by Holly Hall
Without the hazy filter of alcohol, anxiety prickles in my chest. Four-months sober and I still struggle in its grasp. Grabbing my carry-on from the bin as soon as I’m allowed, I step foot in the terminal and fight the urge to fall on my knees and kiss solid ground. For all its confinement and inconveniences, there are perks to traveling by tour bus.
My hotel room offers a view of Coors field, though it’s rain-streaked. Not the greatest weather, but I suppose it doesn’t have to be for an art showing. I take a long shower to loosen the muscles that were clenched the entire time I was hurtling through the air in not much more than a tin can, then dress. Ripped jeans and tees are more my style, but I assumed something nicer was more requisite of this crowd. A black button-up and slacks is as dressy as it’s going to get.
I trim my beard to stubble and tie back my hair so I look less like a disheveled hipster, then call an Uber and head down to the lobby. It’s a short ride, but I didn’t want to show up sodden at an event I was specially invited to.
I’m dropped off on the curb in front of Forever Life, a narrow brick façade wedged between a café and a high-end furniture store. Inside, I’m offered a glass of white wine. I graciously turn it down, though the world is hell-bent on tempting me. Thankfully I’m not the spineless man I was, and I request a water instead. The woman in front of me turns, tablet in hand, as soon as she’s finished taking the names of a couple in front of me. Her name tag reads Lola, and her eyes widen in recognition.
“Jenson King, hi! I mean, sorry, I’m sure you get that a lot.” She clicks her pen in rapid succession, pale skin flushing.
“Yeah, hi. We spoke on the phone a month or so ago. I’m surprised you remember my name.”
She bites back a smile. Is it possible she’s even more flustered by humility? “I’ll just go ahead and mark you off my list, then. The guest list,” she corrects needlessly, tapping the screen. I nod kindly. “Enjoy your night, Mr. King. Here’s Landon with your water.”
At the mention of Lindsey’s cousin, I look over and see Landon striding over to me with a glass in hand.
“It’s sparkling, unfortunately. Blake thought we needed something ‘classier’ for the event.”
“From the man himself! I appreciate it.” I accept the glass and shake his hand. He looks glad to see me, which is unexpected.
“It’s the least I can do after your cross-country trek to get here. How’ve you been?”
Hollow. Listless. Alone. There are plenty of words that come to mind in response to that question, but none worth saying. “Good. I made some career changes and I’m a lot more satisfied now.”
“I’m glad to hear that. I did the same a couple years ago. Sometimes it takes a nudge, or a hard shove, in my case, to put things in perspective.” I don’t miss that his eyes follow Blake across the room. She’s electric in royal blue.
I wonder if he knows my hard shove was his cousin. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear about my romantic feelings toward her, so I just nod understandingly. The reminder of her awakens all my old aches. “Are you ready for the wedding?”
“Oh yeah. I don’t know why we’re even waiting this long. Though why this woman wants to deal with me for the rest of our lives is the world’s biggest mystery.” We both share a chuckle. I guess we all have our shit, and it’s finding someone who doesn’t balk at the prospect of it that’s so extraordinary.
“Isn’t that the truth? But hey, she’s equally crazy about you, man. That was obvious the night we all went to dinner. Y’all will be okay.” I nod confidently and sip my sparkling water. It tastes like a burp.
“Speaking of dinner, you heard from Lindsey lately?”
“No, not since she left. We, uh. . .” I trail off awkwardly, not sure how much he knows. Not that there was much to know. Lindsey left angry and without a good bye. I doubt she discussed her feelings with him.
“I get it,” Landon sympathizes, giving me an all-knowing look. “Before she left, she called to get my input on this amazing opportunity she’d been given, seemingly out of the blue. She was bouncing-off-the-walls excited.” He studies me for my reaction, but I school my features into a casual expression. “You have something to do with that?”
My shoulders are on their way up in a shrug, on the verge of denial, but he claps my arm. “Whatever you did, I appreciate it. I know as well as anyone how tough it is to get noticed in that industry, and I didn’t even have to fight the social-media photographers in my early career. Any good word or recommendation is huge, and appreciated.”
“I didn’t tell her it was me. And I don’t want to.”
A look of confusion passes over his face so fast I could’ve imagined it. “I understand. She’s a proud girl, stubborn as hell. You don’t have to deny it,” he adds when I remain silent.
“She is tenacious,” I agree, and we both laugh again. At that moment, Blake appears at Landon’s elbow.
“I can’t believe you came! Good to see you,” she says genuinely, rounding him and reaching out to me for a hug.
“You too. This is amazing.” I gesture around the room, though I haven’t given our surroundings much attention.
“If Landon wasn’t talking your ear off, maybe you could take a closer look,” she chides, and they exchange a look. “What are you two discussing over here anyway?”
Landon looks down at her and tenderly brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. His usual indifferent, slightly arrogant demeanor disintegrates instantly. “How I can’t wait to marry you.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a charming liar, Ferrari. Let’s let Jenson take a look around. If you have any questions, if there’s anything we can get you, just let us know.”
