by Deana Birch
“Being honest is hard, Lou. I get it. Not everyone wants to hear your truth. And it’s pretty obvious the people here have a preference for your former boyfriend.”
He was spot on. And he knew it. He opened his arms and gave me a tight hug.
“So many expectations,” I said as I pulled away.
“Don’t let other people’s ideas about your happiness get in the way of your own.”
“Wise words.” I nodded.
My work bestie showing up and saving my night was the best gift I’d gotten over the holidays. I owed it to Casey to show him a good time. I would talk to my mother in the morning, then sit Stella down and explain my relationship with Jake. Lord, maybe I could even convince her to join me somewhere in Europe for one of his shows, and then I would officially introduce them. She was always saying she didn’t see me enough.
“Come on.” I dropped Casey’s jacket from my shoulders and hung it on a finger. “Let’s go enjoy this party.”
Me dancing with Dimitri had opened the door for invitations by others. I danced with each one of Dimitri’s Spanish uncles—also collectively known as “Los Titos;” Dimitri’s father, Guillame; and even Casey. Dimitri asked Stella, my mom, and his, and the clock steadily ticked towards midnight.
When it was time for the countdown, I put enough space between myself and Dimitri, that he wouldn’t be the first person who kissed me and welcome in the New Year. I chose my mom, then Casey, and worked my way down the line until I’d well-wished everyone except him. I slipped back outside to the terrace for a quiet moment alone under the stars and fairy lights.
It was afternoon in Los Angeles. The Spades were playing a New Year’s Eve bash for a radio station, and it was around the time of sound check. I would call him the next day after I’d spoken to Stella. We would make his touring work.
“You did a good job avoiding me. Don’t trust yourself?” Dimitri walked closer and leaned into the railing but looked at me.
I grumbled, “I trust myself just fine.”
“I don’t even get a friendly New Year’s kiss? It doesn’t ’ave to be on the lips.” His attention fell to my neck, where his finger traced a line and tickled my hairline. “I ’appen to know this is your favorite spot.”
Bastard. “You lied, didn’t you? You have no intention of staying out of my life.”
“It’s impossible. You do nothing but get more and more beautiful. Six people ’ave asked me when I’m buying you a ring. We belong together. You know that.” He smiled, stood upright, and offered me his hand with a small sigh.
No. Actually, we didn’t. Not one time in all his manipulations had he mentioned any kind of feelings. Not mine and not his.
He opened and closed his hand. “Come back inside. Let’s find our friends. You’re right—it’s so much more fun with people our own age at this thing. Did you know Casey was the first gay person to ever come out in the ’istory of ’is town?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t wash away one topic with another you think I’ll like.” I smoothed the front of my pink dress.
“Minette.” The edge in his voice startled me.
This time I couldn’t back down. He had to stop. And he had to understand. “I spent what feels like my entire life loving you, but you don’t love me the way I deserve. Every time you call me that stupid fucking nickname, I’m reminded that you have all the power. We are not even. I do not want a life with you. The sooner you understand that the better.” I marched through the double doors and straight up the stairs to a private guestroom.
The cold water I splashed on my face offered me no relief from my anger. And hurt. As much as I was sure about Jake, the words I’d thrown at Dimitri had stung me too. I would have to cut him out of my life completely which meant losing his parents and disappointing Stella.
Just like Dimitri wanted his one last dance, I craved one last night of my fairytale French life. I wiped away a smudge of mascara and straightened my shoulders. I quietly left the room and walked down the stairs back to the party. I would take it all in one last time. My extended family and childhood dreams deserved a better send-off than drama.
15
JAKE
* * *
Playing a gig drunk wasn’t a habit of mine, but New Year’s Eve was going to suck no matter how I sliced the fruitcake. Plus, since there were several bands on the bill, our set would be short. I had a few beers at sound check then went to a bar with a guy I knew from a former band. When we got back to the venue, the party had officially begun.
