

  He doesn’t say anything, and I know that’s exactly what he’s thinking. Everything in me stills, and I stare. It’s a rough transition, the moment you see your past life intersect with your future life at a place where they can no longer coexist, especially when so much of that past life is tied to a person. My life has been tied to Ben for nearly a year. It’s been good…but not good enough, because good enough is what I’ve told myself to settle for. Good enough for the girl who got pregnant. Good enough for the girl who ruined the pastor’s kid. Good enough for the girl who couldn’t save her baby. Good enough for the girl who got kicked out of church. Good enough for the girl buried in shame she thought she deserved. But this is the moment.

  This is the moment.

  And it has absolutely nothing to do with Teddy Hayes. Whether I see that man or any other man ever again, my life is here, and this is what I need to do. I deserve more than my own beat-downs. I was brave last week, and it’s time to start being brave now. So before I lose the nerve, I open my mouth and say it.

  “Ben, it’s time for us to break up.”

  A tiny part of my heart dies at the surprised look on his face.

  But not nearly as much as it should.

  * * *

  Teddy

  One of my very first concerts was held at the Pepsi Amphitheater in Flagstaff, and my memories of it are nearly incomparable. It was the first show I opened for a major act—Kenny Chesney, to be exact. I was as green as the grass on the sprawling lawn and scared out of my mind. I’ve dealt with stage-fright at every point in my career, but it reached the stuck-in-a-locker-room-closet level that night. Still, that show was a turning point, the first time I felt that nod in my subconscious that I was going to make it and make it big. For this tour, I wanted to come back to this venue out of a mix of nostalgia and respect. It’s a smaller venue than the rest, but I owed these people nearly everything, and I wanted to pay them back.
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br />   Now they’re screaming my name, and I’m paralyzed in place.

  I can’t go out there.

  The fright I felt that night all those years ago was nothing compared to now, because now it’s a fear for my life. Even more, a fear for everyone’s life in the stands, knowing I’m responsible for anything that might go wrong. The thought of getting on that stage…of anyone being harmed…I can’t do it. Here I go again is one of the worst feelings in the world when you’re powerless to stop it.

  “You ready?” Jack says, popping his head in my dressing room. He looks at me sitting barefoot in front of the dressing room table, still in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and cautiously steps inside. He closes the door behind him. “What’s going on, bud?”

  I scrub both hands through my hair and lock them behind my head, then look up at him.

  “I can’t.” Two simple words that affect everyone around me. I’m thirteen years old and the Teddy Hayes from last week all rolled into one. It’s the worst part of headline entertaining that no one tells you about; the livelihood of dozens of people rests on your shoulders whether you’re prepared to handle it or not. A sick day for me means a smaller paycheck for everyone else. But I’m not sick, I’m petrified. The weight of ten-thousand people sits on both of my shoulders, and I can’t shake it off. I couldn’t shake it off even if Taylor Swift screamed the words in my face. My memories won’t let me. I’ve been bargaining with them all afternoon.

  Jack lowers himself to the floor with a long, labored sigh. We don’t speak because there isn’t much to say. Eventually, he comes up with something. Jack isn’t one for silence.

  “I get it, Teddy. I was there that night too, remember? But you’ve got to go up there and perform. A couple nights were fine; everyone understood. I’m not sure they will again.”

  “I don’t need them to understand.” I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to perform again. If that’s the case, it won’t matter what they think.”

  Jack laughs, but there’s no humor behind it. “You’ll perform again, sooner than you think. Just come out here with me, and we’ll rip off the bandage together.”

  I want to, I really do. I’m fully aware that not going makes me weak and cowardly, but that’s like telling a depressed person to snap out of it because of everything they should be thankful for. Thanks for that, got it. But it doesn’t help at all. I know I’m weak and cowardly; I was told that every day from fourth to twelfth grade. The difference between then and now is, now I’m okay with it if it means everyone stays alive.

  Five people dead. It’s the headline that follows my name every time anyone talks about me.

  “Musician Teddy Hayes, the country singer whose concert was sold out last week when five people were killed…”

  Five people.

  Including two children.

  Including one person still on life support. Most likely, they’ll bring the total to seven.

  Not an easy thing to have on your resume. I certainly never asked for it and never will again.

  “Go on out, and I’ll be there in a few,” I say to Jack.

  He pats me on the leg in an I knew you could do it gesture, and stands up. I watch him go. When he closes the door, I reach for my wallet and phone and shove both into my pocket. I saw the Exit door across the hall from my dressing room. As soon as Jack’s footsteps fade, I sneak out of the room and into the night air. All around me, music blares, and fans shout my name in a pounding chant.

  Teddy.

  Teddy.

  Teddy.

  The sound reminds me of gunshots. Boom boom. Boom boom. Boom boom.

  They think he was targeting Teddy himself…

  Cowardly or not, that won’t happen again on my watch.

  I jog down the street and round a corner, then call for an Uber. It arrives three minutes later, and we pull away from the venue. When the driver asks where we’re going, I just tell him to drive.

  He stays on the clock three hours before heading back to the hotel. I have no idea where we went; I spent most of the drive with my eyes closed, trying to settle my heart rate and my over-active imagination. I pay him in cash and walk up to my room.

