“Gavin, is everything okay?”
“My father is coming to town, gather the troops, sound the alarm.”
I tried for a joke, “He sounds lovely?”
Gavin stood and tossed a paper towel at the trashcan and missed. “He’s not. He didn’t get where he is by being lovely as you naively put it. He got there by beating everyone to the point of insanity.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”
He looked straight ahead at the far wall. “I have a lot to do after my little hiatus here, so I’ll be out of the picture for a while.”
“Oh. Um, sure. I—”
“Can you get an Uber home?” He picked up his phone and swiped the screen.
Heat crawled up my cheeks. “Of course.” I spun on my heels and gathered my things to go. Tears threatened to spill over, but I held them back until I got through the front door with barely a look from Gavin and not a kiss, because: dick, apparently.
And like a lost little girl I cried in the backseat of a stranger’s car.
Sixty-One
Mary
There was nothing anyone could say to dissuade Mary from marrying Darnley. She loved him. He was tall. Handsome.
Everyone warned her he was an ass, that he was using her for the crown of Scotland. She understood this, but still. She carried on. And then it was nothing but war and conspiracy and murder. Because that’s what happens when you lose your mind in love. All out war.
Sixty-Two
Sid
This was what I wondered, would Mary’s mother have advised Mary against marrying her first cousin with the asinine attitude?
My guess was probably, but guess what? Dead.
If she hadn’t been dead though, would Mary have listened?
Do daughters ever listen? I tried to think back on my Mom’s advice through the years. She was watching me from a unique position—the ultimate, full-life, armchair quarterback. She dated. She had lovers. She had a big big love. We talked about it. She advised me, and her advice was blunt, funny, and usually good. I did listen. But the stakes weren’t very high.
And now that I had big questions, she wasn’t around.
What would her advice be?
I had a friend whose mom married the first man she dated, others, like mine, who played the field, learned the rules, rigged the game, and scored (to use way too many sports cliches) a lot.
Both types of mother were in a unique position to give advice. The Long Loyal Mom might describe the qualities that made a man a Long Loving Husband, how to secure their loyalty, how to make it through the tough times and enter old age after a whole life with one person. That would be good advice.
The other type of mom could show a daughter how to size them up, try them on, enjoy the ride, and gracefully move on. More good advice.
But now that mom wasn’t here to advise, I realized that I never really listened. Here’s what sucks about daughters, they don’t want to know.
I suppose each generation wants to learn it all over differently.
But with each generation it’s the same.
Piles of broken hearts and the Ache dropping us to the ground.
And so the Moms watched, or the Moms complained. Or in the case of Teddy and me, they urged. They prompted. They planned. And what did it get them?
Nothing good.
Sixty-Three
Sid (Two years earlier)
“Mom, did you have a lot of lovers before you met Dad?”
She dropped her dish towel. “Why?”
“Because Zoe told me her parents met in high school. Young high school. And that they had only been with each other. Her parents would freak if she was sleeping with someone. You and Dad let Cameron stay over, so I assumed . . .”
She said, “You said you loved Cameron, and that was good enough for me. I told your father that as a young woman you get to pick who you love, and that we needed to trust your choices. You’re welcome for that, by the way.”
I giggled. “Thank you.”
“As for my lovers, I had enough. Enough to have fun and enough to know when I met your dad that he was right for me.”
“That’s not really a number.”
“I’m not giving you a number because you’ll either think I’ve made too many conquests or too few, and when you compare them to your own, you might think I’m lacking or you’re lacking. Counting lovers is like counting the years, you can keep it to yourself.”
I smiled. Mom was always blunt and to the point.
I asked, “So you recommend lying?”
“Not what I’m saying at all. You don’t list your life. Definitely don’t list your loves. Sleeping with someone you love is fun and amazing and when it’s no longer fun and amazing find someone else and love them even better. It doesn’t matter how many or how few. It matters is your heart in it, is it the big kind of love, and if you can say yes, that’s great. Do that. Do it a lot. Do it every chance you get.”
You might wonder why a woman with such good advice would just go and die. I agree, I wonder it too.
Sixty-Four
Texts
Sid of the Southbay are you there?
yes.
I’m sorry about today.
My father makes me crazy.
Will you forgive a bloke?
Let me make it up to you?
Not sure.
That was super uncool.
I’ve been in meetings and rehearsals all day
I could use some Sid time.
I miss you.
I have to do it all over tomorrow.
Come over.
I really will make it up to you.
Okay.
I’ll pick you up in half an hour.
Sixty-Five
Sid
I spent the night again. Gavin was smooth and attentive and the next morning he kissed me when I left to Uber home. He had to work again, with his father. He didn’t text for three more days.
Sixty-Six
Mary
Every death in her life caused a major life calamity.
Her father died—she became a baby Queen.
Her future father-in-law died—she was married young to a child King.
