How many times have you heard someone say
If I had money, I do things my way.
It was the song “Satisfied Mind” and he was making a statement or a declaration, maybe to me, maybe to the suits, or maybe just to himself, because he didn’t open his eyes once. He had no restraint when he sang and I thought he might miss a note, but he never did, it was always right in tune, completely effortless like it was impossible for him to sing badly. The words gave me pause; I feared Will had made up his mind about the deal and that it wasn’t a favorable decision. I chose denial at that point; I wouldn’t interfere with his decision-making process like everyone else. I would not pressure Will—I loved him too much and if he wanted a satisfied mind over his own page on the iTunes store, more power to him. If he could see the value in having dignity over money, then I would love him more for that. At least that’s what I told myself at the time.
If the tone of his voice wasn’t so perfectly mellifluous, it might have seemed like he was screaming when he sang.
Money can’t buy back your youth when you’re old
Friends when you’re lonely, oh peace to your soul
The wealthiest person is a pauper at times
Compared to the man with a satisfied mind.
When he was finished, he smiled from ear to ear and then whispered, “Thank you,” like he was talking to God. He darted off the stage and out the door. I found him outside smoking cigarettes with Tony, the drummer from Second Chance Charlie.
“Mia!” He called to me and motioned with his hand for me to come over. It was jovial Will. He was lighter, like the five-ton weight of his future had been lifted. He was a man with answers now, one who had experienced the glimpse, as I liked to call it; someone had slipped him a copy of the CliffsNotes to his life and I could see it all over his face. It was the look of man who knew exactly what he was destined to do. I envied that look, the way I envied people who had a strong faith in God.
Once my grandmother told me I needed to find God and I said, “Why don’t you just tell me where to look and save me the trouble?” I was dead serious. Faith, destiny, all the shit you can’t see, but yet people are so willing to take the leap. Not me.
I guess it was during the song when Will was singing those words that he became the man with a satisfied mind because I never saw him waver again.
“This is Tony, the most talented guy in that whole bunch,” he said, pointing back dramatically at the restaurant. “Seriously, he’s gonna be big one day; he’s just gotta get out from behind that drum kit and Sonja’s bullshit.”
“Hi, nice to meet you.” Tony looked to be in his early twenties. He had big, round, liquid-topaz-colored eyes and brown, shaggy hair. He smiled with this innocence that made me think he must have had a really wholesome childhood even though he was standing outside smoking and listening to the ranting of a lunatic.
I smiled at him but turned my attention to Will. “Can I talk to you?”
He stared at me for a good twenty seconds before speaking. He had a way of tapping a direct line to my heart by simply squinting his eyes slightly as he gazed into mine. It was a kissing effect and it turned me to Jell-O. “Baby, no heavy stuff tonight, okay? Let’s go eat.”
I huffed but decided that was the best damn idea Will had had all day… denial, remember?
We sat at the bar and avoided Frank and Rady and all the other suits. Sonja took up residence on Nate’s lap two barstools down. When I saw him stick his hand up her dress, I turned my back and faced Will. “How many girls have you slept with since you met me?”
He said, “Two,” but held up four fingers.
“Which is it? Come on, this is normal girlfriend stuff. I realized we skipped right over it and went straight to comfort sex after our dog died.”
“I like that you called him our dog. He was the best, huh?”
“Yeah, Will, he was the best dog in the world and he died the best freakin’ doggy death, but I don’t want to talk about that ‘cause it’s gonna make me cry and anyway, you’re avoiding the question. How many?”
“I like that you said girlfriend, too.” He was adorable.
“Come on, tell me.”
“Three… okay, four.”
“Who?
“Well, there was Audrey… and her friend.” I choked on my vodka-soda-cran.
“The Russian? At the same time? With Audrey?”
“Yep,” he said with arched eyebrows and a cheeky grin.
“What about the other two?”
“You don’t know them—girls I met at work. It might have been spite sex after I walked in on you and the banker… and the whipped cream.” Smiling, he playfully threw his hands up in a defensive gesture. “What? I’m not proud of it. Anyway, I thought I said no heavy stuff.”
“Were you careful?”
“Of course.” He said it like it was a ridiculous question.
“Well, you weren’t with me.”
“It’s different with you.”
“Well, I’m on the pill in case you’re wondering.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. I trust you.” I didn’t know what he meant, but I didn’t press. I wondered if he was saying it didn’t matter if I got pregnant, but I thought the last thing Will needed on the back of his tour bus was a Pack ‘n Play and a wailing baby.
“Don’t you want to know about me?”
“Yes, I want to know everything about you, but I don’t care about who you’ve slept with. It’s in the past and I don’t want to think about you with anyone else. You’re mine now.” He said it with surefire confidence.
