by BK Rivers
“Jordan?” A man, about the age of my father, with salt and pepper hair greets me. He’s about two inches taller than my six feet, and wearing a pair of khaki shorts, a green polo, and boat shoes. We’re nowhere near a lake. “I’m Roger. It’s good to meet you.” He waves his arm toward a pair of chairs against the wall, and we both take a seat. Roger clasps his hands in his lap, pulls his ankle over his knee, and puffs out a breath.
“Tell me about yourself,” he says as though he doesn’t know who I am. I’m sure he googled me after I made the appointment, anyone would do it. I googled him. Roger Nelson, born November 16, 1960, in Riverside, California. Graduated with a bachelor’s in psychology from Southern California University. He’s married and has two children. His Google page looks like a fluffy, sparkly, pink page compared to my dark, black past.
Part of my rehab was learning how to separate my snarky rocker persona from the true Jordan Capshaw, and I still struggle with it when meeting people the first time. Today I’m going to do my best to be honest and get the most out of this session. So I begin with the facts.
“Twenty months ago I OD’d and wound up in the hospital. When I realized what I’d done and who I almost lost, I decided to give rehab a try. So far it’s worked, and I’ve been sober and clean since then.”
Roger sits back in his chair, nodding his head while I talk about my sobriety. I tell him about Jemma and how much I care for her. About how she’s now married to Vic and will be having a baby soon. I thought it might hurt talking about her, but it honestly feels good to get it out. Roger sits back, listening, and appears actually interested in what I have to say. The counselors at the Warner clinic helped me a lot, and I feel like I’m in good hands here—despite the crappy décor.
“Why did you contact me? You seem like you’re doing well.”
“A week or so ago I was in a bad place. I had just called my parents and was yelled at by my father. It trigged an automatic response to drown myself in alcohol.” A muscle in my jaw ticks at the memory, but I push through it.
“But you didn’t drink. You dealt with the urge?”
“I called Jemma, and she talked me down from it.”
“It seems like you have a set of good friends in her and Vic.”
I nod in agreement. I’m not sure what I would’ve done without Jemma’s rescue. I’m pretty sure I would’ve ended up drunk off my ass and out searching the streets for a dealer. That’s what I felt like doing, but she reminded me of what I have to lose.
“How is your relationship with your parents?” Roger relaxes his legs, stretching them out, making him look like some sort of two-legged giraffe. I have to wonder if he played basketball when he was younger.
How do I explain my relationship with my parents to him when there isn’t a relationship to speak of?
“There isn’t much to say. I left home after high school graduation and haven’t seen my parents since. My father was angry I was pursuing my music career, and he forbid me to come home until I took a more honest approach to life.”
“What made you call them a week ago?”
A laugh surges from my lips. “It was an accident, actually. Every once in a while my finger hovers over their number, and somehow I dialed without thinking. My mom answered, and I clammed up. I couldn’t say anything to her. Then my father got on the line and yelled at me. At first he didn’t know it was me, but when I spoke up, he laid into me. I hung up after the first insult.”
“Tell me about your relationship with your father before you left home to pursue music.”
I blow out a long breath and recount the bitter words spoken between us over the years. I recall all the times he told me I’d amount to nothing, how I was constantly disappointing him and my mother by the choices I made. I grew up hating my father, and it seems the feeling is mutual.
“Is there any part of you that would like to have a relationship with your parents?” Roger sits up in his chair and something inside me breaks. I don’t know if it’s the warm tone of his voice, or if he’s just that good a counselor, but tears prick the corners of my eyes.
“Shit.” I swipe away the tears with the backs of my hands.
“It’s okay to feel, Jordan. With everything we’ve talked about, it’s obvious you’ve dealt with a lot through your life. As men, we think we show strength by bottling up our emotions. Some make it through life this way and are no worse for wear. Others allow those bottled up emotions to fester and grate on us until we explode. Some go down the path of least resistance with drugs and alcohol; others take it out on the people around them.”
Rogers pauses, places his hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. His lips form a thin smile.
