Smoke and Lyrics

by Holly Hall

  Just then, the front door flies open, and Anika waltzes in. She takes one look at all of us sitting in the living room, together for once, and freezes in place. “Does someone have cancer or something?”

  Before I can answer, Sebastian chooses that moment to let out a highly inappropriate burst of laughter. “Nah, Lindsey just wanted to tell us she’s leaving the country forever.”

  Anika looks at me just as I glare at Sebastian. There’s no amending this now. “I’m not moving away forever, but I am moving.”

  “Oh-kayyy,” she says slowly, dropping her keys into the bowl. Then she starts down the hall and I’m left to chase after her, my chest hollow in response to her reaction. This isn’t going how I envisioned at all. Behind me, the boys murmur amongst themselves, probably speculating if they’re about to witness a girl fight or something. I catch the door she’s swinging shut, pausing on the threshold.

  “I’m not moving away forever,” I state again, at a loss for words.

  She drops her purse on her desk, runs her hands through her thick hair, does everything but look back at me. “That’s good to know.”

  “I wanted to tell everyone at once, but Isaac kind of rushed things along.”

  “Isaac does that, but leaving the country isn’t usually a rushed kind of thing. How long have you known about this?”

  It takes all my effort to close my gaping mouth and grasp for explanations I can’t find. I didn’t expect to have to defend myself when it came to Anika. I assumed she’d be my biggest supporter. “Since yesterday.” When she tilts her head in disbelief, I throw my hands up. “Seriously. I knew nothing about this job until yesterday. This guy called me out of the blue last week to tell me about this crazy opportunity, and yesterday was the soonest we could meet.”

  Anika sinks down into her desk chair and spins around, her features still speculative. “A random guy just calls you up with a half-sketchy, half-amazing job offer, and you don’t say anything about it?”

  “I didn’t know how it would pan out. It’s not exactly an everyday thing, being offered a position with a world-renowned band on an international tour. Especially not for me.” I frown. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

  “You didn’t give me a chance. You just do things. Like lah-dee-dah, I’m Lindsey Farrar, I can do whatever I want with no regard for anyone else’s feelings.”

  I didn’t anticipate having to defend my choice. I didn’t expect to feel resentment toward one of my closest friends, either. “It’s not about anyone else. When I’m working twelve-hour days at a job that pays nothing, then coming home and immediately jumping into hours of work for what few clients I have, it’s just me. Nobody’s offering to take that load off my shoulders, and nobody’s volunteering to pay my bills. It’s. Just. Me. I had to make sure it wasn’t a dead-end offer to con me out of money I don’t have.”

  “Like that photographer guy, Craig? Or was it Greg? Sebastian couldn’t seem to remember.”

  I slump against the door frame. My automatic reaction is a bolt of anger at Sebastian, and therein lies the problem. Because it’s not Sebastian at fault here, it’s me. I’m an asshole friend, an asshole daughter, and an asshole girlfriend. And I wasn’t even that last one—because of me.

  “I didn’t want to bother you with that because—”

  “Because, what, we’re not friends or anything? Because we never bonded over our mutual distaste for rap music made after the nineties, people who put their Christmas lights up right after Halloween, sweaty dudes humping our legs at the club, and cleaning man-hair out of our sink every day?”

  “No, we’re friends, I just. . .” I cross the room and sit carefully on my bed a few feet away from her, partly expecting her to recoil. “I’m sorry. I came out here with nobody, with hardly anything, thinking everything was going to be a battle. I thought I wouldn’t have time for relationships, but I was more afraid I might screw them up. I didn’t see the point in putting effort into something that might have to take a backseat to work. And I’m sorry. I didn’t count on ending up as roommates with someone like you.”

  Anika tilts her head, not completely sold, but softening. “It’s not you against the world, you know.”

  “I don’t think that,” I say inadvertently, though I know better. I wipe my clammy hands on my snake-print leggings and blink at my thighs. “Okay, I guess I do.”

  “You know, sometimes you make life a lot harder on yourself. It’s painful to watch.”

