A Cruel Kind of Beautiful

by Michelle Hazen

  I can’t stand the hurt vibrating out of his voice, but I don’t know how to answer. I don’t even know if there is an answer. I cross my arms over my thin shirt, my nipples uncomfortably tight from the wintery air.

  He drops my messenger bag and boots, and holds my jacket out between us. It feels wrong to take it, but he doesn’t drop his hand, so finally I have to. I keep my head down as I thread one arm into it, then the other.

  Jacob drops his hands onto his hips, then turns around. Under his shirt, his back is stiff. My heart jumps. Is he leaving?

  “I want to ask you what’s wrong.” He turns back to face me. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? No matter what I do, you’re just going to keep running.”

  “I just—” I don’t finish the sentence, because I don’t know what to say. I just know that he and Maya will need so much more from me than I thought, and I don’t know if I can be that and stay true to myself, too. But Christ, I don’t want to lose him.

  I glance away, down the long line of identical apartment doors. Behind me, there’s nothing but a cheap iron railing and a long fall to the relentless pavement below. Right now, it feels all too precarious.

  “This is why I didn’t tell you about Maya.” He throws his arms out to the sides. “I knew it. I damn well knew you wouldn’t want me enough to stick around after that.”

  “It’s not that you’re not enough.” The words explode out of me, my eyes flying up to his face now. He doesn’t even look like himself. His jaw is knotted, his brows clamped low over his eyes and lines of pain ricocheting out into his temples. There’s still a smear of engine grease on his forehead where he shoved a hand back through his hair before he washed up. I want to touch it, like a reminder of the kiss he gave me this morning.

  I don’t get the chance because in an instant he surges forward and I’m caged between him and the railing. He’s big in a way he’s never seemed before, his wide shoulders practically snarling down at me. My bare toes curl, scraping against the rough, cold cement.

  “No,” he snaps. “It’s not, is it? Jesus, Jera, I had to convince you your music was good enough that another record label would want it, or you would have just signed that shitty deal and been grateful.” A sound comes out of him like a cough of disbelief.

  “Yeah, and that’s worked out so fucking great, hasn’t it?” I plant both hands in his chest and shove. “Now we’re back to being a piddly little local band getting excited because we’ve got three gigs a month when we could have been recording a real album. I bet that’s what you wanted all along, isn’t it? For me to turn them down so I wouldn’t get famous and leave you behind.” I throw the words at him, because he hasn’t backed off an inch and I can’t breathe.

  He doesn’t even blink at my accusation. “It’s been a week. Are you going to give up on your dreams because it’s been a week and you don’t have a new record label yet?”

  I shove him again, using all my strength this time, and he doesn’t move. Nerves thrill through my chest. I’ve never until this moment been reminded that he’s six foot two inches of solid muscle and I can’t make him do a damned thing he doesn’t want to.

  He ducks his head until he’s right in my face, eyes boring into mine. “It’s not me you don’t have any faith in, it’s you. You don’t believe I’ll want you unless our sex life is perfect, I doubt you listened to a thing I said today about Maya being my responsibility, not yours, and you’re never going to stick around long enough for me to prove any of that, are you?”

  He cocks his head, and for the first time since he showed up, I glimpse a familiar tenderness beneath the pain and anger turning his brown eyes cold.

  “Where does all that doubt come from, Jera, huh? Is this all seriously about your ex? Because he sounded like an asshole, but I’m really starting to get curious about who gave up first. Something tells me it might not have been him.”

  I gape at him. “Screw you.” I duck under his arm and spin away. He turns with me, but he doesn’t stop me this time. Something about how all he’s doing is watching makes me pause instead of fleeing into Danny’s apartment.

  “I love you, Jera.” His voice is soft now, so I can hear the thousands of complicated things contained in three uncomplicated words, and every bit of the pain that shadows the joy. “So much that I trust you not just with my heart, but with Maya’s.” He takes a step toward the stairs. “But if you’re not capable of doing the same, please don’t call me again.”

