Everything We Are

by Janci Patterson

  “Okay,” I say. “You should get some air in there now.”

  Ty pauses. “My feet don’t breathe,” he says. “What about my face? That’s where I breathe.”

  I sigh. He has a point, and I imagine two holes are better than one, but I really don’t want to cut his face with a utility knife.

  I eye the skinny end of the case. He is shorter than the cello, but I don’t trust him to tell me how far down he’s scooted. “All right, Ty,” I say. “I’m going to stand you up, and I want you to let yourself slide until you’re standing with your feet flat, okay?”

  “Okay,” he says, and I stand at the skinny end of the case and lift it with the flat side toward me until it’s standing on end.

  “Whee!” Ty shouts, and then the case rocks back and forth as he throws his weight from side to side.

  “Stop rocking!”

  He stops. “But it’s fun!”

  “It won’t be fun if I drop you.” Still, I shake the case a bit, as if to settle him down to the bottom. “Are your feet flat?”

  “No. They have arches.”

  “I mean—Oh, never mind.” I wrap my arm around the case to keep it still and then gouge a hole in the end only slightly smaller than the one at the bottom. “Okay. Now you should be able to breathe.”

  Ty heaves a few breaths inside the case. “I’m giving you a thumbs up,” Ty says. “But I can’t get my arm up that high, so you can’t see it.”

  I sit on the floor. The holes help the immediate problem, but I’m not confident I can cut enough of the case to get him out without hurting him, especially because most of the structural parts are reinforced. I could still call the locksmith, but I’m pretty sure of what they would say.

  “Okay, Ty,” I say. “I’m going to carry you out to my car, and buckle you in. And then we’re going to go to the emergency room and get you out of here, all right?”

  Ty is quiet. “But that’s for emergencies. This isn’t an emergency.”

  I’m glad he’s still thinking of it that way. “It’s for when you need help right away. Which we definitely do.”

  I try to call Jenna, but she doesn’t answer. They’ve probably reached the club by now, and it’s loud. I really don’t want to explain what’s happened by text message, but she’ll probably get back to me when she sees she’s missed my call.

  I go to lift the cello case, but Ty tells me to wait. “I never got a snack.”

  I stare at the hole in the top of the case. I can see Ty’s blond hair poking up in tufts against the soft lining.

  “Ty,” I say. “How am I supposed to get you a snack when you’re stuck in a cello case?”

  “You could put something through the air hole. Like Cheetos.”

  I want to refuse, but I really don’t want him getting scared or crying in there. It’s all fine while it’s fun, but at some point he’s going to realize he’s wedged inside a box from which there is no escape.

  “Do you have any Cheetos?” I ask. I can’t for the life of me remember all the snacks I called out before.

  “Not in here.”

  I can’t argue with that. I go back to the kitchen and in the pantry. Inside I find a half-full bag of jalapeno Cheetos.

  I head back to the case. “Okay, I have Cheetos. But if I drop them in there, I think you’re going to get dust in your eyes. Can you reach up by your face?”

  A thump sounds from halfway up the case. “No,” he says. “My hands are stuck.”

  I put my hands at my sides and try to figure out how to maneuver them above my head while keeping them against my body. “Can you move your hand up to your stomach?” I ask. “And then across to your hip?”

  There’s some rustling. “Yes.”

  “Okay, then up to your shoulder and onto your face. You got it?”

  “This is a fun game,” Ty says. “I’m touching myself in all the places.”

  I choke. “Don’t tell your mom we played that game.”

  Immediately, I hate myself. Now he’s going to tell her we played games about touching ourselves and then I told him not to tell her. Jenna’s probably had a talk with him that he should always tell when some adult doesn’t want him to.

  “Or tell her,” I say. “Just don’t call it that.”

  “Why?”

  I am not going to explain that to a kid in a cello case. “Never mind. Wiggle your fingers.” I peer through the air hole and I can see his fingers wiggling. “Good. Stretch your arm up a little bit more and I can give you some Cheetos.” He does and I take a handful and try to get them into his fingers. Most of them scatter, but he gets a few. His hand disappears, and a crunching rises from their air hole. “Thanks,” he says. “Can I have some more?”

  He eats for so long I feel like Jenna is going to come home and I’m still going to be here feeding Ty Cheetos through a slot, but he’s finally happy, and before I’ve completely drained the bag.

  “Felix?” Ty says.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m thirsty.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “I can’t pour water on you. You’ll drown.”

  “I can swim!”

  “Not in a cello case. You can’t even move your arms.”

  Ty thinks about that. “What about a juice box?”

  I don’t think a juice box will fit through the hole I’ve made, but back in the pantry, I find a package of Capri Suns. I have to put the straw into it before I ease it through the hole, because I know he can’t do that while squished in the dark. Juice squirts from the straw as Ty grabs it, soaking his hair, but he manages to pull it down toward his face.

  He slurps.

  “All right,” I say. “Are we ready?”

  Silence. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “We are going,” I say, bracing the case and lifting it again. “Now.”

