Chasing Kane

by Andrea Randall

  I choked out a small sob, reaching for her face with one hand as she held mine. “I love you, Georgia.”

  “But if this is too much for you and you need to walk away when we’ve done all we can …”

  “Don’t,” I cut her off. “Don’t say that.”

  “If this doesn’t turn out the way we hoped it would,” she continued. “I just want to remember right now. And me holding you. Will you let me hold you tonight? You’ve held me for a long time …”

  I had no words left as my wife shifted up on the bed to allow my head to rest on her shoulder, where I let tears fall onto her chest, and her tears streaked down her cheeks and neck to land on my forehead. I don’t know how long we stayed like that, but when we finally fell into a deep sleep, I didn’t wake till morning.

  Swollen eyed, war-torn, and with more questions left than I had when I first showed up. I was sure the same held true for her, too.

  Georgia slept, snoring softly next to me while I reached for my phone and sent a quick text to Yardley.

  Me: I’m going to miss Chicago. I’ll call as soon as I know more.

  Yardley: Got it. Are things okay?

  Me: Not yet.

  Professional as always, Yardley didn’t respond to my last text. I sighed, letting my phone slide to the floor as I shifted into a more comfortable position and brought Georgia’s head onto my chest, kissing the top of her head.

  Even though she was usually a deep sleeper, my kiss woke her, and she looked around for a second before tilting her head to look into my eyes.

  “Hey, I thought I was holding you?” she said of how we fell asleep.

  I kissed her forehead, stroking her lower back with my thumb. “You were. Now I’m holding you.”

  A small smile formed on her lips, right along with fresh tears in her eyes. “I think that’s how this is supposed to work …”

  I swallowed hard. “I think you’re right.”

  “It’s not going to ever be perfect, you know.”

  I nodded. “I know. I won’t be, either.”

  “I know,” she answered definitively. “And we have a lot of stuff to talk through.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But we should keep holding each other,” she said, snuggling into my chest, kissing my shoulder.

  I sighed, feeling the first twinge of hope I’d felt in months. “Yeah. Yeah, we should.”

  ***

  I fell back asleep at some point, with Georgia’s head on my chest, but when I woke up, I was alone in our California-king sized bed that took up a third of our room. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I realized I smelled bacon. The clock read twelve o’clock, which had to mean noon given I knew we’d slept all last night, and it was bright as hell outside, but I was so disoriented, I wasn’t sure if I was waking up in the right day anymore.

  Staggering into the kitchen, still rubbing my eyes, trying to make sense of time and space, I caught a glimpse of Georgia at the stove, flipping eggs and pulling a baking sheet lined with bacon from the oven. She wore the same tank and shorts from yesterday, but had a comical “French maid” apron tied around her waist. She’d bought it as part of a costume used to seduce me one night a few years ago, and she nearly died from laughter a few days later when she came home from work for dinner one night and saw me moving around the kitchen with it tied around me like a loin cloth.

  “Hey,” I half-whispered, knowing she most hated being startled in the kitchen.

  She jumped a little, but turned with a soft smile on her face. By the way my eyes felt as I continued rubbing at them, I was guessing they looked like hers—swollen and pink from tears and interrupted sleep.

  “Morning.” She grabbed two mugs from the hooks underneath one of our cabinets and poured us cups of coffee, sliding them in front of two stools positioned at the counter. We had a more formal dining table, but we ate most of our meals together at this counter.

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome,” she answered softly.

  I couldn’t remember the last meal she’d cooked for me. Pastries, sure. And, to be fair, she served people food every single day as her job. She didn’t ask me to play the violin for her on a daily basis. I did sometimes, but … that’s different. Still, I just sort of took over cooking early in our relationship and neither of us questioned it, but it sure felt nice to be served in my own home.

  Despite all the words passed between us last night, and even after sleeping in each other’s arms off and on, there was a suffocating uneasiness left hanging over us. So much left to say.

