by Matayo, Amy
As it stands, I just want him to leave and—I don’t know—go taste wedding cakes or something. Not grab another roll and…what the heck? Did he just take a bite of Jane’s cheesecake? I’ve never been more envious of a fork. I keep shooting him death glares, none of which he’s noticed because unlike the rest of the country, my friends are not affected by my presence. I’m not sure if Liam even remembers I’m here.
I’m aware all of this makes me seem like a diva, but my mental state isn’t all that reliable now.
“And so you work at a bank part-time, but you work security at night? Is it a tough job?”
Jane offers Liam a weak smile. “Only if someone shows up with a gun.” I flinch, which Liam sees. Funny how suddenly I don’t want him to notice anything. “But other than that, my jobs are surprisingly uneventful.”
“Except for almost getting shot,” I mutter before thinking the better of it.
“But I didn’t,” Jane says, turning her focus me. “And neither did you.”
I reach for my wine glass and take a sip, feeling two sets of eyes on me. Pasta sauce burns in my throat. The wine tastes fermented. Even my favorite cannoli has a bitter bite. Nothing feels right—not the conversation, not the forced pleasantries, not the lulls in both. It’s so disturbing that I try to keep my eyes off Jane as much as possible even though she’s the one person I want to talk to more than anything. It isn’t easy, like trying to avoid gazing at a sunset or a rainbow. Everything within you wants to soak in the color and appreciate the beauty, but you know that if you stare too long, you’ll never want to go inside again. That the walls of your own home will suddenly feel confining and suffocating. That nothing will seem right until you head back outside, enjoy the scenery, and breathe in the fresh air.
Jane is the scenery. Jane is the color. Jane is the air.
She stands up and gathers take-out containers, cleaning up the mess like she owns the place. I stare, still not entirely sure what made her come here. So many things I want Jane to clarify, but all I can do is sit still and watch the end of the night unfold. I stand to help her, and we make quick work of straightening up. It isn’t long before her eyes grow tired, so I hug her goodbye. She hugs me back, then walks out to catch a cab, telling me she’ll back in the morning, and once again refusing my offer to call for a driver.
There’s a blazing fire in the fireplace, but my insides feel cold and clammy.
Liam leaves to see Dillon.
I hate being alone.
Chapter Eighteen
Jane
By the time we pull into the parking lot late the next afternoon, he’s onto me. Which is a combination of good and bad because at least one of us knows what we’re doing. I booked the plane ticket, flew here, hopped in a cab, bought Italian food, ate dinner with two ridiculously handsome men. Consequently, I felt more intimidated than a girl in my profession should and slept on the world’s lumpiest mattress last night, but that’s where my inspiration stops. Now we’re sitting in a parking lot, the faint pounding of a drumbeat off in the distance, and I’m lost for what to do next.
“Do you want to go in?” I ask.
“No.”
His answer is so direct and final that I blink at the half-full lot, unsure what to do now. It’s the same answer he’s given all three times I’ve asked. This is where my whole plan begins and ends: me walking him into that arena and showing him how easy it would be. It’s the whole reason I bought a plane ticket in the first place. Here. There. In. Out. Baby steps. Baby steps. Done. Problem solved. Let’s go get some ice cream.
Maybe I didn’t think this through well enough.
“So, do you just want to sit here then?”
“Nope, but you’re the driver, so it’s not like I have much of a choice.” He sulks and stares out the window while I look up at the billboard off to the left, a well-known pop singer staring back at me from thirty feet up. People begin to pull up and climb out of cars, most dressed in combat boots and ripped jeans to emulate the star of the show, but we stay put at Teddy’s command. I’m completely lost for what to do. “I can’t believe this is why you came to Nashville.” He’s angry. For the first time, I’m starting to feel that way too.
“I’m trying to help, Teddy. But it’s your car, so actually, you do have a choice. If you want me to drive away, just say so.” I’m behind the wheel of his Lexus because I insisted on driving even though the car is expensive, and getting behind the wheel made me nervous. But I knew he wouldn’t come here if I told him where we were going, so I risked it. Inside the arena, a friend of mine is on the lookout, waiting for us to make an appearance. I’m now ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure we’re not going inside, so I send the guy a quick text.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting my friend. Letting him know we’re not coming. He’s working security tonight, has worked here for years, so I’d texted him to see if we could get backstage and watch everything happen. I thought it might be good for you to see how things unfold as a spectator. Maybe it would take some of the pressure off you.”
“That’s just it, though. Spectators don’t have any pressure, and it’s those of us that headline who need to keep it that way. All these people are here for a good time. They don’t know how quickly that good time can turn into a nightmare, because they’ve never experienced it. If there’s no concert to attend, it will stay that way, and no one gets hurt. But here we are, charging all these people way too much money and putting them in danger while we do it.”
His words picked up speed and volume as he spoke, like a politician at an election rally who has one last shot at swaying voters to their side. Everything Teddy just said is irrational, but he believes it so much that I almost believe it, too. I can see his point. If there’s no show, there’s no risk. It’s the classic story of staying homebound to avoid all possibility of danger in the outside world. Sure, you’re safe. But are you really living at all? Life without music is merely static and white noise. Life without adventure is simply existing. Like painting a rainbow in shades of gray and tan and cream. God doesn’t make colorless promises, he doesn’t want us to live muted lives, he doesn’t want us to blend in with the clouds. He didn’t breathe air inside our lungs just to leave us winded and weak.
