Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars
Page 67
“I’m sure glad it’s over,” Kayla says, squeaking her bar stool and slurping chowder from her spoon.
Agnes makes the best chowder in the Arctic, got the mix for sale in little plastic baggies on the counter. People come from miles around to try it. Right now, only a few customers are inside, but that’s normal. This is northern Alaska, not like people waltz in off the street. Other than random locals, customers only come from the lodge, the inn, or as trucker pit stops on their way back south.
“No kidding.” I trace lines in my chunky broth with my spoon.
Kayla lowers her voice. “And where, or when do you think they came from?”
“Not sure I wanna know,” I say.
She’s referring to Evangeline and Evan after I just filled her in on the latest twist to the timeline. Kayla’s same as always—unaffected by anything I may have tampered with. I’m glad. In that way, she grounds me. Life needs a constant, I think—something stable that we can always count on. Especially for a time traveler. Kayla’s that for me, and I love her for it.
“She looked like me, though,” I say. “And the way they trusted me, spoke if they knew me, was so bizarre. Anyway, I don’t plan on messing with it. Dad says we need to leave it alone, let it settle. Or else we could render the CCL into a holding pattern.”
“Can’t believe you haven’t even IM’d Tristan. Must be killing you to know what he said to past-you. You gotta call him, find out. I’m telling you, he wanted you to call him.”
I dab my spoon in the bowl, let it clink on the brown ceramic. My appetite is blah. And I’ve got the worst case of time-lag ever. My brain has these little tremors every so often, and I’d be concerned, except I can’t believe Evangeline would suggest T-cube if I were going to croak afterwards. Unless that’s what’s supposed to happen. Ugh. My head quakes again.
I massage my temples. “Once my head stops spinning, I’ll call him. Important thing is, he did what he needed to. He came through.”
Kayla slurps again, glances around the room. “Okay, so what I don’t get is, if you two went to Woodstock as planned, and you got back three days ago with no Garth, why isn’t he still here? Why don’t you know where he is?”
I let out a sigh. “Here we go again.”
But Kayla smiles. She knows I’m giving her a hard time. Hey, anyone can get tangled up in this time travel business. Job security. Means leaving it to the time travel professionals is always the smartest choice.
I break it down for her. “I can’t absorb knowledge from my timeline if I’ve been on either side of it, right? Right. So during the time window, when I’m in the past or future, life around me continues, but when I return to my present, I have to catch up to it, see what I missed. Like now.”
“Too messed up for me,” she says. “He could be at the inn right now. I’m gonna call up there.” She pulls out her phone.
I lean in closer to her. “Not yet. I’m still getting my bearings. And it’s not like he’s called me either. I … I’m not sure what to say yet. And I don’t wanna be the one chasing after him. Chicks are always chasing after him.”
She shakes her head, dials a number. “I just wanna see if he’s up there. I won’t talk to him.”
She doesn’t understand what I’m really afraid of: that our timeline could’ve been altered in a way that Tristan and I didn’t bond. That he doesn’t feel the same as he did—if he ever felt anything at all.
My eye twitches. Explaining T-cube to my parents was easier than trying to figure out these emotions.
Kayla slides her phone in her purse, gives me a sad little smile. “Checked out early two days ago, after an urgent call from his agent.”
My heart sinks, both relieved and disappointed. At least he still exists and a major PF didn’t occur. “Did they say why?”
“Couldn’t say. You know how it is for celebrities.” She waves a hand, like the demanding social agendas of A-listers is common knowledge.
The diner door opens and bells jingle. My chest flutters. Holy hell, what’s happening to me? I actually got excited that it could be him. He’s not even in town.
A burly trucker with a red hat saunters in, grunts at Agnes behind the bar, and plops on a stool at the far end.
This is insane. I have to set a game plan, figure out what I’ll say to him and make the call. Stop acting like a wuss. I’m a big girl, I can handle rejection. Besides, he never has to know there’s anything more to the call than a professional courtesy follow up.
