by Aimee Salter
“Just keep a log,” Tommy whispers as we sneak through the backyards of three of my neighbors. “We can tick them off one by one.”
I’m resting my forehead on the passenger window of Tommy’s ridiculous Porsche (when did my ex-best friend become a douche?) while I try to keep from clinging to my shoulder bag sitting on my lap. The seats in this car cradle you like a baby. I have to work to keep hating it.
“Kel? You okay, babe?”
“Don’t call me babe.”
Tommy’s silent for another minute, then he shifts gears, along with his weight in the seat. “I know this is a lot—”
“No, actually, Tommy. You don’t. You don’t have a frigging clue how much of a lot this is. Not even a little bit. Because you haven’t been here. At all.”
His hands grip the steering wheel until his knuckles stand proud. “Fucking Crash.”
“Bull!” I burst out, slapping his arm so hard the back of my hand stings. “That’s bull, Tommy! You could have called! You could have texted! You could have freaking emailed me. One single note—do you realize that? A couple lines and I would have told you he broke up with me and I wouldn’t have”—I swallow convulsively—“wouldn’t have lost both of you.”
“I’m so sorry, Kel. I mean it.”
“Stop apologizing. It doesn’t give me the time back and it doesn’t make me feel better.” Embarrassed at my outburst, I’m fighting the pinch of tears.
“Shit, Kelly.” Tommy’s big paw of a hand lands on my shoulder. He squeezes gently. It pisses me off. He knows I love to be touched, and he’s using it against me. But telling him to stop would hurt too much because I’m desperate.
My grief comes in a wave, an ugly thing that’s been nudging at my heart ever since I opened the door this afternoon.
When it all boils down, and no one else is there to judge, I can admit it: If only one of them showed up, I would have wished it was Crash here, telling me sorry, stroking my back, and driving me to the hospital so we can be alone for a little while.
“Will he be okay?”
“I think so.” Tommy’s face goes tight and pale. He’s blaming himself.
I resist the urge to take his hand and comfort him. Deflect with a less important question. “Tommy, why are you driving a Porche?”
Tommy chuckles, which, for anyone else, would be booming laughter. It’s such a warm sound, I can’t help smiling. But it fades quickly.
“It isn’t mine,” he says. “Mine’s in the shop, so the label let me borrow this.”
“This is your loaner?”
“Yeah.” He looks sideways at me. “I know. But it’s not as bad as you think.” He digs his phone out of his back pocket and hands it to me. “The code’s 7325. Check out the photo gallery.”
“You’re giving me the code to your phone?” I ask, skeptical, even as I tap it in.
“Of course. I’m so—I mean, um, I know there’s a lot of lost time and I made a big mistake.”
“Huge.”
“Massive.”
“Unforgivable.”
He glances at me. “Yeah, that. Look, I’ll find a way to make it up to you. But you’re one of my people. So hell, yes, you’ll have the code to my phone. And you can look through my photos. And you can hack into my apps and leave embarrassing messages, and whatever. Just give me a chance to help you forgive me.” He turns to me, and a wave of longing and missing and aching rolls through my chest.
It’s look away or cry, so I focus on the platinum iPhone in my hand. Of course it is. I tap the photo app and lines and lines of little squares populate. Even in the thumbnails, I can see how different his life has become.
Of the twenty or so photos on the first screen, all of them were taken during a concert. A crowd of thousands. Lights over a stage. Security guys backstage. The guitarist with his head thrown back.
Then. Oh.
My heart in my throat, I tap the icon and bite my lip when the photo pops up to fill the screen. The hazy background is black with bare pinpoints of light here and there. In the blurry foreground is a set of drums—clearly, Tommy’s in his seat during a performance.
In the crystal focus in the middle of the image, Crash stands at a microphone with an acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder. He grips the microphone with one hand, keeping the guitar back with the other. His face is tipped up so the lights shine down directly on him. The expression on his face is pained the way it gets when he’s hitting those incredible notes he’s capable of.
“He was singing In the Dark,” Tommy says.
Crash wrote that song for me.
Unwilling to dwell on that, I focus on the image. It’s been filtered until it’s almost black and white. The extra contrast and muted colors crystallize the moment.
“It’s beautiful, Tommy.”
“You can send it to yourself if you want.”
I do. I want a lot. But as I tap the share icon, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I’m going to have a recent photo of Crash looking amazing and being adored and it’ll gut me when I’m alone again.
But I’m greedy for him. I text it to myself then go back to Tommy’s photos and find a cute one of him sitting on a couch, twirling his sticks.
“Can I have this one, too?”
Tommy glances at it and grins. “Yeah, of course. That’s backstage. Crash took it.”
I ignore that information and text that photo as well, pressing send before I can think about it.
“Hand me the phone?” Tommy says as we pull up to a red light. I watch his callused hands as he scrolls down, down, down, until he grins and hands the phone back to me, just in time for the light to turn green.
On the screen is Tommy, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning against the bed of a pristine vintage pick-up truck with his hair pulled back and a huge smile on his face.
“Her name’s Bessie.”
I grin, relieved. It’s exactly what I would’ve thought he’d pick.
