by Max Henry
He’s right; we could. I warm a little at the realization. “Thanks for the call. It helped.”
Toby folds his arms high on his chest, dropping his chin so that he seems relaxed. “I’m not done with the call yet.”
“But you told me to go to sleep.” I frown, unsure where he’s going with this.
“I did. And I expect you to.” He gives me one last glance before shuffling on his seat and closing his eyes. “I’ll stay right here; keep you company.”
Fuck him—I start to cry again.
Apparently, the day isn’t finished with me yet.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Toby
“Down to the Bottom” - Dorothy
I only had to tell her to close her eyes again once. She asked me how I knew, and I confessed that I recognized the change in her breathing. I might have looked as though I nodded off with her, but I found myself the place of Zen I’ve searched for. On a metal chair on a hotel balcony, I found stillness. Eyes closed, the gentle sounds of the wind around the buildings mingling with her subtle intakes of air through my phone.
If that’s what meditation is, I’d do it with her every night.
I grow aware of my phone in my pocket as I climb out of the Uber in front of Jeanie’s building. I woke to find the connection ended; my battery gave out before I did. Rick told me to stay away, to delete her number, but since when have I been one to let another make the ultimate decision on my behalf? I play by the rules, abide by our schedules, but if something feels fundamentally wrong and against my best interests, I’ll do something about it.
And this does feel that way.
I can’t stay away from her. The three hours I spent ‘testing’ my drum setup in the studio yesterday prove that my muse is back, and my muse is loud.
My muse lives right here, on the ground floor, and she waits for me to arrive.
I punch the code Jeanie gave me into the building lock and then push through into the entrance. I didn’t take enough notice the first time I was here, quietly watching her and the way she moved as she led us to her door. The lobby is tranquil. Appealing. The central part of the building partially gutted, so what was once single level floors between each landing now spreads two high, the balustrade around the first floor allowing the tenants a view of the downstairs when they exit their apartment.
All of which lures you through to the gated doors at the rear that showcases the courtyard garden. Built in the 1920s, this place certainly has an early art deco, Gatsby feel about it. I see why she likes to live here.
I understand why she might not want to leave.
“Are you coming in, or do I need to coax you over?”
I turn my head to the left and find Jeanie in her doorway, arms folded loosely before her and lost in the oversized sweater. I match her playful smile. “You don’t need to coax me.”
She straightens as I approach, seemingly unsure of herself.
She doesn’t have anything to doubt. I knew in my gut that this is what I needed before we start in the studio next week. She’d call it my intuition, but I just call it common sense; she makes me feel good; I need to feel good to be able to play.
Here I am.
“I still can’t believe you came.” She takes a step back.
I capture her face in my hands and utter a quick, “Can you believe it now?” before I do what I’ve wanted to since she left.
Kiss her again.
Boot against the door, I kick it shut behind us. My overnight bag hangs over my shoulder, which makes this sort of awkward, but I really couldn’t give a fuck. Her hands find their sweet spot against my collarbone, my thumbs massaging her jawline as I tug that plump bottom lip of hers between mine.
“Hey.” I murmur the word against her mouth and then press my forehead to hers. “How you feeling now?”
“Better.” She follows the answer with a little sigh.
Fucking adorable.
I dot a kiss to her temple and then let go—no sense in overwhelming the woman. Her apartment is warm in stark contrast to the winter wind outside. I drop the bag behind her sofa and then shake my coat off, glancing around at her space. I’m hungry for any little glimpses of her, anything I didn’t care to read into before. Sure enough, her gaming console sits tidily underneath the TV—a detail I didn’t pick up on during my first visit.
“Did you eat on the plane?” Her voice carries from the kitchen.
I run my eye over the rumpled blanket at the foot of her seat, the controller perched on the rolled arm. Some military shooter game rests on the home screen, all shades of deep green and gray. I like the random lamplight, a tall piece that stands at least four-foot high and shaded by an orange paper-style design.
“I had enough.” I should tell her what Rick said and give her fair warning. But she looks so at peace in her comfort zone; I don’t want to ruin the mood yet. Yeah, I’m selfish. What of it?
“I was making myself a snack, so I hope you don’t mind.”
“Do whatever you’d do if I weren’t here.” I drop onto the sofa and extend both arms across the back of the seat. “I don’t mind the time to relax.”
She crosses the room, a smile on her face and a bowl of popcorn in her hand.
I chuckle. “Didn’t realize you were serious when you said you’d eat your weight in popcorn.”
“Are you shaming my food choices?” she teases.
I hit her with a pointed stare. “You know I’m not.”
Jeanie chews on a few kernels. “How long were you awake for?”
“When?”
“Last night.” She grins. “I know you weren’t asleep when I was.”
“How can you be so sure?” My legs rest slung wide.
Her gaze slips the length of me before she finds my eye again and answers. “I paid attention as well.”
Sneaky. “I don’t know.” I drag one hand down my face. “A few hours? What matters more is that you got some sleep.”
She stays quiet, thoughtfully chewing on her food.
“Did you?”
Jeanie gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Sort of. I had a few hours here and there.”