He died.
Her mother died.
She had to move back to Scotland.
Her closest advisor was murdered in front of her (probably by her husband).
Her husband was murdered—she was blamed.
She never got to see her baby again.
Imagine that. To be young, twenty something, and you never get to see your child again. For your whole life.
It can be a cruel world sometimes to have those you love taken away.
Sixty-Seven
Teddy
I missed Sid. Terribly. I missed her smile and her laugh and the way she folded into my car and took over the radio and sang along loudly. When she sang she was always off key, but she loved singing. The words were the best part, she said.
I went to school. I met people. I made friends and my roommate was passable. We surfed all the time. Even when we should have been in class. It’s what surfers do in Santa Barbara. They surf. I’d figure the whole thing out once the waves calmed down.
My friends had a group of girls that hawked them and one was circling me, which was fine. I was free. It was okay to be caught, but I played aloof. I made sure there was someone in between us on the couch. Made sure no plans sounded too date-like. I went back to my apartment alone. I didn’t plan to become a saint, don’t get me wrong, but not that much time had passed. I was only two months into the school year.
I went home for the weekend.
Mom said, “Zoe’s mom said Cameron and the band are having a show. They’re opening for some band that’s on the cusp of greatness. She says it’s Cameron’s big break. Your dad and I wanted to go, but now we have this thing tonight. You should go.”
I was nuking meatloaf for dinner and asked, trying to sound casual, “You think Sid will go?”
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“I don’t know. It would be nice to see her though, huh? You could text her and ask?”
“Nah, I’ll go. It will be good to see everyone.”
I ate dinner with Mom and Dad and then dressed and drove to Hollywood alone.
I passed my car to the valet. I paid the entrance fee for the show and stepped into the dark Fonda Theater. People were packed to the doors. I shoved through the crowd toward the stage where Cameron’s band, the Strange Monikers, were already playing. From the looks of their sweat-covered skin, messed hair, and the cheering of the crowd, I figured they were deep into their set. They sounded epic.
They had been one of the local bands that had been meant for greatness. Cameron’s family was musical, he devoted all his time to writing songs and practicing, and they performed well. This all pained me to say, because this was Cameron. He dated Sid. Had kissed Sid. Had spent the night at Sid’s house. He and I barely tolerated each other’s existence.
I scanned the room, but it was dark. Strobing lights, a crush of people, and when I stood on my toes, the room was a sea of bopping heads, swinging arms, and gleaming phone screens.
I needed to get higher. Along the back wall was a second level balcony, a better vantage place, but climbing up the stairs took an entire song’s length, and I was trying to rush. I figured if Sid was here, she might not stay long after Cameron’s set ended.
My plan was to sidle up and begin a conversation. I had some planned topics, but also felt sure I could come up with something in the moment. This was Sid, I had never ever had a problem talking to Sid. The casual sidle-up was crucial. This was my one chance to see her without asking to see her, something I knew she would refuse.
Why? I still couldn’t explain what had happened.
Just thinking about her face the day she told me to go away—why the hell did she do that?
The Strange Monikers began their traditional last song, a cover of The Pixies, Gigantic. Usually Sid and I sang along with it at the top of our lungs because it was one of my dad’s favorites. Tonight I was singing it to myself. I threaded my way to the center of the balcony and leaned. I concentrated, trying to discern individual people, but there was no way to tell who was who down there. The irony was that I was now too far away. The band was about to stop playing, and I hadn’t found Sid. Once the lights came up, it would take forever to get to the floor to look row by row—casually.
Cameron put down his guitar and waved to the audience, “Next up, Broken Blasters!” Applause and cheering filled the hall. They had done really well.
The lights came up. Every head in the room seemed to look up and around. I searched and searched for her, but she just wasn’t there. I took out my phone and considered texting her; I could probably say something like, “I’m at the show, Cameron’s show. Are you here?” Just make the text sound casual. Or something.
The next band took the stage and started a song that was the best parts of rock meets punk; the lead singer strutted the stage, all full of rage and showmanship. Two girls to my left screamed and pretended to swoon when he climbed onto an amp and backflipped off. I whistled, he was putting on an epic show. After the first song he said, “Hullo, LA! We are Broken Blasters, it’s pleasure to meet you—” The guitar and drums dropped into the next song.
The two girls squealed, “Oh my god, did you hear his accent!”
Cameron used to joke that his career would be made if he had been born in London, and now here he was opening for a Brit. Figured.
Speaking of Cameron, he appeared through the crowd, so I went over. “Great show, man, really great.”
“Thanks.” He took a swig from a bottle.
“Is Sid here?”
Cameron said, “Yeah, she was backstage earlier.” Some girls rushed up and pulled his attention away and I returned to the railing and my search, but not for long because there she was, down in front of the stage, alone. I spun for the stairs, jostled my way down, shoved a path across the expanse of the floor to the front of the stage, aiming where I had seen her last. “Hi Sid.”