Tommy turns us into the tastefully lit parking lot of an unmarked building. It’s three levels of sleek brown walls and tinted windows, with a circular driveway in front of the door, broad ramps on either side of a granite staircase, and is that a piano in the lobby?
It looks like a luxury conference center.
I don’t have time to think about it, because Tommy pulls right up to the entrance, stopping in front of the stairs.
Immediately a guy in a blue jacket trots out of the glass doors at the top and down to open my door. I’m embarrassed but thank him. The guy then trots around to meet Tommy next to the open driver’s side. Tommy hands him the keys. The guy scans a little card on the key ring, checks a unit he’s carrying that looks kind of like a credit card machine, then says, “Good to see you, Mr. Sandowsky. You’ll find Mr. Moretti in suite 322.”
“Thanks.” Tommy’s leading me up the stairs when the guy calls us back.
“I’m sorry, I’ll need your guest to sign in?” he says, sounding nervous.
I take the unit the guy’s offering, write my name on the digital screen, and hand it back to him.
“There was a man who was in the ambulance with Crash—I mean, Mr. Moretti. Do you know where they took him?”
The guy smiles. “He’s in the room adjoining Mr. Moretti’s.”
I look back over my shoulder at the marble pillars, ten-foot glass doors, and the valet parking. At a hospital. “Tommy—”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s taken care of,” he says, steering me up the stairs with a wave to the valet.
“But we can’t afford this.”
“You won’t have to. Our insurance’ll cover it. Don’t stress.”
“But—”
Tommy stops as we reach the top of the stairs. “Kel, there are a few perks to this thing we do now and one of them is special treatment when shit happens. So don’t worry about it. Crash hurt Dan, so Dan’s covered by the band’s insurance and anything he needs as far as treatment or whatever will be handled. No cost. No fuss. Tru
st me, it’s a good gig.”
I fold my arms. “It just feels weird.”
Tommy walks me through the huge front doors. “If we’re going to hang out again, you best get used to that. This doesn’t even scratch the surface of the weird we get now.”
“I never said we were hanging out again,” I say, ignoring the warmth in my chest.
Tommy frowns but keeps walking.
I let him go first so he won’t see the ache painted on my face. Pretending I’m not ecstatic to see him is getting harder every minute.
Chapter Six
Three months ago
Crash
I wake in the middle of the night, confused about everything except the fact that I’m hung over.
My tongue is sticky and dry, a cotton ball that barely improves after I drink the water someone left on the bedside table.
Except leaning over like that makes my head lurch and my stomach twist, so I have to sit back on the pillows and hold the glass for a few deep breaths before I can drink more without anything coming back up.
When the roiling has passed, and my tongue feels a relatively normal size, I squint against a pounding headache and look around the room.
I’m in that ridiculous hospital where they took Tommy when he sprained his wrist. It’s quiet and dark, though I can vaguely hear slippered feet outside the door, and a beeping machine down the hall. I rub my face and massage my temples. My head aches, and my stomach revolts. I have a vague memory of throwing up.
Kelly.
Heartbreak song.
Shit.
Tommy brought me a video. We argued. But things get fuzzy after that. Did I go after him, or stay home? I can’t remember. I also can’t shake a coil of nerves in my stomach. Like I did something wrong.
Hell. Did I do something? Will our publicist, Josh, be answering awkward press questions tomorrow?
I push upright again, looking for my phone. I gingerly turn my head to check the bedside table and the rolling table that slides over the bed and my lap.
If they put me in here, it’s because they think the press is coming and they need me contained while they control the message. It’s a technique I hate, but it works.
Some websites might already have something up. I can check. If I can find my stupid phone. Except I can’t see any of my stuff here. Which is weird. Amber’s usually got one of her minions all over details like that.
What happened?
I look for a call button instead. Maybe the nurse knows where my stuff is. But I can’t find it. Are you kidding me? What if I was dying in here?
I’m about to push out of bed and risk bare-ass walking down the hall when voices rise next door. A deep, male voice, followed by a much higher, woman’s voice.
“Nurse?” I call, wincing. The sound echoes painfully inside my skull. “Can you help me when you’re done in there?”
The voices next door stop abruptly.
I’m about to call out again—because I don’t have a lot of other options—when the door at the end of the room swings open. I’m vaguely aware of white tiles on the floor in the dim light, when a form much smaller than expected, and not in scrubs, takes two steps into the room and stops.
“Crash?”
No fucking way. Everything in my body lights up at the sound of her voice.
Her hair’s down. I can’t make out her expression. Her face blends into the shadows.
“Kelly?” In my shock, I say it too loud and my head punishes me with a sharp jab between my temples. I grab it and lean forward.
She doesn’t move.
“You’re really here?”
“Yes. When they took you, they brought Dan. And I wanted to stay and make sure he didn’t need anything. So . . .” She trails off.
“Dan’s here, too?”
“Yes, he hurt his back. You don’t remember?”
“No. Should I?” My face hurts. Fucking Tommy.
She blows out a breath that’s a little raspy.
“What—”
“Tommy came to see me today. Do you remember why?”
Shit. “No,” I say. Silence stretches. “Kelly, I’m so—”
“Not right now. I’m not ready for that conversation.”
