by Dish Tillman
She laughed at the ridiculousness of it and wondered how Mrs. Milliken would react if she were facing a real problem—like, having to decide between two possible futures, one of which would uproot her and take her to the other side of the country, and the other of which was completely blank and uncertain.
Yeah, Loni would take rubber bands over that any day.
She had breakfast at the little French café on King Street—an omelet, a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a slice of baguette with two tabs of butter, which was one more than she usually allowed herself, but it felt like a morning to indulge. She wanted to avoid poetry because it reminded her too much of the decision facing her, so instead she flipped through magazines on her e-reader. When those began to bore her, she played Scrabble against the computer brain. She lost by a hair, which put her in a bit of a snit, so she left the café feeling worse than when she had arrived.
The sun was still lurking behind an iron wall of clouds, but that at least kept it from being too hot at midday. Loni strolled around Briscoll Park, trying to see the world in a grain of sand, but all she kept seeing were moms on cell phones ignoring screaming kids and dogs taking dumps under bushes. It would have been hard to find eternity in any of that. And she realized that at the back of her mind was Byron. She wasn’t going to really be able to break through to a better mood until she at least knew what he was thinking right then. So she took out her own phone and listened to his voice mail.
“Hey, Loni—it’s me. Sorry about last night. Million things to get done before moving, it’s obviously deranging me a little. Give me a shout. Let’s talk through whatever’s still holding you back. Right. Later.”
Well, that was pretty civilized. She smiled. The residual rancor and resentment of the night before seemed to dissipate like vapor. Byron. What a big goof. She should’ve known his panicky call trying to force her to decide had just been a nervous tic. She’d seen him go down that rabbit hole so many times. Obligations would pile up and he’d snap—become frantic and gibbering, running around like a chicken with its head chopped off. Then a few hours later he’d be over it and even laugh at himself.
He really was a sweetheart. But if that was the case, what was the thing holding her back? He’d been her friend and protector, her mentor and advisor, for so many years. He believed in her, he encouraged her, he celebrated all her successes with genuine happiness for her. Why wouldn’t she want to continue that?
She didn’t feel suffocated. That wasn’t it. Just the opposite. She was a little bit afraid of being left on her own. Maybe that was why—because she should be left on her own then. Maybe she depended on Byron too much. But no, that wasn’t it, either. She was only twenty-one. There was plenty of time to establish herself as her own woman. Byron could help her secure a firmer footing for that.
So…why?
And then, a bit of sun dribbled out from behind a bruise-colored cloud, and she knew. In fact, she realized that on some subconscious level she’d always known but hadn’t allowed herself to admit it.
There had been a few incidents—two, really, plus a few near-misses—during her years as Byron’s protégé, when things between them had gotten a little out of hand. A couple of parties where too many drinks were downed, and they ended up in a corner somewhere, locked together in crazy face-mashing. Byron had always called it off; he had always been the one to say, “All right, hold on—no, no, let’s just leave it right there,” because it was crossing a line. He was a teacher, and she was his student. Both times he’d been the responsible one who’d prevented it from going any further.
But now they weren’t teacher and student anymore. If she went with Byron, she’d be his TA. They’d both be staff. And she knew—she’d always had a sense—that those inebriated snogging sessions had meant much more to him than they had to her. She’d just been acting out, letting go of her inhibitions. She’d done the same thing many times before, with other guys. Those times, it had happened to be Byron. Hadn’t meant a thing.
She knew he couldn’t say the same. Sometimes, the way he looked at her—the things he said to her, before he caught himself…
Well, all right then. That was what was stopping her. That was what was keeping her from making this decision. It wasn’t about her career; it was about her personal life. She knew if she went to California with Byron, she’d be going not just as his TA but as his lover. Maybe not immediately, but it was inevitable. She wouldn’t know anyone else out there, she’d depend utterly on him, and though he wouldn’t ever press his advantage, she’d feel grateful to him. Indebted. Eventually she’d give him what he wanted. Of course she would.
This was all very clarifying. And she felt she was being very adult in facing it so squarely. It seemed to her that running away from this relationship would be the wrong thing to do. She liked Byron. She even loved him, in a way—though not in any way that might be considered romantic. He was sweet, and she was comfortable with him. Hadn’t she even said, if he were only her age, he’d be the ideal guy for her? If her future depended on going to this next level, why not? It wouldn’t be forever. And it would give her the time and the confidence to figure out where she could go from there.
She rounded the corner of her block with new determination. She’d figured it out. She’d decided what to do. She was going to St. Nazarius with Byron.
She was almost exhilarated as she turned up the walk to her apartment building. But then she stopped dead.
There was someone by the door—seated on the stoop.
Someone holding a slightly drooping rose.
Shay Dayton.
CHAPTER 7
After a seemingly interminable hour of shopping with Pernita that had felt like a year-long sentence he’d had to serve for unspecified crimes, Shay now had his place deliciously to himself. Pernita had been too eager to unwrap, spread out, and gloat over her new purchases to want to spend any more time in Shay’s flea-trap of an apartment.
