The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2)

by Aubrey Parker

“Oh,” I say.

  There’s this hesitant, almost painful little smile, and for a moment I think he’ll take it back. He’ll at least take me by the hand, or touch me on the arm — anything to soften the blow of whatever this is. But after a beat he firms the uncomfortable, regretful smile and turns toward the woman, who takes him by the arm.

  They walk toward the Overlook’s rear exit, and I’m left standing in the middle of the floor, feeling lost and stupid, but not nearly as angry as I’d like to be.

  CHAPTER 17

  Gavin

  I wake up feeling like shit. And not just the usual kind of shit, where the walls are too close and the room is too quiet and it’s like Grace and Charlie have died all over again.

  The coffeemaker, with the big button Grace used to brew our java. The couch where she used to sit. The robe she once wore, which I still leave on a hook in the bathroom as if one day she’ll come home and need it.

  This is shit upon shit. This is the shit of desperation, and worthlessness. The shit of self-sabotage. The shit that makes me wonder why I continue to get up when a large part of me clearly doesn’t want to be here anymore. Every once in a while, I think I’m in control, and at those times I think I can maybe alter my stars. But then something like this happens. Something that reaffirms the fact that I’m horrible and irredeemable. That I’m selfish and self-hating. That I want everything for myself, but don’t actually want to be satisfied, or happy, or alive. Everything is torture. I want all the pain for myself, and woe be it to the person who tries to pull me from its grip — even (and especially) if that person is me.

  My bed is empty. Empty of Grace, but also empty of the most recent warm body I’ve found to fill it. At nighttime, it’s as if there’s part of me that believes finding a girl to lie beside me will make the pain go away. But every morning, I wake up and realize that she’s not who I’d hoped in vain she was — who I, of course, knew she never could be. And then, I want her gone. I want her to get the fuck out of my sight because she’s not Grace and never could be … and how dare she try to replace her.

  I look at the bed, empty for the first time in a long time after a night like the last one. I don’t know whether my sending the girl away before bringing her here to fuck me represents progress or a step backward, but I do know it felt worse then and it feels worse now. Without flesh to comfort me — to take my body places so my mind wouldn’t be tempted to wander for a while — the horror of nighttime was a shroud. For hours, I lay awake, looking at that empty side of the bed. There was no soft curve of a naked back. No breasts to ogle, no face to avoid looking at.

  When I slept, it was as if I simply collapsed. I didn’t drink. I didn’t fuck. I didn’t jerk off. Somehow, all of those things felt wrong. I felt an odd but undeniable need for penance. It was my duty, after leaving the club, to simply endure the emptiness with all my heart and soul.

  I look at the bed, feeling a strange desire to take a photo. If I had Abigail’s phone number, I’d text her that photo. It wouldn’t prove anything. She saw me leave with … with whoever that was … and a picture of an empty bed wouldn’t change her mind.

  But I know I left her once we were out the door. I know the strength that took, and the strength it took, once I was home, to stay alone and sober, facing the demons.

  Somehow, this matters.

  But it doesn’t stop me from feeling like shit. All my usual triggers are still here, and I still feel hollow. What happened with Freddy last night isn’t helping; I repeated that conversation in dreams through the night. He’s wrong about me. It would be wrong to “move on” if moving on means forgetting. It would disrespect them both. I’m not ready, and I’m allowed to take my time, and keep my distance. Freddy is a great guy, but I’m not planning to compose or write with anyone for a while, if ever. Doing so feels like burning our history. Like taking Grace’s robe from the bathroom hook and removing her toothbrush from my sink.

  The darkness grows too heavy. I miss them; I’m mad at Freddy for bringing it all back to the surface; I hate myself for the way I left Abigail last night; I hate her for tempting me.

  I know she wanted me to ask her out. Maybe she even wanted me to ask her to come home. Maybe I could have woken with Abigail beside me instead of waking alone. But something tells me that if I had, I’d have ruined something that shouldn’t be soiled. And something tells me that if we’d woken together, I might not tell her to leave like I always do. I might invite her to stay. And even thinking that makes me hurt in a way I can barely take.