  I stared at my wife like she was a sort of stranger. Or someone I once knew. Or who once knew me. And, not totally in a bad way, either. Last night she held me. Tight. Last night she admitted that our marriage might not turn out “the way we’d hoped,” but that she would do her best to make it work. She was scared, sure, evidenced by the entirety of our discussions last night, but she was angry, too. And had every right to be. She listened to me admit to pulling away from her, reveal I wasn’t sold on the idea of kids, and had images of me dancing with another woman in her mind.

  And still, she wanted to make it work.

  She didn’t want to run. Or, if she did, she wanted to make it work more than she wanted to run.

  “What?” she asked, sliding a bacon and eggs-filled plate in front of me. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head, grinding my teeth together as if that was ever useful in stopping tears. “Come here.”

  Without a word, Georgia walked around the counter and stood in front of me. I extended my hands, figuring things couldn’t get much more hopeless than they had been in our living room last night, and she walked into my arms. I hooked my legs around the back of hers, pulling her in closer as I wrapped my arms around her shoulders. I wanted to kiss her, badly, but wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. Or, honestly, if I was. I didn’t want it to gloss over all the work we had ahead of us.

  But she’s your wife.

  Moving my hands to her face, I pulled her into a hard, fierce kiss. I didn’t let go of her lips until she relaxed in the kiss and it felt like she was kissing me back.

  “I’m a shit,” I said, pulling away, both of us slightly breathless. “You deserve better than whatever the fuck quarter-or-mid-or-whatever-life crisis I’m in right now, if that’s even a thing.”

  My hands stayed on her face as I spoke. She brought her hands to my wrist and perched them there, not pulling back or pushing me away.

  “I deserve you.” Her eyes moved wildly across my face, wide and vulnerable. “And you deserve me.”

  “We’ve got so much shit to talk about.” I sighed, resting my forehead against hers.

  She nodded, keeping her hands on my wrists as mine stayed on her face. “We’ve got to trust each other again. Figure out what we want. Decide if we’re all in …”

  “I want to be all in,” I admitted in a gravelly whisper, anguished at even the thought of losing her. I decided I’d have ten million kids tomorrow if that’s what it was going to take to get her to stay with me. That she was worth whatever compromises I’d have to make.

  But, as we sat silent, pressed into each other like we were weathering more than just an emotional storm, something deep inside me told me we wouldn’t be in that position. That the vows we spoke to each other in Cape Cod three years ago were being put to their first, of what would likely be many, tests. For better or worse.

  Georgia pulled back, pinching my chin between her thumb and forefinger. Her eyes were tired and glassy, but she smiled as she spoke. “I’m all in, too. Always.”

  Twenty-Nine

  CJ

  Word was Regan wasn’t coming back to the tour at all. I hadn’t spoken to him or Georgia since Minneapolis, but I told everyone that I’d believe it when I saw it. The day Regan left, Nessa told me he’d gone to California to patch things up with Georgia. I wanted to check in with them, but I was pissed about the broken nose that left me with two black eyes that were now fading to a god
-awful green. Clearly Regan needed a timeout if he was going to start swinging at me.

  Still, I had a job to do. We were in Chicago, without Regan, and with no real plan. Yardley had tucked me into a few songs with The Brewers, and some of the guys and me had a little drumline thing, but I was feeling a lot like extra baggage by the time we rolled into the Windy City.

  “I’ve got an idea.” Nessa plunked down next to me in the bar at the hotel the night before our first show.

  I gave her a sideways glance. “Talking to me now?”

  For the past several days, she tried to make it my fault that Regan had taken off, which left a couple of acts high and dry. I didn’t even respond to the bullshit and, it seemed, she’d finally calmed down.

  “You wanna hear my idea or not?” Her tone was a lot shorter than I’d expect for someone who’s fault it actually was that Regan wasn’t here. Even if that was an unfair assessment.

  I shrugged, taking a sip of my beer. “Shoot.”

  “I’m playing with Moniker tonight. Just before your act with Regan normally takes place. Why don’t you and I do a few songs together?”