  Chapter 26: An Internet Education

  I do a hundred things after Jacob leaves me. I get rich and famous and super publicly married to a gorgeous philanthropist just to prove him wrong. I have twenty kids, and people write books about my parenting because I’m such an amazing mom. I go inside and punch Tiki in her stupid nose.

  I set my boots and my messenger bag on fire, because they were the last things Jacob touched, when he was busy not touching me.

  I don’t watch him drive away.

  A thousand times, I don’t watch him drive away. And a million times, I do.

  In my head, I do a lot of things. But the only thing that matters is the thing I don’t do. Because when he leaves, I don’t stop him.

  DAYS GO BY. I GET DRUNK with Danny, I play my drums until I fall asleep in my garage, I go to class like it’s a normal week. Nothing helps. With every second that passes, the Jacob-shaped hole in my life looms larger.

  I can’t lose him. The words repeat in every heartbeat, the helplessness of them speeding my pulse until it gallops night and day like it’s in a race with no finish line.

  And yet I know if I can’t give up, the only other choice is to do the thing that scares me most. I have to try and be a better person, one good enough to be trusted with a child. I don’t know if I can do that and still be the me I’ve come to like in the last year, but as Danny said, you don’t get to know the answer before you ask the question.

  So I do what I know how to do: research. I start by reading articles about kids. What they eat, what they do. What you need to do for them.

  I was an only child, and I’ve never even done any babysitting, so I’m pretty much starting at ground zero. I research everything from developmental stages to blogs about bad parenting. I watch YouTube videos of how to install a car seat and do the Heimlich on a baby. I stop going to class and days disappear into my ever-lengthening search history.

  I didn’t believe Jacob would really like me if I was only myself, but he did. He made dating fun instead of anxiety-producing, and I bet he’s just as sweet and playful with Maya. I can picture him reading her stories, doing voices for all the different characters, even the girl ones. He’s totally the kind of dad who would make a game out of diaper changing, rather than the kind yelling at his kids to be quiet in the store. Except wait, do two-year-olds still wear diapers?

  I go back to my laptop to find out, and every fact I learn leads to five more I need to know. It’s more than a little terrifying. If Jacob would give me one more chance, though, I’d do it. He knows me, and he said he trusted me with Maya anyway. In a way, he proved it the moment he told me about her.

  But I know if I try this, there’s a chance—a big one—that I’ll fuck it up, and Jacob will look at me with pain and anger in those gentle brown eyes. That maybe, even if I give it all I’ve got, there will come a day when he doesn’t want to look at me anymore.

  That maybe, that day has already come.

  WHEN I FINALLY WORK myself up to putting a phone on my knees instead of a laptop, my mouth is oatmeal-flour dry. My heart is running sprints up Mt. Kilimanjaro even though my body got left behind on the couch, and just as I’m wondering if I have any of Granna’s Nitro pills left around, the phone starts to ring.

  I fumble it onto the floor, and my clumsy fingers have already accepted the call by the time I turn the screen back to face me and see Dad’s name on the screen instead of Jacob’s.

  Big fucking surprise, and it should not hurt this much. Jacob Tate is a man who keeps his promise
s, and he promised me he wouldn’t call me again. Or implied it heavily. Jesus, he’s so trustworthy even his implications are ironbound.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “You could sound more excited, you know. There are orphaned kids all over the world that don’t even have dads.”

  “Everybody has a dad, Dad. Even if they’re of the test-tube-and-turkey-baster variety.” Do sperm donor recipients still use turkey basters? Maybe I should look into it. My researching muscles are all warmed up, stretched out, and ready to rock. My calling-Jacob muscles, on the other hand, are completely atrophied.

  I take a breath. That’s doubt talking. Doubt can go take a leap off the Go Fuck Yourself Bridge, because it hasn’t done me a smidgeon of good lately.

  “Jera, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes.” Or at least, I should be. Things for my band have really been looking up this week, but as much as I love The Red Letters, that good news hasn’t put a dent in the darkness that lives in the pit of my stomach now.

