by Max Henry
“I can find somewhere else to stay.”
I open my mouth to disagree yet stall when my phone echoes from its position on the end of the kitchen counter. Her gaze follows the source of the noise and then me as I cross the room to retrieve it.
What the actual hell?
“Why the fuck are you calling?” I clutch the phone to my ear, wishing the conversation was over before it began.
Jeanie folds her arms and watches me carefully.
“Where’s Emery, Toby?”
I cringe at the tone of our bassist’s toxic girlfriend. “How the hell would I know, Deanna? I assume he won’t answer to tell you himself. Did it occur to you that he might not want to talk with you?”
“He doesn’t get a choice in it, asshole. If you’re hiding him there—”
“He’s not here,” I grit out through a stiff jaw. “Why don’t you leave him a voicemail, like any normal person would do, and wait for him to call you back?”
“Because you know he wouldn’t. Find out where he is, Toby, and call me back. Today.”
The bitch hangs up before I get a chance to say anything else. Phone white-knuckled in my grip, I stare at the screen with a scowl on my face hard enough to make my teeth ache.
“Do I dare ask about it?” Jeanie quips with a wary smile. “You look as though you want to murder someone.”
“If I knew I’d get away with it, I would have done it years ago.” I sigh and slide my address book open. “I’m sorry, but can you bear with me while I sort this out?”
She folds her arms, a slight frown marring her brow. “Can I do anything to help?”
I gesture to the kitchen with my chin. “Open another beer for me?”
She mimics my teasing grin and crosses to the fridge while I bring up Em’s number. It rings out, switching to voicemail. Anyone else and I’d leave it a few hours in case they were preoccupied. But when it’s a guy who’s equally addicted to drugs as he is alcohol, I can’t stomach the idea I might abandon him when he needs someone to rescue his ass.
Jeanie pops the top on a brew, carrying it across to where I stand, feet wide, while I dial Emery’s mom. She answers on the second ring, right as I take the drink from Jeanie. Our eyes connect, and I hold her gaze a moment longer before I switch focus to the call.
“Toby. Hi.”
“Hey, Mrs. Morgan. Hope I don’t interrupt anything.”
“No. You’re absolutely fine. How can I help?”
“Wondering if Em’s home. I can’t reach him and thought he might not be able to hear the phone.”
“He’s away at a friend’s right now. I’m not sure when he’ll be back.” She pauses. “Is there something he’s needed urgently for? I could try to get hold of him.”
“No, nothing urgent.” I sigh, glancing to Jeanie, who leans one shoulder against the wall. “I had Deanna call. She reckons she can’t get him to pick up.”
Em’s mom lets out a labored sigh. “I can’t stand that girl. She doesn’t give him any space to breathe.”
“I know.”
“Honestly, the sooner he cuts all ties with her, the better. But he won’t listen to his parents. Oh, no, no.”
I chuckle. “He doesn’t listen to us either.” We’ve been telling Emery he needs to ditch the leech before she sucks his bank account dry, provided she doesn’t eat his goddamn soul first. “Thanks, Mrs. M. I’ll give him another try in a while.”
“Between you and me, he might be ignoring it to avoid anything that could set him off.” She exhales as though deliberating over whether she should say more. “He’s doing his best to stay sober, Toby. Either your words sunk in the other week, or he has somebody else who means enough for her opinion to matter.” Alice. “He seems determined to make it stick.”
“You know we’re here to support him.”
“And I appreciate it. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you got in touch with him.”
“Thanks.” I disconnect and lift my gaze to find Jeanie watching me intently. “Lovers quarrel.”
“I kind of caught the drift from what you said.” She tips her head. “I never knew Emery had a girlfriend. He’s seen with a different woman after every show.”
“They aren’t exclusive.” I fire off a message to him so he can call if he gets it first. “He doesn’t care about her, but she’s managed to make herself a permanent fixture in his life.”
“Yikes.” Jeanie sucks her lips against her teeth. “That’s got to be risky. I mean, if the relationship goes south, she sounds like the type to take advantage of that.”
“She already is,” I deadpan. “Anyway.” I slide the phone onto the counter. “Let’s find something for you to do while I sort this out.” I gesture to where she stands, flicking my hand up and down. “You don’t need to hang around for this.”
There’s no denying she feels deflated at the thought. Jeanie’s chin dips, an attempt to hide her frustration. I get it. It’s in her nature to want to know more, to listen in and dissect the meaning behind the words. But Emery’s relationship is a dumpster fire at the best of times, and there’s no reason for me to parade the facts in front of a journo.
One who’s already shown her tendency to take advantage of a situation.
“Do you have much in this?” She asks the question as she crosses to the fridge and reaches for the door. “I could get a start on something for lunch.”
“You’re the guest. I’ll cook.”
“You’re busy,” she counters, popping one hip and thrusting a hand to it.
Her fight has returned, and I love it. She has a point, and I should just agree, but it’s so much more fun to go head-to-head with her. “You’ve been here all of an hour, and you want to get cozy in my kitchen?” I lift an eyebrow to wind her up.
