Wake in the morning. Fascination is gone. Conquest achieved. I’m no longer interested, and neither is she. So we part. And that’s how it ends.
Or something worse could happen. As different as Abigail feels, part of me is terrified that the typical script won’t repeat at all. We’ll wake the next morning, and I won’t want her gone. Instead, my eyes will peel open with the sun, and I’ll want to watch her face as she sleeps. I’ll want to touch her again. I won’t feel disgust, or regret, or the sinking hangover that follows temporary satisfaction.
If I let it go that far, I’m afraid that I won’t let her go. And then I’ll have to face the ghosts, both within and outside me. The ghosts of my past. The ghosts that haunt my every day.
I’m caught in the middle. I don’t want her to hate me. I want her to look at me with adoration, to come forward, to want to kiss me again. But then it has to stop. We need to stay on the precipice, forever in between, the ultimate torment of indecision.
I can’t bring her closer, nor can I bear to push her away.
When she comes into the Overlook on Friday night, I’m offstage, on the opposite end from the hallway leading into the back. Freddy is with me, and we’re in the shadows. I’m hoping she won’t see me so I can maintain my middle for another few minutes, but of course she does. She looks right at me with those hazel eyes, ringed in liner. And those eyes are tentative, not hateful. Questioning, not pleading. Confused, not crushed. But really, it’s a bit of them all.
“ … handshake deal,” Freddy is saying.
I snap back to reality as Abigail nears the hallway. My gaze returns to Freddy, who is practically a vulture above me. I’m in a chair, and he’s half standing, one palm planted on each of the two chairs flanking me.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
Freddy’s head ticks toward where I’ve been looking. He sees Abigail vanish in a swish of light-red hair.
“I said no contract needed if paperwork and commitment bugs you out. We try it as a handshake deal.”
My attention still feels shattered. Freddy has me in a cage made of hands, and I’m almost literally cornered. “How would that work?” I ask, blinking.
Again, Freddy looks toward where Abigail disappeared. “I’ve got songs to spare. They’ve got no sparkle, but I have them. You want to end whatever we set up? Fine. You end it and take whatever we’ve written together. Hell, I’ll even finish my part and give you all of it. No risk for you.”
“Oh,” I say.
For a third time, Freddy looks back.
“That girl’s name is Abby, right?”
“Abigail.”
Freddy grins. He has a serious face, but every once in a while he grins like this, and it’s usually a look that says he knows something he shouldn’t.
“Riiight. I knew that. She doesn’t like being called ‘Abby.’ And you knew that too, of course.”
Now I’m back. Defensive, even. “What of it?”
“You know, I’ve heard her humming your new song. Constantly.”
“So?”
“Just sayin’.” He looks again, but this time Abigail reappears as if on cue. Quieter, he says, “She’s cute, isn’t she?”
“I guess.”
“She likes you, Bro.”
I fake a scoff. “Yeah. Sure she does.”
“Maybe you should pick her as your girl for tonight.”
That makes me glare at Freddy. Too late I realize I’ve done exactly what he expected me to do. Fucking Freddy.
“Fine, fine,” he says, still smiling. “Don’t pick up the waitress. See if I care.”
I watch Abigail prepping the bar. She doesn’t look over again, but I can tell she’s being deliberate about not looking over. The pull within me to go over and speak to her is almost overwhelming. Even if I can just catch her eye, I want to smile in her direction. I can tell she feels rejected. She knows I take girls home all the time, and yet I walked away from her. If there was a way to tell her outright how much of a compliment that is, I would. But there’s no way to say anything without sounding like a pig.
Yeah, baby, I could have totally fucked you, but didn’t. Aren’t you flattered?
Again, my attention flicks back to Freddy, and the asshole is grinning at me. I stare him down, and after a moment he relents and seems to reset, his focus returning to his usual pestering, about us working together.