I thank her, gathering my bearings as they walk away. Photographs and paintings are displayed on white walls, accentuated by track-lighting. In the center of the floor, a few sculptures rest atop pedestals, and much of the back half of the room is occupied by rich, wooden bookshelves. The stuffy atmosphere I anticipated is noticeably absent. Low chatter and music from a guitarist on one side of the room provide a warm, casual backdrop to the evening.
I gravitate toward the first set of paintings on the left. They’re impressionistic, the lines graceful and sensuous. I don’t know much about painting, but I know I prefer this over blocky, modern stuff. The canvases feed into a set of photographs that I assume, at first glance, to be black-and-white shapes—more of the same graceful lines. Then I study them closer and realize each subject is a nude male or female, tastefully posed so only the barest suggestion of features are on display. There’s the curve of a breast, the rest of the figure in shadow; the dip of a waist and the swell of a hip; a hand resting between bent legs. They are striking, understated, elegant.
Gradually I make my way around the gallery, absorbing what each of these artists depicts as passion. They are all unique in their portrayal. Then I’m at the back of the room, where the wall is noticeably blank, and I rotate slowly to make sure I’m not missing something. Five feet from the wall, the bookshelves are arranged side by side, forming an opening to a sort of hallway. I almost think nothing of it until I notice the card tacked to the end of one.
SMOKE & LYRICS
The Man Behind the Music
My breathing hitches. It could just be a coincidence. The universe’s idea of a cruel joke. But not much of my life has been ruled by coincidence, and the fingers of fate are in everything. I look around and, with nobody to observe my reaction to whatever this is, stride inside. I turn right when the shelves dogleg, passing through the tunnel of books with no end in sight. Whoever put this together must enjoy suspense.
After rounding the next corner, I stop short. Hanging from the ceiling—on fishing line so they appear to be floating—are dozens of photographs. Mini Polaroids, to be exact. I capture one between my fingers and rotate it so I can see what, or who, the subject is. Bare thighs sit astride a naked torso, my arm slung over my face. She wanted a photo of me right after we’d slept together, and I’d put
my arm there to guard against the flash and obscure my identity. Anyone who knows me knows my tattoos, though, and the oak tree is in plain view. The rest are hung at irregular intervals, like rectangular snowflakes trapped mid-fall.
I glance at a few more, but with so many of them and so little patience for what I’ll find, I set my eyes ahead. At the end of all the books and floating pictures is an exhibit on black “walls” that have been temporarily erected over the bookshelves. Someone put a lot of thought into this. Funny how I know who the photographer is and yet I still won’t allow myself to believe. After all, I am alone. She isn’t here. It’s just me and, well, me. Every rendering of me you can imagine.
“Intoxicant” plays lowly from a hidden speaker—a song I wrote and gave to her as a cellphone recording. It’s not genius writing; many of the verses don’t rhyme and the tune is raw and unpolished, never meant to see the light of day. But it’s my thoughts as I thought them, a lexical poem. The melody melds seamlessly with the photographs before me, all in matte black and white. Featured in them are pieces of me. A cigarette between my lips, smoke curling out of the frame; my profile as I’m bent over my guitar, backlit by light from the window; pages of tattered papers hanging from my notebook; a view of me through a glass, distorted by whiskey; my calloused fingers holding a pen over a sheet of scribbled paper.
All the times she’d told me she was adjusting the settings on her camera, I was utterly unaware she was compiling this. The photos are arranged haphazardly, without sense or order. The result is both chaotic and compelling, and I realize it’s just as accurate a depiction of her as it is of me. Then a photo in the far corner draws my eye. It stands out, different from all the rest. First because it’s in color, and second because it’s not of me. It’s a peeling old storefront with a sign over the door reading Café de Rouge. A closer examination tells me nothing about where it’s located. The small dining area out front is fringed by red roses, and there’s a display in the window overfilled with desserts, neither of which I’ve ever seen in Nashville, or anywhere for that matter. Without worrying that I’m defacing a piece of art, I yank the photo free.
My feet feel encased in cement as I will myself away from the exhibit, the photo clutched in my fingers, my thoughts stalled on what it could mean. Is she here, back in the States? I assume Landon could assemble everything easily enough without her. But what did she want me to take away from seeing myself through her lens? That question leads me back to the whole theme of the evening. Passion. Am I passion? Or was I her passion?
It doesn’t dawn on me until I round the corner that everything’s gone silent. The room is empty, the mic stand in the corner devoid of a musician. Then I see something beyond the shop-front windows.
Wild hair as dark as night.
Chapter 31
Jenson
She’s facing the street, but as I slowly approach, her profile comes into view as her head turns a few degrees. A bell above the door declares my exit.
My whole body sighs upon seeing her. She is a demure picture in an unruly frame, with her simple black dress and her loose, wild waves. And as I take her in, she does the same. It could be seconds, it could be hours, but when she takes the smallest step toward me, I enfold her in my arms. Lavender flavors my next few inhales. Then I release her and withdraw, too many questions fighting to get out for me to stand still and silent.
But the questions are at war with each other and all I manage is a sad “Where did you come from?”