I swivel off my stool, start for the door. “I have to figure this out.”
“Oh my gosh, Bianca, look at this!” Kayla squeals, pointing to the widescreen over the bar.
There, at the top right, in the arts and entertainment section, an image of someone who looks just like Tristan on an outdoor stage somewhere. My breath catches in my throat. Moving closer, I gesture so the section expands full screen, then motion the volume control. It is Tristan. Has to be a recorded performance. What timing! So not good for the nerves right now. Only …
A red-headed announcer calls out to an outdoor crowd, “For our next live performance, give it up for former boy band superstar, Tristan Helms! In his first ever live solo!”
Holy. Hell.
I gesture the info at the bottom right and it populates in a moving tagline at the bottom:10.21.69: Musicians for Muscular Dystrophy: A Night of Good Tunes & Giving. Various artists perform live in Los Angeles, California to raise money and awareness.
How did he get there so fast? He must’ve jumped at the chance, but … My jaw is so tense, I wiggle my chin.
Tristan’s face fills the screen now with a lazy smile.
Those plush lips.
He gives his shaggy blond bangs a toss to the side, while screams from the crowd fill the night air. The camera moves out, giving a full view of him onstage as he grabs an acoustic guitar that looks like it came from a vintage music shop. He really looks great: tight black pants and a loose white shirt unbuttoned midway down his chest. He seems all business while he straps his guitar over his shoulder, checks the thin mike attached to his ear. The camera moves in again for another close up of his face and it leaves nothing out—not the creased smile lines that give his face character, or the slight dimple in his chin; not the golden-tan tone of his skin, or those deep irises that could rival the wildest seas.
“He’s performing. I don’t believe it, he’s performing!” Kayla squeals, clutches my forearms. “He hasn’t sung in months. Bee, this is epic. He looks fantastic—healthier than ever.” Her gaze is glued to the screen.
I’m mesmerized by every detail of his face now—that face that’s been etched in my mind since I last saw him. He strums his guitar, slow at first, summoning a bittersweet melody into the air. Simplistic and frank.
Recognition makes my heart leap into my throat. I know that tune.
In a low octave, he sings, his voice luscious and grainy from his lips. Pleading.
I’m lost in a time warp. Is this real? Everything inside me has sprung to life, but I don’t know where the hell I am. Dreaming. Must be dreaming.
Now the words tumble from his mouth faster, harder, a salty-sweetness in each raspy note. A voice so deliciously right, I can almost taste it. It isn’t until he croons the chorus that I tremble.
“Tossed on the tides of time
Where nothing true can ever hide.
Eternity would still end too soon
If I can’t see you, feel you.
And my arms will stay open wide
If you fall I will catch you every time.”
He remembered. Even though we skipped Manhattan …
It’s like he’s looking right at me, and although I know it’s not really me he sees, the glimmer in his eye is too familiar. The same earnest twinkle he had when he told me he’d catch me if I fell. I assumed he’d said it on a whim. But holy hell if I’m not falling. At this very moment, I’m falling. Faster, harder.
Catch me, Tristan.
The song con
tinues, unfolding at an even tempo, full of melody and gritty spunk. Tristan’s voice stretches far and high in some places, scratchy and short in others, seducing the mike, the audience, everything in its path. So honest, so raw. Nothing like U-Turn. Nothing like Dirk Stiles. Every note and chord so wrong from the boy band norm, but oh so right at the same time. He believes in his talent now, is unleashing it on the world. Now every chick in existence will fall even more in love with him.
So not what I need.
As the song ends, and the last note of his voice melts into his guitar chords, his eyes close. When they reopen, they’re beaming like the rest of his face, grinning that superstar grin. He gives a timid wave to the audience, who are cheering in front of the stage.