  “I’m a train wreck.”

  She wheels her chair over to me, working against the resistance of the carpet, and the strain on her face makes me laugh. “Life is a train wreck, but other people can make it hella easier. And a lot more interesting, if you know what I mean.” She makes a lurid hand gesture, putting one finger through a hole she’s made with her other hand.

  I smack her hand away. “You and Isaac are on a roll with your motivational speeches. You’re conspiring against me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, absolutely. You can’t be trusted to take matters into your own hands most of the time. Now, I’ll forgive you for being a prick, but only if you do one thing.” I nod and wait expectantly, the smug grin on her face telling me that brain of hers is up to no good. “Tell me you love me.”

  “Really?” I release a short laugh. “One thing, and that’s what you want me to do?”

  “It’s a big thing, coming from you.”

  “Fine.” I take both her hands in mine and, with the straightest face and sincerest tone I can manage, tell her I love her.

  She rolls her eyes. “See? You didn’t die, did you? The world didn’t cave in, and your dreams didn’t spontaneously combust. Remember that.” It’s then I realize she had an ulterior motive for making me say those words. And my irrational fears didn’t come to life. My dreams didn’t combust. My heart didn’t implode.

  “You’re so pleased with yourself.”

  “Well yeah, I got you to do the impossible. So, where are you moving to?”

  “I’m not moving. The band I’m photographing is touring most of Europe over four months. I’ll be back eventually.”

  “Until you get swept away by some sweet-talking French artist who knows the way to your frozen heart. You know they’re stylish over there, right?” I follow her pointed gaze and look down at my clothes in feigned shock. “Come along now, let’s figure out what I can bear to part with from my closet. Consider it a short-term loan, because you’re going to return it. I know you’re coming back.”

  After that rocky conversation, we’re somehow back to our usual antics. Anika thrusts her stylish clothing at me while I fruitlessly turn down garments of fur and lace, knowing they’ll end up in my suitcase anyway. And yet, the tone of our relationship already feels different. I’ve spent much of my life thinking I had to do things in a certain order, accomplish everything on my list of dreams before I could allow myself to indulge in things like friendships, love, or something as simple as bingeing TV shows. Because I really did believe it was me against the world. I adopted that ideology, and I clung to it like an island while everything else in life changed and raged around me, and I didn’t allow maturity to reform those beliefs. I didn’t adapt to what life threw at me.

  It’s when people like Anika come along that refuse to let you struggle on your own, and people like Jenson tell you they love you, that you realize you’re not as unchanging and indestructible as you thought.

  I’m more nervous about a holiday than I’ve ever been. I’ve made plenty of revelations over the past couple weeks, but none so difficult as knowing I need to make amends with my dad. It will be the first time I’ve seen him face to face in five years.

  My mom and my grandmother pick me up curbside at the airport. I’m too busy embracing them to notice it was my grandmother who drove, until my mom climbs back into the passenger side, a cane wedged in front of her seat. There aren’t any laws banning those with MS from driving, so it’s significant that my mom let her elderly mother drive her
to the airport to get me. She knows how sensitive I am to her illness, and up until now, she’s done everything she can to protect me from its reality.

  I drop my carry-on by the stairs inside my mom’s house in Fort Lupton and follow her into the kitchen. I haven’t been back in months and I don’t want to waste any time. She automatically hands me a mug of coffee, just how I like it, and we sit in the breakfast nook. If it weren’t for the current situation, I’d look into the mug’s black depths and see Jenson.

  “How are all your friends handling the news that you’re leaving? Tell me everything,” she says, her fresh face untroubled, looking from the outside like she isn’t afflicted with a neurological disorder. I may have fibbed a little and made it seem like I spent less time working and more with all the friends I don’t really have.

  “They’re supportive,” I say, thinking of my roommates and our unconventional relationship.

  “That’s good to hear. I’m glad you have people rooting for you. Means you’ll probably come back,” she teases.

