It’s all I can do, and even though it will never be enough, it fucking has to be.
UNBEARABLE
If you’d asked me years ago,
“What does love look like?”
I wouldn’t have known to say
pink lips that spew lies,
green-golden eyes,
and a smile that melts my insides.
If you’d asked me years ago,
“What does love sound like?”
I couldn’t have described
the tremor and hum,
the almost electric thrum
of your voice making my whole body numb.
If you’d asked me years ago,
“What does love feel like?”
I never would have guessed
at our hearts beating,
our chests heaving,
and the unbearable ache of you leaving.
Our hearts beating,
our chests heaving,
and the unbearable ache of you leaving.
If someone asked now,
“What does love look like?”
I’d tell them it was
the lies in your eyes.
If someone asked now,
“What does love sound like?”
I’d tell them it was
your thrum that made me numb.
If someone asked now,
“What does love feel like?”
I’d tell them I don’t know.
But my heart’s beating.
My chest’s heaving.
It’s unbearable—you’re really leaving.
My heart’s beating.
My chest’s heaving.
It’s unbearable—you’re really leaving.
My heart’s beating.
My chest’s heaving.
I’m not breathing.
And you’re gone.
Unraveling Lovely is scheduled to take the stage in just a few minutes, but Logan still hasn’t shown up. Dante is pacing, banging his drumsticks against his thighs, and Autumn is looking at her phone, her eyes following only him whenever she looks up.
Rohan is alternating between tapping his thigh, retuning his already-tuned guitar, and trying not to look nervous, but I notice a pile of crumpled wax paper in the chair beside him. In addition to tapping his leg when he’s anxious, Rohan eats taffy the way other musicians chain-smoke cigarettes, so I know he must be worried about Logan being MIA.
“This is just like Battle of the Bands,” Rohan says to Dante, and it makes me want to scream at someone.
“Where the hell is he?” I say loudly, to no one in particular, hoping he doesn’t screw Rohan over. Or Dante. Or all the people who are already here. It’s May, and they’ve been practicing for this show since February, refining their sound—rediscovering their chemistry. Logan has been like a different person since he showed up at Rohan’s show and made nice with everyone, so if he screws us over tonight, I don’t think any of us will ever forgive him again.
I poke my head around the edge of the doorway to see the caffeine-fueled gathering of kids. I think it’s even more crowded now than it was ten minutes ago, and definitely more crowded than it was ten minutes before that. I don’t know what I’ve gotten us into, and I have no idea what I’ll do if Logan really doesn’t come.
“Can you call him?” I ask Rohan, even though I know he’s freaking out. I hope doing this will distract him from being so stressed. “I’ve already sent him a text, and messages in every app I have on my phone, but he isn’t answering.”
“I guess,” Rohan says, stepping away from me. “He better show up.”
He turns and heads down the hall that leads to the backyard, where there’s a pretty deck encircled by twinkly lights, a bunch of tables, and a separate bar. It’s so weird how half of this venue is used for underground bands and the other half is regularly booked for weddings.
My phone buzzes, and I lift it hoping it’s some form of contact from Logan, but it’s just Jerome. I answer because I’ve already tried to contact Logan in every way I can think of, and there’s nothing else for me to do now except wait for him to get here.
“Hey, J, are you here? Because Logan still isn’t. Can I call you back?”
“I need you,” he says. “Come to the stage. I think the right speaker might be broken.”
“J, what are you talking about? How can the speaker be broken? They had a show here last night and—”
“Seriously,” he says.
I hang up and open the door again, but this time, I look at the dark stage instead of the audience. Jerome is on the opposite side of the stage from me, fiddling with one of the plugs behind a huge speaker.
“For fuck’s sake,” I say. I storm across the stage, grateful for the darkness, when a spotlight comes on out of nowhere and shines directly on me. I freeze, wondering if all the electronics in the place are going haywire.
The audience screams, and they roar even louder when a second spotlight hits Jerome, who stands up and turns toward me.
He’s wearing his grandfather’s red suspenders, but all the other clothes are his—and he’s in a pair of black jeans, a white T-shirt that says IN LOVING MEMORY OF, and he’s handwritten “GRANDDAD CHARLIE.” Lots of people tonight are wearing this shirt—we wanted this show to be for anyone who needed it. My shirt and Rohan’s have Sasha’s name. Dante’s and Autumn’s have Tavia’s.
Jerome’s holding a stack of giant poster boards, and just then, the speaker beside him, the same one he claimed was broken, starts playing “Silent Night.”
