by Ashley Grace
She patted my knee, smiling. I felt another shiver run through me.
"You want to hear a secret? There's this look Trace used to get, this look in his eyes. They'd seem darker, bigger—I'd look at his face and his eyes were all I'd see. When Trace was with Lucy, I saw that look on his face all the time."
She leaned in even closer. Or maybe her own eyes got bigger, until the blue of her irises seemed as enormous as a desert sky, ready to swallow me up. Her boney fingers clutched at my knee.
"And now I see it when he looks at you."
Oh. God.
Before I'd even realized it, I was on my feet, stumbling for the door. My heart was thundering in my chest, my eyes had filled with tears so that my vision was all a blur. More than anything else, my mind was possessed by a single thought: escape.
I caught a glimpse of Becca in the kitchenette, chatting with Sergio, giving him a coy smile. After all that had happened tonight, she looked just as ready to party as ever.
I didn't stop for her. If she wanted to stay, let her. I just knew—with an urgency that bordered on panic—that I needed to get out of there right away.
I yanked the door open, the tears spilling over my cheeks, and sprinted down the hall toward the exit.
Chapter 6
Trace
Bernstein's doctor friend was a little guy with wire-rimmed glasses and tight, curly hair. He did a quick examination on Joey, deciding that the seizure had probably resulted from a combination of mild brain trauma and too much booze and coke. He gave Joey some anti-seizure pills, and told him no more booze or drugs because they could further the swelling in his brain, and no more vigorous activity or mental stimulation.
Basically, Joey was supposed to lie in bed with a cold washcloth over his forehead—the lights dim and the room quiet. And—no surprise—Joey didn't want to do any of that.
"This is bullshit, man!" he said, trying to sit up in the bed. "I've taken worse hits than this and kept on rocking."
"Joey, take it easy for once." I pushed him back down on the bed. "It's not gonna kill you if you skip the party for one night. But it might kill you if you don't."
"You're such a drama queen sometimes, Trace. I mean, it's great for writing big, emotional songs. But it's a bit of a drag when you let it turn you into a worried old lady."
He tried to sit up again.
"And speaking of ladies, it's not polite to leave them unattended, you know. We oughta be back there with our girls, man, especially you. I'm pretty sure Becca can handle herself, but your doe-eyed chickadee might up and run if you leave her on her own with that pack of wolves in there."
I felt another little glimmer of worry, and nodded my head.
"You might be right. I'd hate it if she did leave, I admit."
I raised my eyes, my mind drifting.
"There's something about her, Joey. Something special. I look in her eyes, and it almost takes my breath away."
"Plus, she's got really banging tits."
I frowned at him. "God, I don't know why I'm wasting my time trying to explain this to you, especially when I could be back with Anne right now, getting to know her better."
"I don't know either, man. If I were you, that's what I'd be doing. Getting to know her, inside and out."
"Oh, forget it," I said, standing up. "Get some rest, Joey. You're brain is already a goddamned disaster. You don't want to screw it up even more."
"Go find your lady, man. And if you see Becca, tell her I'll be back there as soon as the room stops spinning, and the jackhammer in my brain takes a fucking break."
"Rest," I said, and gave him my best glare.
He gave me a toothy grin in response.
Bernstein and the doctor were out in the hall, talking quietly and smiling to each other like old friends at a reunion. I shut the door behind me and turned to face them.
"You convince him to lay low for a while?" Bernstein asked.
"You know Joey," I said. "It's next to impossible to convince him of anything."
He shook his head, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. "Crazy and reckless is alright when you're young and resilient," he said. "But the older you get, the harder it is for the body to keep up. Joey will be thirty-one in another few months. He needs to learn to be more careful, or he won't make it to forty."
"Honestly," I said, "Joey doesn't think very far beyond the present. I'm not sure if he ever even thought he'd make it to thirty. He's already living past his expectations."
"Well, for this night at least, he needs to take a break. I'll stay here for a little while, to make sure he doesn't try to sneak back to the suite."
