Chasing Kane

by Andrea Randall

  “We had a thing last night.”

  “A thing?” CJ leaned against the cement of the side of the building, bending his knee to put his foot flat against the wall behind him. I mimicked his position, welcoming the cool of the concrete against my bare shoulder blades.

  “I guess it was a fight, but it wasn’t like … normal.” I took a minute to fill CJ in, not skipping a detail.

  “Ouch,” he said when I finished.

  “To who?”

  CJ stomped out his cigarette, tossing the butt in a nearby receptacle before answering. “Both of you, I guess. I can see both sides.”

  “You can see his?”

  CJ sighed, sliding down the wall until he reached the ground, knees bent and looking tired. I realized he probably intended on going back to bed after his early morning smoke, so I knew I was on borrowed time.

  “Yeah,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I mean, you’re married. He loves you more than all the guys in those stupid fucking romance novels you read. And those get you all fired up, don’t they?”

  I grinned, smacking his shoulder, sitting next to him with the cigarette burning away between my fingers. “Yeah.”

  “He loves you more than any of those guys could.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “You’re an expert now?”

  “Frankie read those books, too. I thumbed through them a bit. Impressive dudes, no doubt, but Regan’s got them beat by a long shot.” He stared out into the delivery-truck traffic on the street in front of us. It was only six in the morning, but the sun was rising and life had to go on.

  I took CJ’s hand, interlacing our fingers and leaning my head against his shoulder. “You miss her?”

  He was silent, but gave my hand a tight squeeze. He didn’t need to say anything.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “That you guys broke up and that I gave you such a hard time about it.”

  CJ was quiet, and for a few seconds it felt like we were in high school, sitting on the deck of my father’s Provincetown bar in the wee hours of a Sunday morning, savoring the quiet before he would help me nurse my dad’s hangover. Which honestly consisted of helping him sleep as long as possible while we cleaned up what he couldn’t from the night before.

  “Anyway,” CJ said as if he’d slipped back there with me, too. But he said nothing more.

  Looking up, I found his tired eyes. I could have easily mistaken them for the ones I saw on Regan last night. They don’t generally look alike, those Kane boys, but their eyes are deep and dangerous.

  “CJ …” I started, then started to trail off. I needed to tell someone.

  Why did my best friend have to be my husband’s cousin?

  “Yeah?”

  I swallowed hard, then chickened out. “He was really mad last night.”

  “He won’t stay mad for long, you know him.”

  “Maybe …” I was about to find out what kind of good a full night’s sleep did for him. For us. “He was going to work with her for who knows how long last night. But as soon as it was just me and him, he passed right out.” I choked the last words out, trying not to well up with tears, but it was futile.

  CJ slid his index finger under my chin. “Chin up, Kid. You know how Regan is. Stress wipes him out. And he holds it all in, to boot—wouldn’t kill him to punch something once in a while.”

  I laughed, holding up my hands and wiggling my fingers. “He can’t damage his goods,” I said of the fickle bones in the hands.

  CJ waved me off. “I wouldn’t read too much into it. If he was really harping on something he’d have been up all night, right?”

  “Sounds like him.” I thought back to the time we met in Seattle, a month ago, and he was working at the hotel room desk well beyond midnight.

  “I get that it looked bad. If I had been in your shoes, I’d have flipped, too.”

  “I don’t think Regan would have,” I admitted. “He trusts me.”

  CJ shrugged. “Not just you. He just trusts. People are all made up differently, right? Listen,” he implored, giving my forehead a quick kiss, “you’ve got your happily ever after upstairs. Nothing to be sad about.”

  His face broke my heart into pieces. My best friend; the raucous, mouthy, sexually deviant drummer looked like he wanted to go home. He wasn’t weary from travel, but emotionally drained. I was willing to bet he’d give anything to talk to Frankie, but I also knew he was hurting probably as much as she was at this point. He looked like a man bearing the weight of all his mistakes at once.