“So what do you say, Gavin? I know you’re used to … well … working collaboratively.” He gets awkward for a moment here, surely aware that he’s only reminding me of how I used to write everything with Charlie and Grace, and how it was almost always Grace who’d do the singing. But then he pushes past. “So I can be your new collaborator.”
That came out of Freddy’s mouth too easy, too fluid. “I’m not looking for a ‘new collaborator,’” I snap.
“Look, no offense. Not trying to push. But maybe you’re ready to try again — just a bit, I mean — and maybe it’s time to do something, anything, even if it’s just one little song.”
My tongue goes into my cheek. Freddy has been banging his head against this for months, but for some reason I find myself thinking of it tonight with actual possibility. Abigail’s words, the other night, got me to thinking. What is it that causes block? How can I get past it — and do I want to get past it? Deep down, I do. Working without my partner and lover hurts, but not working hurts more. I can’t write with Charlie and Grace again, but I remember how it felt to do so.
It won’t be the same if I write or perform with someone else, but maybe it can be close. Maybe it can be the beginning of a long, slow climb out of the hole I’ve been in. One step. Just one tiny step.
I’m definitely not looking to replace my old partners with a new one, but maybe Freddy has a point. One trial. What could it hurt?
“Okay. Fine.”
Freddy looks for a moment like someone slapped him. His eyes get wide; he straightens up so he’s no longer a vulture; his face drops five or even ten years, even though the kid barely has years to spare. He’s not happy, really, and it’s not like I’ve given him a present. For a moment, he reminds me of the proverbial dog that likes to chase cars … but has no idea what to do once he finally catches one.
“R-really?”
“One song. Just one.”
“To start.”
I consider digging in my heels to be a hardass, but then realize I’m resisting just to resist. Freddy has bugged me about working and playing together for so long that part of me feels it’s a cold war, and that settling the issue is tantamount to losing. But even as muddled as my head has been feeling, I know this isn’t about win-lose. If Freddy gets his way, I don’t fail. In fact, I strongly suspect he’s been right all along: I need a kick for my own good. I don’t want to come out dancing, declaring that Freddy is my man and that I’ve seen the light, but there’s no reason to be a self-sabotaging asshole, either.
Instead of rebutting Freddy’s “one song to start,” I repeat it: “To start, Freddy.”
Freddy is trying to contain himself. As much as I’ve fought him, there’s a ton of respect between us. Freddy thinks my talent is, despite my taking the stage every weekend, still an untapped treasure trove. And from my end, I dig Freddy’s ethic. Some people treat music like a hobby and others treat it like an art, but Freddy treats it like a business. Not in the way that the producers of boy bands do; he’s not looking to toss out a prefab commodity and make a buck. But his head’s on straight. He’s not shooting blind. He’s a talented kid, but his major skill is his sensibility and unending relentlessness. I could use some of that drive and dedication on my side.
“Oh, man. Okay, sure, yeah,” he’s saying. “This is kick-ass. So kick-ass.”
“Take it easy, Freddy. It’s one song.”
“Lennon and McCartney had one song, once upon a time.”
That makes me laugh. Hard. Abigail looks over, possibly because she’s never seen me laugh. Well, other than when I’m with her, of course.
“Fuck off before I take it back.” I’m still trying to give him only what he needs, but I can’t keep a tiny smile from my face. I’m not truly happy about this; my real feelings are a torn species of ambivalent: some good, some bad. But I am happy to see Freddy like this — a kid on Christmas.
“That new song. You got anything written down on that yet? I can play with it and — ”
“Not the new one, Freddy,” I say, the smile vanishing.
“Okay. Something else then. You want to start it, or you want me to give you something — a few chord progressions, some lyrics?”
“I don’t love your lyrics, Freddy.”
“Chords then. Or whatever comes.”
“Give me what you get, and I’ll see what I can do with it.” As I say this, it sounds like a task — one more thing I now have to do, in doctoring Freddy’s songs. But that’s not what’s going on, now, is it? It would be our song. Just like Grace and I had dozens, and even Charlie and I had a few.
