Chasing Kane

by Andrea Randall

  Georgia took the phone, and immediately her eyes lit up at the sight of a selfie CJ and Frankie had taken together. Sitting next to each other on his bed on the tour bus, their faces were screwed up in goofy smiles with their cheeks pressed together.

  “Did you know?” Georgia asked, handing me back my phone.

  I shook my head. “I haven’t talked to him since the fight.”

  This was his way of apologizing for his role, though most of the blame was on my shoulders. I’d have felt bad for not reaching out first, but I had other things to deal with, and I knew he’d understand the need to be selfish in this instance.

  “I still can’t believe you punched him.” Georgia folded onto the blanket, stretching out her legs and crossing them at the ankles as she leaned back on her hands.

  I sat next to her, mimicking her pose. “I’m not real proud of myself there,” I admitted glumly.

  “Give me your phone for a sec.” Georgia held out her hand. She was notoriously often without her phone. Whether down in the bakery with it up in the apartment or vice versa, at the grocery store, or sometimes out of town. She was tethered to so very few things in this world, and the cell phone was definitely not on the list.

  Georgia held the phone out in front of both of us, poised to take a picture. I smiled, and I could feel by the rise in Georgia’s cheeks that she was smiling, too. Just before she pushed the button, she turned and planted a warm red-stained kiss on my cheek.

  “There.” She handed the phone back and dug through our picnic basket, pulling out the bottle of white wine and a corkscrew.

  While she busied herself opening and pouring us glasses of chilled riesling, I tapped a message to CJ.

  Me: That’s awesome :)

  After sending the text, I sent the picture in a second message.

  CJ: No. THAT’S awesome.

  Me: Look … I’m sorry about wrecking your face.

  I winced, thinking about the broken nose that left him with black eyes almost immediately.

  CJ: You blind, man? I’m lookin’ fine. All healed.

  Me: Coulda fooled me ;)

  CJ: Let’s just forget about it, okay? We were both kind of out of our minds, huh? Things okay on the West Coast?

  Me: So far. We’re working through it.

  CJ: You coming back to us, or …

  Me: Yeah. Don’t know when yet.

  CJ: Don’t be gone too long or they’ll find someone to replace your sorry ass.

  I laughed, setting the phone down and focusing on the way the late summer sunset formed an orange glow around Georgia’s form.

  “You’re stunning.”

  She grinned, handing me a glass of wine and raising hers. “You’re not so bad yourself. To us …”

  “To us,” I echoed, clinking our glasses together.

  Although the spot we were sitting on was directly across from our apartment, our specific location that evening was bringing back some very specific memories. Among them was when I knew without a doubt that I was in love with Georgia. Staring ahead and to the left was the beat up dock on which we’d had kind of a joint meltdown. An old, unopened letter from my deceased ex-girlfriend, Rae, had surfaced, and despite the falling in love with Georgia I’d already been doing, Rae’s handwriting was like a blow to the center of my chest. I wanted to be over her without forgetting her, and I wanted to give Georgia the attention she deserved, and it all came together in a fury right there on that dock when she saved me from drowning inside myself.

  “Where’d you go?” Georgia asked softly, tilting her head to line her gaze up with mine.

  She’d always been a woman of strength, courage, and determination. She proved that early on.

  I tilted my chin forward, echoing the thoughts swirling in my head. “That dock. Where you saved me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know … I think we did a little saving of each other that summer, don’t you?”

  I grinned, leaning into her arm. “We did. Listen, I want to talk about something—a few somethings—just the two of us.”

  In the short time I’d been home, we’d agreed to save our first few big discussions for the sturdy walls of our therapist’s office. We’d been so off-balanced and poorly communicating that we knew we couldn’t tackle those early conversations alone. But now we had our feet under us a bit, I felt comfortable talking to my wife without an expensive—albeit sometimes necessary—chaperone.

  She inhaled audibly. Slow and deep as she set her eyes on the skyline, squinting as the sunset turned her face red and orange. “You go first.”