Normally, possessiveness would repulse me. I remember in high school when I discovered feminism. I would beg my friends to let me take pictures of them in all kinds of artsy statement photos. I made my friend Ruthy stand naked with a frying pan on her head while I snapped away. I wrote “Fuck Your Kitchen” across the photo with a big, black Sharpie and then I projected it on the wall at the talent show while I covered PJ Harvey’s “Sheela-Na-Gig” on the piano. Everyone thought I was lesbian after that, which explains why I never had a boyfriend. I thought it was very avant-garde, but it just got me in a heap of trouble. I had to write a ten-page explanation to the principal about how I didn’t fully understand the impact of projecting a picture of a naked girl along with the word “Fuck” on the gymnasium wall. Needless to say, everyone got the wrong message and Ruthy got a bad reputation.
That time is what I will refer to as the deafening era. It’s when I learned that being artistic came with a price, the price of being misunderstood. It’s probably around the time that I tuned my heart out of what Martha would refer to as the soul-harmonizing shit. Still, I remained a die-hard feminist until my feelings for Will took over. All I wanted to do was wash his underwear and fold it into neat little packages that would smell like Snuggle and remind him that he was loved. I wanted to take that frying pan and make food that I would regurgitate and feed to him like he was a baby bird. I wanted to be his; I wanted him to own me. I would nourish his body with mine. I would feed his heart; his mind… his soul, and I wanted to do it while screaming, “What do you think of me now, Gloria Steinem?” That’s how bad I had it for Will, so I guess it’s sort of ironic that I was willing to throw it all away…
* * *
“Wake up sleepyhead.” I yawned, peering at Will through squinted eyes. He looked invigorated and way too sunny for seven a.m.
“Jesus, what kind of vitamins do you take?”
“I prefer lord savior, but Jesus is fine,” he said with no trace of humor.
“Ha ha. Why are we up so early?”
“I’m taking you somewhere special before I have to meet with the label.”
“Where, where? Tell me. I hate surprises.”
“Not telling, but I’ll give you hint… Irises.”
I jumped out of bed. “We’re going to the Getty?”
He hugged me from behind and trailed kisses up my neck. “Or we could stay in bed all mor
ning?” It was a tempting offer…
The Getty Museum is a palatial spread that sits atop a massive hill overlooking the 405 Freeway in Los Angeles. When you arrive in the parking lot at the bottom, people in white shirts usher you onto a white tram that zigzags up to the top of the hill. It reminded me of the movie Defending Your Life where Meryl Streep and Albert Brooks ride a white tram to heaven. I pretended that Will was my angel and that he was going to give me a guided tour. Inside the museum all the dead artists would stand next to their works to answer my questions, except their answers would be void of any artist narcissism. I would ask Van Gogh why there is one white flower in Irises and he might say something like he ran out of blue paint. Will caught me spacing out.
“Penny for your thoughts, kitten.”
“Meow.”
“That’s it? I thought you were deep,” he said, shaking his head with mock-disappointment.
“Is that song about me?”
“Which one?”
“’Lost on You.’”
“Not anymore.” He kissed me and then pulled me toward the Man Ray exhibit.
We stared at Le Violon d’Ingres for ten minutes. It’s a photograph of f-holes superimposed on a woman named Kiki’s naked back; her arms are folded in front so that you can’t see them in the photo. The armless shape of her body is that of a violin and it’s hard not to consider for a moment that Man Ray liked to play with Kiki in the same way. I pondered whether or not the photo was an example of female objectification or if it was simply admiration of the female form. “I totally get that,” Will said. There was my answer.
We moved from exhibit to exhibit, agreeing on everything. It was refreshing and a far cry from my time with Robert or visiting the Guggenheim with my mother. It was like we saw everything through the same lens.
Back at the hotel, Will said he thought the meeting would be boring. “Why don’t you just stay here and relax? I have to finish up the studio stuff anyway.”
“So you’ve made up your mind?”
“Yes. It was an easy decision.” His gaze moved to my lips.
“Did you think there would be a better deal out there from another label?”
“No, there’s not going to be another deal.” He kissed my nose. “I’ll see you later, sweet thing.”
After he left, I took a walk on the beach and found myself wandering into the boutique shops located off the boardwalk. I found a store with European lingerie, really beautiful, elegant, lacy pieces. I was more of a T-shirt kinda girl, but I thought it would be nice to give Will a treat, so I picked up a delicate black satin and lace camisole set. Back at the hotel, I took a long bath in the oversized tub. I thought about Will signing the paperwork, being a bona fide professional musician, not that he wasn’t already, but the world was going to know his amazing talent and for the first time, I was genuinely excited for him. I was with a man whose dreams were coming true and I would get to be right by his side through it all. I sat on the veranda looking out at the ocean, savoring the peace I felt for what seemed like hours. Seven turned into ten and when he still wasn’t back, I decided to lie down. I dozed off to the sublime sound of the waves crashing against the beach.
I was startled awake and glanced at the clock; it was two a.m. The bright moonlight shone through the wall of windows that looked out onto the ocean. My eyes darted around the room until I saw Will, who looked to be asleep in the chair next to the bed. He was shirtless but still wearing the jeans and boots. His head was resting on the back of the chair, his legs were spread, and he was slouching. His hand sat on the arm, clutching a highball glass with brown liquid—whiskey I assumed. His face was completely shadowed so I couldn’t see his eyes, but I thought he was sleeping because he didn’t make a sound or movement and his posture was thoroughly relaxed. I sat up and kicked my legs over the side of the bed, then pushed my thick mane of hair away from my face. I took a breath looked down at my lacy, satin piece and thought Oh well, there’s always next time.