“Just knowing somewhere inside you, these feelings of reconciliation and love are waiting to be released, gives me great confidence you’re going to be okay. You’re going to get through this and come out on the other side a better person for it.”
“I didn’t come here to cry like some chick,” I say with a quick sniff.
“Crying doesn’t make you a woman. There’s great power in tears. They can be quite healing.”
“Yeah. If you’re a chick.” We both laugh like old friends. We continue talking until my hour is up and when I stand to leave, Roger suggests I call my parents and try to begin repairing our relationship. I’m almost a hundred percent certain this will never happen regardless of how much I would like to see my mom. I have no desire to see my father and don’t intend on taking anymore verbal battering from him. I can’t take anymore.
On the drive back to the condo, I call JD and the guys and we make plans to go hiking in the morning. We’re as close as you’d expect a group of guys who’ve been friends for years to be, but not hanging out with them regularly makes me miss their heckling.
I really put them through the wringer over the years, but somehow we’ve managed to come out of the dark better than we were. I love all these guys—they are the family I was forced to give up when we left all those years ago to record our first album. I’m grateful we made it, but don’t think I can ever forgive my father for pushing me out the door and slamming it my face when I left.
I will never treat my own children like my father treated me. Not that I’ll ever have any. I’m not really sure I’m father material.
Chapter 14
Reggie
Stacey and I have my car packed, Micah is buckled in, and we’re loaded down with snacks for the six-hour drive to Anaheim. It’s Disneyland or bust for the three of us. I promised my little boy I would take him on this trip if he could stop sucking his thumb, and, amazingly, the motivation worked. Score one for me!
We’re pumped and ready for this little getaway—well, as pumped as two twenty-six-year-olds with a little man tagging along can be. Oh, who I am kidding? I’m just as excited as Micah, perhaps more. I haven’t been to Disneyland since I was eleven, way before California Adventures was built.
The hotel we’ll be staying at is only about five miles from the Disneyland entrance and was highly recommended by one of my co-workers. It’s nice, very Californian with its airy, open lobby, Mexican tiled floors, and flowing fountains that only serve as a reminder I needed to pee about an hour ago. We check in, retrieve the key cards to our room, and walk down a path that leads past the heated pool, then to the stairs heading to our room. The smile plastered on Micah’s face warms my chest and gives me one of those rare “I’m a good mom” feelings.
Our room has two double beds with fluffy comforters and soft down pillows. There’s a small kitchenette and a decent bathroom with an oversized tub and shower combo.
“Dibs,” I say, shimmying past Stacey, who shoots imaginary lasers at me from her brown eyes.
“Whatever. Just use the fan.” We have no shame after being roomies for almost nine years. One of these days, my girl is going to be swept off her feet and strike out on her own, and it’s going to be one of the saddest days of my life. She’s been there every step of the way after graduation, all through
me getting pregnant and having a kid. I only hope I can return the favor someday.
***
Whoever said Disneyland is the happiest place on earth was high on crack at the time. It’s a parent’s nightmare on caffeine and hyped up on sugar all wrapped up in a child-size terror-bot. We’ve been walking the park for almost six hours, my feet are killing me, I’m so sunburned I think my bones have turned pink, and I have a headache no amount of painkillers will cure.
And we get to do this all again tomorrow. Super.
By the time we reach the front of the line for Space Mountain, Micah pulls on the hem of my shirt and tells me he has to pee. Why the park designers never thought to put a bathroom in the middle of the long-ass lines is beyond me. Like, why couldn’t the line actually go through a bathroom? I know I can’t be the first parent who has run into this problem.
Thankfully, the guys manning the ride give us a fast-pass that we can use right after Micah’s done peeing.
Outside the restroom, while I wait for my boy to do his business, I can’t help but notice the dads walking in and out of the bathrooms with their sons. A biting sting nags at the back of my throat knowing Micah could possibly never have this. He’ll never know what it’s like to have his father in his life. He’ll never have a dad to talk about girls with or how to be a gentleman when dating. Even though I’ll be there and try to talk about it with him, I’ve never experienced what a boy goes through, so it won’t be the same coming from me.