He tossed the bag containing the roach motels on his kitchen counter, then went to his couch and fell onto it backward, like a tree some logger had just cut down. It actually jumped back a whole inch and a half when he landed on it. He settled into the cushions, determined to grab himself a nice, restorative nap. It was, after all, not quite twelve hours since he’d taken his final bows on the stage at Club Uncumber. And then there’d been the party after, and he had no idea how late that had gone on. His memories of it were increasingly wispy, the further he delved into them.
His only certainty was that, had Pernita not burst in on him that morning and forcibly pulled him out into the rude, noisy, indecently brightly lit world, he’d still be asleep. He meant to make up for that injustice by slipping back into slumber right now. He’d worked hard the night before and played hard afterward. Now he needed to sleep hard to properly recover. But the morning had unsettled him. He’d been sullen and uncommunicative during the entire shopping expedition, barely managing to snort single-syllable responses to any question Pernita asked, but he’d been there all the same. He’d followed her to four stores in succession, sat and waited while she tried things on, and carried her shopping bags for her. It was pitiful. She snapped her fingers, and he jumped to attention. Just as he had this morning when she’d announced she was outside his front door. He’d nearly twisted an ankle vaulting out of bed to greet her.
So his snarling, frowning, and general surliness were pretty much irrelevant, as they fell on deaf ears. Pernita couldn’t have been more oblivious to his sulking as she went on happily talking a blue streak, buffeting him with endless stories about her high-society friends and their utter unworthiness to be in her presence unless it was to kneel before her as her servants. When they’d parted, Pernita had seemed to swell in stature, to embody nothing less than vitality and life-energy—while Shay had felt diminished, like a balloon that had been left hanging overnight, withering to half its size.
She was, he realized, allowing him to treat her rudely, because she knew it was
harmless. She knew it was no more than infantile posturing. He was hers, and she could do whatever she wanted with him. But why did he allow it? Of course he feared the implicit threat she always dangled before him: that if she were ever not 100 percent satisfied with how he treated her, she’d complain to Daddy, and then Halbert Hasque would come to his daughter’s rescue by dropping the band she’d convinced him to sign in the first place.
But would he really? Hasque had spent a considerable amount of time and money putting together this national tour with Overlords as the opening act. He wouldn’t just replace them at the drop of a hat…would he? Based on no more than a bit of whining from his spoiled daughter? He’d have to be a better businessman than that, to get where he was today.
And yet…Shay wouldn’t risk it. He didn’t dare. He still wasn’t quite certain how Pernita had so completely wrapped him around her finger without him ever realizing she was doing it, but he knew she had to have had some pretty tremendous practice at that kind of thing, and he guessed Daddy was her first big conquest. He showered her with extravagant gifts, gave her complete freedom to go wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted, with whomever she wanted, and picked up the pieces afterward when (as was often the case) something interesting happened along the way.
Shay’s only safe plan of action was to keep Pernita happy long enough for Overlords to get well into the tour and establish themselves as a powerhouse brand. Then he could afford to cut the cord, and if Pernita ran to Daddy and cried about the horrible rock star who’d done her wrong, Hasque would have to weigh that against the earnings Overlords was raking in for him.
That was, of course, presuming Overlords did hit it big.
Though if they didn’t, that solved his problem, too. If Halbert Hasque couldn’t make them into superstars, then Shay wouldn’t need Halbert Hasque anymore and he could stop playing Pernita’s games. But he wasn’t going to let that kind of thinking poison his hopes. He believed in Overlords of Loneliness, and he was determined to make America believe in them, too. This was his chance—possible his only chance—and he absolutely had to make it work.
In the meantime, he’d do whatever he could to cultivate pockets in his life where he could be himself—places where Pernita’s influence couldn’t be felt. Fortunately, music was one of them. Pernita professed to be a fan of the band, but she seemed curiously uninterested in their actual material. Shay thanked God for that, imagining the hell his life would be if, for instance, Pernita wanted to collaborate with him on songwriting. And by “collaborate,” of course, she’d mean do it all herself and then validate it by adding his name.
Thinking about songwriting and about private pockets of his life, his mind turned to Loni. She’d actually unnerved him with her critique of his abilities. He’d felt stripped naked when she’d done that, and not in the good way. It was like all his innermost insecurities about his talents—the ones he’d learned to bury deep and ignore—were all suddenly served up to him on a platter. He blushed now to think of the interviews he’d given in the local press, where he’d said he found songwriting “easy” and “as natural as breathing.” Loni would snort in derision at that, no doubt. In her opinion, of course it was easy for him, because he wasn’t trying to do anything but the bare minimum. Just produce tunes with a couple of hooks and a smattering of commercial appeal. And the music wasn’t even his; it was Baby’s and Jimmy’s. He was just the lyricist. Which meant he wasn’t an artist; he was merely a tradesman.