  I lie on the couch for a while. There’s nothing to do when it’s like this, so I do all I can. I make it worse. I don’t know much about how my mind works, but overwhelm seems like a legit way to deal. When things get bad, I dredge out the photos. The albums. The music we were in the middle of composing. I remember my best days with Grace. The way her hand felt in mind. The day we walked the beach. The late afternoon on the pier, when I first told her I loved her.

  At times like this, I can only hold on and try to ride it out. It’s not about strength because I don’t really try to resist what comes. I don’t care if the depth yawns deep enough for me to want to end it all. There’s a significant upside to that option, really. I’ll never have to endure this again, unless it’s all that turns out to be waiting for me in Hell.

  Sometime later, the feelings finally wane, and I seem to wake up, as if I’d been partially asleep before. I get up, walk around the apartment a little, and make myself some coffee. The urge to get out — anywhere — follows soon after like it usually does, and ten minutes later I’m walking.

  I pass the Nosh Pit. I stand across the street, in plain view if anyone inside were to look out. I watch for Abigail, having no idea if she’s even working. I could go in and ask, but I won’t. I have no idea what would happen if I sat down in there and she came to my table. Would we talk like we did last night? Would she even let me talk, or turn away in disgust?

  There’s no way to win. If things went poorly, I’d be no better off than I am now, except that I’d be one degree more convinced of how despicable I am. If things went well, that would actually be worse. Because of the bed. Because of what might happen after.

  But still, I stand, hoping she will and won’t notice me at the same time. It can’t be my decision. I feel like I have to abdicate it to someone else: to Abigail, maybe to fate. If I do nothing, maybe something will take the choice from my hands. Maybe she’ll see me, come outside, and cross the street. She’ll understand it all without my needing to tell her. I’ll do nothing, and somehow everything will be better.

  I move on. I go somewhere else.

  I do the same thing on Monday.

  I do the same thing on Tuesday.

  I wonder if I’m a stalker. I wonder if this is sad or creepy — or, likely, both at once. I’m passive, but people must be noticing me. And worse, people know who I am. I’m sure everyone’s watching, even though nobody seems to be.

  I get to know the Nosh Pit’s staff. I see a big, fluffy-haired man who must be the owner Abigail complained about. I see the dark-haired head waitress who first led me to Abigail’s section after I decided I didn’t want a spot in what was probably hers. She’s one of the sexiest, most classically beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I could go in there, even when I was somehow sure Abigail wasn’t working, and strike up a conversation. I’m sure I could get her into bed. Parts of me want that, but I stop every time I imagine waking up with her, with anyone.

  Everything has stopped, my usual rhythm destroyed. I stop bothering with the bars, which is fine because I never even bought beers. I mostly drank water — a night at a bar can be expensive — but it was always easy to pick up long-legged amnesia pills with or without social lubricants. Yet now that feels wrong, just as I know taking someone home this weekend, from the Overlook, will feel wrong.

  I spend my days alone, with only my thoughts as intruders. Thoughts and Freddy’s phone calls, stoked recently because he seems to think he’s cracki
ng my resolve. I’m polite. I give him advice. But I don’t want Freddy in my songwriting any more than I’m craving women in my bed.

  I have only myself, and that’s something I don’t really want.

  But truly, I’m not alone.

  I have the song.

  Monday, after a few hours of walking, I start to feel a new way of handling the hook.

  Tuesday, a bit of verse comes to me, building on the hook like wings on an expanding house.

  By Wednesday morning, I’m hearing notes that might be a chorus. The verse continues to circle my brain, collecting ideas without my permission, like a snowball gathering mass while rolling downhill.

  I think of Abigail.

  I work on the strange new song.

  I walk by the Nosh Pit. I consider dropping in on the Overlook, too, on Tuesday. I could do it with impunity; I’m the talent and have every reason to be there. I wouldn’t even have to try and talk with Abigail. I could merely slather her with my eyes.

  Tuesday comes and goes. I work on the song.