  “But—”

  “Pee yourself if you must, but we are not coordinating some kind of fluid removal.” I hoist both case and boy out to my dad’s spare car and flatten the passenger seat as low as it can go. Ty rocks minimally, and I manage to get the case in skinny-end up, so at least if he wets himself it won’t run toward his face. I buckle the case in, even though I’m frankly not sure how much good that would do in a crash.

  I set my GPS for the nearest ER. Jenna still hasn’t called me back, so I send her a text telling her where we’re going and why. The pit is my stomach is back and larger than ever.

  After this, there’s no way she’s letting me watch her kid again.

  Fourteen

  Jenna

  Alec and I take my car to the club, and I drive while Alec updates our social media accounts about the big party tonight and posts one of our standard “adorable couple” selfies he took before we got in the car, with him kissing my cheek and me all smiles.

  We’ve put on the act for so long now it’s as easy as slipping on a mask. But now I can’t help but think of Felix having to see it.

  I wish so much it could be him and me in that picture. It should be.

  But I look over at Alec, dutifully tweeting and responding to messages and undoubtedly already working with Phil on setting up our next impromptu public appearance. He doesn’t love keeping on top of all the gazillion social media requirements any more than I do, but he’s got a head for the business—he always has—and the vision for where we could go, and the drive to do what needs to be done to get there.

  We’re talented musicians, both of us, and we’ve certainly caught a few lucky breaks. But it’s this drive of Alec’s, this vision he works his ass off to see through, that’s the real reason we’ve been so successful so quickly. It’s the reason I’m able to have this dream career I love and financial security for myself and Ty (and my parents, who would never be able to afford living out here by us, otherwise). It’s the reason I’m not still back in Michig
an, working two minimum wage jobs just to raise my son, all while rarely being able to spend time with him.

  I owe Alec, big time. Between that and my own fear of losing this dream career and all the security that comes with it—I’ve seen enough spectacular plummets from stardom to know what one ill-timed scandal can do—agreeing to the rules seemed a small price to pay a year ago.

  Those rules seem like a staggering price now, but that doesn’t mean I can just abandon them, or Alec, no matter how much my heart wants to.

  But that pull between Felix and me is so strong, and I don’t see it getting less so anytime soon. I think Felix was right back at the hotel; we’re not going to be able to stick to these rules, to not really be together, for four years. Three days has been brutal.God, even just seeing him today, at my door, looking at me like that—I wanted to kiss him and kiss him and never stop.

  But if we could make it even a good chunk of that time—

  “So you’re cool with Felix watching Ty?” Alec says suddenly, cutting into my thoughts. He’s still typing away on the phone, but there’s an edge to his voice that tells me his mind is elsewhere.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Is there some reason you think I shouldn’t be?”

  He shrugs. “I mean, you’re usually super picky about baby­­sitters, and you haven’t known him that long. I was just surprised.” Then he looks over at me with a grin. “But I suppose we’ve got both a clean drug test and background check on him. Not a bad way to vet a babysitter.”

  For a second, I think maybe Alec’s making a dig about my having let Mason watch Ty. But no. The dig is more focused on how quickly I’ve let Felix into our lives, a decision he doesn’t agree with, unlike our former mutual trust for Mason.

  “Well, I trust him. And Ty was excited to have him over.” That last bit’s an understatement. When Mom called with the news that Dad had spent all day in tuna salad purge mode, Ty begged with all the tricks in his cute kid bag—widening those green eyes, offering to do extra chores, giving me un-asked-for hugs—to get me to ask Felix to watch him.

  I didn’t tell him there weren’t many other options at this late notice, what with my mom’s plans, and Leo and Roxie both out on dates tonight (though not with each other, sadly, despite all the weird-ass fungus cream massaging going on there lately). I also didn’t tell him how much I loved the idea of him and Felix getting to know each other more, even as I was afraid to find out that when it comes down to it, Felix is more okay with Ty in theory than in reality.

  I’m still nervous about that. Ty’s the best kid in the world, but I’m under no illusions about what most guys—especially guys as young as Felix and I are—are equipped to realistically handle when it comes to dating a single mom. It’s one thing to know I have a kid, and another thing to become part of that kid’s life in a real way, to see him as more than just baggage that comes along with dating me.

  Alec is frowning at his phone like he’s already stopped paying attention to the conversation. And thankfully I’m saved from having to talk to Alec any more about Felix when we arrive at Club Fu. Paparazzi and groups of hopeful club-goers mill around out front. Valets trot over to us and Alec puts his phone smoothly in his pocket and gives me the “time for game face” look, as the valets open our doors.

  And then we become Alec-and-Jenna again, at least as far as the public is concerned. When we get out of the car, and start heading into the club, Alec slings his arm around my waist, and we smile and wave at the cameras and laughingly oblige when a paparazzo yells “Aww, just kiss her, Alec!”

  Kissing Alec has felt empty for a long time, but after kissing Felix, it now has the added effect of making me feel sick.

  We’re escorted by one of the valets—who have undoubtedly been trained to recognize the celebrity guests, even the lesser ones like us—through the crowd of people trying to flirt or bribe their way past the bouncers. I doubt many of them will have success. Tonight the club is invite only, a private anniversary party being thrown by Adam Levine of Maroon 5 for his model wife Behati, and honestly I’m surprised we’re on the guest list for this one. Apparently Phil knows Adam’s manager, and called in a favor.