Right before I stood up to take Will’s shoes off, he whispered, “So beautiful.”
My heart jumped to my throat; I slowly walked toward him until I was standing between his legs. He didn’t sit up; he didn’t speak. He just reached his hand out and ran it across my rib cage, playing with the satin between his fingers. I pulled his boots off, then his jeans, then… I was on my knees between his and his hands were in my hair, pushing himself deeper into my mouth. He stood up and simultaneously pulled my face up to his and kissed me hard, then whispered, “I need to be inside you.” He spun me around toward the bed while he pulled my satin shorts off and practically tore off my camisole. He pushed himself inside me aggressively from behind; his hand cupped my breast as his mouth went to my neck. He held me against him, making subtle but strong movements. He eased up for just a moment and mumbled, “You’re mine.”
I whispered “Yes,” but knew it wasn’t a question.
He reached around and pressed his hand into the space just above where he and I connected. The aching was unbearable, the pulsing, then quickening. He whispered, “Come for me,” and I did.
I collapsed onto the bed; Will positioned himself beside me and traced f-holes on my back. “Le Violin de Mia.”
I turned and smiled. “So I’m just a hobby?”
“No, you’re everything.”
“What just happened?” I rolled over on my stomach and propped myself up on my elbows so I could see his face.
“What?” he said playfully.
“That was a little rough.”
His expression turned somber. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“No, I loved it.”
He rolled me over onto my back and spent twenty minutes kissing every inch of me. When he got to my stomach he paused. “Are you going to give me lots of babies?” His voice was smooth and wistful.
The sound of a car screeching to a halt played in my mind, or maybe it was a needle being pushed off the record right in the middle of my favorite song. Whatever the case, my body tensed up. I lifted his head to look into his eyes. It was undoubtedly the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, but it freaked me out.
“Whoa, whoa, buddy, slow down.”
“What?” he said, looking dejected.
“No. I’m sorry, that was really sweet, but there are a few things that should happen before that, don’t you think?” I said it gently, but he still looked crushed.
“I know, Mia; I want to marry you first.” He said it like it should have been obvious to me, but that wasn’t my concern.
I literally had the two most conflicting feelings in that moment. I wanted to have a million of Will’s babies, but at the same time I couldn’t believe that he would expect me to raise him a tribe while he traveled the country on tour.
“Will, don’t you want to see what it’s like to be on tour before you start bringing children into that world?”
He looked completely baffled. “What are you talking about? I’m not going on tour. I turned them down, I thought you knew that.”
“What?” My voice suddenly got high. “Well, then, what were you doing in the studio and where the hell have you been?”
“I gave the song to Sonja, I helped produce it. I’ll still get paid for the writing. I’m so confused. Are you mad?”
“People would die for the opportunity you were given. You won the fucking lottery and you’re gonna throw it all away?”
“If this is about the money, Mia, then I don’t know you at all. You said you were worried about me getting big and forgetting about you, now you’re yelling at me for turning down the deal?”
My jaw dropped. “You turned it down for me? How stupid are you?”
He winced at my words, then his expression turned to anger. “Don’t fucking flatter yourself. I turned it down because I don’t want to be, what did you call it… big and famous? I just want to make music.”
“Oh good, so now you want me to give
you lots of babies while you live in my apartment and work for pennies at the Montosh?”
He didn’t say anything; he just narrowed his eyes and slowly shook his head back and forth. I wrapped myself in a blanket and stormed off to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. Falling asleep on the bathroom floor, I thought about the hurtful words I had just spoken. I didn’t apologize because I didn’t know how I was going to move forward with Will. I felt like the earth had shifted on its axis—I was trapped in the gravity of my own mind, spinning out of control. I love him, he loved me. It’s too bad I didn’t believe love was ever enough. Throw love in the pile with faith and destiny and it would pretty much sum up how I felt at the time.
I stumbled out of the bathroom the next morning and noticed that everything “Will” was gone except for some words scribbled on a napkin.
A CAR WILL PICK YOU UP AT 10 AND TAKE YOU TO THE AIRPORT.
-W
P.S. YOU’VE RUINED ME.
Tears began pouring from my eyes; the last thing I wanted to do was hurt him. I picked up my phone and dialed his cell, but it went straight to voicemail. I called Frank and he told me Will had gotten on the first flight back to New York.
Track 19: A Cautionary Tale
My flight was delayed due to a mechanical failure. It was the first time I felt an irrational fear of flying. I thought for sure that I would be going down in a fiery ball of flames and never get to tell Will how sorry I was. I called his cell phone twenty times while I waited at the gate. Every time it skipped to a message saying that his voicemail was full. I couldn’t wait to get back to the apartment and apologize, but I still wasn’t sure what I would say and I didn’t know if I was willing to stay with him after his catastrophic decision to throw the deal away.
Sweet Thing Page 22