And it hurts so badly to even think about it that when Micah skips out of the bathroom with an ear-to-ear grin on his face, I have to shove the guilt down deep in my gut. Instead, I kneel down and wrap my arms around him and hug him like it’s the last time I can.
By the time we return to the hotel at nine, all three of us are too tired to use the pool and instead shower and fall into bed. My dreams are filled with the rides at Disneyland, but the typical Indiana Jones or Splash Mountain rides have all turned into carnivorous animals and snakes that feast on unsuspecting riders. It starts with the men, devouring them in bloody bites, then they start in on the children. Finally, I’m the last one sitting on the ride because I’m too terrified to move, and my heart has broken because I’ve lost Micah and was never able to find his father and show him what an amazing boy we created.
I wake up in a cold sweat, my head is throbbing terribly, and my throat is as dry as the desert back home in Phoenix. I check the clock on my phone—it’s after four in the morning, and there’s no way I can go back to sleep. I slip out of the bed I’m sharing with Micah and write a note to Stacey letting her know I’m going to the gym here in the hotel.
The gym is your typical hotel gym: a couple treadmills, stationary bikes, dumbbell weights, an elliptical, and something men often use with weights that resembles a torture device. I opt for the elliptical since it’s a smooth run, and another day at Disneyland is all I need for pavement pounding. Fifteen minutes into my solitary run, the gym door swings open, and a guy walks in wearing a pair of black knit gym shorts and no shirt. He has dark brown, almost black hair, a smooth shaven face, and eyes that tell me all I need to know about him. He’s pure lust wrapped up in a mouthwatering package. He lifts his eyebrows and quirks a smile in greeting and walks to the weight lifting torture device thing.
I’m not dead inside, and I’ll admit when I change to the stationary bike, I watch him lie on the padded bench and lift weights. The muscles in his arms flex, and his stomach tightens as he presses the weights up, over his chest, and back down. He is gorgeous and, in another life, I may have approached him and flirted. But since Micah, I just sit back and enjoy the show.
We spend our second day at Disneyland standing in line after line, eating junk, and having a blast. If I never date again, it would be worth it to see the smile on my boy’s face every time he sees Mickey Mouse or Buzz Lightyear. He’s so happy, and that’s what matters the most to me. I would pay a million dollars to see the grin he’s had on his face since arriving in California.
Micah crashes in the backseat of the car about ten minutes after we leave Disneyland. Since I couldn’t afford to take more than two days off work, we’re driving back home after a hard day of Disney. After nearly an hour of driving and silence, Stacey turns to me, her lips drawn into a thin line.
“What are you going to do about Jordan?” she asks, keeping her focus on me. Her stare is making me uncomfortable, like an ant under a microscope. I realize I do need to do something about Jordan; I still have feelings for him after all these years, and I don’t see them fading. But I have no idea how to deal with them, or if I should even act on them. He’s a freaking rock star who’s away from home for months at a time. I’m not sure I could handle a relationship where I don’t see him on a regular basis. What would that do to Micah? What would Jordan think of my son?
Stacey clears her throat when I don’t answer. “Well?”
“I wish I knew.” We drive on with the radio playing, and after a White Shadow song finishes I turn to Stacey. “What should I do?”
Chapter 15
Jordan
The guys and I have a small gig lined up tonight at The Roasted Bean, an indie coffee shop slash music house, and we’re all anxious to get on stage. We ran through our set at my place and decided to include one of the new tracks I’ve written. There’s no better way to test out a new song than on a small crowd. If they react well, it’s a fairly good sign the song will do well overall. We load our equipment into the van, grab a bite to eat at a drive-thru, and then arrive at the coffee shop about an hour before show time.
I miss the rush of a concert. We’ve only been off tour for a couple weeks now, but the break can sometimes feel like an eternity. Except the days I see Reggie. Those days pass too quickly. How can I make them slow down? Better yet, how can I have more days with her?