  I laughed with a mouth full of beer, which burned as hoppy bubbles pushed their way through my nose. “Yeah, okay. You’ve been a giant scardey-cat, or whatever, with that violin till now but, sure, why don’t you go ahead and try to fill Regan’s shoes.”

  She recoiled like I’d slapped her, her cheeks turning pink as she swallowed and looked away. Without another word, she stood to leave.

  I grumbled, grabbing her arm and turning her around. “Sorry.”

  “You’re an asshole,” she replied, quiet.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I am. Sit and have a drink. Let’s try this again.”

  Five minutes later, Nessa was halfway through a dirty martini.

  “Easy there …” I eyed the toxic concoction. “That shit’ll kill ya.”

  “Hmm,” she hummed, taking another sip. “And your steady diet of beer and cigarettes is superior?”

  Grinning, I clinked my bottle against her glass. “Point for Nessa.”

  “Why’d you send Georgia that video?” she asked, sliding an olive into her mouth, chewing it slowly.

  “Why’d you dance with my married cousin?” I shrugged.

  “We were just dancing, for fuck’s sake.”

  I sighed. “For you, it was just dancing. For Regan …” I trailed off, still not really wanting to get involved.

  “Are you saying he wanted me, or something?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Please. Sure, you’re hot as hell and know how to give men a run for their money, but Regan’s game is monogamy.” Shrugging again, I sighed. “I don’t know if it would have gone there, but …”

  “You didn’t want him to find out,” she answered.

  “I believe you’re the kind of girl he’d have fallen for if he were single.” It was honest, and not something I’d admitted to Georgia or Regan. “But he hasn’t been single for a long time and isn’t that guy anymore.”

  She huffed. “Shouldn’t you let people run their own love lives? Given what I hear about yours?”

  An irritated grin formed across my mouth. “You’re awfully bitchy for someone who came to me for a favor.”

  “A favor for you,” she shot back.

  “Look,” I sighed, rolling my head back, “yeah I believe people should run their own love lives. But I also know sometimes we get so bogged down in our own shit that we can’t see what’s right in front of us.”

  She opened her mouth, but I cut her off. “As for my love life? Yeah, it’s fucked. For now.”

  When Frankie and I last spoke, we just agreed that she’d come to Chicago. We hadn’t talked since, and I didn’t know her plans. It was a real bitch to give her the space she needed, when I needed her. I was scheduled to be here for a week so, in theory, I knew she could come at any time. She had the itinerary and show schedule—the rest was in her hands.

  “So,” I continued with a dismissive eye roll. “What? You wanna play a set together? That’d be cozy.”

  “I wanted to,” she started, bitingly. “But I don’t think so anymore.”

  I squinted at her. “Oh please … because I hurt your feelings? Because we had a grown-up conversation? Get a grip, grab your violin, and meet me in my room in ten minutes.” I stood, tossing a twenty on the bar, more than enough to cover both of our drinks.

  She stared at me blankly for a few seconds, chewing the inside of her cheek. “You’re lucky I’m buzzed enough to ignore your personality for a while.”

  “I think I’m the lucky one, buttercup. If you’re this fucking pleasant to work with when you’re buzzed, I can’t wait to see what you’re like sober.”

  ***

  Nessa was fine to work with, if just a little nervous at first. Yardley didn’t need much convincing to slide us into the lineup, and I think she and I were both relieved when Nessa nailed her songs with Moniker without a hitch. I never got the full story on what the holdup with her playing those songs was, but it didn’t matter. She nailed them, was as natural on the stage with her violin as she was with her vocals, and it was pretty easy to play with her.

  She was a little less polished than Regan was, but I doubted that was anything the audience could pinpoint without coaching. She flew through solos and complicated flows with me with ease. We only did a few numbers, easy ones for her that didn’t need a lot of review—Turkey in the Straw, Cotton-eyed Joe, and a piece of Devil Went Down to Georgia she was familiar with, and we only had to run through five or six times in rehearsal.

