No, they weren’t meant to be. And she’d known it from the start. He’d soft-soaped her with talk of colours and a fish in a plastic bag, with a princess dress and a gala ball. He’d romanced her with tea-lights and his way of seeing the world, and his hands and his voice, always his voice, no matter its texture, with the words he could say that went straight to her soul and lifted her up, made her world shimmer—until they’d crashed her into darkness.
It wasn’t London’s weather that was depressing. The lack of colour, the chill, the bleak was in her. That’s how being without Damon had made her feel. Like a vital part of her was missing. And that was no way to live, with that threat stalking beside you, making you doubt what you saw, what you heard. Sound was only pure until it told a lie.
Taylor was singing a response to Jamie, had to be, they had to be together. She put her whole self into each phrase, each note, and extended them to Jamie in acknowledgement, in love. They’d waited a long time to find each other and yet they’d been side by side the whole time, never seeing the other clearly, never hearing them.
How did that happen? How did your senses let you get so twisted up and wrong-headed; lead you to be stupid when you should be cautious, still when you should move, passive when you should fight?
Avoid when you should risk.
Taylor and Jamie were taking a risk. Damon had come to fight for her and she’d sent him away.
She needed to get out of here. The song was over, Angus was on the mic, telling a joke, making people laugh, thanking them for coming. Georgia eased out of her corner and threaded her way towards the door. Angus introduced the band. He started with the ring-ins, old friends from uni. Then he threw his arm around Jamie and the room cheered. Sam belted out an unaccompanied solo on his kit and Taylor took a bow.
She’d made it halfway to the door.
“Most of you are regulars so you’ll know Damon, AKA The Voice, Dystopian Conflict’s Captain Vox.” She stopped dead and a man behind her grunted, and physically moved her to the left so he could pass by. She turned to scowl at him and had a clear view of the stage.
Angus said, “You won’t know he’s recovering from throat cancer.” A wave of murmurs rippled through the room, welding Georgia to the spot. “Tonight is his first time back on stage, first time singing again after two lots of surgery and extensive therapy. He’s promised me one song only. Please be generous in welcoming our very dear and dangerous friend, Damon Donovan.”
Applause, whistles, shouts. She watched as Taylor led Damon into the light and he took the mic. Angus crushed him in a hug. Sam kicked up the drumbeat. The piano followed. Train’s Drops of Jupiter. Damon lifted the mic.
She started pushing. She needed out, out. This was a song about discovery and letting go, about hope and loneliness. There were too many people between her and the door.
He said, “This one is for Georgia.” And there was no way out. She was trapped between her heartbeat and her horror. She spun back towards the stage. She couldn’t see him. But she heard him, oh, she heard him. That first stanza of song, his voice achy, reedy. His uncertainty broadcast to the whole room. Then the second, firming up, registering louder, more secure, but still cloudy. She moved against shoulders and backs, around tables. The other instruments filled in, the atmosphere swelling with the sound of strings.
He sang the chorus and his hesitancy disappeared, his voice low but steadying. Her breath seized. Her indecision died. He’d said words like these lyrics in her ear and he’d said them with love, when he knew he was going to send her away, to save her from the worst of him.
It was wrong, dumb, hurtful, selfish.
It was love.
She had to see him, touch him, know him again. She’d find a way to fix it so he learned to trust her always, ask her always to stand with him. And she’d learn to risk, to speak up, to trust him back.
Now she moved towards the stage, but people who’d had tables were standing. She had to weave in and out to keep her eyes on Damon, to see him light up the room. He had his arm flung wide. His head tossed back. There was a line in the song where the music dropped out to let the voice dominate. She held still and the scratchy rawness of his vocals might have turned her into crystal, they shivered up her spine and through her brain.
She would never make it to him, never get to stand in front of him, reach for the back of his hand, let him know she could hear him calling to her. She started pushing.
On stage, Angus backed up against Damon, bass slung low, and they leaned hard against each other. Damon sang a line about best friends sticking up for each other. There wasn’t much of the song left and he’d be finished, leave the stage. She was nowhere near the front of the room and she’d left a trail of elbowed ribs and stepped on toes.
Arms from behind, but not to shove her aside, to hug. “Georgia!” Heather with tears in her eyes. They held on to each other as the crowd picked up the final bridge and sang along, as Damon delivered the last lines and dropped his head in acknowledgment of the applause.
He took his glasses off and swept the audience with a roving glance that knocked the breath out of her. She was incapable of letting him go. She loved him and she would not let either of them make that into a disability.
37: And Beyond
That was harder than he’d thought it might be. And then easier, easier than he had the right to hope it could be. A shaky start, unexpected nerves, a dry mouth, a cough he didn’t need anymore. But the music, the piano, the strings, a rare satisfaction. He couldn’t not open up and let go, test the glue on his wings, and with that song, a prayer that as he let Georgia go she’d find her own way safely. There was a kind of closure in that. A beginning too.
If he could grab hold of it.