  I wonder if Abigail hates me. There’s no reason to think about it as much as I do, but it’s impossible to stop. She’s a constant presence in my brain. When I sleep, I feel like I’m talking to her. I wonder what she’s up to, how she’s doing. I was horrible to her that last night. I tried to play it off as casual, but a woman knows when she’s being blown off, traded for a different woman. I walked out with that other girl’s arm around me. For all Abigail knows, she dropped to her knees in the back room and finished me off.

  I want to explain. I want to tell her that I didn’t go anywhere with that girl — it was conditioning I’m unable to control. I even want to tell her that if there’d been no other girl, it could have been Freddy or Danny I’d have left her for when things suddenly seemed too real.

  I think of Grace, but see Abigail. She’s on the pier. She’s on the beach. It’s obscene. I try to blot out the false memories, but I only feel stuck in the middle. I want to avoid Abigail at all costs. And yet I want her to know why.

  To know that it’s not her, it’s me.

  That it’s her, and how she affects me.

  That it’s me, and how I’d only hurt her.

  Because she’s sweet and deserves better. And that no matter how many times I imagine myself being the man she needs, those daydreams always sour, and in the end, I am a monster.

  Wednesday dawns. I feel like shit again — twice the shit, just like every day this week because I’m going to bed and waking up without a distraction.

  I need to explain. I can’t go where I want to with her, but I can at least let her know who she’s dealing with. I’ll simply confess. I’ll give her my black book, let her see how awful I am. She can make the decision so I won’t have to. I’d love to be kind, and if she lets me, I will be. But it may be necessary to be myself so she won’t be fooled. I know she wanted me to ask her out that last night, but that can’t happen. If I can make sure she’s not interested, there will be no temptation. I won’t have to face this neither/nor battle that’s been burying me lately. I can go back to being Gavin. I don’t have to listen to Freddy. I don’t have to move on. I am who I am, and I can at least make sure that Abigail knows it.

  I head to the Nosh Pit. This time, I go to the diner’s side of the street, looking properly in the windows. I can’t actually stand here because there’s only a pane of glass between me and the restaurant’s customers, but I can walk past, slowly, looking in. I can hang out by the railing around the outside deck for a bit. I can pass a second time, also slowly, and then a third.

  I don’t see her. So I move to the door. I’ll just go inside. I’ll ask if she’s in, but I’m entirely too afraid that she will be.

  The head waitress — Roxanne; I remember her name is Roxanne — sees me and gives me a sexy little smile. After a second, she beckons with a finger. But then I pull my phone from my pocket, pretending I have a call, and give her a nod as I walk away.

  I’m a coward.

  I go home. I try to write. The song continues to unspool, and I can’t get Abigail out of my head.

  Eventually, it’s dinnertime on Wednesday night, and I open the cupboards to find that I’m out of just about everything. I usually make pasta because it’s cheap and easy, but I don’t have any. I don’t keep frozen dinners, but my failsafe — ordering a pizza — doesn’t feel right. I’m too numb to enjoy it.

  So I go to the Pavilion. I’ll pick up some spaghetti and a jar of sauce. It’s not glamorous — but then again, I’m not feeling especially chic.

  I need to buckle down and work on the song. I need to untangle the chorus. There’s no words, and it’s a song begging for more, but at least the instrumentals are coming together. At least it’s a skeleton — half of something, trying to worm its way out from deep inside me.

  I just need to make it to Friday. Then I can play again, see Abigail, and put her out of my mind.

  I’m holding a jar of sauce when I hear a voice behind me.

  “Gavin?”

  Without turning, I know it’s her.

  The jar slips from my hand and hits the floor like a bomb.

  CHAPTER 18

  Gavin

  Abigail looks at me as if she knows exactly what I’ve been thinking.

  Not just here and now, in the Pavilion Market with spaghetti sauce painting my ankles, but for the past few days. For the past few nights. When I turned away from the last girl who was eager to go home with me. When I dreamed. When I stood across the street from the Nosh Pit like a psycho, and when I was noodling my song, wondering where it was coming from, unable to urge it faster than it naturally wanted to come. The first song I’ve taken seriously, as a new creation, since Grace died.