"Thanks, Bernstein."
"No need to thank me, Trace. Looking after the band, it's what I'm here for."
He met my eye, and smiled a gentle smile.
"Speaking of which," he said, "why don't you get back to the party, yourself? It's nice to see you engaged with the wider world, for a change."
I smiled back at him.
"You're a sensitive soul, Trace," he said, "and it makes for great art. But not all art comes from suffering. Sometimes, great art comes from joy. And tonight, for the first time in a long time, you looked like you might have been feeling some joy—or at least the yearning for it."
He put his hand on my shoulder, hairy knuckles and all. But I could feel the warmth of it through the cotton shirt. And that warmth seemed to echo in my heart.
"Thanks, Bernstein," I said again.
This time he just nodded and smiled.
I turned and started walking up the hallway, back to the party. Back to Anne.
-
I could hear the sound of the party from twenty yards down the hall. The voices had reached a level of shrillness, loud and excited—people yelling back and forth instead of carrying on a regular conversation. Lots of raucous laughter, too, and excited screams.
I pushed the door open and walked in. Anne's friend Becca was in the kitchenette with Sergio and Angel. They were laughing and leaning on each other, a half-empty bottle of tequila on the counter, a handful of lime rinds in the sink. A big package of Morton's salt had fallen to the floor, scattering salt.
"Hey Becca," I said.
Her eyes met mine, watery, swimming a little in her head. She smiled.
"Hi Trace. Wanna shot?"
"No thanks. Where's Anne?"
"Isn't she with you?"
"No. I just got back from Joey's room."
"Oh," she said. "Is Joey alright?"
"He's okay. The doctor says he's supposed to take it easy for the rest of the night."
She swayed a little, and I reached out to steady her.
"You might want to take it easy, too," I said. "I wouldn't recommend trying to keep up with Sergio and Angel. They've been drinking tequila since before Sergio even knew how to play bass."
"Too late," Becca said, blinking her watery eyes. "I just took two shots, and I can already feel it. Tequila is no joke!"
She giggled.
"Becca," I said. "Where's Anne?"
Her eyes came back to mine again. "Isn't she with you?"
"No. I already told you that. I just got back from Joey's room."
"Oh. Is he alright?"
I just looked at her for a second, shaking my head. "He's fine. Where's Anne."
"Dunno. Last time I saw her she was talking with that freaky Skeletor chick, the one who threw her piano on the floor in the middle of your set."
"Sara? Our keyboardist."
"Yeah. She and Anne were talking. Carlos here offered me a drink," she pointed at Sergio, "and I figured I'd give Anne a minute to chat with one of her rock-star heroes. She really loves your band, man! She's been creaming in her shorts over you guys ever since I met her."
I took a step away back, peering into the living room. I saw Sara sitting on the couch, rolling a cigarette, but I didn't see any sign of Anne.
"You didn't see her leave or anything?"
"Trace, since I came in here to get a drink
, I haven't seen anything but Tequila and limes and these two hot Mexicans, Pancho and Anchovie."
"Sergio and Angel."
"Huh?" She gave me a confused look. And then her lips stretched into a broad grin. "Hey, wanna do a shot?"
I shook my head again. "Sergio, Angel, make sure she drinks some water or something, alright? I'm gonna go talk to Sara, see if I can find Anne."
Sergio looked at me. "Right on, Trace."
I guided Becca to the counter, leaned her up against it, and then walked into the living room. I stood there for a moment, my eyes scanning the room, looking for Anne. Of the thirty or so people in there, about a third seemed to be on the verge of passing out, or were already asleep. There were people slumped in chairs, sitting down on the carpet near the corner, leaning up against the walls with their eyes shut as if they were asleep on their feet. The other two thirds of the folks seemed just a few steps away from blacking out, too—clinging together, slapping each other on the back, making oaths and declarations of brotherhood.
The party was reaching its crash point, and I didn't see any sign of Anne. The urgency I felt ratcheted up another few click.