She takes the bait beautifully. “What would you have me do instead?” Her eyebrows jump. “Give myself a tour of the place? Snoop through your things?”
“Nice.”
“Or would you rather I took a nice glass of sparkling water and perched my dainty ass on the edge of a seat, waiting like a good girl for the gentleman to conduct his business?” The added head wiggle does me in.
I snort. “First off, I don’t have sparkling. Hate the shit. And second, your ass ain’t dainty.”
Her sudden intake of breath couples with a palm to her throat. “You did not just say that.”
“I never said anything bad about it.” She tracks me as I walk around her. “It’s just not what I’d call small.” I give her a playful smack, waiting to see what she does.
Either I’ve made my intentions clear, or I need to call Rick and inform him of a new lawsuit. One of a very different kind.
“I can’t believe you told me I have a fat ass, and you expect me to take it as a compliment.” Her wide eyes display her shock. “Why are men such assholes?”
“Hey.” I lift my hands. “You’re the one who called it fat.”
“You said it wasn’t small.” She levels me with a narrowed glare.
“Exactly. Not small. Sure as fuck not dainty, either.” I step closer, crowding her against the refrigerator. “I’d call it juicy, supple, or plump. Words you use to describe a fruit you want to sink your teeth into.”
Jeanie swallow. “I’d rather you didn’t bite my ass.”
“I wouldn’t object if you told me to.”
“You have a strange kink.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” I back away, keeping our eyes locked, and reach blindly for my phone. “Help yourself to whatever. There’s nothing in this house I don’t eat.”
She mutters something beneath her breath, turning her back to me when I head for the stairs. I hesitate at the base and spare another look her way, amused to find a spatula in her hand, the flat end fanning her face as she waves it back and forth.
I knew bringing her here would put me at an advantage. I just didn’t take into consideration who’d be the one in control.
My house, my rules. But is sure as
fuck ain’t me who dictates what happens here.
I don’t think she realizes, either.
TWENTY-SIX
Jeanie
“Faith” – Bellevue Days
I make a few notes while I wait for the eggs to boil, jotting down the key points of our talk so far. It might not be an interview, but like hell, I want to curse myself out a month from now when I’ve forgotten the specifics should the situation change.
He plays the piano. His parents disapprove of the lifestyle he created. And he’s uber reserved. Like, almost hermit style. I kind of assumed a guy who’s always in control would have his life filled with meaningless projects purely to feel that rush. Something to keep his mind preoccupied and his need for dominance fed. But what I find is in total contrast to the persona I conjured in my stage-fed fantasies.
He’s lonely and detached. Reserved and purposeful with where he expends his energy.
A reminder once again of why I chose this career. His fans should be privy to this side of him. Somewhere out there, a young guy looks at the path Toby cut on his way into the rock music scene and feels they can’t emulate that kind of direct confidence. It’s for guys like that that I write these stories. I want Johnny in the basement to know it’s okay if he has a day, or a week, where he feels half as confident in his ability as a musician as he needs to. I want the kids on the grind to know that even their idols doubt themselves from time to time. That fear and questioning are two prevalent parts of the rock star personality.
Nobody is immune to criticism. Nobody can expect to walk a high-pressure road such as this and come out the other end unscathed. They need to know, the fans, that there is an element of failure in everyone’s success story, and they need to know there is a way to deal with that crippling sense of disappointment.
We all fall down. It’s how we rise that shows who we truly are.
“You found what you needed?” Toby jogs down the stairs, a loose sweater hiding his previously bare arms. “You need any help?” If I’d known he intended to cover up those guns, I might have ogled one last time.
“Sure.” I gesture to a covered bowl on the counter. “We have quinoa in there, and I have eggs on the boil. You had a few avocados, so I figured we could toss it all together with the cherry tomatoes I found and make a salad.”
He seems surprised. “Nice.”
“You can cut up the avocados if you like.”
He moves behind me, still with that intoxicating scent. Surely the guy didn’t reapply before he came back down. I give Toby the side-eye while he isn’t looking and then scribble one last reminder before closing my notebook.
“What you got in there?” He gestures to the book with his chin, lining up the first avo on the chopping board.
“Memos to myself.”
“What about?”
I narrow my gaze and lean a hip against the edge of the counter. “None of your business.”
“If it’s about today, then it is.”
“Who said it’s about today?” I spin away, taking the eggs off the boil. “It might be things I need to remember to do when I get home.”
“Often put your grocery list in your work notebook?” He smirks yet doesn’t look away from the task at hand.
“Often assume everything is about you?” I run cold water through the pot.
My phone chimes from my bag on the sofa. I set the eggs down in the bottom of the sink to cool and then head across to check it. Toby watches me as I move in between slices on the board, seemingly curious. I lift the device and catch the first line of what I hoped it wouldn’t be: a message from the airline saying a seat has come available.
“Looks like I’ll be home tonight, after all.” I stroll back over, opening the thread while I do. “I’ve got a spot on the last flight out.”
“What time?” His question comes short and clipped—direct and to the point.
“Three forty-five.” I tap my reply to accept the spot.