  She has soft hazel eyes. She doesn’t wear a lot of makeup, but she’s darkened her eyes with liner or mascara or whatever it is that’s making them pop. Her skin is pale, so those otherwise subtle eyes — not blue like mine, not blue like so many of the girls who come to me after my shows, but this more honest, more understated hue — are somehow magnified, and it’s like she can see through me. I notice the overhead market lights shining down on her hair — straight, plainly, and beautifully cut, just the right amount of sun-kissed red. I notice the way her freckles, which I’d plainly seen late on other nights, appear to be gone, as if she’s hidden or somehow erased them.

  The moment we lock gazes must last less than two seconds, but it’s obvious and long enough. I feel somehow accused. Or, worse: not accused when I clearly should be. Like an unfaithful man facing his wife, knowing what he’s done and enduring the unknown eyes of innocence as she continues to trust him.

  But then it’s over, and she’s looking down, and it’s like I’ve been shot at the ankles, or stepped into a Cuisinart.

  I’m sure she’ll react with concern — maybe for my shoes, maybe for my jeans, or maybe in general, for the market and its cleaning staff. But she doesn’t express concern any more than she expresses the accusations I deserve.

  I don’t get anger at treating her badly or ignoring her.

  I don’t get rejection, which would be more than fair play.

  Instead, Abigail laughs.

  It’s a delightful sound, and I’m reminded of an addict with his drug. The first time I heard and saw that laugh (it’s as visual as it is auditory, the way her hand goes to her mouth and her eyes narrow, her midsection twitching), it was like my first high. Now I’ll chase it forever, always looking to make Abigail laugh again and again, so I can be here to feel it.

  She looks me over, and again I’m shocked that I’m not being yelled at. I deserve it. I deserved it Friday night, when she was mad at me for a reason I didn’t, at the time, understand. I deserved it Saturday, when I walked away when things got too real. I deserved it when I left with that girl, even though nothing happened. And she doesn’t even know what’s happened since. The thousand transgressions I’ve made. Dreaming of her. Thinking of her. Almost visiting for four long days, but never fi
nding the nerve.

  But none of that happens. It’s as if I’m forgiven, or never accused.

  “That’s a good look,” she says.

  “Shit.” I look down and pick up one foot, then the other, as if I can get away from the spill without moving from my spot. I’m not sure what to do. Is there a mop somewhere I should grab? I’ve heard people in markets call for cleanup in various aisles. How do I get such a broadcast?

  “Now it’s like you’re dancing.”

  “Maybe you could help me rather than just laughing at me,” I say, mock-irritated.

  “This is much more fun.” The hand is still over her mouth, as if she’s trying and failing to contain further jest. But the laugh is mostly in her eyes. Her sweet, innocent eyes, so different from the jaded, ancient ones I see in the bathroom mirror each morning. It’s as if she’s never faced sorrow. But there’s so much out there, and in an instant I find myself wanting to make sure she never finds out. I want to shield her. To protect her from what the cruel world has proved it always has in store.

  Before I can say more, a kid in a market apron comes rushing around the corner. It’s like I’ve fired a gun and he’s sprinting to cover me. He looks down and says, “Oh, geez.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him.

  “I’ll get the mop.” Then, because I can’t be trusted not to hurt myself, he adds, “Don’t move. There’s glass in there.”

  He leaves the way he came, and again I’m left with Abigail. There’s nobody else in the aisle, so it’s just her as my audience.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say.

  “Why not? I need groceries, too.”

  “I’ve just never seen you here before.”

  “What, are you tracking all of my comings and goings?”

  Hearing this shuts me up, even though it wasn’t her intention. I haven’t been following her. I don’t even know when her shifts begin and end, or where she’s working on any given day. I’ve been assuming she’d work the Overlook on Friday again, but I have no reason. I’ve merely walked by the Nosh Pit, and it was my conspiratorial feet who did that, mostly without my conscious permission. I’ve tried to summon the will to go in and see her. That’s not the same as “tracking all of her comings and goings,” but she doesn’t even know the little I’ve done. She wouldn’t know why, and I couldn’t explain. I’m drawn to her, and now, hearing those words, feel somehow guilty.