by Jean Haus
He catches up with me outside, matching my brisk gait.
An uncomfortable silence sits between us, cooling the warm night air. The wall between us bothers me, eats at my conscience as if I did something wrong.
It becomes so uncomfortable that I attempt to make small talk as we walk. “So the album is going good?”
“Yeah,” he responds, hands in pockets and face forward.
“I’m imagining you guys put in twelve hour days.”
“Sometimes more.”
“Whoa, like how much?”
“Fourteen. Fifteen.”
I turn the corner. His one word answers are beginning to grate on my nerves. “Is the label giving you guys creative freedom?”
“Pretty much.”
My teeth clench at his short response. “That’s good. Some labels try to take over and change a band.”
Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t comment, but I continue on. “Think you’ll be able to get the album done during the next recording session?”
“Probably,” he says, his voice sounding robotic.
That’s it. I whip toward him. Calmness gone. “What is your problem?”
“Problem?” Though his hands are in his pockets, he taps his thumbs on the outside of his jeans.
“You’re being a jerk,” I blurt.
His brows lower, and I’m aware it isn’t from the couple scowling at us as they have to split up and go around us. After a shake of his head, he runs a hand through his hair. “You know, I don’t think we can be friends. You’re driving me fucking crazy.”
My head jolts back. “I’m driving you crazy?”
He sighs, but I spin back around and march to my dad’s Range Rover.
As I dig in my pocket for my keys, he comes behind me. “Running away again, April?” he mocks, grabbing me by the arm and turning me toward him.
“Stop it,” I say, trying to tug out of his grip.
He grabs my other arm. “This is part of why you’re making me fucking nuts. Every other thing sets you off.”
“That’s...” I pause, realizing that it is true, though it’s not in the way that he thinks. I’m not going to argue with him. Arguing won’t diminish the gap between us. I sigh. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we can’t be friends.”
He leans closer. Too close. I can smell the whiskey on his breath. And sense the warmth coming off his body. See, under the glow of the streetlight, the dark brown speckles in his eyes. All these things bring memories that I’m constantly trying to suppress. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. April.
He drags me closer, his gaze pained so much that my chest tightens. “That’s the thing. I don’t want to be friends. That’s the other part. I want more. Even though I’m not good enough for you, even though you don’t, I want more.”
Shocked, I blink at him. He wants more? Like a relationship?
The notion of more is sending a stark, cold fear through me as he lowers his head and kisses me hard. His mouth pulsates over mine, driving the fear out of me, driving everything but the sensation of him away. On his tongue, whiskey tastes wonderful. My hands find the firm curve of his chest. His palms slide up and his fingers press into my back. I stand on my tiptoes and let him drink me in like he did the whiskey, only this isn’t a quick shot, it’s a slow, slow sip, that leaves a burn for more.
Laughter from someone on the sidewalk and a, “Hey, get a room!” has Gabe drawing away.
Staring at each other, we’re both breathing hard.
Gabe is the first to break the silence. “I’d say sorry, but I’m not, even if I should be.”
My forehead wrinkles as I try to process the last five minutes but my brain is sluggishly slow.
“Get in your car. Go home.”
“Gabe.” His name comes out of me in a pleading tone.
“Just get in your car and go home. Now.”
“Gab—”
“Before I get in your car with you and fuck you a block from Hollywood’s Sunset Strip, April.”
My stomach flips in eagerness at his words, but his harsh tone has me digging in my pocket for my keys. “You said—”
“Get in your car,” he says sternly.
I move around the front of the car. “I think we need to talk.”
He stiffly nods.
Eyes glued on him, I go around the car. The moment my butt hits the seat, he stalks back toward the Strip.
Mind whirling, breath still harsh, I watch him until he disappears in between the people on the sidewalk, as that cold fear begins to bubble back up at the idea of more. My imagination had never even gone there. I had never truly considered us as a possibility.