  “Yeah. Maybe earlier than expected if I suck. The band seems like a handful, I just hope I’m up for the job.”

  My mom adjusts her dark hair in its clip and nods reassuringly. “Of course you are. You were willing to trade in everything familiar to you for the unpredictable. This, living your dream, will be cake! It’s a big step, but it’s nothing you haven’t done before. You have all the tools you need to succeed, right at this moment.”

  I smile gratefully, wishing I had her unwavering confidence. Despite the unpredictability of the arts, she’s never doubted me. “I’m just glad I was able to take a break and come back to see you before the tour started.”

  “Me too, hon. Now remind me when you’re planning on seeing your dad.”

  I try not to let my disappointment show. I’ve relayed my plans for the holiday to her a few times over the phone. Her lapses in memory aren’t anything new, but it’s going to take some getting used to after months of not seeing her. “Tomorrow. I’ll spend Christmas Eve with them, then come back here for Christmas day.”

  “Oh yes, I remember you telling me that.”

  I press my thumb into a chip in the porcelain mug. “Just for lunch, probably. I don’t want to spend more time over there than is necessary.”

  A moment of silence stretches, and I look up at her, at the gray eyes that match mine. The sadness in them makes me want to punch someone. My dad, namely. “You haven’t seen him in a long time. I know he misses you. Don’t let your anger win over the occasion.”

  “It’s hard not to.” There are moments when I think I miss him too, but then I remember the sham that was their marriage and every happy memory seems tarnished.

  She reaches across the table and takes my hand in hers. “If this situation taught me anything, it’s that the good days are too precious to ruin with something like anger. We both made the decision to end our marriage. And no matter what you believe, disease can’t be the thing that holds a family together.”

  For her sake, I try to take the words to heart, but it’s hard not to be angry. Someone always seems to come out on the losing end. Jenson and his alcoholism. My mom and her disease. It’s tough to forget that when on the flipside, the other person involved always seems to move on to bigger and better things. My dad and his new fiancé. Raven and whatever she’s doing now—I never asked about it, but it must be better if she hasn’t looked back.

  “You shouldn’t have to go through this alone,” I murmur. They are the best words I can come up with right now.

  “I’m not. Far from it. But enough about me, have you packed? Thought at all about what you’re taking with you on your trip?”

  Such normal questions to ask when everything about this situation—hers and mine—seems daunting. “A little.”

  She levels her gaze at me. “Aren’t you excited?”

  “Yes.” It comes out a little defensively, because no amount of excitement can quell the anxiety I feel when I think of the thousands of miles, plus the whole freaking ocean, that will soon separate us.

  “Honey. . .”

  “What will I do if something bad happens and I can’t get to you?” I don’t want to burden her with my fears, but they’ve built up too much to keep contained.

  My mom sighs, a V appearing between her eyebrows. “Then it happens, and you’ll get to me when you get to me. Life doesn’t stop when you get sick, Lindsey. Not for me and definitely not for you. I won’t let it. There is no cure, and no amount of worry from you, or you waiting on me hand and foot, will change that.”

  There’s a part of me that wants to crumble, give up this opportunity for something comfortable and familiar, but how can I when her whole life has changed and she’s still sitting tall and strong across from me?

  “It would make me feel better,” I say listlessly.

  “Because you have a good heart. But trust me when I say that it’s far more beneficial for me to know you’re doing something you love, even if you’re far away, than compromising your dreams for what ifs.”

  I can’t argue with that. My mom is not her disease. She is fire and heart, and after two decades of life, I’m still learning things from her; the most important lesson being that you can’t waste time on what ifs. Sometimes you rush headlong into things, and you crash and burn. You hurt, you make changes, you adapt. But perhaps the worst possible thing you can do is go about life without living, without loving, and wonder what happened if you had. I make a promise to myself not to do that, at least professionally.

  Meanwhile, I ignore the ache Jenson left in my heart.

  My stomach sinks when I notice the front door opening as soon as I park in my dad’s driveway. I’d counted on having a few moments on the stoop to myself, one last chance to debate whether to bolt, but it’s too late. I keep my eyes down, but there’s no mistaking the broad form that steps onto the front porch.