I walked up to the couch, crouched down beside Sara.
"Hey Sara."
She looked up at me, her big blue eyes peering out from deep in their sockets, and managed a fragile smile.
"Hi Trace. I'm almost done with this cigarette." She raised her hands to show me, the tobacco laid out in the paper like dirt in a white canoe. "It's organic tobacco, hand grown by Native Americans in Virginia. Wanna taste?"
"Thanks, but I'll pass. Hey, you know the girl I brought back from the show? Anne?"
She nodded her head, her smile growing brighter. "Yeah. I like her."
That surprised me. I paused for a moment, processing it, before I asked my next question.
"Do you know where she is?"
She furrowed her brow just slightly, a small wrinkle appearing between her eyes.
"I thought she went to find you," she said.
"That's what her friend Becca said, too. But I haven't seen her. I was at Joey's room with Bernstein and his doctor buddy. I told her I was coming right back, and she said she'd wait for me. But now I can't find her."
"Maybe she went to your room?"
"My room's past Joey's, at the end of the hall," I said, considering it. "I guess she might have slipped by while we were all in with Joey, but we weren't in there for very long. The doctor only examined him for like ten minutes, and then he and Bernstein went out to wait in the hall. I was probably only in there for another ten minutes or so."
"Maybe she got lost?"
"Maybe," I said. "She didn't say anything to you before she left, did she? Becca said the two of you were talking."
"Yeah, we talked a little," she said. "I told her about Lucy."
My ears pricked up at that, a queasy feeling coming to life in my belly.
"What—" I stopped myself, and then spoke the next words carefully. "What did you tell her?"
"I told her that Lucy was my sister, and that you and Lucy were together, and that she died. I told her how much I missed Lucy, but how I worried about you. I told her that I worried you might not get over Lucy's death, that it had killed something inside of you, and that the band wouldn't survive."
The queasy feeling in my stomach abruptly intensified, and suddenly I felt sick. Sick, and afraid.
"But then I told her that tonight was the first night in a long time that I'd felt hope, and that she was the reason." Her big blue eyes were fixed on mine, as clear as a cloudless sky.
"How did she react?" I asked, my voice low. "What did she say?"
"She didn't say anything, but she looked like she was about to cry. I thought she was moved. I thought she'd gone to find you."
A rush of feelings swept over me, fear and shame and panic. I put my hand on the coffee table to steady myself. I took in a deep breath, trying to draw on the numbness I'd learned to use as a shield since Lucy's death.
"Trace, is something wrong?"
I took another deep breath, and then looked back at Sara.
"No. Nothing's wrong. She probably just got lost trying to find me. I'll go see if she's at my room. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Don't let these folks get too crazy."
She looked around at the crowd, the people nodding off on the other side of the couch. She snorted.
"Not much chance of that," she said. "It's barely after three in the morning, and people are already crashing and burning. Not like the parties we had in our old days, right Trace?"
"Right, Sara," I said. "Goodnight."
I made my way back to the door, opened it and stepped out into the hallway. And then I fell back against the wall, holding my head with my hand.
Sara had told Anne about me and Lucy, and Anne had ran off so quickly she didn't even stop to tell her friend she was leaving. She'd fled me like I was a house on fire, or a plague.
I looked down at my wrist, at the ghostly scar bisecting the tattoo there. Had Sara told Anne about that, too? About me trying to kill myself. About me being locked up in the psych ward?
Suddenly, I realized that Anne was right to leave. One woman I'd loved had already died at my side, in my bed. I didn't deserve the chance to infect someone else's life with my own. I didn't deserve to be with anybody.
For a year I'd taken pills and gone to therapy and tried all sorts of treatments, and for a year those efforts had been moderately successful. I'd armored myself with apathy, escaping pain by losing myself in numbness.
But tonight, tonight I'd felt a glimmer of hope. And my heart had moved toward it. And now all the despair and self-loathing that had been lying in wait beyond my armor—like a beast hiding just beyond the campfire's light, waiting for the coals to turn to ash—it had all come rushing in to swallow me whole.