She smiles. It accentuates how she’s filled out. Her cheeks are rounder, elbows less knobby, and she’s glowing with sun even though it’s dark out. “Everywhere,” she says. “Do you want to take a walk?”
I nod and follow her lead, turning left and continuing past dark shops locked up for the night. But the unfamiliar landscape does nothing to steal my attention. I can’t stop looking at her. She smiles shyly back at me.
“Sorry, it’s a little weird seeing you after all this time. And after. . .” I jab my thumb over my shoulder, and she lets out a giggle.
“I’m sorry for blindsiding you. I wanted to get your attention.”
“You did do that.” I follow her pointed gaze down to the photo I’m still holding. “Sorry. Probably not art gallery etiquette and all, but this is the one photo that didn’t fit. I thought it meant something.”
“It does. I owe you an explanation; for that, and for everything.” She takes a long breath before continuing. “For so many years, I told myself I wasn’t afraid of anything. Like saying it would make it true. I took pride in that. But I was so afraid of you.” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I would’ve died rather than admit it.”
“Afraid of me?” I point at myself in disbelief. I’m probably the most harmless person on the planet. I’ll hurt myself before I hurt anyone else, and I’ve been doing that regularly for much of my adult life.
“I guess more what you represented. Your self-awareness. Because even though I acted like I knew everything—myself, most of all—I was lost. I threw myself into work without asking what it was all for. I found the answer to that question in the middle of a music festival in Marseilles.”
“At the café?”
“Yes. After the guys performed, I ditched the after-party for somewhere quiet. I just wanted to think about the path my life was taking, the work I was doing, the days we spent on the road. And what I left behind. I realized something then: you’d lost your passion but made damn sure you put your heart into everything you did, and I had all the passion and wouldn’t invest any heart. We were both searching for the other without even realizing it, throwing half of ourselves at our work while wondering why things weren’t quite right. But you were starting to make me see differently, that the thing that fulfills you won’t leave you feeling empty, whether you make compromises for it or not.”
The words anchor themselves in my skin with a permanence that rivals my tattoos. She’s back to speaking my language, as if the time and distance between us over the past five months have dissolved into nothing. It’s a tricky position to be in, not knowing where I stand or my reasons for being here.
“No passion, you say?” I ask with false humor, though she’s hit the nail on the head. I can’t even pinpoint where I lost it. Somewhere amid the business and politics, where my goals became less about the music and more about the charts. Years later and I’ve finally caught hold of it again.
“Am I wrong?”
I shake my head.
“Are you any closer to finding it?”
To that, I answer with a single nod. “I guess we both figured things out after you left.”
“I’m sorry about that. I was a mess then. Still am, but maybe less so. I’ve tied up some of my loose ends.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
She stops me with a hand on my arm, and I face her. “But I do need to thank you. Without you, I might’ve still been torn between Rhythm and photography, working myself to the bone and living off snack food.”
“Nah. Someone would’ve snatched you up.”
“Maybe eventually, but I wouldn’t have had the time to realize what I know now.”
I duck my head. I’m not great at accepting praise, especially when I feel it’s undeserved. “And what’s that?”
For the first time tonight, she looks away from me in shame. “I didn’t want to admit I was wrong for shutting out my dad because I wanted to believe he’d failed and love didn’t. And I didn’t want to admit I was wrong for keeping in the words I needed to say to you but was too much of a coward to.”
“What are those?” I ask, and it takes everything in me to rein in my mind from where it wants to go. The girl in front of me is both strange and familiar. I don’t know how much of her is the same as the version I fell in love with.
“That I love you. Desperately. Painfully, sometimes,” she releases a sharp exhale. “I hope you can forgive me for not being ready to tell you.”
I let her words settle a
round me, like the dust after a detonation. Then I tip my head toward the sidewalk before us, and we continue walking. “I forgave you as soon as you left. I’m happy now.”
The column of her throat shifts as she swallows. “I’m glad.”
“I’m in a better place than I’ve ever been.” She nods again, her eyes tightening as if this news is painful to hear. “And I’d like to take you on a date.”
For a second, her expression is frozen, thrown off. But when her smile appears, it shows up full-force. “Really?” When I nod, she says, “Okay, but I need to do something first.”
“What’s tha—” I don’t have the chance to get the words out before she’s on me, all lavender-smelling and soft skin and heaven in my arms. The momentum propels us into a shop window, and I welcome the impact against my back, lifting her against me, embracing the person who so completely changed my world. Her thighs wrap around me and I groan into her mouth, sure we’re putting on an indecent public display but not giving a damn.
“I love you,” she breathes, detaching from me just far enough for the words to come between us. I’m positive they’ve never sounded sweeter.
“I love you,” I say, and it is comforting and powerful. Not even five months could diminish its strength. I lower her to her feet, planting one last kiss on her bee-stung lips.
“How about now?” she asks coyly.
“What do you mean?”
“You said you wanted to take me on a date.”
“Now?” I ask, eyebrows raising.
“I don’t want to waste any more time.”
Through my growing smile, I say, “Me neither.”
I take her hand in mine, and we walk. Toward dinner or greasy bar snacks. Toward forgiveness and uncertainty. Without any illusions or presumptions or expectations. Just us.
