We get through it a few times, riffing a bit. Beth’s an awesome improviser. I wish she had more scenes with Garrett, who I think would love to play against her. But they appear together just a handful of times and only interact directly once.
The scene ends, and Beth picks up the conversation like no time has passed at all.
“I’m making paella tonight. You going to be home?”
My stomach literally whines at the thought of Beth’s paella, which is like the crack cocaine of foods. I can already taste the chorizo, the spices, the saffron rice that I imagine shoveling into my mouth by the spoonful until I expand into a giant Skyler ball, and they have to roll me to my room.
“Not sure. Brooks asked about getting together. What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion. Grey’s having the band over . . .”
“You mean he’s having Titus over, don’t you? Your lover?”
It’s only been a week, so they haven’t really gone there yet, but it’s brewing. You can feel it between them like waves crashing up against a flimsy seawall. I do know they’ve made out like crazy, though, because every time I come across them, he’s smeared with Beth’s signature poppy lip stain and looks like he just saw God.
“Grey’s having the whole band over,” she tells me. “And Titus is . . .” I can swear the girl blushes a bit, and Beth never blushes. “He’s just unexpected.”
“You sure you want to make such a garlicky dish?” I tease her. “And all that food? I mean, you don’t want to have a paella baby in you when you finally get down to business with Titus.”
“Well, you can help me out by actually eating something. Like a normal human amount of food.”
This again. I’m too tired and hungry to argue. “Fine. I’ll eat a giant helping.”
“Great.” Beth sits back in her chair with a triumphant grin on her face. “I’ll make extra.”
I get home later than everyone, which means I walk into a party already in progress. The Bleachers are playing. The conversation is loud. And the balcony door’s wide open, bringing in the smell of car exhaust and the smoke from our neighbor’s grill.
Just as I step into the living room, my phone chirps. My mom. I shoot her a quick text that I’ll call her back later. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her all week, and I feel awful. Apparently, my dad didn’t pay any of their utilities before he left. I’ve sent a check overnight to her and tried to cover things by credit card from here, where I could. But she’s coming apart a little, and I need time to really sit and talk to her. Someplace private and quiet, though I have no idea where that place might be.
“There she is!” says Beth, whose eyes are already a little glassy from the prominent jug of punch she’s got on the pass-through between the kitchen and living room.
Before I know what’s hit me, she’s taken my purse and laptop bag, stripped off my coat, thrust a big glass of punch in my hands, and pointed me toward the sofa, where a space materializes between one of Grey’s band members—Emilio, maybe?—and Shane, who I think dates Nora.
“Where’s Grey?” I ask, squeezing between them. He doesn’t seem to be talking to me—not much at least—since the night he came to live with us, but he’s not exactly avoiding me, either. He just always seems to be on his way to somewhere else. And when he’s not at Garrett’s beck and call, he’s holed up in some corner, listening to music and mumbling lyrics under his breath.
“I sent him to the store for some saffron,” Beth tells me.
“And some Dos Exes,” Titus calls from the kitchen, where apparently Beth has put him to work on the mussels.
She giggles like a twelve-year-old girl. Good Lord, what’s happening here?
In the space of five minutes, my mom texts back asking when, exactly, we can talk. Then Brooks texts to ask if we can get together after all. Even if it’s late. He’s pumped and wants to share ideas. That’s followed by a text from my brand-new agent, Parker, asking about a get-together with Jane, my brand-new publicist. And then Grey walks through the door, carrying a lot of beer and one tiny bag, presumably, of saffron.
“Hey,” he says to the general assemblage, including me more or less by default, but he doesn’t look my way, just carries everything into the kitchen.
Parker texts more thoughts about meeting on set tomorrow. Better to get started early. Jane is rounding up “beaucoup opportunities” for me.
Then Brooks texts to reiterate that he is really okay with meeting late. Even 10 p.m., though he knows we have a super early call time so he understands if I can’t make it.
Brooks: But I hope you’ll make it.
My head starts to throb. I put my phone on silent. I just want a minute. I wish I could put my life on silent, too.
“We’ve got about thirty minutes,” Beth says, and I want to cry because I’m so hungry.
The band and crew are loading up on beer and chips, but I go into the kitchen to grab an apple.
When I come back, Nora says, “I didn’t know you play the cello.”
“Well, we just met three minutes ago,” I say, and it comes out about twenty notches bitchier than intended. I try a smile, but I feel how fake it is, like I’m some weird game show host, in the weirdest, most unfriendly game on earth. “But, yeah. Been playing since I was a kid.”
“Electric cello, too,” Beth calls from the kitchen. “Play something, Sky.”
“No, that’s okay.” I just want to eat my apple and melt into a puddle on the couch. “You guys are—”
“Electric cello’s totally rad,” Titus says, coming into the room with more chips.
He tosses Grey a beer and then settles onto the arm of my dad’s old club chair, one of the few things I hauled across country for sentimental reasons. My brother and I used to all pile onto it with him, when he was home, and he’d read us stories or sing songs. Then he went away for a long summer, and when he came home, it felt weird, somehow, like my brother and I had gotten way too big in just a few months.