“But nothing solid?”
She lifts her gaze to mine. “Not straight through. Felt a lot calmer knowing you were there, even though you weren’t.” She smiles.
“Doing what I can.” The room falls quiet, and I enjoy just watching her be herself.
It strikes me that every interaction we’ve had has revolved around something else: an interview, a face-off. We haven’t had a chance just to be ourselves yet.
“What?” She sneaks a look out the corner of her eye.
“Nothing.”
“Why are you staring, then?”
“Would you rather I didn’t?” I turn my head and look at the TV, her artworks on the wall, the stack of books beside her houseplant.
“Okay. Now I feel rude, eating while you’re bored.”
“I’m not bored.” I point to her wilted peace lily. “You were right when you said you’re not very good with plants.”
“I don’t know what it wants.” She hesitates, hurriedly finishing her mouthful. “I give it more water, and it goes yellow. I give it less, it dries out. Sunshine burns the leaves. Shade it curls up.”
“It needs small amounts of everything. Some sun, a little shade. Time to get dry, but moisture regularly. It’s a constant care kind of plant.”
“I picked the wrong sort for me, then, didn’t I?”
“Sure seems like it.” I shift my focus back to her. “They’re resilient, though. Start treating it right, and it’ll get better.”
She nods, lips pressed tight together. “A bit like me. Maybe it was the right plant, after all.” Her laugh doesn’t convince me.
“What’s on your mind?” I want her to get her demons out in the open so that we can see that they’re not as scary as she believes them to be.
Jeanie tucks her legs underneath her, what’s left of the bowl of popcorn balanced in her lap
. “I don’t know what else I’d do.” She sounds small. Fragile.
“Why would you do something else?”
“I looked online last night to see what jobs are available.” Earnest eyes meet mine. “Nothing, Toby. Even if I shifted across the country, there’s a handful of entry-level jobs, and half of them are for publications about pottery or baby care.” She snorts. “I couldn’t do that and stay sane.”
“You won’t find another industry job online. Surely, you know that?”
Her mouth twists, fingertips fussing with the remaining food. “Deep down, I do.”
“You’ll have to knock on virtual doors. Ask around.”
“I’m scared to.”
“Why?” I lean forward, elbows to knees. “You’ve got the experience. You write well.”
Her gaze darts up on the compliment. “You think?”
“You know you can. So, why are you afraid?”
“Devon would have let his friends know why he laid me off. Word probably spreads through his connections that I’m unreliable.”
I laugh. “Seriously? What fucking connections does he have? I can guarantee that the majority of the media I’ve dealt with in my time haven’t mentioned the guy, let alone his tabloid. He’s a small fish in a big pond, Jeanie.”
“Even so, I don’t have any connections of my own,” she stresses. “Where the fuck would I start?”
“With their website. And then an email. You introduce yourself to everyone you like the look of.”
“And if I get rejected?”
“Who gives a shit?” I lean back against the sofa. “If they reject you, if they don’t bother to reply, then they’re not for you. Easy way to whittle down the list.”
She picks at the last kernels.
“What happened to the woman who had the guts to phone me and demand I talk with her?” I soften my tone.
“She got put in her place.” I can barely hear what she says.
“No. You didn’t.” I duck my head to encourage her to look at me. “You let one fuckhead bully you. That’s the long and short of it. Don’t let him win.”
Jeanie makes eye contact, but I see the fear. Like a child scolded too harshly or a dog kicked too many times, she’s wary of being hurt again.
“Why are you so afraid to fail?”
Her lips roll, tongue moving around inside her mouth to presumably clean the last of the flavor off her teeth. “Because nobody else in my family has.” She draws a deep breath. “Dad’s name is well-known in the journalism world. Mom has kickstarted so many great things with her research. And then there’s Kelly, slaying in her trade as a pharmacist.” She pauses, brow furrowing. “My older sister is an advisor for the senate.”
“Wow.” The accolades in her family run deep. “And you feel you don’t compare?”
Jeanie shakes her head. I can tell from the way she swallows, the repeated lick of her lips, that she tries hard not to cry.
“What would make you feel as though you did?”
She leans forward with haste, setting the bowl down. “That’s just it. I don’t know.” Her words are wailed, frustration rife.
I pat my thighs. “Come here.”
“Pardon?” A smile. A start.
“I said, come here, Jeanie.” I use the same tone I do on tour. The one that gets my brother off the floor when he feels like he can’t continue. The one that forces Emery to douse himself in a cold shower to be sober enough to play. The one that reminds Kris his talent supersedes any fears he might have about messing up.
She slides first one leg and then the other off the seat. I lean back and widen my stance again, giving her all the room she needs.
Jeanie stops before me, a coy smile in place. “This feels awkward.”
“Why?” I reach out and snag her ridiculously sexy over-sized sweatshirt. “You could kiss me.” She blushes. “You didn’t feel too awkward then.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” She chuckles. “You just didn’t see it.”
I pull her off balance, and my little vulture tumbles onto my lap, legs to one side. It feels stiff and unnatural. I reach down and scoot her backward to my knees, palms on her ass, and then guide her closest leg to my other side. Jeanie catches on and repositions to sit astride my hips, her knees pressed to the back of the sofa.