I couldn’t tell if there were more girls or bottles of booze. I found Sam, who had a disgruntled Gina on his arm, sitting on a couch away from the bulk of the crowd. I plopped down next to them, spilling a bit of beer on Sam’s dark jeans.
“Sorry, man.”
Sam eyeballed me. “How long have you been drinking?”
“How long has my girlfriend been in France?” I took another swig.
Gina bounced in her seat. She was like Tigger from Winnie-the-Pooh when she got excited. “Oh, my God! It’s already New Year’s there. I’m gonna text Louana.” She reached into her endlessly big bag and somehow managed to locate her phone.
Sam looked at me again and said, “I’m going to find you some fucking coffee.”
I watched Gina type a message, then switch over to another app. “Aww … Did you know Casey was in the South of France with her? Oh, my gosh! There are tons of pics!” Her finger swiped the screen of the phone at an alarming pace. “She looks gorgeous. Who’s … Nevermind.”
I cocked my head and saw what had given the previously bouncing blonde pause: Louana in Dimitri’s arms on a dancefloor. Happy. My heart dropped to the lowest level of hell with one glance. Every fucking fear about my relationship fully realized. I lifted my arm, but instead of drinking, I hurled the bottle against the wall.
Conversation stopped, and Gina hunched down and gawked at me like I was a three-headed purple dancing bear belching rainbows.
“What the fuck, dude?” Sam rushed back over, and behind me, I heard him run interference with a random person who wanted to figure out why a drummer had become violent with alcohol. He managed to convince them he would “handle” me. Whatever the fuck that meant. How was my bass player going to “handle” the fact that I’d just seen a picture of my girlfriend with her ex. In his fucking arms. A smile that I thought was mine. Reserved for me. Not him. Not her first love, who now looked a hell of a lot like her only love.
Sam came around the couch. “What the fuck just happened here?” His eyes darted back and forth between me and Gina.
“I … I don’t know, babe. I showed him a picture of Louana in France, and he lost his shit. What the fuck, Jake?” Gina handed her phone to Sam.
“Oh, fuck me. Geens.” Sam’s free hand flew up to his bald head. “You don’t know who that other guy is, do you?”
“Who?” She took back her phone and tapped it a few times. “I don’t know—her cousin? They both have dark hair and olive skin.”
“No, babe. That’s Voodoo Fuck Face.”
Gina said a silent “oh” and cringed.
Shane and John sauntered over. John glanced down at me, then back to Sam. “Somebody said Jake threw a beer bottle.”
“He did.” Gina popped up. “I’m going to get that coffee.”
“Gina showed him a picture of Louana with Fuck Face and he wigged out,” Sam said to the other band members.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” I spat and dropped my head into my hands.
Shane sat down in the seat Gina had just left, put his knee on the couch, and turned to me. “Are you drunk?”
“Probably.” I shrugged.
The three more responsible members of our band exchanged glances.
Shane touched my arm. “Dude, listen. We can’t blow this show. Afterward, we can get uncontrollably drunk, and I will be by your side the whole fucking night after, but every industry person in the city is at this show. You have to spend the nex
t four hours sobering up. Then we’ve all got your back. Deal?”
“Who are you, Phil?” I knew he had a point. I couldn’t even hate him for it. My eyes wandered over to John. “I don’t think coffee is gonna cut it.”
A wicked, knowing grin spread across John’s pale face.
I put my big boy rocker pants on and sobered up. And by “sobered up,” I mean I did a shit load of blow in the bathroom with John and a redhead I’d seen somewhere before.
The rush hit my brain, and for one moment I forgot. My girlfriend was a million miles away. Probably fucking her first love. The second passed.
Dimitri’s smug face flashed again. Him. My girl was his. Fuck him and his fucking perfect smile and suit.
Fuck him and his control over her.
Fuck him fucking her.
Fuck her loving him.
John threw me out of the bathroom. I banged the fuck out of my drums. Harder. Faster. What a fucking joke. Adrenaline filled me. Anger consumed me. There was no Louana. Jake meant nothing.
More drinks. Vodka straight from the bottle. Cold. Harsh. Cutting.