“I’d love to hear you play,” says Nora. She’s a beautiful girl. Totally sporty, blond with an asymmetrical haircut, biker shorts, and a Plain White T’s t-shirt, which is neither plain nor white.
“Just give us a quick mini concert while we wait,” Beth says, coming into the room. She pushes Titus onto the club chair and then flops onto his lap. Even though she’s probably his equal in height, she doesn’t care. She’s so comfortable with him, and with her own body. “Please? I’ll pay you in chorizo.”
I take another bite of my apple, which tastes dry and grainy, making me feel cheated. “Nah, I don’t really feel like it.”
“Come on,” she says. “Grey, turn down the stereo.”
He gets up to do it, looking at me for the first time but not speaking. I can read the interest in his eyes, though, the excitement he’s trying not to show. He wants to hear me.
Maybe it will help, I think. A little musical therapy to fight off my pissy mood.
“Okay,” I say, and everyone breaks into applause and cheers. I smile, a real one this time. Yeah, maybe a little concert’s what I need. Just to connect to my music and let everything else drift away.
I get Christina from the room and plug my amp and speaker in by the balcony, turning it down low so the sound doesn’t melt everyone’s faces.
“What do you want to hear?”
“Do the Fall Out Boy one,” Beth says. “ ‘Centuries’?”
“Well, I’m still working on that. I mean, I haven’t really gotten it yet.”
“It sounds amazing.”
It would sound better with my looper. Also with a bass. Some drums. Patrick Stump. Maybe just the band and not my cello at all.
“I love that song,” says Titus, giving me an open, encouraging smile. “We’re all musicians. We don’t care if it’s perfect.”
But I care. I don’t know why, but I do.
I sit down and warm up a little bit. It feels like years since I’ve played, though it’s only been about a wee
k and a half. Still, that’s a long time away from it—for me.
My fingers feel stiff as I start to play, the cello awkward in my arms.
On the coffee table, I see my cell phone light up then go dark. Light up then go dark again. My mother? Brooks? Parker? Or someone else completely? Someone else with ideas for my life, who wants to help me or who needs my help? Someone else who comes with a set of expectations about who I’m supposed to be, what I’m supposed to do?
The song’s not working. I have to think too much, and I’m out of the pocket. The rhythm’s wrong. It just sounds lousy.
I put down my bow. “Sorry.”
“For what?” Beth asks. “You sounded—”
“Like crap. Let me do a different one.”
“It didn’t sound like crap,” Grey says. Finally, a whole sentence just for me. And a fat frickin’ lie at that.
“I can hear it,” I say. “I mean, it only sounds like I’ve gone tone deaf.”
“Not at all,” says Reznick. “I liked it.”
“Well, thanks, but let me do something else.” Something I’m goddamned good at, I want to say. I feel this rush of anger in me, way out of proportion to anything that’s going on in the room.
I go for “Bittersweet Symphony,” because it’s one I’ve played a thousand times before. One I can do in my sleep.
It’s better, but it’s not great. My fingers are just stupid stumps at the end of my hands. The amp is making a grating crackling sound. My belly roils, pushing acid up into my throat. Everything’s wrong, and my phone won’t stop going bright and dark. Bright and dark. Over and over.
I stop playing and get to my feet. A chilly calm settles over me, but my eyes burn with tears. I have to get out of here.
“I’m sorry, guys. I guess I’m out of practice. Maybe another time. Sorry.”
I want to say it a hundred more times. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
Stopping just long enough to pull the plug on Christina, I flee to my room.
Chapter 25
Grey
Aren’t you going to go talk to her?” I ask Beth, once Skyler’s gone.
I’ve never seen her this way. Apologetic and skittish. Faded. That wasn’t Skyler. I don’t know who that was. Her ghost?
Beth looks toward Sky’s closed door, thinking for a moment. She shakes her head. “She’s tired. Sleep’s the best thing for her.”
“You’re her friend,” I say, getting up. “But I’m going to have to go with my gut on this.” I grab Skyler’s cell phone from the coffee table and head to the kitchen. I find the knife drawer, then slam the butt of a butcher knife into the glass a few times, then I toss it in the trash.
From the living room, I hear hushed comments about my supposedly “legendary temper.” But this isn’t a temper tantrum. I feel completely calm. I have a mission. Eliminate anything that’s bothering Skyler. The phone had to die.
When I come back into the living room, Beth and Titus force some conversation about what they’re doing later. Maybe Netflix a movie or go out to a bar with the rest of the band. But I feel everyone watching me as I knock on Skyler’s door.
“Hey . . . Sky? It’s Grey.” She doesn’t answer. I turn the knob. The door’s unlocked. “I’m coming in, Sky.”
She’s sitting at her desk. Her laptop sits in front of her, but it’s closed. Light streams in from the street and her bedside lamp, but the room is dim, blue. “Need something?” she asks.
“Yeah. I do. I need to know what’s going on.”
“With me? Nothing.” She rises and leans against the desk. Her face is a mask of composure. She’s becoming a better actress. She’s learning from Garrett. But her eyes give her away. They’re puffy and red. Like she’s on the brink of crying, or maybe was crying before I walked in. “And we don’t need to be friends, just because we’re roommates.”