“Yo, Jordan!” Drake calls, as he pulls his bass from the van. “You coming or what?”
I tip my head in acknowledgment and hop out of the vehicle. For a wealthy rock band, we should pay someone to transport our equipment for us, but when we’re home, we feel somewhat nostalgic and use Jeremy’s 1980s van. The paint has almost completely chipped off, the rear bumper is missing, and the doors squeal like a pig being chased by a wolf—but it’s how we got started and how we like to remember where we came from.
Inside the coffee shop, the air is hot and thick with sweat and the musk of great coffee. It’s not like the overpriced, burnt crap sold by chain coffee houses, but truly mouthwatering, addicting coffee. The crowd is decent, all huddled together like matches in a box and swaying to the music of some small-time, local band. They’re young and remind me a little of us when we were in high school. Their lead singer, however, is female, and she wears her dark brown hair shaved on one side of her head while the other side sports long, skinny braids that hang down to her petite waist. Her voice is smoky and low, and as the song’s tempo picks up, she growls into the microphone and I can almost see myself introducing her to our record label.
Maybe I will.
The guys and I haul our equipment backstage and chill out on the plush green leather sofas after doing a set walk-through. We sit and bullshit for a while until the mood takes a turn down a path I’d rather avoid.
“JD tells us you’ve seen Reggie a couple times,” Grant says with a smirk. “You hittin’ that again?”
The water I just chugged slips down my throat, choking me. I cough, sit up straight, and fume while my temperature rises.
“Shut up, G,” Jeremy says before I fully recover. He leans back against the dark blue wall with his arms folded across his chest. Irritation is laced across his face, pulling at the corners of his lips and turning them into a slight frown. “Get your head in the show and don’t bring up Reggie again.”
Grant’s hands fly up in surrender while a shallow laugh bubbles from his throat. His cheeks blaze, but his eyes hold something bitter lurking near the surface. In the years I’ve known the guys, we’ve rarely had an ar
gument we can’t work through. Unless you consider the time they all kicked me out of the band. I didn’t handle it very well. Then again, it helped spur my decision to go to rehab. Since we’ve been back together, though, all of us are a little quicker to snap and faster to bark.
Fully recovered, I turn to Jeremy, raise my brows in silent thanks, and then adjust my focus to Grant and the others. I want them to know that Reggie is off limits, not just because I’ve been out with her a couple times, but also because she’s too good for any of the guys here. All of them—including myself.
“When it comes to Reggie, she’s officially back on the look but do not touch list,” I say, addressing Grant specifically. The way he ogled her in the diner makes me a little uneasy. Something in my gut tightens just thinking about Grant possibly having feelings for Reggie. I feel like a caveman staking my claim on her—like I’m beating the ground with my club and grunting my warning for everyone to stay away.
“Are you really bringing back that list?” Drake scrubs a hand across the scruff on his face and blows out a frustrated breath. “I thought we were done with that shit.”
“We were until Grant here practically eye-undressed her in the diner.”
“I didn’t know it was her,” Grant says apologetically. “I thought she was just some hot waitress.”
“It doesn’t matter. She’s off-limits. End of discussion.” I stand abruptly and excuse myself to use the restroom. We created the list when we first went on tour, and it was reserved for girlfriends or exes or really anyone we wanted. After Reggie and I broke up, I put her on the list because it’s only natural to uphold the Bro Code by not dating someone’s ex-girlfriend. Besides, I probably would’ve killed anyone who even thought about hooking up with Reggie.
The hall is lined with people just hoping to chat it up with the band coming off stage, and it’s like trying to walk through a jungle filled with creeping vines. I push my way through—have more than one hand grope me—and find the bathroom. It’s ripe; the acrid scent of stale piss stings my nose. I run the water in the sink until it’s ice cold, then splash it over my face, letting the cool drops slide down my cheeks. I need to pull my shit together for the short set we have tonight—what the hell is wrong with me? I haven’t been this possessive of a girl since…well, since Reggie. I can’t afford to be distracted by her, no matter how sexy she is.