Another bump from the webbing on my hand. Fuck her loving him.
Black.
The soccer fuck’s face next to someone. Not my girlfriend. His. Always his.
Louana’s bobbing knee. Control.
“Slow down, big boy.”
Who said that?
Black.
New walls, different people. Another line of white powder.
Freedom.
Louana’s face smiling at someone. Not me.
Torture.
Shane’s tattooed arm around my neck. Phil’s bald head in his hands.
Sam’s voice fading away.
The pop of a cork and a pair of tits.
Black.
16
LOUANA
* * *
People filtered out around 1 a.m., Stella and Charlotte included. Casey and I were having too much fun, and knowing we wouldn’t see each other for a month turned us into machines who had to dance their asses off. Valentina assured me that I could either stay in a guest room or they would find a sober driver for me, and I said goodnight to my family.
The ties loosened, and jackets hung on the back of the chairs. The music changed from classical to modern, and Los Titos held court at a table by the dancefloor. Most people made an effort for Casey by speaking English, but every now and again they would slip back into whatever native tongue they had, and I would have to translate.
My mom hadn’t let me take French as a second language in high school, so I’d taken Spanish. It was very much my weakest language; I could understand most of it, but I couldn’t read a newspaper article and properly translate it. Los Titos were from Spain—but Barcelona, which meant they spoke Catalan and my four years of Spanish were of little use when they were around. Since they were drunk, the slurring, confusion, and temperaments made translating impossible. Luckily, Valentina was next to Casey and me, and we could follow most of what they were saying with her help.
After tasting the prized Le Clerc cordials, Vincent and Casey went back to their hotel. Looking around at the alcohol intake of the room and seeing no one in a condition to drive, Valentina lent me some pajamas and sent me to a guestroom. I hung my dress and crawled into the soft bed. Dimitri had kept his distance the rest of the night, choosing mostly to hover with Vincent in the corner.
I awoke to my phone beeping with messages, and I grabbed it after I rubbed my eyes. The first text I saw was from Gina.
* * *
Gina: Hey, I think I fucked up. I showed Jake Casey’s Instagram. I didn’t know… I’m so sorry.
* * *
My heart raced, and I moved to the next message.
* * *
Unknown: Nice pictures, here are some for equal viewing pleasure
* * *
With every pixel that downloaded onto my phone, my breath caught closer to my throat. In the first photo, the redhead I’d seen twice backstage straddled Jake on a couch. The second was her kissing his neck, and in the third and final blow, his hands were around her ass on a hotel bed. Her shirt was off, and she was reaching behind her back at the clasp of her bra.
My throbbing heart shredded into a million fragments as it plummeted into my stomach, where the shards scraped the walls before sinking to the bottom in a heavy, wrenching pool. Everything I’d fought for, gone. The trust he’d begged me for, vanished.
And as the pain settled into my organs, the anger percolated in my blood. What a fucking lying hypocrite. One picture of me and Dimitri and he’d assumed the worst. Or not. Maybe he was just a cheating piece of shit. A cheating piece of shit that had crushed my soul in one night. A cheating piece of shit that had thrown away any hopes for our future.
I needed to see what Casey had put on Instagram to make Jake do this. It didn’t make any sense.
With shaking hands, I created an account and quickly found Casey’s profile. In a picture with the label “Prince and Princess Charming,” Dimitri and I were dancing, and I had a gigantic smile on my face. It was the same picture Casey had shown me on the terrace. I scanned the other photos from the night. There were two selfies of Casey and Dimitri, one photo of Casey with Los Titos, and one group picture from very late into the night when we were all tipsy and I was in between Dimitri and Valentina. Jake obviously thought I had cheated. But I hadn’t, and he had. And I had proof. Proof he probably didn’t know I had.
I dropped the phone like it was a disease. I couldn’t touch it. Who the hell was I kidding? I couldn’t even breathe.
Empty. A huge, gaping hole in my chest where my heart had been. I couldn’t cry. Not there. Not in that house.