She looked startled, “Oh, um . . . Hi, Teddy,” and beautiful. Her blond curls spiraled down. We were both wearing the same color shirt, blue. It seemed important that we were wearing the same color. Like this was meant to happen.
I leaned close to her ear. “I hoped you would be here.”
She yelled something back I couldn’t quite hear, except, “. . . you in school?”
“It’s only a two hour drive,” I yelled, because the music amped up and for a few minutes there was no way she could hear me. So I stood beside her, shoulder to matching shoulder, watching the band which I was thinking was, by the way, awesome. My head bounced along, the singer jumped to the top of the speakers and then did another backflip off and didn’t miss a step or a beat, and the lyrics were good too. I was impressed that this was the league Cameron was in now; the kind of music you’d hear on the radio, and me and Sid, were watching, together.
I moved past wanting to start a conversation and formed a bigger plan.
I missed her too much to accept her verdict anymore. I needed to talk to her and I would, tonight. She was out. She looked great, clear-eyed, almost bouncing. I would ask her to give me or this or us a second chance. For a reset. Like her mother used to say, “It’s time for a do-over. Everyone can use one sometimes.” I figured if anyone needed a do-over it was Sid.
The song ended and in the space between I asked, “Surfing much?”
“No, I haven’t gotten in the water, you?”
“Too much.” Another song cranked up, fast, loud, the lead singer had endless energy. I offered to go to the bar and buy Sid a drink, she said, “No thank you.” So I asked, “Will you be here, when I get back?” She nodded, so I raced to the bar, bought two bottles of water, and headed back to the stage.
Finally after a long set, the band announced their last song. It was a rock anthem and sounded great, loud and fun and destined to end up on the radio. It was just a matter of time. That was one of the coolest parts about shows in LA, you might be listening to the Next Big Thing. People in the audience sang along. I repeated the chorus so I would remember it and look it up tomorrow. When the show was over, I whistled and clapped and smiled at Sid and then I leaned in close to her ear. “You look great by the way.”
She glanced down and blushed and then this happened—
I’m like two inches away from her face when the lead singer jumped from the stage landing in a crouch directly in front of us. He stood with a cocky eyebrow up and an incredulous smile. Then he swaggered up, hooked an arm around Sid’s neck, pulled her forehead to his lips and kissed her there, on the spot between her eyebrows and hairline. Like he owned it. He asked, “Who’s this bloke then?”
Sid’s cheeks bloomed red spots, she was freaking out. “This is Teddy, Teddy this is Gavin.”
Gavin smiled widely, “Teddy? Your nursery school friend? How’d you like the show, Teddy?”
I looked from Sid, the guy’s arm cocked around her neck, almost like a headlock, to Gavin, his face tilted back, leering down his nose. He swigged from a beer.
I said, “It was good.”
Gavin held his bottle up. “Thanks mate, we’ll get along just fine, me and you.”
He turned away from me to Sid and pulled her by the sides of her face up to his, and kissed her, roughly. Then, still holding both sides of her face, looking right into her eyes, he asked, “You liked?”
She nodded. Her eyes cut to me, standing, speechless.
He said, “Wait for me, I’ll finish up in a few minutes. Okay?”
She nodded again. It made me want to go ballistic the way she looked into his face nodding.
The rockstar dude stepped back. “Teddy, a real pleasure meeting you,” and he pushed away through the crowd.
Sid said, “Teddy I . . .”
“Who is—no wait, don’t say anything.” Then incredulous I said, “Seriously?”
Her mouth opened and then closed, th
e bottom rim of her eyes filled with tears.
“Jeez Sid, that sucks.” I turned and shoved my way through the crowd, wanting nothing more than getting out of there, fast.
I stormed to the street corner out front. It was dark, late, but bustling on the street. All lit up and traffic everywhere. I would get my car, go home, but what about her face just then? She was crying, I left Sid crying in a bar.
I stalked back to the club and showed the doorman the stamp on my hand and stepped inside the concert hall. Thinking, Sid wasn’t alone, that guy was probably standing all up against her with his rockstar sneer. Who the hell was he, and how was he with Sid?
I spun and went back to the street corner and jabbed at the crosswalk button. Sid was dating? Dating British rock stars? How did that happen?
I missed the light staring blindly as cars whizzed by in the street.
Sixty-Eight
This is what I knew
Two months ago Sid sent me away.
She had seemed sad and broken but . . .
Now she was with a guy,
Like really with.
Like his arm cocked around her neck with,
like he owned her.
The guy was in a band
Cameron had been in a band.
Sid and band guys.
Standing on that street corner I decided that Sid was fine.
She liked guys who were edgy.
She liked musicians.
She didn’t like me.
Sid and Teddy Page 9