But I’m very aware that more with Gabe isn’t a simple more.
It would be everything.
Like no more lies.
Like no more hiding.
Like finally sharing the truth.
Chapter 26
~April~
Fear pounding in my chest, I sit in my car outside Allie’s tattoo shop and watch the upstairs windows. A shadow has passed by a lit window twice, so I know Gabe is inside. Yet I grip the steering wheel and try to dredge up enough courage to get out of the car. It’s been over a week since California. Over a week since he said he wanted more from me. Over a week since he kissed me. But he hasn’t answered any of my calls or my texts.
The car is getting cold, the night darker, and my fear heavier with each passing minute, but still I sit. I think of all the things I need to say. I’ve been thinking all week. Over thinking until my brain and heart ache. Both are going to explode if I don’t get out of this car.
Before I can change my mind, I quietly get out of the car. I keep my tread light on the stairs. I want to surprise him. Or maybe not allow him time to send me away. Or maybe not run away before he knows I’m here. My knock is heavy but quick. Then I hold my breath and wait.
Steps sound. The blind in front of the window shifts. His face appears and his brows rise. We stare at each other through the glass. Fear pounds but I offer the slightest smile. His eyes narrow. Yet the knob turns.
“What are you doing here?” he asks across the crack in the door.
Strong. Tough. Persistent. Like Gabe. That’s me. Right now. For as long as possible. “Obviously by the amount of times I called and texted you, I’d like to talk.”
“You should know by now that talking isn’t going to work.”
I want to agree, then take off, instead I pull out the big guns. “How many times have you barged into my apartment?”
He gives me a long look, then sighs and opens the door. “Fine, but I have to work at seven tomorrow morning.”
I force myself to breeze past him before he changes his mind, even though it’s still early in the evening.
After shutting the door, he leans on the back of it and crosses his arms. “Okay talk.”
Nothing like just getting to the point. I drop my purse on the table and take a deep breath, preparing to confront the elephant in the room that we’ve both been dancing around. Although I’ve rehearsed this in my head multiple times, it comes out as a jumbled mess. “I’m not good at this.” I point a finger at him then me. “I rarely date, and I always assumed…well, at first I thought you pretty much hated me. I couldn’t seem to see past your original dislike of me to realize that you might want—”
“April, this isn’t nec—”
“Just let me finish, please,” I beg because if I stop I won’t be able to continue.
His jaw tightens, but he stays silent.
“And, well, as you know, I’m a bit of a mess.” I bite my bottom lip. “Maybe a huge mess, so much so that I consider myself too screwed up for you.”
He opens his mouth.
I put my palm out.
He shuts his mouth, though his body entire is tense, as if he is holding back words.
“I mean, you’re screwed up too, but not like I am.” I draw in a deep breath. “More than screwed up, I’m…well, I’ve—I’m just really an awful person.” He is
staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Can we sit down?” I say, sliding into a chair. “I—this is hard to explain. I’ve never told anyone, and”—I take another gulp of air—“I need to sit.”
My announcement and erratic behavior gain his full attention. The taut lines of his face change to a soft wonder. Perhaps he is guessing what is coming, though he has no idea how horrible it actually is. He silently moves across the room and sits next me, which feels too close. His gaze and expression are patient, so patient I want to cry because that gaze is probably going to change.
My hands clench together in my lap. “You’ve never asked about my past, about her. Why haven’t you ever asked?”
He shrugs. “People always want to know about me, my dad and shit. I always spit it out. Get it over. So I don’t pry, no matter how much I want to. And I did ask, well I kind of asked that day we walked through the drive thru. You shut down.”
Biting my bottom lip, I want to shut down again. Instead, I release my lip and start anew. “You said you wanted more. I think—no I want more too, but I’m afraid once you know the real me you won’t want more.” I let out rush of air and he tries to grab my clasped hands. I yank them back. “Don’t. Just wait. Just listen.”