  If anyone knows I’m here, they never say anything about it. Then again, I fly home before the sun comes up and don’t give them the chance.

  * * *

  Jane

  I’ve cried for twenty-four straight hours, except for the five hours I managed to sleep. But even then, I dreamed I was crying. In it, I lost a friend’s baby while shopping in Target, even though the only friend I have with kids is a mom to a seven-year-old boy. Hardly a baby. It was a stupid dream.

  My waking hours have been stupid, as well. I’ve second-guessed myself every minute of them. I shouldn’t have broken up with Ben. I should have broken up with Ben a long time ago. The days after trauma are not the days to make life-altering decisions. But if not then, when is the right time? If life does indeed flash before your eyes, are you not supposed to change the things you see as wrong when you’re given a second chance? I haven’t allowed myself a real second chance in a decade, instead choosing punishment, routine, and a near-emotionless existence. This time my life flashed and I reacted. Foolish or not, the decision was made. I mostly don’t regret it.

  Until all the in-between moments when I do.

  Until my mind inadvertently slides to Teddy Hayes. One thing I do know—besides knowing the break up was the right thing to do—is that relationships built from trauma never make it. I’m attracted to Teddy because we survived a crisis and nothing more. Our friendship is shallow at best, even if it feels real. The mind is a master of trickery; it uses the heart to get its point across, like the manipulator it is.

  Teddy Hayes is not the reason I broke up with Ben, even if the memory of him has grown a bit.

  I vow not to think of him anymore and reach for my phone to call Andy. I’m supposed to work security tonight at the Crocodile, but I’m not feeling well. A broken heart probably isn’t the right ailment to claim, so I go with headache and beg tonight off. It works. With a night to myself, I pull up the number for Kin Dee and order delivery. Thai noodles with chicken will be here in an hour, which leaves me a decent amount of time to take a bath and search for something to watch on Netflix. I reach for my phone again—why are phones equal parts blessing and curse?—to search for a show when I accidentally click on Twitter and see the headline.

  Teddy Hayes A No-Show Again. And under the headline? Fans Beginning to Worry About His Mental Health in the Wake of Recent Shooting.

  My chest caves in on itself as I read, both sick and sad for him and the backlash he’s sure to face this time. The article is written from an angle that’s surprisingly compassionate and concerned, and includes interviews with a handful of survivors, all of whom express the same fears and insecurities as Teddy. Afraid to be in public, afraid of loud noises, afraid of getting shot. The article in and of itself is fair. Most of the comments underneath the link are not.

  I paid good money to see this loser, and I want a refund.

  Get over yourself, dude.

  Celebrities think the world revolves around them.

  As far as I’m concerned, Teddy Hayes is officially canceled.

  I haven’t heard from Teddy in two days, but I quickly pull up his number. I hesitate a second, weighing the pros and cons of texting him at all, considering my newfound vow not to think of him anymore. What did that last, maybe three seconds? With an eye roll that defies any Ben ever threw my way, I begin typing a message. I try to tell myself I’m simply a concerned friend, but my pounding heart isn’t having any of that nonsense right now.

  You okay?

  The thing I hate about texting is that it only takes ten seconds or so to pass before you start feeling paranoid. Am I annoying? Does he want me to leave him alone? Am I nothing more than an overbearing, slightly psychotic fan? Oh my gosh, he hates me. Why couldn’t I leave well enough alone?

  At thirty seconds, I’m seco
nd-guessing every life decision I’ve ever made and considering blocking his number just to avoid embarrassment. But then at forty, the blessed three dots appear. I wish we could all go back to talking. At least then, you didn’t project your own insecurities onto other people just because they needed a moment to think.

  No. I’m a failure at my job. If I even have a job anymore.

  My heart squeezes at the uncertainty in his words.

  You’ll have a job after this. You just need to get back on stage.

  This time his text is immediate.

  That’s the problem. I can’t.

  I chew a fingernail. He’s in worse shape than I thought, and I knew it was bad. Of course, it’s bad; the entire situation was awful. But now I’m more concerned. Giving up on an entire career is crazy, which makes me wonder at his mental state. I’ve been suffering, some days worse than others, but I haven’t considered quitting my job. It makes me think Teddy honestly blames himself.

  I blink at a sofa cushion.

  That’s it, Teddy blames himself. And not in an offhanded, “I feel bad” way. But in a way that shoulders the blame for the lives of five people being snuffed out in an instant. I haven’t thought about quitting my job because I haven’t—not for one second—felt as though I could have stopped it. But Teddy…he’s analyzing and guilt-tripping himself into a downward spiral of false responsibility. Guilt is a burden we aren’t meant to bear, yet Teddy is wrapped in it like a second skin he can’t shed.

  I sit with my phone, unable to think of a way to respond. Years ago, I watched an old movie, I didn’t like, but still remember all these years later. In it, a psychologist takes on a phobia-ridden male client who takes co-dependent neediness to a new level—following the doctor on vacations, to family dinners, calling him at inappropriate times; literally, everywhere the doctor goes, the patient shows up. Nowadays, people would get arrested for this sort of stalker behavior, but back then, people quickly took to the neurotic patient…everyone except the doctor.