“Cool, cool,” he says then scampers off like a puppy in a black hoodie. Almost immediately, I hear the distant sounds of a guitar from somewhere in the back.
I pick up my guitar. Without moving to the stage, I start to play.
The song is finding its shape. Over the past few days, flesh has grown on those bones. The chorus is filled out; the verses, empty of words, are a wireframe in need of contours. But I’m finding it. For the first time in three years, I’m discovering something new.
I can imagine the lyrics. I can imagine how someone might sing this song, even though I’ve only played instrumentals for so long. Even though I haven’t written any lyrics. Even though I’ve tried, both before and after the accident, and have resigned myself to the truth that I might write good music if I get out of my own way … but I’ve never been competent when it comes to lyrics.
I strum the song. I picture the lyrics. The fingers of my right hand move up and down the Gibson’s neck, minuscule squeaks escaping as I slide across frets and upside-down strings.
I can imagine words in the chorus.
I can imagine some of the verse.
It’s enough that I almost find myself singing, until my conscious mind realizes I wouldn’t be singing solo. Instead, I’d be joining a duet.
Because Abigail is wiping down tables in the room’s middle, half humming along, half singing words to my song that I’ve never written.
CHAPTER 22
Abigail
There’s a hitch in the soft melody permeating the air as Gavin pauses — he doesn’t exactly stop, but pauses with his hand still holding his pick, poised, fingers still on the strings — and then his eyes lock onto mine. Deep, fathomless blue beneath a serious brow. I feel caught. Captivated. Studied, like something fascinating.
Mesmerized, my mother’s pop psychology book would say.
I think he’ll speak, but the pause lasts only a second, and in it, Gavin says nothing. I feel history unreel in that pregnant moment. A million unsaid things are spoken. Between Gavin’s gaze and mine, we tell a lifetime of stories.
He’s asking why I’m singing his song … when both of us know there’s nothing to be sung.
He’s asking why I’m so bold as to sing it now. And in my own way, I’m giving the only answer I now realize I have to give: that it seemed natural to sing it now, considering how much I’ve been singing it at home. How often I’ve been humming or whistling the tune at work, sufficient to invoke threats from Roxanne and invite delight from my girlfriend Maya. I sang now because I knew the words, because they came to me while hunched over my laptop, determined after our date Wednesday to fight through my block. Nothing came from my fingers that day or the next, and I left my writing sessions more frustrated than ever. And yet I seem to have written these words, even though they were effortless. From the aether, they simply came.
Gavin strums, his eyes still on mine. His fingers slide and squeak, and he strums again. He doesn’t look at the guitar; his fingers either know where to go, or he simply can’t look down and is getting lucky. But to me, the first notes are perfect. They resonate within me, vibrating some sort of energy that’s resided inside me for days, since I first heard this song’s skeleton.
After a few strums, after it’s clear that Gavin means to keep playing while watching me, I decide to continue.
He’s so serious. His jaw is set but not locked. His dark brow and handsome face are fixed, unmoving, dead earnest. His eyes stay on me and are almost a challenge, maybe a dare. As if I’m being asked if I’ll have the courage to sing again.
But it’s not reproach I see in Gavin. It’s curiosity. The same fascination I felt at first, now focused with a world of importance. He scoots away from the corner, finding some of the room’s light, and then Freddy, the kid he’d been talking to when I came in, is walking out from the back and standing with his arms limp, clearly surprised.
Gavin plays louder. Maybe fifteen seconds have passed, but to me it seems like all the time in the world.
The chorus ends. Instead of moving into verse, it repeats.
So I sing.
Softly, at first. But even though Gavin’s expression doesn’t change, I see something in him rise — something I could never articulate, but that’s obvious in his look beyond his unchanging irises and pupils.
Encouraged, I raise my voice. Gavin plays louder and slightly faster, bringing the sweet melody from its tentative first steps to the tempo I’ve heard before. His eyes smile, urging me on. I’m not a singer, but I feel drunk. A girl talked into doing something crazy in the heat of the moment, like a victim of lust. I’m losing myself in a way I don’t normally allow, somehow sure that when the song ends, I’ll regret it.