  So now we can pretend we’re all buddy-buddy with Adam and Behati, even though our only interaction with either of them was the one time Alec was in the bathroom at the same time as Adam at last year’s Grammys, and apparently Adam said “Hey,” and Alec said “Hey,” and that was it.

  Not exactly a friendship for the ages, but the press from being invited to this party is pretty fantastic, especially so close to tour. So I’ll play my part, and play it well, for the good of the band.

  Even if I wish I could be here with Felix instead, with his arm around my waist.

  Club Fu is fairly small and while it’s new, I’m kind of glad to see it’s not one of those overly trendy places that always seem like they’re trying too hard, with aerialists or waitresses all dressed up like Marilyn Monroe. Strobe lights are strobing and house music is thumping and well-dressed people are dancing and drinking and probably snorting lines in the bathroom stalls—it’s your basic club scene, even if this one has more recognizable faces and photographers from People with the exclusive right to shoot inside.

  There’s tons of people crammed in here, though, and I’m guessing we’re not the only ones who made it in on a manager’s favor.

  “Time to make the rounds?” I ask Alec.

  He grins. “Hell, yeah.”

  We do so, scoping out who’s here and who we need to talk to, Alec taking the lead as usual. The networking, the making business connections, the being in the right place to be in the right picture—this is Alec’s forte.

  As we do all this, we dance and cuddle and get drinks. I don’t drink much, not anymore. But it’s a lot easier to do all this with a cocktail in hand, even if I wish I was back home to see what Felix and Ty are up to, and how they’re getting along.

  I try to focus on the conversation Alec is having (as much as he can, yelling over the music) with this pretentious guy with a soul patch and gin-soaked breath who is apparently a casting director. The guy goes on at some length about his latest coup—getting A-list actress Kim Watterson to play a dying young mom to child star Axel Dane in the film treatment of some weep-fest novel I’ve never read and probably never will.

  We don’t exactly want to be actors, Alec and I, but at a party like this, connections are connections, and you never know which ones will lead somewhere.

  Still, I’m glad when we move on.

  We dance a little more, though it all feels distant, like I’m an actor in a movie playing the part of myself. Alec is respectful, and doesn’t dance any closer than necessary, which is already pretty damn close, but it still reminds me of the way I used to feel, detached and numb, pretending to be the girl who was up for anything and didn’t care. I’m glad when we stop dancing and pose for a picture—thankfully not one where they shout at us to kiss—and Alec guides us closer to the end of the main bar, where Adam and Behati and several other members of Maroon 5 are holding court, and where the People photographers are snapping away.

  “Hey,” Alec says, squeezing my hand. I look back at him, and see him holding up a sign that was on the bar, advertising an upcoming karaoke night. “You could show off your ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart.’ Maybe mix it up, do some ‘Holding Out for a Hero.’”

  I laugh, and it’s genuine. “I could. But my Bonnie Tyler karaoke game is strong. I don’t want to risk some random dude trying to get me to join his band. It’s happened before, you know.”

  “Sounds like a smart dude.”

  “Persistent, too.”

  Alec laughs. “Yeah, maybe. But hey, look where it got us.”

  I smile back. When Alec picked me up at that karaoke bar, I was just trying to get out with some friends, trying to feel like a normal person again after Rachel died. I couldn’t have hope then that I�
�d ever be in a healthy relationship, which was most of the reason I joined the band but held out on dating Alec for the first six months. We may not have turned out to be meant for each other, but being with Alec gave me hope that the story we sang about was one I could actually have someday.

  Now I wonder if it’s the thing that’s going to drive away the person I think I could actually star in that story with.

  Alec tugs on my hand. “Come on, that’s Adam’s manager over there by Behati. Phil said he’d introduce us to them.”

  I try to figure out who Alec is pointing to, but the steady beat of the music is starting to feel like it’s stabbing me in the back of my eye. Not that I’m any stranger to the club scene, but spending too long in places like this—especially when I’d rather be elsewhere—still reminds me of the parties I used to go to, of the press of dancing bodies and the hands on my skin from guys I don’t know and don’t want to. My pulse matching the music, spurring me on, desperate to be enough, to be numb, to forget, even though I knew it would only last for a minute, and all feel worse in the morning.

  “Give me a second,” I say.

  Alec looks concerned—he’s been at these things with me when I’ve felt the need to go home early before, but if I do it this time, I’m pretty sure he’s going to blame it on Felix.

  I told Felix I’d check for messages, but I haven’t since we got here. I pull out my phone, and there’s a text. From Felix, and not from the secret phone, either.

  Ty’s stuck in my cello case, the message says. He’s fine, but I can’t open it, and I’m taking him to the hospital to get him out.

  He pinned the address of the hospital for me below that.

  Shit.

  The message was from nearly a half-hour ago, and I completely forgot to warn Felix about Ty’s proclivity for very small spaces.

  “We have to go,” I say to Alec, ignoring his protests as I drag him toward the door.