He sat on the old couch in the green room and collected himself. A few minutes here with Mel and then he’d go rejoin the world: sit at the bar, listen to the guys, talk to some folk. Maybe fake reluctance if they tried to get him to sing again.
He sipped a hot lemon and honey drink, Heather to thank for it, and tried to make out the song playing. Something pop, sweet. That English dude, Olly Murs, Dear Darling. That wasn’t on the set list and who was singing? He got up and opened the door and Holy Mother of, that was a car crash. He’d heard more musical cat fights. Jesus. He moved out into the bar area, keeping the wall behind him. Angus had mentioned doing requests but not crap karaoke.
A hand to the back of his. Taylor hanging off his shoulder. “Are you hearing this?”
“My ears are bleeding.”
“No, listen, really listen.”
“The band sounds great, you should keep the piano.”
Taylor smashed her head against his arm. He listened.
And every sense heard.
“Who is that up there?”
He asked because it couldn’t possibly be. He just had her forever on his mind. So it couldn’t be. Just a trick his ears were playing. There was no way, and she didn’t sing, except to him in their most private moments, his most cherished ones. But still he knew, he knew with a sense beyond the six, with a shock that made him stagger. “Oh fuck.” She was here and she was dying out there.
He took a step towards the stage. Taylor caught his hand. “Let her finish. She wanted to do this for you. She was here, she heard you sing.”
Her voice was toneless, tuneless, without rhythm. She knew the words but she clipped them short, forgetting to exchange boy for girl where the song needed it. She was out of time and the band played over her, the room had stopped listening, except for those laughing, and all he heard was a fantasy, a second chance.
Blood thumped hot in his chest. What did this mean? Why was she here? Her song was about loss and hurt and trying again.
She was singing and the room was spinning. He held on to Taylor.
“What’s she wearing?”
“She looks great.” It was either Hello Kitty pjs or… “Wearing a sexy dress, her hair up, heels. Sparkly earrings.”
“What
colour’s the dress?” That night she’d helped him at Dalia’s play. Her fantasy dress had been red, all kinds of cut low and daring, but red and elegant, something for her and for him, at the very start of them.
“It’s red.”
“Jesus.”
“Are you okay?”
“No. I don’t understand this.” Georgia sang the last line and the place erupted with catcalls and ironic applause.
“Are you blind? She loves you.”
“I need to… I need.” He couldn’t get enough air. Taylor was gone. He didn’t have his stick. There were too many people here. He needed Mel. He needed Taylor. Why did she leave him?
“Taylor!”
Angus had the mic. He was announcing a new song.
A hand to the back of his, hesitant. Not Taylor.
“Georgia. Oh God, Georgia.”
She was in his arms, she was hugging him, she was sobbing hard.
He took a step, felt for the wall, she came with him. He bundled her into the green room and shut the door. Mel barked, once, a yip of surprise. Georgia started and stepped away.
He caught enough breath to say, “You’re real?”
“You have a dog.”
“Mel.” He tapped his leg and she came. “Hold your hand out.” He heard Mel snuffle Georgia. “Her name is Mel, for Mel Blanc, The Man of a Thousand Voices. Bugs, Daffy, Porky, Barney Rubble, Marvin the…” He shook his head. Vertigo, not enough air, now too much.
“It’s a good name.”
“She’s a good dog. We’re learning each other.” He addressed Mel. “This is Georgia. She’s come a long way to see me. I think.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think.” He wasn’t going to waste words on the dog. “You sang.”
Georgia’s hand to his chest. “No one thought that was singing.”
“You sang for me.”
“You sang for me first. It was beautiful.” She hiccupped, twice. “But I waited to cry, till I could get makeup on your shirt.”
He put his hand over hers. His heart was bongo drum crazy. No engineer could get a level on it. “I made you cry again. I made you cry too many times.”
“You made me feel so many things I didn’t know how to cope with. I still don’t.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“We’re hopelessly messed up.”
He took his hand away, but she didn’t. Her other hand went to his hip. He didn’t know whether to step back or bury himself in her warmth and her fresh freesia skin. Had she come all this way to say goodbye?
He stepped away. “Why are you here?” That came out gruffer than he intended, gruff was his new voice default, but everything was in stark relief, the night, the songs, the way she felt in his arms, the uprising going on in his brain.
“Because I gave part of me to you and I don’t function very well without it.”
“Oh, Jesus.” He pushed a hunk of hair off his forehead. “You… This. You’re not saying goodbye.”
“I bought a red dress. You probably don’t have a clue why that’s important to me. I put my hair up in a thousand pins and I imagined you taking them out one by one, while you whispered in my ear, said things that made my organs melt. I wore these stupid dangly earrings and shoes that hurt. And I did it as much for me as for you. I want the fantasy and I want the reality. I was so scared to come here tonight I nearly walked home again. I want to be with you, but it’s worse than that. I don’t want to be without you and I find that terrifying.”
She spoke fast, she sounded frustrated. He didn’t know how to address the terror in his own chest.
“I remember about the red dress. I asked Taylor what you were wearing.”
All he got from her was a choked breath.
“Talk to me.”
“It’s not about the red dress.”