“What the actual…?” I say, looking around.
“Hey,” he says. “Just look at me.”
I do. And he proceeds to reenact Keira Knightley and Andrew Lincoln’s last scene from Love Actually in its entirety.
When he gets to the third cue card, everyone in the audience has gotten the reference, and girls are cooing “Aww,” and I’m trying to keep it together. When he gets to the “To Me, You Are Perfect” card, I literally start crying, but the next one isn’t the line about his wasted heart loving me forever. The last card says WILL YOU GO TO PROM WITH ME?
Goose bumps march like a tiny army straight up my spine, and I shiver a little, even though I’m not cold, because holy crap.
I run across the stage to him. We haven’t kissed in months, but when we collide, I kiss him hard and long, in front of a hundred screaming strangers.
Rohan walks in with Logan seconds after Jerome and I push our way through to backstage again. Logan’s reddish hair is wind tossed and wild, like he’d just run a mile to get here. He unzips his leather jacket and flutters his thick eyelashes. His diva behavior is annoying, but I’m so happy he actually showed up that I don’t let it bug me. His T-shirt says IN LOVING MEMORY OF “BRAM.”
“Did I miss the promposal?” he asks, and everyone tells him he did. “Dammit,” he mutters.
His dark eyes are lined with kohl, so they pop like crazy looking glassy and bright. They seem to say several things at once: That he missed his band mates. He missed the music. He missed it all.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” Logan asks.
“You, idiot,” Dante says. And we all laugh.
Logan grabs Dante by the shoulder and slaps Rohan on the back. “Let’s do this, then, bitches!”
I’m supposed to announce the band, but I’m all flustered from Jerome’s surprise, and I’m not exactly having a panic attack, but I’m totally unfocused. Plus, I kinda just want to make out with Jerome. I’ve missed his lips. I flail wildly, saying help to Rohan with my eyes and arms, and he jogs over, guitar in hand.
I point to Jerome. “I’m still a little…shaken up, but you guys need to be introduced.” I’m actually shak
ing, so Rohan believes me.
The crowd starts chanting: “LOVE-LY! LOVE-LY! LOVE-LY!” and I flail more.
Then Autumn, who I never would have expected to volunteer for anything involving a stage, and who must have been watching and listening the way wallflowers sometimes do, pipes up from her quiet corner of the room. She says, “Um, I can do it.” Her voice almost matches the small sound leaves make as they fall from trees.
She pockets her phone and hesitates by the door that leads to the stage. She looks nervous, but kinda determined, too. Dante starts toward her, and I have no idea if he’s going to try to stop her or if he’s planning to egg her on, but before he even reaches her, she pushes the door open and steps out onto the stage. The crowd goes crazy, probably just because there’s more movement at the front of the venue. I peek through the door, and Autumn turns back and grins over my head at Dante. She seems to be taking a few deep breaths before stepping out of the shadows.
I try to contain the giddiness I feel about the show, about Jerome, about all the possibilities jumbled up together in this single moment. I jump up and down in place, and I kiss Rohan’s cheek, wishing him luck, and then I press my lips against my Sasha tattoo before making sure Dante has drumsticks and Logan has water and Rohan has extra guitar strings.
When Autumn first steps into the spotlight, she freezes. Dante shout-whispers, “Autumn, the mike.” She bends down slowly and picks it up. A squeal of feedback peals through the whole club. Autumn cringes and says “sorry” so far from the microphone that no one but us hears her. When she steps back up to fit the mike into its stand, though, she rallies.
“Who’s ready to UNRAVEL?” she says into the mike, and when I look over at Dante, it’s like he can’t believe it. His eyes are wide, but he’s smiling like crazy in Autumn’s direction.
Everybody screams.
“Who’s ready to get LOVELY?” she says next, and the crowd cheers even louder. I step back from the door and tell Rohan I’ll be back as soon as I can pull myself together.
“I won’t miss this,” I say, guessing what he’s thinking. “I swear.”
As I push my way out of the building, pulling Jerome behind me, I can hear Autumn’s soft, amplified voice again.
“You asked for it, you got it. Logan, Dante, and Rohan are back! Here’s Unraveling Lovely!”
I step out onto the deck and I miss my sister. The lights twinkle in the dark and I miss my sister. I can only hear a hint of UL’s first song—Rohan’s first strum of the guitar ringing out strong and loud, Logan laughing into the mike, Dante hitting the drum tentatively, once, twice, three times—as I look up at the darkening sky. I’m so happy, but I still miss my sister.