  Nessa seemed to settle into her natural state on stage, a lot like Regan, actually. She played the crowd with energetic movements and fast, complicated solos, which they always loved. I did end up feeling a little bad for being a dick the night before, but it was what it was and I’d said what I needed to say.

  It was a short set with Nessa, but I was happy to get a little more stage time to keep my mind off when Frankie was going to show up, if she didn’t change her mind.

  There was an unusually high-end after party waiting for us in the more uppity of the two bars in the hotel we were crashing at. Word was, Yardley organized it with friends of hers who were still, miraculously, in the newspaper business. I didn’t think there was any young blood in newsprint any more. Either way it was more media coverage, and none of us were dumb enough to turn that down.

  After patting my friends on the back and engaging in small talk and elbow-rubbing for a half hour, I found myself a quiet stool at the end of the bar and ordered a beer. A side benefit of a cross-country tour like this was the opportunity to try out the local beers at each stop. Coming from New England, I was spoiled with what seemed like hundreds of local microbreweries that were all on top of their game. Turns out, the rest of the country seemed to be coming along nicely, too. So far, Seattle was tops, but Chicago was in a close second with what the bartender told me was Half Acre Daisy Cutter Pale Ale.

  Scanning the crowd as I enjoyed my beer, I watched as everyone schmoozed, or pretended to schmooze, but I was so far away in my head that I couldn’t even pretend tonight. For days I’d been tossing around what to do about my dad. I still couldn’t believe he’d look me up, let alone track me down at Frankie’s. With a heavy sigh, I ordered another drink from the bartender who looked about my age.

  “Something stronger,” I said, sliding my empty pint toward him.

  “Stronger beer or just stronger?”

  “Just stronger.”

  He set a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of me. “You a whisky guy?”

  I nodded. “Yep. Johnnie Walker if you have it. Straight up.”

  Seeming to pick up that I was in no mood for small talk, he poured me a glass of Blue Label and set it in front of me before moving onto other thirsty patrons.

  I sipped it slowly, pretending I liked it. Because I’d need my dad’s old standby swimming in my stomach to do what I knew had to be done. I thought about asking for one more. Instead, I left
my empty glass on the table and headed for the noisy streets of the Financial District.

  Picking up my phone, I dialed the number from memory. It was a ten-year-old cellphone number, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping it belonged to someone else. After one ring, someone picked up.

  “CJ?”

  He wasn’t the only one with the same cell phone number for over a decade. His voice hit me like a two-by-four in the back of the head. I wanted to sit, but needed to move through the adrenaline, so I walked fast, angry steps down the sidewalk.

  “CJ?” he asked again, his voice sounding light and hopeful like he wasn’t a piece of shit. I wanted to hang up. “You there?”

  “Yeah.” The first words I spoke to my father in over ten years. “If you had my number, why didn’t you just call me instead of showing up at my girlfriend’s house?”

  That Frankie was still technically my ex-girlfriend wasn’t a detail he needed to know.

  His tone was softer now. A little hesitant. “I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

  “I wouldn’t have.” I huffed, stopping to lean against a light post and light a cigarette.

  It was a few seconds before he said anything. “So why’d you call me?”

  After a long drag, I answered. “Because I couldn’t get you to stay when I was a kid, but I can tell you to stay the hell out of my life now.”

  Words I’d wanted to say almost my whole life didn’t feel as good as I thought they would. Because it didn’t change any of the facts of who he was or how I grew up.

  “Listen. Don’t hang up,” he added quickly.

  I sucked on my cigarette like it was the only thing holding me together, because maybe it was. I was doing this thing by myself. No friends, family, or Frankie by my side. No one to coach me through it or hold my hand. I had to face him alone, the way he left me. Even if it wasn’t face-to-face, it was the best I could do, and the most I was willing to do at the moment.

  “What?” I snapped. “Are you dying, or something, and smoked me out to try to make everything right?”