  “You know, I understand not listening to your dad when he’s telling you to empty the dishwasher, or get a job, or stop dating some dreamy guy who has purple hair and wants to take you to freshman prom in a Mustang with an anarchy symbol sprayed on the side. But when your dad is telling you there’s an offer in from Cornerstone International Records, you’d think you’d grow a set of ears at that point.”

  My eyes bug. “Cornerstone? Did you say Cornerstone?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I might have said you should eat your broccoli. Or make your bed. Maybe I said you should call your father and tell him what a great job he did raising you, even though you cried a whole Mississippi worth of tears about how he made you practice the guitar and the piano all the time, because he knew someday you’d be a famous musician.”

  I leap off the couch and whip in a circle, then two. “Shit! Shit, oh my God.”

  “Let’s hope you can come up with more lyrics than that, sweetheart, because they’re wanting that album in the can by mid-January, and we’ve still got negotiations to get through.” He pauses. “If Cornerstone’s your final answer. I know they were your first choice, but now that they’re on the hook, feel free to make ‘em squirm a little bit. Ask the hard questions. We’ve got some Ivy League safety schools lined up here, Jera, so don’t rush it. I can get that album deadline pushed back, no problem.”

  I shake my head, tingling from head to toe. I know it’s wrong to be so excited when everything else in my life is total shit, but I can’t even help myself right now. Cornerstone is the label for Ground Delay, and Halcyon, and God, they even work with Sintoxicated, and that album’s been on repeat in my car for so long it might be stuck like that. “See!” I burst out. “I told you so. You totally freaked out when I wouldn’t sign with Amp but Cornerstone is the fourth call we’ve gotten this week.”

  He snorts. “I did not ‘totally freak out.’ I was just worried if I didn’t hurry, you’d give up.”

  “Give up? On music? Are you crazy?”

  “No, on record labels. Sometimes, you take things kind of hard, kiddo. I didn’t want you to give up on finding the right company just because Amp turned out to be a bunch of superficial suits. And I really didn’t want your band to go through the crap mine did, trying to go it on our own. I never doubted you could hook a better label—you’re twice the musician I ever was.”

  I blink, staring at the walls of a living room I don’t even really see. “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Come on, Jera. You ate a brussel sprout when you were four and hated it so much that you claimed you were allergic to vegetables until fifth grade. I call that taking things a little hard.”

  I barely even hear the complaint. All this time, he thought I was...better than his band? I swallow. Maybe I’ve been watching so hard for disapproval that I forgot to watch for other things, too. Good things.

  I press my fist into my lips and blink back tears. “I love you, Dad.”

  “What was that?”

  I drop my hand. “You were right. I love you for making me eat broccoli, and practice the piano, and for letting me go to the prom with Jesse, even though you blackmailed me with pictures of his ugly car for years after we broke up. I love you for believing in my band. And I really, really love you for getting me this record deal but right now I have to go.”

  He harrumphs. “What, you think just because you say nice stuff, you can blow me off? Enough with you. I’m calling Cornerstone and letting them know you’ve decided to go into telemarketing instead, and I’m not even telling you the brilliant idea they pitched for re-mixing ‘Curbside Cowboy.’”

  My grin stretches my face so much it hurts, and I’m not sure if that’s because it’s been so long since I’ve smiled, or just because it’s a record deal grin instead of a regular one. “You’re so not. You’d dress up in my clothes and play the drums yourself before you’d turn down this deal.”

  “Nah, I’d do it in my own clothes. I’d just change the name of the band first.”

  “I love you.” I’m practically vibrating in place now. Maybe telling Jacob he was right about the record labels will help my case. Regardless, I’m not about to give up. Not this time. “I’ll call you later, I promise.”

  Dad scoffs. “Who needs you? I’m going to call Jax. Now that boy knows how to have an appropriate reaction to the record deal of a lifetime.”

  “He so does. Just remember I love you more. Besides, Jax isn’t the one whose name is going to make all the industry rags reminisce fondly about your band’s old hits.” If Cornerstone wants us, there’s no doubt. My band is good enough that having Dad’s name associated with it is no longer a raised eyebrow: it’s proof that talent runs in our family.