I take a deep breath with my eyes closed before I turn to Jerome. “That was a pretty epic promposal.”
“You liked it?” he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him as my eyes well. “but I miss my sister.” He doesn’t look away from me. He touches my hand. “I know,” he says.
I lean forward and I kiss him while music I love fills the cold air all around us. And I think I could love a boy who makes me feel so okay about being happy and sad at the same time.
“In case it wasn’t clear,” I say, “That yes was to prom, too.”
He pulls back, smiles big, and says, “Cool.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ll be honest. I wasn’t sure this would ever happen. I hoped. I prayed. I wished in every way a person can wish. And it really, finally happened! You’re holding it in your hands: a real book. A whole book written by me. But in no way did I do this alone. In no world could I have ever done this alone.
I have to start where I started: with my spectacular parents. A man who dares to dream big and a woman who has never shied away from hard work. Daddy, thank you for making the sacrifices that gave me the permission to do whatever I wanted. Momma, thank you for telling me for as long as I can remember that I could be anything. You both made me feel special instead of weird, hopeful instead of afraid, and loved more than anything else. You are the best parts of me personified. I hope that I have made you proud, because you are the best humans I know. My love for you is ceaseless.
To Cass—for every evening when you make me dinner or cups of tea or keep me well-watered with beer or wine (or all of the above); for the twelve-plus years of love and support and kindness; for helping me keep it together when I feel like I’m not good enough, or like everything’s falling apart; and most of all, for all the days and nights and weekends that you’ve said to me, “Bae, why aren’t you writing?”—thank you. I’ve loved you since I was nineteen. I’ll love you forever.
To all my showstopping friends: Kell Wilson, Jess Elliott, Alyssa Anzur, Stephanie Kelly, Jessie Edwards, May Choy, Ania Klem, Kiera Haley, Brielle Benton, and Alex Sehulster, who read bits and pieces, and dozens of drafts of this Frankenstein’s monster of a book as it came together little by little—I would be nothing without you.
A special shout-out to the Melissas: Yoon and Brice. Melli-Belli, you’ve probably read this novel more times than my editor has. Thank you for inspiring Autumn, and always rooting for her and Dante. Thank you for being one of the best friends a girl could ask for, for over a decade. I love you, awesome nerd, and you’re, like, really pretty.
Brice, I know how hard it was for you to read this novel because of your lost loves, Nerissa and Alex. I want to say a special thank-you to you for reading it anyway, and for giving me all your amazing feedback despite the pain it brought up for you. You are beautiful and selfless, girl. You are so brave. I didn’t know Nerissa or Alex, but I hope you know I thought of them, and you, as I wrote. They are still important. They will always be important because, though their lives were short, their love is lasting. Nerissa Jean Hackman and Keith Alexander Lynch: I hope you know just how much you are missed.
Beth! Beth, Beth, Beth! Beth Phelan, you are the best, most compassionate shining star in the biz. The agent of my dreams—for real. You see me, you hear my characters’ voices, and you believe, body and soul, in the importance of the stories I want to tell. This book wouldn’t have found its home without you. Thank you will never be enough.
To my amazing editors (this little book of mine was lucky enough to have two): Rebecca Weston, thank you so much for reading and loving this novel enough to buy it, and for sticking with it even as it was becoming harder and harder for you to work as you once had. Your influence is still felt. And to Kate Sullivan, who fostered and then adopted me: working with you has been everything I dreamed it would be and more. Together we have taken a block of marble and carved our very own David. I look forward to many more lunches spent talking about tattoos and story ideas, and hours spent figuring out what the hell my characters should be doing. You are everything.
To my sensitivity readers: Robby Brown, Meredith Ireland, and Nic Stone—thank you for lending your minds and hearts to this project. It is better in every way because of you.
And thank you to the entire team at Random House Children’s Books, my old stomping grounds. Beverly Horowitz, Mary McCue, Tamar Schwartz, Colleen Fellingham, Angela Carlino, Alison Impey, and Tracy Heydweiller: I know it takes a village. Thank you a million times over for being a part of mine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ASHLEY WOODFOLK has loved reading and writing for as long as she can remember. She graduated from Rutgers University with a Bachelor of Arts in English and currently works in children’s book publishing. She writes from a sunny Brooklyn apartment where she lives with her cute husband and her cuter dog. The Beauty That Remains is her debut novel. She can be found on Twitter at @AshWrites.
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Ashley Woodfolk, The Beauty That Remains
The Beauty That Remains Page 26