  And, I told him I was staying out of it.

  “Can you promise me you won’t completely self-destruct on this tour?” I begged. “Please? I’ve seen that look on your face. Remember the summer you came to stay with me after Tonya?”

  I delicately, with much held breath, brought up the only girl who’d ever made his face look the way it did now. Tonya Ryan, a punchy, foul-mouthed looker, from South Boston of all places, who held CJ’s heart for almost nine months before she dropped him out of nowhere. That was a brutal two months while he got over her. It was a few years before he met Frankie, but I could still feel the weight of that breakup, and see it on CJ’s face.

  “Can I tell you something?” CJ asked, standing and holding the door for me.

  I nodded. “Obviously.”

  Once inside the lobby, CJ stuffed his hands in his pockets, lowering his head and voice. “Frankie was so much more than Tonya.”

  It was so rare for CJ to be honest about anything regarding actual emotions that I forgot how to handle him for a moment. I didn’t have time to say anything before a tiny redhead with a bubble butt came out of nowhere and slid her arm around CJ’s back.

  “There you are,” she said, yawning, eyeing me up and down like I was the enemy.

  Oh, sweetie. You have no idea …

  In a split second, CJ’s demeanor shifted and he looked wildly between me and her, his mouth hanging open.

  She was still staring at me, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.

  “Hi,” I started, extending my hand. “I’m Georgia. Regan Kane’s wife. So, you know, no need to be scoping out your next kill.”

  “This is Jennifer,” CJ cut in. “She lost track of her friends last night and crashed in the other bed in my room. I came down to call her a cab.” He turned to her. “It should be here in a minute. Why don’t you go get your stuff?” He unraveled her arms from his waist and nudged her barely playfully toward the elevator.

  The girl disappeared reluctantly, with a sour look on her face, and I refocused my attention on CJ, grinding my teeth in an effort to keep my mouth shut.

  He put his hands up in defense. “I did nothing, I swear. That girl was blackout drunk last night, anyway. Even if I was a free man, that’s not how I roll.”

  “Aren’t you?” I asked. “A free man?”

  He twisted his lips, a move I don’t think I’d ever seen him make. “Nah. Even if Frankie never takes me back—which is probably how it’s gonna go—I need to get my shit together. And that’s hard to do if I’m chasing ass.”

  Despite the crass delivery, I was encouraged by this mature development.

  “I love you,” I said, still wanting to stay as out of it as possible, but letting him know I supported him. I wanted to tell him maybe he shouldn’t have girls staying in his room, no matter how innocent, because temptation is an evil bitch. But, I kept my mouth shut.

  The art of staying out of it.

  He pulled me in for a bear hug that only he could give. “I love you, too. You coming up?” He gestured to the elevator.

  “No, I’ve gotta pick up Regan’s clothes. Get back to sleep, huh? You look like shit.”

  He laughed, then turned for the elevator. Before entering it, CJ looked over his shoulder at me, his eyes as sad as before. With one look he proved that Frankie was levels above anything Tonya had ever meant to him. Whatever heartache Frankie was going through, CJ was above and beyond anything I could have imagined for him. All I could do w
as hope he wouldn’t dive headfirst into the self-destructive behaviors he’d mastered through high school.

  I took the stairs after fetching two fresh croissants and coffees. One each for Regan and me. The two croissants I’d eaten earlier didn’t count. Mood food has no calories. The matted, ashy feeling in my mouth reminded me I really shouldn’t smoke anymore, even if it was only five or six a year at most. It tasted horrible, Regan agreed, and if I was going to get pregnant anytime soon, I should really keep bad habits at bay.

  But, as far as bad habits, they could pry the butter and sugar from my cold, dead hands as far as I was concerned.

  Just before entering the hotel room, I got a text from CJ.

  CJ: I didn’t sleep with her, promise. I’ve never even kissed her. She was too drunk to find her way home last night.

  Me: Why are you telling me this?

  CJ: I’m miserable and want to fly back to Mass.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, searching for an answer.