The announcer struts on stage in her spiky heels and glittery dress, touches Tristan’s shoulder like they’re old friends. Her voice overpowers the cheering. “Ladies and gentlemen, Tristan Helms back in action, and can I just add, doing it right!” She’s fully focused on him, letting her voice play with each word for effect. “Tell me, sweetie, you had a tough run earlier this year, but you did what you had to do, took care of business, and never let your fans down. Do you regret breaking up from U-Turn?”
He shakes his head, speaking calmly, as if the world isn’t watching him at this very moment—as if a crowd of screaming girls isn’t right below him. “My U-Turn brothers know I love ’em. Always will. I’m just doing what feels right, following my heart, you know?”
The announcer nods. “Well, the world is thrilled, Tristan, and you never looked better. What made you decide to sing this particular song for your number tonight?”
My knees are jelly.
Tristan averts his eyes for only a second, half-smiles. “It’s a song I wrote last year and it means a lot to me, symbolic in a way. Thought I’d lost it for awhile, but luckily, it came back to me.” He pauses to allow a few loud hoots to drift in from the audience and grins back at them. “Thank you! I love you too!”
More whistles, cheers.
Then his voice resonates over the speakers again, “A good friend helped me find these lyrics again, and I told her if she ever fell, I’d be there to catch her. She told me if I ever sang this song like I just did, it’d be a success. Well, I’m keeping up my end of the deal.” His superstar grin fades to a shy smile.
Buzzing. In my head. Shock, on my face. But inside my chest, I’m tingling with something new and wonderful and electric. It was real.
“No freakin’ way!” Kayla squeals, grabs my arm.
My attention is fixed on the screen.
“Tristan, I think it’s safe to say you’ve got a hit single on your hands after tonight,” the announcer says with a wink.
He grins even wider. The crowd roars again. Then the stage lights dim around him and the announcer claims the spotlight, gushing about the evening’s next charity performance.
Show Tristan again.
Kayla gestures the volume so it lowers. “Tell me he’s talking about you. Tell me!”
A grin spreads across my face so far that my cheeks hurt. “I’m pretty sure he is.”
Given the altered timeline, we still connected, still bonded. He rediscovered his lyrics because I reminded him. Like it was meant to be.
“You’re gonna call him now for sure, right?” Kayla asks.
I nod. “Oh yeah.”
And like an epiphany just landed on my shoulder, everything feels right. A calming acceptance settles over me, and I know, that even through the twists and uncertainty of time, it’s okay if my heart sometimes leads me. Butterman Travel, Inc. has a future. Kayla will always be my best friend. And Tristan and I have a chance. Maybe I’ll get to save Titanic someday soon, and maybe I won’t, but what matters most is that the people I love are already safe and happy.
And since there’s no time like the present, I think I’ll stay awhile.
COMING SOON:
Induction Day
Book 2 in the Butterman Travel series
Also available: Diary of a Teenage Time Traveler
http://www.amazon.com/Diary-Teenage-Time-Traveler-Butterman-ebook/dp/B00KRGKS0Y
The prequel novella of Bianca Butterman’s journal leading up to her eighteenth birthday.
If you enjoyed Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc., please consider leaving a review on Amazon or GoodReads. They do matter, and are very much appreciated. Please consider leaving reviews for any author’s work you enjoyed. Thank you!
AUTHOR AFTERWORD
(Why I dedicated this book to Layne Staley)
It’s like this:
When I was a “new adult” on my own for the first time, away from family and friends I’d grown up with, one of the first things that gave me my own identity was developing my individual taste in music. Not the same tunes my parents listened to, or that of old friends and boyfriends, but music that represented my own personal style. It was a time when I was free to explore my options without fear of being judged, or having to explain myself. It was about starting a new chapter in my life, and with it, my very own soundtrack.