I have no idea how to communicate that to Teddy when I’m sitting here just as scared as him. When I have been living that kind of muted life for more years than I want to admit.
“Maybe we should have stayed at your apartment tonight,” I say.
“We should have,” he agrees.
I nod and take a deep breath. “Maybe I should take you home, and maybe you should stay there for the rest of the year. You could order take-out for Thanksgiving and have a Christmas tree delivered. You could order all your presents off Amazon and hire someone to come wrap them. You could watch the ball drop at midnight and kiss your pillow Happy New Year. You could call your cousin and tell her someone else will need to be her maid of honor because you’re unable to show up for her wedding, what with all the not leaving your house you have to do. You could do all these things, and then you will be safe. You’ll also be incredibly disappointed and bored with life, but at least you’ll be safe. Everyone else will be safe, too, because Teddy Hayes didn’t show up with a target on his chest to put them directly in danger. Whew. What a relief that will be for everyone involved.
“What’s your point?” he snaps.
I close my eyes for a second. “Just that you’re being irrational.” When I open my eyes again, I realize how dark it’s getting and turn on the headlights. “But, hey, if you want to leave, we’ll leave.” I start the car and pull out of the parking space, my interest piqued when he cranes his neck to get a look at the fans pouring into the arena. They’re coming in big groups now, chatting excitedly, a few singing off-key song lyrics, the concert only an hour away. Even from inside this car, the electric energy is palpable. Teddy lightly drums a finger on the console, the movement so faint he’s likely unaware he�
�s even doing it.
“Is this what people look like when they come to my shows?” The question is soft, timid, laced with an edge of surprise like it had never occurred to him fans would be so excited even before the show started.
“I remember the crowd being just like this, only there were more people because you’re more popular. Lots of teenagers and mothers looking to have a good time.”
He cringes, and I try not to smile. We’re on a razor-thin corner of something I can’t quite pinpoint, so I stay quiet. Silence seems like the best way to keep him from running…words may halt whatever wheel is turning in his mind. I turn left and pretend I couldn’t care less. If this bodyguard gig doesn’t pan out, I could always act for a living.
We’re right next to the arena, so close you can feel the vibrations of the show gearing up inside as reverberations rattle the windshield and cup holder. Still, Teddy says nothing, so I keep driving. We make it maybe twenty more feet when he stops me.
“Wait.”
I press the brake and accidentally jolt us to a stop.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just…stop here for a minute.”
I slowly nod and pull over to the side. “Okay.”
After a few seconds, he says, “Pull into a parking space.”
“Okay,” I say again, and find one a few feet away. I put the car in park and roll my window down, then turn the car off with the explanation, “I don’t want to waste gas.” Teddy buys it and leans back into the seat. So many people pass by on their way inside. Every so often, someone glances through the window—one girl even did a double-take at Teddy—but they all keep walking. It’s hard to compete with the excitement surrounding a concert and the prospect of seeing someone you admire up close and in person. I felt that way when I saw Elton John for the first time. Yes, I’m a nerd, but I’m a nerd who knows good music.
“Mind if we stay here for a little while?” Teddy half-whispers, biting a thumbnail. “I want to watch.”
This time my smile is hard to fight. It’s getting darker outside, and people are getting harder to see, but the night air feels nice. It takes work, but I force my face and tone to remain neutral.
“I don’t mind at all. I don’t have any other plans.”
Except I do…I did. This was my plan all along,
Baby steps.
Baby steps.
I just didn’t think Teddy would go along with it.
The plan alters a bit when he reaches across the seat and threads his fingers through mine, bringing both our hands to his lap. Just like in the closet.
“Is this how you handled things after the baby?” he whispers. I freeze, hoping I heard him wrong and begging everything around me for an answer. Tonight isn’t about me. It never has been, and I never want it to be.
“What do you mean?” My throat is tight and thick like someone inserted a fist and commanded me to talk around it.
“I mean after everything happened. Did it take you a while to start living again? How did you make it? How long did it take you to heal and move on?”
I clear my throat a couple times and answer softly. “I never did.”
Teddy sits up abruptly. “I didn’t mean…that sounded harsh. I wasn’t trying to imply that it was something you should move on from. I don’t imagine a person could ever get over that sort of pain.”
I shake my head. He’s misunderstood me. “No, it’s okay. What I meant was, I haven’t healed, even now. I realized it a few days ago. I’ve kept my life on pause all this time, thinking I deserved it. If she couldn’t live, I couldn’t either, you know?”
He sighs long and slow, sinking back into his seat. “You know that isn’t true, right?”
“I do now.”
We’re whispering, just like we did in the closet. It’s nice to know that with some people, you don’t have to shout to be heard.
“I think you owe that to her, to live. It’s what she would want for her mother.” His words pierce my heart and eyes at the same time, and the tears rise and fall down my face.