  Me: Don’t bail on the tour just yet, okay? And, maybe for practice, don’t take strays into your room. Have a girl help them out, okay?

  CJ: I miss her, Georgia. I want her back.

  Me: I know you do. Give it some time.

  CJ: Do you think she’d even take me back?

  I didn’t know, honestly.

  Me: Don’t push her, okay?

  CJ: Not an answer.

  Me: I know … sorry. I love you.

  CJ: Love you.

  I sighed, my heart breaking for my best friend who was going through the growing pains of becoming a man. A decent man, unlike either of our fathers.

  Eighteen

  Regan

  The soft click of the hotel door unlocking pulled me fully away from the hazy just-waking up stage I’d been hanging out in for the last several minutes. It took my eyes a while to adjust, but I saw Georgia’s curvy form set some things down on the table near the door before draping garment bags over the chair.

  A few blinks later, the previous night came flooding back to me. I’d slept so hard that I wasn’t up tossing around about it all night long. Instead, I was granted with the delightful thud of a flashback.

  She didn’t trust me. It was as simple as that.

  It is so much more complicated than that, and you know it, you dolt.

  Sigh.

  I stretched my arms overhead, groaning in ecstasy. “Morning,” I called softy to her.

  “Hey,” she whispered back. “I got coffee and croissants. And your laundry done. The duffel bag is out on the balcony airing out the best it can.” She stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, working her fingers over each other.

  “Come here.” I opened the sheets and my arms, but she hesitated. “Georgia?” I sat up on one elbow.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her head.

  I sat all the way up, hating to see her look so defeated. “Come here. Please.”

  Still staring at the ugly carpet, Georgia shuffled her way to the bed and took a deep breath before kicking off her sandals and sliding under the sheets with me. She leaned her head against my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “For what?”

  I kissed the top of her head. “Last night. I just …”

  “Don’t,” she started, but I cut her off.

  “No, you don’t. Listen. Look at me.” I shrugged so her head would lift off my skin and she’d face me. Her mascara was freshly applied, and her lips as bright as ever. I caressed the side of her face with the back of my hand and kissed her square on the lips. Full and long. “I’m sorry, Georgia. You did an amazing thing last night by surprising me all the way out here. Leaving work behind and dressing like you did and waiting for me … it was hot.”

  “But …” she led.

  I swallowed hard. I couldn’t say what I wanted to. I couldn’t tell her that, yes, our marriage was the context, as I’d said, but it was the context of so much more. Including Georgia’s healing. She hadn’t been able to trust that anyone would stick around for the long haul, whether through fault of their own or not. Our marriage was the salve for more than two decades of hurt and insecurity. Strong, yes. Magical? Probably not.

  I didn’t want to bring this up to Georgia, because she would get defensive. That was only part of it, really. I knew she trusted my fidelity. I knew it was her worth she didn’t trust. I knew that, but dammit if it didn’t make things hard some days. Still, was I willing to live up to the vows I made to her? That I’d take care of her for as long as I lived?

  Her rich blue eyes filled with tears—a rare sight for Mrs. Georgia Kane. “I just wanted to surprise you.” Her shoulders fell and she pressed her forehead into my shoulder, letting out a deep sob. By the sounds of things, one she’d been holding in for quite some time.

  “Sorry,” she said, pulling back as quickly as she landed. She pressed the edges of both index fingers under her eyes, catching mascara-stained tears before they rolled down her cheeks.

  She always apologized when she cried. I used to think she was telling me she was sorry for ruining a shirt with her blackest mascara, but it always washed out. It took me about eight months to realize she was apologizing for the crying itself. And another four for her to admit she’d never really been allowed to cry when she was young. Sometimes it made her dad uncomfortable and he’d leave the room, other times he’d accuse her of using her tears to make him feel bad or to get what she wanted. Then her tears made her mom feel bad. Guilty for a mental illness she could control no more than she could the weather. I knew her mom, Amanda, well enough to know that the tears Georgia shed didn’t make her feel like a bad person, they made her hurt for her daughter.