I’d love to stay here and shoot the shit a while longer but running from reality doesn’t make it any less real. Today, or tomorrow—whenever I go home, I’ll have the same problem waiting for me. The same issue.
Likely redundancy.
“I’ll drop you there.”
I lift my gaze from my phone and slide it into my back pocket. “Are you sure? I don’t mind getting another rideshare.”
He shakes his head and whacks the blade into the avocado stone. “I want to know you get there safely with this weather.”
“I can message when I arrive.”
He pulls the stone free and flings it into the sink beside the pot of eggs. “I said I’d take you.” Any hint of his relaxed side vanished in the time it took for me to send that reply.
He looks positively mad with the chef’s knife in his hand. I busy myself peeling the eggs, frustrated that our conversation hit a roadblock. First, he didn’t want a thing to do with me, and now he throws a hissy fit because I leave earlier than he expected?
“You don’t like it when you don’t get your way, do you?” I ask the question to my busy hands, afraid that if I look at Toby, I’ll lose my shit.
“Doesn’t mean I always get it.”
“You didn’t want to talk to me when I first called.”
“That’s because you called for an unsolicited interview.” He rubs his forehead with one arm.
“Then, you invite me here.”
“After you invited me to yours. Don’t make it out to be more than what it is, Jeanie.”
I sigh, slamming the peeled egg back in the water. “Then tell me what it is.” I turn to face him; hand braced on the counter. “Because I’m confused. You remind me that we’re enemies, and yet we get along pretty well if you ask me. You say you don’t want to talk but that you need to. And you tell me the last thing you want is an interview, but you bring me here knowing that all we have in common is what you do.”
“That’s not the only thing.” He shifts to rinse off the knife, forcing me to back up a step. “We both work our fucking asses off for little more than manic passion. We both have a loving family, and yet it seems you’re as reluctant to unload your shit onto yours as I am onto mine.” His intense gaze hits me like a dart straight to the gut.
I physically reel. “You make us sound as though we enjoy the suffering.”
“Maybe we do?” He moves behind me to reach the quinoa, collecting a sieve on his way back to the sink. “Maybe it makes us feel as though what we do challenges us enough. Or perhaps we get off on the pain because it makes us feel as though we’re special.”
“You’re quite the narcissist, aren’t you?”
“A trait that naturally develops when you live two-thirds of your life either in the spotlight or on somebody else’s schedule.”
Fair point. “If we’re so alike, then why push me away with such disgust?”
He hesitates before pouring the quinoa out. “Because you remind me of everything that’s wrong with myself.”
“Says who?” I edge closer. “Who tells you it’s wrong?”
“I do.” The sadness in his gaze guts me. “I’ve always been different, but not in a crowd-pleasing way like Rey. I don’t draw people in; I repel them. It makes it a fucking lonely road.”
“I get that.” I really do. “When you’re wired to work alone, you have to be your biggest fan, the greatest champion of your cause. You can’t rely on others to motivate you.”
“I know.” He combines the ingredients in two serving bowls. I have to admit it looks fantastic.
“If you ask me, being so sure of yourself is better than always needing the approval of others to feed your ego. Because when the crowd goes home, who do you have?”
“Deep, Jeanie.”
“I’m serious.” I follow him across to the table. “You have a trait that has the potential to be so much more powerful than Rey’s magnetism. You’re self-driven. You can be whatever and whoever you want because who you are at the core is enough, to begin with.”
I take my seat, uttering my thanks before continuing. “I’m saying that Rey needs the love of the crowd to reinforce his gut feeling. Am I right?”
Toby nods, taking the seat adjacent to mine.
“But I’m willing to bet that deep down, you appreciate yourself. You know you’re perfectly fine as you are. It doesn’t matter what other people say because your opinion is what matters.”
He hesitates, stirring the healthy salad around his bowl. “I think.” He pauses as though to run his next thought before he voices it. “You’re right in that I like who I am and what I’ve achieved. It’s just what to do with myself when I’ve got nobody to manage, to support, that rubs.”
“You feel like you have no purpose anymore?”
He nods, lifting his head, brow furrowed.
“Hey?” I reach across and set my hand on his forearm. “You know what?”
“What?”
“That’s perfectly normal.”
“It is?” He takes a mouthful and watches me as though waiting to hear what I say next.
“Yeah. Everyone feels that way when a project or a task comes to an end. Especially us creatives. It’s what drives us to create more.”
“I don’t like it, though.” He takes another bite, allowing me to do the same. “I get so excited when shit hits the fan like that call from Deanna earlier because it means I have something to do.”
“So?”
“All this new age shit people share goes on about how we’re supposed to be at peace with doing nothing. That we’re meant to be able to sit idle and enjoy the quiet.” He shrugs. “I hate it.”
“And yet it’s quiet here?” I frown.
“I meant mental quiet,” he clarifies. “Like, an empty mind.”
“Not everybody can do it.”
“Exactly. And when you can’t, you get labeled as wrong. Being a workaholic is wrong. Dreaming bigger than practical is wrong. Focusing on yourself before your family is wrong. But I think all those things are fine when mixed into life in moderation.”