  “That was just fighting dirty, Miss McKnight.”

  Now it’s my turn to snort. “Pot, meet Kettle. If you hadn’t leapt off the high road and straight into the gutter with the publicity spin after we rejected Amp, Cornerstone would have never heard of us, and we both know it.”

  I hang up. There’s something I need to do before I can convince myself of all the reasons it’s a bad idea. Before wasting another minute, I dial Jacob.

  Chapter 27: This is Not A Test

  When Jacob gets out of his car in front of the zoo, I’m not nervous. Okay, I am nervous, but I’m also fully braced with the knowledge that nothing on earth can match the awkwardness of our conversation when I called to ask if I could meet Maya.

  In person.

  As his girlfriend.

  It didn’t help that his voice never softened. That I had to be the first to break each of the arctic-grade silences that descended on the line. That the anxiety of it all made me have to pee like crazy and after we made arrangements for where and how to meet, I hung up and rushed to the bathroom only to realize I’d never even told him about Cornerstone Records.

  I shift my weight, half hidden behind the Oregon Zoo sign as I watch him open the back door of his Ford to get Maya out of her car seat. I can’t tell him today. It’s so not the time or place. But the news just keeps getting better. I was on the phone with my new A&R guy until midnight last night, talking ideas for our demo songs that had me messing around on Garage Band with one hand while I held my phone with the other, because I couldn’t wait until I got into a studio to try them out. If this is how good Cornerstone’s A&R department is, what must their producers be like?

  Belatedly, I realize I’m standing here like a tourist. What a real step-girlfriend would do is help out. Hitching my messenger bag up onto my shoulder, I step into the street and a horn blares. I startle, staring at the Dodge that nearly had me as a hood ornament, then keep going. Jacob didn’t even look up. Granted, he’s a few parking spots away, so it’s not like he knew that horn was the sound of me being a moron, but still.

  Cold rakes down my body at the idea that right now, we are terrifyingly close to being in a world where I could die, and he wouldn’t even know. For the last seven days of my un-showered, Pop-Tart-fueled internet res
earching frenzy, all Jacob knew was that I hadn’t called. That I might never call again. If a Dodge hit me during any of those seven days, he would have thought I abandoned him because I chose to. He would never have known how hard I was trying to make it back to him.

  I square my shoulders and stride between cars, keeping a sharp eye out for any moving ones this time. All I have to do to ace this first test is impress a toddler. They like soap bubbles and plastic ponies. How hard can it be?

  Arriving at Jacob’s side, I say, “Here, let me help.” I wiggle past him to get Maya out of the car seat. I actually researched a lot of different models of these online, and his is not the highest safety rating on the market. I’m trying to decide on the best way to inform him of that fact when I realize all the straps are already undone. I pull back, my arms getting tangled with Jacob’s as Maya goes to climb out of her car seat, trips over my wrist, and goes face-first into the back of the seat.

  She sucks in a breath, I freeze, and then she begins to wail.

  Jacob mutters something under his breath as he gathers her up. If this were Harry Potter, it’d probably be a spell to light my face on fire.

  “Sh—” I cut myself off just in time. “I’m sorry. Shoot, I’m so sorry.” I reach over to pat Maya’s little back, which arches stiffly as she wails.

  “Hey, hey,” Jacob murmurs, rocking her. “Hey now, you’re okay.” He digs a tissue out of his pocket and wipes her little nose.

  Oh my gosh, kids can’t even blow their own noses. I stuff my hands into my pockets, standing there uselessly. How do any of them make it to adulthood when they might suffocate to death from the common cold?

  “Hi, Maya,” I say, but it comes out sounding like a question. According to my research, kids can hear high-pitched sounds better, so I try that. “Hi, Maya!” I chirp.

  She buries her face in Jacob’s neck. Wait, was that study about newborns or toddlers? Because even to my untrained ear, I sound like a crazy person.