“Okay.”
Click of heels. She walked around him. Headed for the door. He spun to follow her movements. “Don’t go. Don’t fly halfway around the world to walk out because I get the thing about the dress wrong. Please.”
There was a snick sound. “I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you this time. There’s a lock on this door now and I used it. It’s just you and me and Mel, and no one can disturb us.”
His mouth was Simpson Desert dry, he got out a sandy sounding, “Okay.”
“Ask me what I’m wearing.”
He was so confused, he already knew what she was wearing and it was everything good and possible, heartache stitched together with his frayed hope, but he’d ask her anything, as long as that door stayed closed, that lock stayed fixed, they stayed in this room.
“What are you wearing?”
She walked towards him. Stood in front of him, but out of reach, because he tried to reach her; nothing was right in the world until he could touch her.
“I’m wearing hope. I’ve got expectation on my feet and optimism on my lips.”
She was short on breath, but her voice was steady. He took a step closer to her. “It looks good on you.”
“It’s missing something. It’s not complete. I need you to help me fix it.”
He tapped his lip, he needed the right words. This was a game and not a game. This was his life. “What am I wearing?” That’d never been part of their play, but he had to hear her answer, to help him make the next move.
“You’re wearing idiot self-sacrifice and such a God-awful lot of lying stupidity, and it looks utterly wrong on you.”
He’d thought he knew where this was going. “Georgia, I don’t—”
“We could both be wearing dreams. We could both be wearing love.”
“That,” he threw his hand out towards the stage and Mel gave a confused woof, “was my wish, that you were happy, free, that you had your dreams.”
“My dream is to stand beside you and know you want me there whatever happens, not just when you think things are going well. Not just when you’re up, but when you’re scared and tired and frustrated and angry with me. I can’t just be for the good times. I need to be with you through the awful as well, because what hurts you hurts me.”
“That’s—ah. Fuck. What if the cancer comes back? What if…”
“That’s life, Damon. It’s made of things you don’t expect, can’t protect yourself from.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to be sure. About us. About me. About how I fit in your life, about what I mean to you. You sang that beautiful song and I think you were saying goodbye. I sang that dreadful thing because I need you to know I don’t want that. I need you to hear me, know me and choose me, all the unsuitable, unstable and unmusical parts of me.”
“Love.” It came out more a rush of breath than a word, but she heard him.
“Yes, that’s what I want, if you can handle it.”
He took another step towards her, half expecting to hear her heels beat a retreat. “That’s what your outfit is missing. My need for you. My hands all over you, my lips at your throat, my voice in your ear.”
She gave a stuttering breath.
“I thought I was saying goodbye.” He reached for her, fingertips connecting to her arm, skating down to take her hand, laying his fingers over hers. “I don’t know how to get you back, if you want me to try.”
He took another shuffled step and lifted her hand to his forearm. He turned her fingers to pincers under his and pinched his skin. “Goodbye was never real. This is real. This is where you are, deeper than clothing, under my skin, running in my blood.”
She tried to pull her hand away and he grabbed at it, slapping it across his chest and pressing it down, where she could feel the thud of his heart. “This is where you are.” Then he took their joined hands to his throat. “Yours is the voice I want to hear every morning, every night,” then over his eyes. “And the eyes I want to learn about the world from.”
There was nothing: no sound, no movement, until her lips pressed to his and her hand curved from his face to comb throu
gh his hair. It was the softest of touches, tentative, tensed to fly away. He let it happen and willed it not to end.
She broke away and whispered in his ear. “You see me.”
“I see you. I know you. I love you. I won’t let go of you ever again.”
She pressed into him, sighed against his lips, and he wrapped both arms around her. “Stay with me, Georgia?”
“Don’t ever shut me out again. Don’t make decisions for me.”
“Never. Only with you. I only have half my senses when you’re not with me.”
The door was locked. They had all the time in the world, and he ached for her, the touch of her, the sounds of her, like he’d lost another piece of himself, but he needed her to hear what that felt like so she’d believe in him again. There was an orchestra outside and its sound matched the thrill in his body, the soaring in his heart. He had a song in mind, one more for the night, for the risk, for his luck, for this second chance.
“Starting right now. Starting with this. We’re going to unlock that door. There’s an amazing band out there. I want to sing for you again and this time the song is going to be about how much I need you, how I’ll never push you away, how I’ll expect you to stand with me, even when I fall, and I will fall and I will need you to stand again. With this ruin of a voice, can I sing for you?”
She kissed him again, this time hard, a little aggressive, a lot possessive. He’d never expected to have that taste of her, that security of her again. It was better than colour, more valuable than motion, more precious than light and purer than sound. With Georgia in his life he was capable of anything, everything.
He took her arm. She unlocked the door, he told Mel to stay, and they went out into the bar, out into the world together. There was only one song he could sing and Ray Charles made it so famous the band would know it. One song for the woman who’d been on his mind since the day they’d met; one song for the woman through all his confusion he’d never stop loving.
Georgia.
Thanks for reading Incapable. I hope you enjoyed it.
Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) Page 35