I slide my hands to her waist and hold her steady gaze. “Everything will work out fine.”
“How do you know?” She draws a slow and deliberate breath.
I reach one hand to her face and cup the side of her neck. “Because it always does. Might take a while longer than you’d like, but it always does.”
Her chin crumples, eyes soft as she stares down at me. “What do I do in the meantime?”
“You turn up every day with a fucking smile.”
A lonely tear tracks her cheek, quickly chased by a steady flow of others. I brush away as many as I can with my thumb before sliding my hand to the back of her head, pulling her closer. Jeanie curls toward me, resting her head in the crook of my neck as the silent tears continue. I stroke her back. I weave my fingers through her hair and clutch the back of her head. I do whatever I can to make her feel less alone in reaching her rock bottom.
We’ve all been there—some worse than others.
And eventually, we all rise again.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Jeanie
“Lost Cause” – Black Pistol Fire
He smells like home, so warm and musky. I turn my face toward his warm skin and savor how it feels to be enveloped by his steady strength. Toby didn’t have to come. I didn’t ask him, in the end, and he wasn’t obligated to for any other reason than he felt he needed to.
I needed him to, even if I didn’t have the guts to voice it.
“Tell me about something else,” I ask, rolling my head to one side so that my forehead tucks against his jaw.
Toby’s words vibrate against me. “Like what?” His fingers continue to drag lazy trails up and down my spine.
“Anything. Just something away from here, unrelated to this.”
“Huh.” He pulls his head back briefly to press a kiss to my head. “Let me think about it.”
I lose myself in the passing seconds while he does, eyes closed while I follow the steady in and out of his breaths.
“It’s fucking hard to think of something unrelated to music, Jeanie.” He chuckles quietly.
The sound moves against me, soaking into the darkest corners and warming me from the inside out. “Tell me about your house. Why did you buy it there, so far away from everyone else? Did you pick the area because it’s private?”
“Added bonus.” Toby’s hand stills before picking up the lazy pace. “I picked the location because, in fall, you get an epic view of the changing colors in the valley.”
“I’d love to see that.”
The room falls quiet, and I daren’t lean away in case I find his discomfort or, worse, horror at what I said. I didn’t mean it as an invitation to go back. I’d honestly just love to see that, the changing colors of fall. I miss out on a lot living in the concrete jungle, but I’ll never be able to afford to live somewhere like his—especially now I have no job.
“Did you grow up somewhere similar?” I ask. “With forests or parks nearby?” I shift my shoulder so it doesn’t dig into the underside of his arm quite so bad.
He lowers the hand in my hair, sliding his palm to rest possessively against the back of my neck. “We had space, but the nearest reserve was too far to go on our bikes as kids.”
“How did you get your love of nature, then?”
He tilts his head, resting his cheek against the top of mine. “I don’t know. I kind of realized I liked the free space and peacefulness one day.” He stays still awhile before pulling away to steal a look at me. “Do you think that character is nurtured into us, or do you believe we can be born with our traits?”
I shift a little so that our heads are far enough apart for us to face one another. “Like, do I think peopl
e can be born murderers?”
He nods, apparently curious about my answer. I suppose it fits with what I’ve learned about him so far today.
“I think while nurture can do a lot to shape a person, nature has a lot to answer for.” I frown. “Like, what parents would willingly train their kid to kill, right? You could argue a kid learns apathy from a psychotic parent, but then their parent would have had to learn from theirs and so on, and it just seems unlikely to me that entire generations of people would pass that kind of malice down the line willingly.”
He nods slowly, pulling me close again. “What about circumstance? Opportunity? Do you think that has bearing?”
“Some of history’s greatest criminals came from wealthy beginnings, so I don’t think class is solely to blame.” I nuzzle into the warm space at his neck again, pushing my left arm behind his broad body. “How did we segue onto the upbringing of murderers?”
“You’re the one who made it about murderers,” he says with a hint of amusement. “I simply asked if you think that people can be born with defects or if it’s always a result of their upbringing.”
“Defect sounds a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“I’ve heard Rey’s condition called worse.”
My soft smile fades. “So, that’s what this is about? Rey?” My eyes glaze, all focus on the rise and fall of his breaths, the small nuances that give away his mood.
Toby shifts, holding me to him like a monkey while he pivots to spread out on the sofa. “When somebody interviews us, or even in conversations with other musicians or people in the industry, you know what the first thing everyone asks is? What was your childhood like?” I end up half lying on him, but he seems to miss the intimacy of how he’s positioned us, lost in the thoughts at hand. “For some fucking reason, people always assume that Rey is the way he is because he wasn’t loved enough, or he never got enough praise, or some shit.”
“They have trouble accepting bipolar is just part of who he is.” I run my palm across the flat expanse of his chest.
“Exactly.” A heavy sigh leaves his nose. “Why do you think that is? If he were physically disabled, nobody would question what happened. But because it’s invisible, they figure something, or someone has to be to blame.”