  He waits there for me as I walk more carefully than necessary up the shoveled sidewalk, heart pounding and arms crossed against the bitter cold, but I can’t avoid his gaze for long. I look up into eyes I haven’t seen in half a decade and everything seems to melt all at once. The anger and resentment I’ve amassed for years, the distance I’ve kept between us. Time dissolves and I’m just the girl whose father took off her training wheels before she was ready because he knew she could ride her bike without them. The one who made chocolate chip pancakes for Father’s Day without a care in the world that they were misshapen and half burnt.

  I pause for half a second before stepping into his outstretched arms. Guilt and relief clash in my mind. The fact that this reunion could’ve taken place long ago if it weren’t for me battles the contentment I want to feel. My father remains silent throughout my internal conflict, only removing his arms from around my shoulders when I make a move to step back.

  He takes one look at me, at my open mouth poised for an apology, before he says, “It’s okay.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, blink back hot tears, and nod. Those words, that acceptance, trumps any ill feelings that might’ve persisted. His mouth quirks up in a smile, the same one featured in our dusty family albums, and I match it with my own. Maybe all those memories don’t have to be for nothing. There is happiness and love in them that can’t be shadowed by the events that followed.

  Then he’s beckoning me inside, into the warmth of a home that holds familiar furniture and a few photos of me, but still has just enough room to make new memories. I become reacquainted with someone who’s his new fiancé, but an old friend, and I feel okay. I remember what my mom said, that life doesn’t stop for anyone, ever. I thought I’d have to repeat the saying like a mantra to get through this day, but it soon fades into the background of cheerful Christmas music and the smells of Snickerdoodle cookies and eggnog.

  Things are beginning to click into place, the gaps in my world filling in.

  This is me adapting, and it doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. This is me living with hea
rt.

  Chapter 26

  Jenson

  They say the people you meet leave a mark; the ones you love, an imprint. Lindsey Farrar left a fucking chasm in her wake. A gaping hole I have no hope of filling, not even with Tennessee whiskey. I don’t even try. I just leave it there to ache, its raw edges pressing against the parts of me that are whole.

  Time helps, somewhat. But there are reminders everywhere, moments when I’m trying to go about my business that hit me like a bulldozer. The little things. Bare feet bumping against cabinet doors while she chattered on about something in my kitchen; remnants of black coffee in a mug, berry lipstick on the rim; the click of a shutter while she messed with her camera, lens directed at me; dark hair against a pillowcase; how she smelled a little like me and a little like her after using my shower.

  It’s the absence of those things that threatens to tear my world at the seams every time I remember them. She left bits of herself everywhere, both physical and imaginary. I can’t cleanse myself of her. So it’s just me versus the come-down from the high Lindsey left me on, and although physical endeavors leave black marks on your skin and your conscience, they do nothing to penetrate the layers of hurt in your heart. Still doesn’t stop me from trying, though I prefer to do it alone.

  I broke the news to the band a couple days after the show. Their responses were predictable. There was anger from Travis and Korey, a kind of smug, I-told-you-so look between James and Nick. Ross was pissed, and understandably so. He demanded answers, wanted to know why I hadn’t let them all down sooner. His anger was pointless, though, because I saw him for what he was: a greedy businessman who saw dollar signs in place of people. It’s no sweat off my back.

  Carter’s reaction held the most weight, and when I saw the acceptance in his posture, admiration in his eyes, I knew I’d done the right thing. Not just for me, but for everyone. I’d believed that if my worst habits weren’t inflicted on anyone else but me, they were relatively harmless. I was digging my grave, not theirs. But Carter has a way of making me see sense, and not in an I-know-better-than-you fashion. By hurting myself, I was hurting the people who cared most about me. My best friend, my mom, Raven, maybe Lindsey. I was devaluing their feelings, telling them they weren’t good enough to pull me from the deep end. I understand that now.