I blink. I imagined this moment—this chance to talk to her alone for the first time—so many times. But never like this. And never where she wouldn’t even talk.
Does she mean it? Then I remember this is Kelly. She doesn’t even understand what mind games are. “Okay. Can you, um, remind me what happened today though? Did I do something?”
She sighs, then steps closer, but her arms are folded and she’s not looking at me. She clears her throat a couple times, but when she talks, her voice is too light. Overly bright.
“Tommy showed up at my house this afternoon. I wanted him to leave, but someone saw him and took a picture. So I pulled him inside, and while we were catching up, Dan came home early.”
My stomach sinks. Shit.
“Which is when you showed up at my kitchen door.” Her voice goes even higher. “And then, just when Dan found two tattooed guys in my kitchen and accused me of sleeping with you both, you threw up on his feet.”
I cover my face. “Kelly—”
“The best part, though,” she says over me, and I wonder if she realizes she’s inching closer until she’s right next to the bed, “is that when Dan was, uh, rude about asking why you guys were there, Tommy got mad. I thought he would hit Dan, but, spoiler alert”—she sounds way too perky. And her voice is too high—“he didn’t have to, because you tackled Dan and brought him down, tailbone first, on the kitchen floor. They had to backboard him. They did x-rays. He’s cracked a vertebra. Hilarious, right?” She gives a nervous laugh.
She sounds like the day she found out her mom was dying. Kind of desperate, from the effort of holding back tears.
“See, the thing is, Crash, today’s been a bit of a shock. And I’m in trouble with Dan. And you lied to Tommy, which is why he bailed on me. And you only came to my house because you were drunk, so—”
“No.”
“—forgive me if I kind of don’t know what to say right now, but—”
“Kelly, no.”
“—I just—”
“Kelly—”
“Stop interrupting me!”
The dark becomes oppressive. But I can’t let her walk away without telling her. So instead of interrupting her again, I put a hand on her arm.
She immediately yanks it away, like I burned her. But she doesn’t run.
“I didn’t come to your house because I was drunk.”
“Then why? After all this time?”
“It’s been a year,” I say. She goes still, watching me. “I’d been fighting the idea of showing up for a week. For months. Yesterday was rough. Then Tommy showed me your song.
“I knew I had to tell you. But I’d been drinking. When Tommy went anyway . . . fuck, Kelly. I had to see you.”
She blanks. She’s never been comfortable with swearing—mostly because her controlling prick of a stepfather only curses when he loses his temper.
I force my hands to stay flat, relaxed on the bed.
“You came over because you couldn’t let Tommy see me alone?”
“No!” I grimace and rub my head again. “Kel, it’s been so hard not seeing you. So hard. I made myself do it because I knew it wasn’t fair to you if I just showed up. But when he said he was going, I couldn’t stop myself.”
I lean forward. The perfume she wore today is mostly worn off, but this close I catch the faintest hint of sunflowers and sea salt. The smell of her.
It’s still dim, but this close I can see her eyes—wide. With fright, or anger?
Can’t look away. Can’t move away. Wonder what’s going on in her head, whether she’s preparing to castrate me, or is as frantic as I am to find a way across the canyon of the past year.
“Kelly—” I whisper it, but as if it’s a gunshot, she jerks back, rubbing her palms down th
e front of her skirt.
“Why did you lie to Tommy?” She throws the words at me.
I sigh. “Because I knew I was losing you, and I couldn’t lose him too.”
“He was going with you on tour. You couldn’t let him text me?”
“It wasn’t like that—”
“Then how was it, Crash? Because the last thing I knew you wanted to marry me. Then and there. If I’d said yes we’d be married now.” She shakes her head. “What changed in eight hours?”
Without realizing it I’ve sat back on the bed. This is what I was afraid of. The whole reason I’ve kept myself away from her. Because I can’t answer that question. For both our sakes.
“I told you, things got complicated.”
She doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move. So I grow a pair and meet her eyes. Her brow’s furrowed. She shakes her head like she can’t believe I’m this much of an asshole.
“Well, I’m glad we cleared that up,” she says bitterly.
I drop my face in my hands. “I’m not trying to be an—”
“Was there something you needed, Crash?” she says in the tight, high voice that heralds tears. “You called for a nurse before I came in. Was there something you needed?”
I slump. I’ve lost her. I shake my head. “I couldn’t find my call button is all.”
“Dan had the same problem,” she says. “If you look between your pillow and the rail of the bed, you’ll find it. They safety-pin it to the sheet while you’re sleeping so it doesn’t fall. Okay, I hope you can get some rest. Bye.” Her voice cracks on the last word.
“Kelly, please—” I reach for her, but she flees, pulling the door behind her. As it swings closed—and clicks shut this time—I hiss a curse. And then about fifty more for good measure.
Stupid, worthless sack of shit. You hurt her again.
I lay back on the pillows and stare at the ceiling. If only there was a way to let her see that I was protecting her without actually putting the images of the truth in her head. That I had to keep her away from that day—from me, after that day. Then she’d know she could trust me.
Her song comes back to me, running a loop in my head.
Bury me.