  Whatever the reason, by the time I’d met her, Georgia hadn’t allowed herself to cry freely in years. But in this hotel room was the first time in many, many months that she’d apologized for it.

  Had last night set her back that far?

  “Georgia,” I started. “Don’t apologize for crying …”

  “Don’t tell me what I get to be sorry for,” she replied flatly.

  Point.

  That’s the rock and a hard place we found ourselves in through counseling, sometimes. Calling each other out on our old, harmful behaviors is the rock, and validating one another’s feelings is the hard place. Come to think of it, we hadn’t seen our counselor in quite a few months. Perhaps that was shortsighted on our parts, thinking we’d somehow graduated …

  “Okay,” I answered in a sigh, ready to employ another tactic. Honesty. “I admit it. I was frustrated with your reaction last night. I felt like all of a sudden we were back at E’s bar a million years ago when we first met and you couldn’t even trust that the sun would rise the next morning.”

  “But—”

  I put up my hand, grinning so she knew I wasn’t upset, but intended to finish what I was saying. “But I also admit that if the roles were reversed, I’d probably have been the one to lose my mind. If I came downstairs and stood outside the door of the bakery and heard some guy saying all kinds of sweet stuff, even if it was about your food, I’d go mad.”

  She snorted. “No you wouldn’t have. Even if you did, you wouldn’t have made a scene.”

  I sighed.

  “See,” she continued. “I’m right. You trust. Period.”

  Rolling my eyes, I opened my mouth to speak. “What do you want me to say?” I felt the tension between us build again. “I know you mean to trust me …”

  “I do. I mean, I trust you and I have to practice it,” she cut in. “Last night didn’t help.”

  I sat up, leaning against the headboard, holding out my hands. “I don’t know how to help here. There’s always going to be fans, and female musicians, and … I … do you want me to stop touring? Change careers?”

  She scrunched her eyebrows, twisting up her face. “Um, no. Did I say that?”

  I huffed. “I don’t know how else to fix it. I’ve done nothing to prove untrustworthy, and I feel like
I’m running into a brick wall, and the only thing that would make you happy is to have me in the bakery with you, or something.”

  Georgia gasped. “That’s not true. I’m not something to be fixed.”

  I grumbled, thumping my head against the wall behind me. “I didn’t say that.” We weren’t yelling, but our volume increased by the minute. I decided to keep my tone as level as I could.

  She sighed pinching the bridge of her nose. “Can we back up?”

  “Please.”

  “I feel like this trip has just been a total nightmare.”

  “I …” I trailed off for a second. “What do you want me to say?”

  She brought her knees to her chest. “So you’re saying it has been a nightmare.”

  “You did!” I laughed incredulously. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I hate it when you do that. I didn’t say that,” I reiterated. “You did.”

  “But you agreed.”

  “So that was entrapment? Look around, Georgia, this isn’t exactly a honeymoon state of affairs. I’m trying to work through this. Join me.”

  She was quiet for a long time, taking deep, loud breaths. My eyes traced the intricate tattoos up and down her arms. Many themed from Alice in Wonderland, reminding me what a complicated puzzle she really was. A comical doorknob with a keyhole for a mouth, Alice falling butt-first down one of her forearms, and We’re all mad here etched on the underside of one of her wrists.

  Ain’t that the truth.

  “This is what I get for planning a trip around my ovulation,” she finally said.

  Heat filled my neck and tightened my jaw. “What?”

  She looked up at me, “What?”

  I ground my teeth together as hard as I could. I did not want to talk about this now. “I think we’re too tired for this conversation.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t think we are.”

  My eyes felt scratchy from exhaustion and hotel room air conditioning. “Georgia,” I took a deep breath, “I just thought you did this for me. For us. I … I’m too upset to talk about this right now,” I finally said out loud. “Can we table it?”