He rolled over on the couch, but a new position didn’t ease his discomfort. He’d been stung by Loni’s assessment of him and wondered why he didn’t despise her for it. He usually didn’t like people who exposed his insecurities and vulnerabilities. But there was something about Loni…he couldn’t put his finger on it. She seemed insecure herself, vulnerable even. It was like she was speaking about something she knew firsthand. She intrigued him. “Tell me more,” he’d written to her. And he wanted more.
Remembering the friend request, he found he couldn’t wait to see whether she’d accepted it. He abandoned his nap, got up, and went to his laptop. He checked his Facebook page and there were a number of notifications, mainly from people congratulating him on the previous night’s gig, but no new friends. He checked the status of his request and was astonished to see it had disappeared. Searching for an explanation, he figured maybe he must have missed a confirmation button or something, so he went back to William Blake’s page to try again.
Except he couldn’t get to William Blake’s page. It wasn’t showing up.
Which meant either Loni had shut it down, or…
…or she’d blocked him.
He sat back and stared at the screen.
His jaw hung open.
She’d…she’d blocked him.
Him.
Shay goddamn Dayton.
Nothing like this had ever happened to him. Not since…Jesus. Eighth grade?
His shoulders slumped.
“The bitch,” he said aloud.
But it was a reflex. He should be angry. He wanted to be angry. He wanted Loni to be a bitch. To be the kind of woman so afflicted with a sense of entitlement that there was no man, no anything, on earth that could ever satisfy her. He wanted to be able to slot her into that category, close the lid, and dismiss her. Shove her to the back of his mental shelf and forget about her.
And he did try, for all the good it did him. He went online. He hopped around YouTube, watching videos of people falling off rooftops or car-crash compilations. Over his shoulder, he heard her say, “This is how you honor your talent?”
How had she gotten in his head? How had she done that? He hadn’t spoken to her for more than five minutes.
He plopped back down on the sofa and sighed. He took his phone from his pocket, and before he knew what he was doing, he found himself dialing home.
God, he thought, if anyone ever found out I got sad and called my mommy…
“Hello, sweetheart,” she said as she picked up the phone. “What’s the matter?”
He threw his free hand in the air. “Come on, Ma. I can’t just call to shoot the breeze?”
She laughed. “Just tell me what’s going on. I have to leave in five minutes for my Zumba class.”
“Nothing,” he said. “Had our farewell concert last night.”
“I know, honey, and I heard it went well. They showed some footage on the TV this morning.”
“They did?” He was mildly impressed.
“Just a few seconds. But the man said it was a big hit.” She paused. “Dad and I are so sorry we didn’t come into the city for it.”
“It’s all right,” he said, slouching down. “Not really your scene.”
“Oh, now, you wouldn’t know. You should’ve seen us during the eighties. We were total punks.”
He definitely was not in the mood to have this conversation again. “I know, Ma. Sorry. And yeah, the show went well. But I’m kinda…well, wondering now whether we’re ready for a tour. Whether we’re up for it. We might just be local boys.” He thought of Trina. “And girl.” He thought of Trina again. “Boys.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. What’s brought this on? You’re not usually one for self-doubt.”
He crossed his leg and scratched idly at his instep. “Just…got some feedback that made me think, is all. I know we’re talented…but maybe. I don’t know. Possibly I’ve been coasting. A bit.”
“ ‘Feedback,’ ” she repeated, with meaning. “Meaning, someone didn’t totally entirely worship you the way you want. Probably a girl. Am I getting warm?”
“Ma, that doesn’t make a difference, I just—”
“Definitely a girl.” He could hear her laughing. “Honey, I’m going to remind you of something. Do you remember at your first junior high talent show when you got a standing ovation from the whole auditorium for that song you did from Les Mis?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, scratching his other foot.
“And then two days later in the scho
ol paper there was one letter with a negative review, and you fell into a gloom for an entire week?”
He could feel his face reddened. “It wasn’t a week.”
“It was at least a week. And do you remember what I told you then?”
“Even if I could say yes, you’d tell me anyway.”
“I told you then, and it’s still true, that the problem with you is, you can be in a room filled with a hundred people who adore you and one who doesn’t, and all you’ll be thinking about is how to get that one person to see the light.”
Well, hell. Mom had slam-dunked it there.
“So, how do I get over that?” he asked.
“At your age? Probably too late. You either just learn to live with it. Or…”
“Or what?”
“Or get that person to see the light. Listen, honey, Jess Niklaus just pulled up. She’s my ride.”
“Right. Lay down some righteous Zumba, Ma.”
“Oh, honey, won’t I ever. Love you.”
“Me, too. Bye, Ma.”
He slipped the phone back in his pocket, feeling marginally better even though his mom’s advice wasn’t really practicable. “Just learn to live with it.” That was easy enough to say. It was like just learning to live with a hornet in your house.
And then there was the other alternative. Equally hopeless. There really wasn’t much chance of getting Loni to see the light. She’d thrown up some serious barriers. Walking out on him. Blocking him. Erasing him from her history.