But I sing on anyway. I don’t have all the words, but I have more than I realized. I could have written down the chorus before now, but I only had the vaguest ideas for the verse. But like an improv singer in a challenge, I try to keep up. And the lyrics come — words I didn’t know until now. I lose myself in a fugue. I don’t know where this is coming from, but every time I pluck the next logical phrase from the air, I sense more words forming behind them. I mumble small pieces of the song, but as we move into another verse, the mumbles are fewer. Once I know the song’s story, it’s no longer difficult to write words on the fly. I’m telling a story to rhythm and rhyme.
It’s a story of a boy. A story of a girl. Two people destined to be together forever, but torn apart. And it’s about another girl, too. A new beginning. And when the song’s finale finally comes, I’m as surprised by the happy but bittersweet ending as the small crowd that has gathered to watch.
The guitar falls silent. My mouth hangs on the final note, but once it’s shut I feel stupid. Everyone has come out. Everyone. I see Chloe, who must find my vocals pitiable. I see Freddy, still in position. Danny is there. All of the waitresses. Terry the bartender. Even Dimebag and Richard, that weirdo who watches the front door unasked.
When it’s over, they clap.
I feel like I’ve just done a strip show atop the bar. This isn’t who I am. I’m not a performer, and I’m sure as hell not a singer, even in private. Lisa has been making fun of me for most of the week, telling me that I’d better not quit my day job.
I smile around at them, but I’m far from comfortable. I don’t want to run out, but I can’t stand here and accept their pity — the poor little waitress who, right here and now, is bearing her dreams for the world. But it’s not like that. I don’t want to be onstage and never did. I like music. I love the creative energy. But sing onstage? They can’t get that impression because I’d be mortified.
I won’t run out, but this must end. So I smile in thanks then press by Freddy, who’s giving me the oddest look. I can’t watch Gavin. I’d be terribly embarrassed to meet his eye. He’s possessive of his song; I heard him tell Freddy it was off limits for whatever they’re planning. I’ve heard him snap at Danny about it, too, when Danny asked him to try it out in front of the crowd. For someone who c
laims to want to write new songs, it’s strange that he’d shy from this one, but he clearly wants to. It’s his dirty little public secret, just like it’s my dirty little public secret that its constant repetition in my mind has now birthed words. We want to build walls, but we’ve both made our declaration.
I leave the room, hearing what has to be sarcastic clapping. I can only imagine what everyone must be thinking.
CHAPTER 23
Abigail
I stop by the bathroom and splash water on my face. I flush the toilet, just in case someone outside is listening. I wanted to run, but don’t want to seem like I wanted to.
It’s cool. Nothing to see here.
I towel off, careful to dry the hairs sticking to my forehead so I don’t get a wet-hair halo that, I’m sure, will give me away. Too late, I think to check my makeup. And of course, I’ve ruined my concealer. My stupid, horrid redhead freckles are now visible, even though the rest of my face seems intact.
I look at my phone. I’ve got time. My purse is in a locker, but I can grab it, run back in here before the doors open, and cover up.
I leave the bathroom and head into the room with the lockers, but before I can work my combination lock I hear someone enter.
I turn to see Chloe, the singer without a past — as far as I know, anyway — walking elegantly toward me.
“Oh. Hi, Chloe.”
“Are you writing with Gavin?”
I assess her before responding. Chloe is pretty and young, but not in the same way the groupies or even the waitresses are. There’s something about her that carries beyond her years, as if she’s an old soul in a fresh body. Her blonde hair is usually shaped into platinum waves that would have been at home behind the mic in a World War II nightclub. The way she asked, my alarms want to go off, sure that Chloe has designs on Gavin like everyone else. But she looks more curious than accusatory, so I simply answer her.
“Oh. No.”
The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2) Page 13