But I could smoke.
Still wearing Valentina’s long-sleeved night shirt and pajama shorts, I trotted down the stairs to find the supplies I needed to allow me to start thinking straight and hopefully steady my shaking hands.
The cleanup crew was almost finished—they were packing up the rented chairs into a truck in front of the entry door. I went to the closet where the Le Clercs kept their coats, found one of Dimitri’s old front-zipping hoodies, and slipped into it. I went outside into the crisp morning air to search for the first item on my list. Luckily for me, locating a cigarette in France is easier than finding a Starbucks in L.A., and I only had to ask one person before I found my prize.
With no sign of the Le Clercs or Los Titos, I went to the kitchen, made myself an espresso, and found some matches.
I took my treasures out to the back terrace, set the coffee down on the mosaic table, hugged my knees to my chest, and covered them with the hoodie. It was now close to 3 a.m. in California. I blew the smoke out slowly and thought about my next move. If I called Jake and flew off the handle, he would wonder how I knew. If I told him someone had sent me the pictures, he might assume the worst, quit the band—this reeked of Shane—and lose everything. On the other hand, if I called and acted like everything was alright, he would still go crazy about Dimitri. And I was most likely not calm enough to keep from letting it slide that I had seen the pictures.
There was no malice on the part of Gina or Casey, and I didn’t want to involve them. The one thing of which I was certain was that Jake and I were done. He hadn’t even waited to confront me before he’d found a replacement—the one woman he knew I had a problem with. Fucker. I was done.
“Coffee and a cigarette? You are mad at me.” Dimitri stood in the doorway in dark jeans and a baby blue, tight-fitting sweater.
“You’re not the only man who drives me to smoke.” I blew out a steady stream and stared at the sea. Dimitri would love my new relationship status.
“You want to talk about it?”
Ha. There was a joke. What good had talking ever done me?
“I just want to go home.”
More stupidity. I had no home. Casey was right; I had no idea who to be or where.
“Come on. I’ll drive you.” He reached out a hand and pulled me u
p.
I decided to stay in the pajamas and hoodie. I said goodbye and thank you to Valentina and Guillame and climbed into Dimitri’s car.
“Your legs in my mama’s pajamas are disturbing.”
His attempt to lighten the mood didn’t work. I wasn’t sure how I was going to deal with the situation in L.A., but spilling my heart to someone else who had broken it wasn’t going to happen.
At Stella’s, I thanked him for the ride. He apologized again for his behavior and added that despite everything I’d said, he would always be there for me.
When I walked in, I found Stella and my mom at the farm table in the kitchen. They were drinking tea, and Stella was trying to further sell the attorney she had introduced my mom to the night before. Charlotte listened, unconvinced, while she made me my favorite sandwich: a baguette with butter and mustard mixed together and one thin slice of ham. I sat down and ate as they rehashed the party and filled them in on what they had missed. My mom’s watchful eye was on me, and when I excused myself to go read, she followed.
After I explained my morning, she gave me a big hug and said, “I’m so sorry. I really liked him.”
Finally, when I was alone and safe, the tears came. I hugged the down pillow and muffled my wails into it.
Jake leaving the band didn’t matter. Jake being jealous didn’t matter. After all his distrust, he was the cheater. Maybe it was drugs or booze or vengeance filled. It still couldn’t change what he’d done. Motives were meaningless. Proof was everything. And Jake and I were nothing.
After a shower, I went to the kitchen, put on some French pop music, and opened a bottle of pinot noir. It wasn’t like me to drink in the late afternoon at my grandmother’s house, but my mom understood my reasons and joined me in an act of solidarity.
Stella came in and sat with us around the table. My mother slyly pulled out of Stella all my favorite stories of her past on stage as the ultimate distraction from what was happening inside the broken borders of my heart. We laughed until we cried, half drunk and half buzzed on the comfort of being together and sharing the moment. But beneath my happy granddaughter act was a hollow well. I’d lost the man I loved and who I thought understood me. Because I was done.