“What does that mean? We’re friends. Aren’t we?”
Her composure melts away. Her features harden with anger. She comes over and jabs her finger at my chest. “I don’t need friends who ignore me for three days then think it’s okay to barge into my room and pretend to be all concerned. What do you want, Grey? Why are you here? Why are you always so nice when you’re not being an asshole? It’s really confusing.”
I don’t know how this became about me. But now that she’s close, I see that her shoulders are trembling. “Skyler, you’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.” She steps back and wraps her arms around herself. “Don’t change the subject. It’s just cold in here.” It’s not. It’s only slightly cool, but she’s wearing a dress with thin straps that doesn’t look very warm.
“For the record, you changed the subject first.” I move to the window and close it. This is one of my jobs as roommate. Skyler’s window always jams. I’m the only one who can close it. It makes me wonder what she did before I moved in.
The street noises die down. In the living room, faintly, Nora’s laugh erupts.
“Look, Sky. I’m not trying to be confusing. It’s just easier for me to steer clear of you.”
“Because?”
“You know why.”
She moves to her bed and sits, hugging her arms. Just like that, she looks small and vulnerable. I know she wonders why she was chosen for Emma, but every small emotion is clear on her face, her body. She’s like a day with sunshine and hail and wind and big, rising clouds. You can’t help watching her, to see what’s next. To feel it with her.
She sighs softly. “I can’t believe I’m going to ask you this, but . . . the night you moved in you asked me what you could do to help.”
“I remember.”
“Can you just . . . hug me for a minute?”
“Yeah—yes.” I sit next to her and put my arms around her. She leans against me, burrowing her head against my chest, and wrapping her arms around my waist. I thought this might be awkward, but it’s not. She fits perfectly under my shoulder. It puts the top of her head right below mine. I want to lean down and kiss her right on her shiny pink hair. “How’s this?”
“Amazing. You’re so warm and big. Like hugging a lawn chair that’s been sitting out in the sun except with muscles instead of cushions.”
“I get that a lot. Want to lie down on me and take a nap?”
“Yes.”
“Yes as in yes?”
“Yes.”
My heart’s going bananas as we scoot back onto her pillows. Skyler curls up right next to me, her head on my chest. I’m having a hard time processing whether this is actually happening, or whether it’s one of the many dreams I’ve had that start this way. I can’t sit still, so I trace letters on the smooth skin on her shoulder. I write things like:
Us
Finally
Beautiful
“How you doing?” I ask.
“So good. What are you writing? I can’t figure it out.”
“Here’s an easy one,” I say, and trace the letters S-E-X on her shoulder.
“My name?”
I laugh. “Close.”
For a little while, we just lie there, settling into each other. I force myself to stay relaxed, when what I really want to do is pull her beneath me. Touch her, taste her, feel her. Everything her.
“I think I got overwhelmed,” she says, quietly, “with all the expectations put on me. Not just from the film, but from . . .”
“From who?” I prompt. If she says Brooks, I’m going to pound the shit out of him.
“My mom. It’s complicated with my parents.”
I ask her how. She peers up at me, and it’s like she’s weighing whether I’ll understand. Then she tells me about her mom in Kentucky, who’s not able to support herself. And her father, who’s a musician and leaves for long stretches without giving any notice. A picture starts to emerge in my mind. Her father’s irresponsible and selfish. Her mother’s irresponsible and co-dependent.
“I’ve been sending her money, trying to help,” she says, “but it’s the emotio
nal support that’s hardest. She’s just so needy sometimes, especially when my dad’s gone. I just feel too young to be my mother’s mother, you know?”
I don’t want to disagree with her. But something about what she said strikes a chord. “You never know what made her the way she is. She could be trying. And I doubt she’s trying to make your life harder.” I get this feeling like I’m protecting someone in my life with those words. My birth mother? Madeleine? Me? “But it sucks that she’s adding to your stress.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she reaches over and shuts off the lamp. Darkness settles over us like a secret. It feels like we’re really alone now, even though we have been. I don’t want this moment to ever end, and I want to change it now. More. That’s what I want. More of her.
“Grey? Do you think it’s possible to be an artist . . . a true artist, who gets lost in your work, and still have a balanced life?”
“That’s a damn good question.” It’s one I’ve thought about a lot, especially over the past few weeks. “There are times I feel like my music eclipses everything else. It’s like being on a boat out in the middle of the ocean, no land in sight, and you’re just focused. Connected to all the rises and falls of being alive. It’s amazing, that lost and drifting feeling. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it at all. But for me, it wouldn’t mean much without being able to come back to someplace, or someone.”
It’s where I am right now, not talking to Adam and Mom. I’m adrift in my music. Too adrift, without being able to tell them about it. Somehow my family exile is spreading to Dad, too. He never gets involved in drama, but he called today. I saw the call come through and let it go to voicemail. I’ve never done that before. I don’t fuck around with my relationship with him. But it’s all such a mess, and I knew he was calling to talk about Mom.
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