  Leaning forward, I swallowed the rest of my wine and set the glass back in the wicker basket. I practiced breathing for a few seconds, committing the act to memory, because the pending conversation was shooting up plumes of anxiety through my chest. I needed to trust her here, in this moment, with my thoughts, feelings, and my heart.

  The way I had out on that worn-down dock not far from us all those years ago. But this time, she was my wife, and there was much more on the line than a summer fling. This was our marriage, and our future. It was my life.

  Thirty-Two

  Georgia

  He thought for a long time. Looking down as the colors from the ocean sunset took a cue from his rich, copper-colored hair and shone across his furrowed brow. I chewed on my tongue until it hurt to avoid hurrying him along, as was customary.

  Get the first blow over with so we can get on to the meat of the fight.

  I hated that I was such a fighter. I’d spent so much of my life fighting for myself and with myself, that dissent was my first reaction to everything. Even a simple question like, “Wanna get some breakfast?” could fetch a biting remark from me like, “It’s a little early, isn’t it?” or, “Now? It’s almost lunchtime, which you’d know if you hadn’t slept half the day away.” Both were unfair, but the last one was horrifying as he wouldn’t have to sleep past noon if he didn’t work so late, which was part of his job—just like waking up before dawn came with the territory of owning my own bakery. That I’d eaten lunch while he was still dreaming was no one’s fault.

  Who knew eggs could be so divisive?

  Through the crashing waves breaking over the rocky shore, Regan’s chuckle filled my ears.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I got lost there for a second,” he seemed to explain away his extended silence.

  “It’s okay,” I encouraged, squeezing the top of his leg. “Go ahead.”

  He sighed, untying and retying his hair back in a messy ponytail/bun thing that looked sexy only on him. This was one nervous habit I never wanted him to stop—it was too adorable watching him fiddle with his hair in a way typically attributed to women.

  “I’m not saying I never want children,” he opened with, causing my stomach to turn over, forming a million miniature knots through my insides. “I think everything just got out of hand so quickly. We jumped in, then the tour took over and, honestly, I knew it was going to be six months, but that seemed shorter in our pre-baby world. We’ve gone through extended tours before—but none that involved any discussion of ovulation.”

  I laughed, relieved and nervous. Then, the tears I’d begged for days to stay back pressed on, squeezing themselves through my tightly-closed eyes. I forced out a few more chuckles before my breath caught in my throat and I looked at Regan, who was staring at me in regretful horror.

  “No …” I shook my head, waving him on. “I’ll explain in a minute … I’m fine, just please go ahead.”

  The pain in my chest was unrelenting, begging me to throw up every feeling and thought right that second. But I was practicing not doing that anymore. I was not a child for whom tantrums had to be extinguished on the spot. I was a grown woman with emotions that could survive for a few breaths while another person shared their insides.

  I could wait my turn.

  I could listen to my husband, without whom I wouldn’t have even known I was capable of feeling such deep feelings. For better or worse.

  Regan�
�s wild hazel eyes studied me for a moment, and I did my best to beg through my intent gaze and simple nod that it really was okay for him to continue. It seemed he believed me.

  “You’re the most amazing woman I know, Georgia. Kind and fierce, compassionate and brave. What kind of man wouldn’t want you to be the mother of their children?”

  The kind who doesn’t want kids?

  The kind who doesn’t want a mental case as the mother of their children?

  I pressed my lips together, repeating a million affirmations in my head that I’d learned over the years in an effort to not sabotage this conversation. Ones about my uniqueness, my kindness, my ability to love. All of them. I set them on loop to keep my mouth shut.

  The wind picked up and seagulls butted into our conversation as they wandered the beach—the hobos they are—begging for scraps of our uneaten dinner. With my eyes fixed on Regan, I leaned forward and closed the lid of the picnic basket, shooing away a few fat birds with a flick of my foot.