Coincidentally, at the very same time, the Seattle music scene was emerging into mainstream. Grunge and alternative were exploding. Discovering artists like Alice in Chains, Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Mother Love Bone (just to name a few) was a thrill; as well as the non-Seattle based, but insanely talented Tori Amos, Smashing Pumpkins, Jane’s Addiction, and Nine Inch Nails. These artists’ music, and often twisted lyrics, were conducive to that new era of my life, when I was wild and free and shedding the shackles of conformity. These names just graze the surface—there were plenty more musicians and artists who inspired me creatively at different stages of my youth and I adore them all to this day, but something about Layne’s voice and lyrics resonated with me in a way that fit my newly found independence.
Music evokes a carnal side to us that nothing else can, or as The Doors would say, becomes our “special friend.” Certain songs are like best friends—with us through life’s ups and downs. We revisit and rely on them for solace. I have favorite songs to pump me up when I need motivation, or comfort me when I’m dejected; ones to move my feet to dance, or to relax me when stress seizes my very soul. It seems natural for listeners to bond with certain voices, and very real for those voices to become a part of our lives, even though we may never meet their owners.
Throughout my early twenties, Alice in Chain’s music seemed to evolve with me, and Layne’s voice only got richer. Their newer songs took on even more of a gritty, haunting vibe. Sweetly dark and soulful. Strangely intoxicating, to a point I’d find myself craving it. As I matured, so did their music, and they managed to create a song for every one of my moods. Layne Staley and Jerry Cantrell had this infectious musical chemistry, that I can only imagine, must feel like kismet when found. When their last album, Jar of Flies, came out, it seemed to capture the exact space and time of where I was in my life. Mellow, yet powerful tunes that blended with my long bout of single-dom, personal soul-searching, and forever-friend bonding.
Let me clarify here, because assumptions will be made that because I’m female, my fascination with Layne’s voice has to do with some fan-girl fantasy infatuation. But that’s never been the case. It’s always been about artistic appreciation—the way an onlooker regards a fine painting. Or the way a younger sister looks up to and admires her older brother. And I’m sure Layne’s own sister can attest to this, as no doubt she was equally captivated with his charisma and talent.
Looking back, I’m baffled how this band’s music unwittingly harnessed the era of my new adult stage like an air-tight time capsule. Or maybe because I listened to them so much, it inevitably preserved the moment—forever etched into the stone confines of my mind. How did they keep changing with me? Or was it simply the ribbon of time flowing perfectly as it was meant to, with me a part of an already established existence?
By my mid-twenties, Mad Season was formed and Above quickly became my go-to album for reverent relaxation afte
r a hard day’s work behind a bar and waiting tables. Above was the soundtrack for the gathering of friends, all perfectly happy to wind down to the bluesy tunes and lull of Layne’s sweet, flawless voice.
Unfortunately, not long after, the music stopped. Layne disappeared from the public’s eye, meanwhile I entered full adulthood with career and plans for a family. Finally, years later, in April 2002, word reached the world that Layne had passed.
Fans everywhere felt the loss—the empty void he left in my generation’s musical world. Some friends and I held a candlelight vigil that night, and listened to him serenade us amidst the flickering of flame, pondering who could ever again dazzle the soundwaves like Layne did. He was our voice—harmonizing for those of us who couldn’t, and unbeknownst to him, embodying the rawness of our generation’s zealous, yet equally languid existence.
Now, eleven years later, in writing this story about rock heroes and the connection and unity music can offer, I’ve rediscovered the same invincible vibe from my youth. Through the music of Alice in Chains and Mad Season, through the lingering melodies of Layne’s voice, I’m connected to something bigger than song—I’m connected to my early existence: my new adult years of freedom and self-discovery. The excitement, the inhibitions, the mistakes, the heartache, the desire, the capricious expression …
Music is the one true time machine. It can catapult us into the past with memory so potent our knees weaken and hearts thrum. We rekindle a verve we haven’t felt in years.
Except … its bittersweetness mystifies me—because that irresistibly delectable voice has been clipped, forever sealed in digital discs and files, to be opened upon the whims of its listeners. When set free, it soars, but with its beauty, comes a painful heartache for those of us around the world who miss Layne fiercely.