He nods slowly, twisting sideways and looping an arm on the back of the chair. He waits, his face devoid of expression.
I rub my temple. “I’m not sure where to start.”
He waits.
I sigh and drop my hand back in my lap. “Back in high school I was different. Different than now and different than the other kids at my private school. I didn’t care what they thought. My whole world was centered around music. I played both the piano and the guitar, but mostly the guitar. I had a band, a retro”—a sad laugh escapes at the word—“nineties grunge band. Most of the time I looked the part, wearing ripped up jeans, flannels, combat boots, and a knit beanie, but they all believed I was the coolest girl around. Probably because I couldn’t have cared less what they thought. Although I didn’t hang with any clicks, everyone knew me. People paid attention to me and respected me. And I knew that, even then I understood how my fellow teens paid homage to my confident-could-not-care-less-attitude.”
Although he appears confused, his countenance is the picture of patience.
“I was completely wrapped up in the band my senior year, using almost all my free time to practice, to write, or to teach them what they didn’t know. So when my step sister—”
He cocks his head at that.
“Yeah, I’ve kind of made a habit of lying. You should be aware of that. Internally, I claim it’s to make things easier on myself, and in a way it is, but your comment about me caring what people think made me realize I’m probably doing it for my image too. If the issue was forced, it seemed less messy, less personal to refer to her as my cousin.” I draw in a deep breath. “Yet we”—my voice cracks and I draw in another breath since it is so hard to talk about Rachel, especially since even remembering her brings on acute guilt and sadness—“were step sisters. Really practically sisters. Our parents married when I was four and she was two. We shared the last name, Tanner, since my mother changed mine to my step-father’s.”
I wipe an escaped tear from my cheek. Other than that, I refuse to give my tears attention. If I do, I won’t make it through this. I will become a sobbing mess, and I don’t want Gabe’s pity. I don’t deserve it. I draw in a deep breath. I started this and I’m going to finish it, no matter how many wounds it opens up.
“At first when she began having problems with some girls in my class bullying her, I offered my support. It started over a boy. Some jock, some football star that the girls in our school treated like some sort of god. He was dating a girl in my class but messing around with my sister. As far as I know, they would text or talk on the phone and even met at a couple of parties. I thought the whole thing was stupid. I told Rachel to quit talking to the guy if he had a girlfriend and ignore the girls, then I talked to the girlfriend, told her it was over and to leave my sister alone. And she did at first.
“Though I loved my sister, I considered her a drama queen and thought that she shouldn’t have messed around with the guy in the first place. Obviously, I didn’t love her enough because a few months later it got worse. The weekend before—before it happened was her weekend at our house. All that weekend, she begged me to do something, just talk to the girls again, try to get them to stop bullying her. She was positive they would listen to me once more. I agreed to talk with them to get her off my back. I wanted to get her out of my room and get back to my music. But I was busy and angry at her. Why did she keep letting this guy—who had a girlfriend—reel her in and use her? At least that’s what I questioned then. Now I realize that she craved, maybe even needed, attention.”
Still sitting sideways in the chair, Gabe rubs the scruff on his jaw.
My lips press together, as though I’m unconsciously trying to stop the next part from coming out. But I’m determined to finish this, finally determined to bare all. “Thursday night of that week, at her mother’s house, she took her own life.” Though there are millions wanting to break free, only one more tear escapes me. I don’t wipe this one away. “Pills. A whole bottle. Right before bed. She simply went to sleep forever.” I look above his head and add, “I never did talk to those girls. I was too damn busy, and too damn angry. Too busy while people were demeaning my sister, calling her slut and cum dumpster and thot at school, on Facebook, even her phone was full of degrading texts. Though I was totally unaware of it before it happened, the girlfriend got all her buddies and then some to attack my sister in retaliation of the rumors going around about my sister and the boy together at some party.”