  He grinned at my bird-wrangling in the middle of an otherwise intense moment, and kept on. “I just think you and I didn’t really talk about it, you know? We just figured it was the next thing to do. Shower, get dressed, go to work, fall in love, get married, have children.”

  I crossed my legs in front of me, nodding as I replayed the similar conversation I’d had with my mom just before Regan showed up in our home, unexpectedly abandoning the tour.

  In his silence, I allowed myself to speak. “So where are you now?”

  He swallowed, eyeing me through wisps of hair that were blown free by the gusting wind. “I love you,” he said quietly. “And I want to talk about it. I think maybe I wanted to prove to myself and you that nothing would have to change about our lives if we did have a baby. Even though I planned on scaling back my tour schedule when you got pregnant.”

  I gasped at this seemingly unanticipated turn of events. “You did? Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to fight me on it. Then once the tour started, I remembered all the things I savor about touring, aside from the sidesplitting pain of missing you every second. And I kind of panicked about the resolution, even though it was only to myself.”

  The tears I’d successfully stowed away returned with a vengeance. “Oh God,” I said through streaming tears. “We need to fucking talk some more.”

  Regan tilted his head, focusing on my face as he brushed my tears away with his thumb. “Yes,” he said almost comically. “That much is clear.”

  “I’m not ready yet, either,” I finally admitted, my chest clenching around the idea. “I’m ready to talk about it, but when we stated it like it was fact, while you were planning to prove to me nothing would have to change, I was busy trying to prove to you that it would. Beating you over the head with my ovulation calendar and starting all kinds of fights with you that I haven’t started in years? Jesus … It was an old pattern I haven’t been in for years, and I’m sorry …”

  I looked down, playing with my hands as they sat in my lap. “I think we both just really fucked up here, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Regan agreed as the wind finally died down. “I guess so. So …” he hesitated, wincing as he seemed to grapple with his next words.

  “So?” I asked softly, my heart racing.

  “Could we, um … Can we just talk about this again—for real—when the tour’s over? I want to finish this thing and then—” he started to ramble, his hands moving the way they do only when he’s nervous. He doesn’t talk with his hands like I do. When his hands start flying around, I know it’s time for me to step in.

  “Yes,” I cut in. “I think that’s a fantastic idea.” My tears had dried without me noticing, and suddenly it was just me and my husband having an adult conversation on the beach.

  “What?” he asked with a grin matching the one that had slowly taken over my mouth.

  “I think it’s probably time for us to get back to work. Mom and Jennifer have handled most of the work at the bakery for the last week, and, you know, you’ve gotta get back on tour,” I said with my throat closing up a little before I forced out a light laugh. “I can’t believe you bailed on it.”

  Regan didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. Instead, he leaned forward and took my face in his hands, kissing me on the tip of my nose before he spoke. “I kind of bailed on us before that. I have no idea how to fix that, or make it up to you.”

  I smiled broader, pinching his chin between my thumb and forefinger. “We just move forward. I’m no innocent party here,” I admitted of my tantrums and subtle mind games.

  He looked down. “You weren’t dancing in a club with some guy.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, well, after you help me hide Nessa’s body we can have a clean slate.”

  I tried to sound serious and nonchalant, but when Regan’s eyes met mine with a comical concern, I broke into laughter. “Look, I’m not saying I’m going to forget that any time soon—maybe ever—but I think I can forgive it. Just, maybe, don’t have her hang out in your hotel room?”

  In truth, the stubborn, jealous girl inside me was clawing at me to beg him to never see her ever again, to have her thrown off the tour, and maybe toss her violin in the nearest river for good measure. But the reality was, Regan had a long track record of fidelity. One hundred percent, unless you were the kind of person to count dancing as cheating. And, I was ready to be the kind of person that didn’t.

  There was only a sliver of sun visible over the horizon of the ocean, so we had less than an hour of decent dusky light left in which to eat our dinner on the beach. I got up on my knees and reached for the picnic basket, but Regan stopped me with a rough grab of my wrist.