I bent forward, covering my face with my hands, trying to block out the hallway light. I didn't want to see anything. I wanted blackness, nothingness. I wanted to lose myself in it.
No. I couldn't allow myself to sink back into despair, not yet.
It was three in the morning, and Anne was out on the street. Maybe she'd hailed a cab, maybe she was back in her apartment already. But what if she hadn't? What if she'd run out to the darkness without checking to see if she had enough money for cab fare?
San Francisco isn't a particularly dangerous city, but even harmless cities have a sinister contingent, and usually that contingent is most present in the streets at night.
If Anne was out there in trouble, if another girl came to harm because of me, while I slept—I'd never forgive myself.
I swung by my room to make sure she hadn't gone there after all, which she hadn't. And then I caught the elevator down to the lobby level, and walked out into the cold night air.
Even if Anne had already gotten home, even if my search was unwarranted, I still preferred the night-time streets right then.
The darkness called to me. It matched my mood.
Chapter 7
Anne
There's something about San Francisco that makes a person feel colder than they ought to feel. I don't know if it's from the fog thickening the air, or from the wind always blowing off of the ocean, but a normal night anywhere else in the area feels ten degrees colder in the City.
And that night was even worse than normal. It wasn't just the damp fog across face that chilled me, or the wind turning my tears to icy streaks. It wasn't even the ridiculous little dress Becca had made me wear, which left more of my skin uncovered than actually clothed. It was more than that. I felt chilled deep down in my soul.
Trace's last girlfriend had died in his bed beside him. And Sara said he looked at me just like he'd looked at her.
Talk about serious relationship baggage.
I'd been listening to the Belletrists since I was twelve. I used to put my headphones on and go to sleep with Trace LeBeau's voice in my ears. I'd felt like I was in love with him before I ever even met him. And now I
'd actually met him—the real him, with all of his pains and sorrows—and if anything, I'd felt even more drawn to him, like a moth being pulled toward a flame.
But the flame wasn't just a glittering light. There was heat there, too, and pain. I'd felt it radiating out from Trace. And suddenly I was worried that the pain and the heat would burn me to a crisp.
It's one thing to have a crush on a man you've never met, to listen to his songs of longing and heartbreak, to memorize the beautiful lyrics he's written about his intimate thoughts and feelings, even to be drawn to those songs because of how they resonate with your own life. But it's another thing entirely to actually get close to the man himself, close enough to feel his pain, and then to learn that something about you connects to the pain he's felt.
For the hundredth time that night, I felt like I was in way over my head. And, to put it plainly, it scared the shit out of me.
I hardly even noticed the lobby. It was just a bright golden blur in my tear-filled eyes, all mirrors and marble and gold-leaf molding. I wouldn't have recognized it even if I hadn't been crying—I'd certainly never been there before. It wasn't until I'd shoved my way through the revolving door, and ran past the valet station and down the curving drive to the street, that I started to get a sense of where I was.
I was up high, on one of the City's many hills. The wind whipped by, making the heavy flags on the hotel façade pop and snap. There was a strange-looking building across the street—reddish stone and curving walls—and rising up into the darkness beyond it was a massive stone church.
I realized where I was. This was Nob Hill. The hotel was the Fairmont San Francisco—one of the oldest and most luxurious hotels in the city—and the huge church ahead of me was Grace Cathedral.
Something about the cathedral—the solemn nature of its façade, or the way its massive stone walls soared up toward the sky—something about it called to me. I crossed the street, wiping the tears from my face, and started walking toward the majestic structure.
The area in front of the Cathedral is a small park, just one square block in size. I followed a path from the street, making my way amongst the cut hedges and the barren trees, their naked branches tearing the wind into a mournful moaning sound. A concrete fountain, ringed with benches, marked the center of the park. I picked a bench with a view of the Cathedral, and then I sat down and tried to pull myself together.