“I think you might be right. It’s taken me all these years to see it. I’m just not sure how to start.”
He squeezes my hand a little tighter, a comfortable silence descending like a heated blanket, soft and welcome.
“Well then, maybe you came here as much for you as you did for me.” He’s right, another thing I’m just now seeing as well. “Want to sit here a while? Maybe we could start here.”
I nod and settle into the seat, head back, eyes closed, thinking about ten years ago when I had my baby, thinking about last week when I broke up with Ben, thinking about now, as I sit here with Teddy and take one tiny baby step toward life.
Life throws a lot at you, and often the first instinct is to duck and run. But sometimes the best thing to do is sit still, turn to face it, let it speak to you, wait the chaos out, and trust that the process will make you stronger.
Baby steps.
Baby steps.
A plan put in motion for Teddy but suddenly meant for me.
* * *
Teddy
I’m holding her hand, but she hasn’t pulled away, so I keep my fingers in place and tell myself not to overthink it. That’s the thing about writers—about creatives in general—we overthink like it’s a side job we don’t get paid for, and telling ourselves to quit is about as productive as telling a mouse not to think about the cheese in front of his face. Pointless.
I don’t know what it is about Jane, but she calms me in a way no one ever has. It isn’t just trauma and tragedy, it’s a sense that she knows me better than anyone, and showed up despite the fact. I’m confident, but not nearly as cocky as people think. They say image is everything, and I’m definitely one to feed the beast. But Jane sees through it and doesn’t care. The last time a woman I just met didn’t care if I acted like Teddy Hayes the Famous Country Singer or just Teddy the normal guy with real-life issues was…never.
Women want the superstar, no exceptions. I’ve heard this from everyone; I’ve experienced it firsthand for a few years now myself.
Jane is the exception.
“Is this really why you came here, to get me to an arena?”
Our hands rise and fall with her shrug. “It’s one reason.”
“What’s another reason?”
“To get you inside an arena, not just to the parking lot. I’m beginning to think I flew all this way to catch pneumonia. It’s getting cold in here.”
I laugh at her honesty and reach behind me for a jacket I keep in the back seat. It’s leather and was given to me by Brad Paisley when I opened for him two years ago, but I don’t tell her that. Jane doesn’t like country music anyway, so she wouldn’t be that impressed. It’s another reason I like her.
I look around. The parking lot is full, and almost no one is outside. The concert starts in two minutes, and I can hear the booming track of pre-set music warming up the crowd. In a handful of seconds, the music will stop, the crowd will scream, and the opening act will start.
Yep, there it is. The ear-piercing, teenage-girl heavy, screams. Pop, classic rock, or country, the crowd reaction is the same. There’s nothing more powerful than a loyal, revved up fan base. Next to me, Jane smiles.
“I remember at your show…it was the first one I worked for that size. People were crazy with excitement. The screams almost made me crazy. What does that sound like when you’re up on stage?”
I stare straight ahead for a moment, trying to put it into words. “It sounds like affirmation and adrenaline being thrown at you all at once. Hearing the crowd collectively scream your name is a rush. It makes you want to perform better, present better, be better. It’s a bit of a crash every night after it’s over, though. Whiplash without the car wreck.”
She laughs. “I’ll bet. No one’s ever screamed my name unless I was late for curfew or spilling cereal all over the floor.”
I can think of a couple other instances where someone might scream her n
ame, but I keep it to myself and shift in place, suddenly even more aware of her hand on my thigh. “Bit of a problem child, were you?”
“You can say that. Definitely by the teen years.”
I don’t miss the way her smile fades or the sadness behind her words. All roads point back to whatever you endured in your youth, don’t they? No matter how much life you live, you can never quite shake them. I guess they aren’t called the formative years for nothing. I give her hand a squeeze and lean my head back, actually enjoying the night despite my uneasiness at the location.
“There’s something we have in common, I suppose. My teen years sucked, too.”
She rolls her head to the side to look at me. “How so? Other than being too small for football.” She smiles, but I don’t.
I tell her everything. About the torture, about the bullies, about being locked all night in the locker room. The words come out in a rush so I don’t have time to overthink them. It’s only after I’m finished talking that I realize I’ve never shared the story with anyone but Dillon. I suppose until now, I’ve never trusted anyone enough to keep it to themselves.
“You’re right, teenage years suck.” She takes a deep breath. “Is that why you became a musician? To prove the bullies wrong?”
I look out the window. “No, I became a musician because I had a lot of time to myself back then. When you don’t have any friends, you make friends with things that speak in other ways. My guitar became my sidekick. After a while, we added my voice to the mix and developed a pretty good team.”
She laughs. “It appears that way. The three of you have definitely made something of yourselves.”
“We’re not doing too bad.”
I smile at the silly conversation, then laugh outright when she says,“so how many of those awful kids from school have asked for tickets to a show?”
“All of them.”
Her eyes narrow. “I hope you told them no.”
You would think that, wouldn’t you? “Nope. I’ve put them all on the front row. And when they reach up to shake my hand, I pass them over. Sometimes it’s more fun to get revenge without saying a word. And it gives me a pretty good view to see their reactions.”