Gabe turns then leans forward, elbows on his thighs and a hand half covering the frown on his face. I can see the wheels turning in his head, my past making him re-think everything.
“You know,” I say, my tone flat and my anger at myself renewed. “I had to look up some of that awful stuff. Like a thot is some ridiculous slang for a ho, as if ho do isn’t misogynistic enough.” I finally wipe at a cheek with my knuckles. “Of course, I was furious with those girls, even sucker punched the girlfriend the day I returned to school, but in time, I realized I was to blame just as much as them. In fact, I was worse. She was my sister, and stuck in my selfish bubble of music love and angry over her actions, I let them torment her to death.” I draw in a shaky breath. “And you know, looking back, Rachel was probably bi-polar or something since she fluctuated between super happy and depressed from about the age of twelve. But she was never diagnosed. Had she been, I may have listened better. As if someone has to be diagnosed with a disorder to listen to them,” I say in a sardonic tone, wishing as always that I could go back and time and do something, anything different.
He leans forward more and sets his palms on my knees. “April,” he says in soft, pacifying tone. “You made a mistake, a terrible mistake. And though you believe it, your intervention may not have changed anything, and you were young, shit, still in high school.”
Instantly furious, I jump up, knocking my chair over. “Don’t say that! My age does not vindicate my selfishness! Don’t you think I’ve tried that excuse? It doesn’t work!” My arm furiously slashes the air. “She’s gone and I didn’t do anything to stop it!” My chest rises in deep breaths as if I’d been running. “I just sat in my room tinkering over fucking notes while disgusting words drilled holes in her heart.”
He stares at me for several long seconds, as I tremble with indignation aimed at myself, then he slowly sits back against the chair, crossing his arms. “You’re right. You screwed up. Big time. You should never play music again, should become a counselor, and help those in need like you didn’t your sister.” His eyes shoot exasperation at me. “Guilt should drive you to sacrifice your life as compensation for such a mistake.” He drops his hand, smacking his jean-clad thigh. “Besides, that is the only way to help others, especially considering your talent, it’s the best way
.” A hard sarcasm laces his tone.
A despondent laugh bursts from me. “You think I gave up music? You think it’s possible for me to be that good? That selfless?” A harder, cackling laugh escapes me. “I want to play. Every. Single. Day.” I pick the chair off the floor and plop onto it. “I can’t. At first, after she was gone, I wallowed in depression for months. Eventually I picked up my guitar, and the sound was flat, emotionless, technical, precise crap. I tried again and again but it was no good. I’d lost my soul and my music.” I let out a harsh breath, deflating in my chair, feeling worn and broken. “Now, I’m trying to get one half back. The music is gone.”
He rises slowly, then stands in front of me. Dread welling up within me, I watch him with lifeless eyes, but suddenly he’s kneeling in front of me. “It’s not gone.” His fingers lightly tap the center of my chest. “It’s just locked in here by grief and pain and guilt. And your soul is there too, though weary and full of shame, I’ve seen the beauty of it several times.”
I grasp the hand pressed to my chest, probably squeezing it too hard. “Why are you arguing with me? Aren’t you repulsed? Why aren’t you kicking me out right now?”
His slight smile is sad. “I’ve made mistakes. A life of them. I’ve felt shame—”
“It’s not the same if others make you feel that way,” I whisper.
He nods. “Sometimes it was others, and sometimes it was my doing, enough that I’ve grown tough as nails to the world, wearing a chip on my shoulder that like an ass I can’t always break past. I’ve done things…gotten so angry…physically hurt people.” Staring at our hands clasped together, he shakes his head. “I have no right to judge you.” He wipes the wetness from my cheeks that I wasn’t aware of. “There was a time when I thought you were perfect, cold, untouchable. And while I wish with every cell in my body that your sister was still here, the person I believed you were isn’t someone who could ever want or understand someone like me.” He presses both our hands to the center of my chest. “But this person is.”