  “What?” I asked, alarmed.

  He rose to his knees, then sat back on his heels so our height difference wasn’t so profound.

  “I’m damn lucky to have you, Georgia,” he said with a seriousness that took my breath away.

  My chin quivered once before I cleared my throat, inching my way toward Regan until I was wrapped in his warm arms. “We’re lucky,” I corrected, breathing in salt and wind and Regan.

  “But, Regan?” I asked, sitting back on my heels and sniffing away a few lingering tears.

  “Yeah?” he asked, full of concern as he studied my face.

  “Can we eat?” I grinned. “I’m really fucking hungry.”

  Regan threw his head back, letting out a laugh I hadn’t heard in weeks—longer, maybe. “Yes. Food, please.”

  We chased the last dregs of daylight with Brie, prosciutto, a baguette, and a renewed commitment to each other. After cleaning up our space on the empty beach, we trekked to the bakery where we feasted on cupcakes I’d over baked from a wedding order.

  And I even joined him as he sat on the counter.

  ***

  Regan had missed the rest of Minneapolis, and all of the Chicago and Ohio shows, but was scheduled to rejoin the tour in time for their New York City shows. Saying goodbye to him this time was harder than it had ever been.

  This time, though, we had a much more defined plan. I was going to fly out to Massachusetts, meeting him there at his parents’ house for the entire duration of his set there, and the break following. This would allow us to spend some much-needed quality time with his family, as well as time for us to spend with our friends, Bo and Ember, in New Hampshire.

  Before Regan left, CJ called us to fill us in on all that had gone on with his dad and Frankie while Regan was MIA. As shocking as it all was, I was proud of CJ for handling it on his own—meaning dealing with it at all—and coming out the other side relatively okay. Frankie had traveled with the band through Chicago and Ohio, and was planning to stay on the road through the tour’s arrival in Massachusetts.

  I was a bit rabid with envy at Frankie’s profession when I’d heard that, one that gave her time off during my busiest season. I’d never particularly had a desire to travel the road with Regan and some of the musical behemoths he runs with, but seeing the
fun Frankie and CJ seemed to be having—not to mention the quality time they were able to rack up—left me wanting.

  I sat with the thought for a couple of days, wanting to make sure it was a true desire rather than a moment of fancy, before texting Regan about it.

  Me: How’s NY treating you?

  Regan: Good. It’s so weird seeing CJ and Frankie together. I mean, we saw them together for years—but not like this. Something’s definitely different. In a good way.

  I smiled, a warm feeling enveloping my chest at the thought of CJ and Frankie finally finding the happiness they both deserved—and with each other, to boot. I sighed, steeling my resolve as I decided to jump in.

  Me: I want to do that sometime—join you on tour. I couldn’t do it for, like, months, but … I want to. Sometime. If you’ll have me.

  I stared with panicked anticipation at the three blinking dots on my screen indicating he was typing back his response. The wait was short lived.

  Regan: Are you serious? I’d love that.

  I let out a breath of relief, smiling as I leaned against the counter inside the bakery while a bride and groom pored over my portfolio in a booth by the front window.

  Me: You would? Is it weird? Do people give Frankie and CJ shit?

  Regan: Tons of shit, it’s not weird to me, and I would love it. ;)

  Me: Let me look at my schedule coming up. Maybe I can lose my mind and shut down for September—or at least put Jen and Mom on part time for basic stuff—and join you for a few stops after Massachusetts?

  The dots blinked for a little longer this time, and I wondered if I’d overplayed my hand. I ushered those thoughts from my mind when I reminded myself this was my husband I was talking to—not some new boyfriend and I was worried about seeming too needy. Because this was Regan. I needed to need him, and he needed me to need him, sometimes. But, more than that, I needed to offer the gift of time to him. Something that can’t be bought and sold, but runs through our fingers faster than money ever could.