While You're Away

by Jessa Holbrook

  It was prom night; he was beautiful and he was out of my reach. It wasn’t my hand he held up; I wasn’t the one with a fairy-tale gown swirling around me as I turned in his arms. My numb lips wouldn’t be kissed. They just grazed the cold curve of the microphone as I played on.

  I don’t know how I managed to sing. I don’t even know how I managed to stand there without crying. Inwardly, I reminded myself that he wasn’t my boyfriend. He didn’t belong to me.

  But it didn’t matter. As the night wore on, I felt like I was playing the soundtrack to my own nightmare. I was so glad for our break in the middle that I abandoned my favorite guitar on the stage and literally ran for the girls’ bathroom. To avoid company, I locked myself in a stall and leaned against the wall. My breath came in short, hard pants.

  I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t let myself. I had to be back on stage in ten minutes. So instead, I pressed my head against the door and stared hard at the ceiling. I didn’t know who I was anymore. A bad person. A bad girlfriend. Just a girl realizing she had no idea what she really had or what she really wanted.

  But that wasn’t true. Seeing Will glide across the dance floor with everyone but me clarified the one question that had been hanging over me since the boathouse. I wanted the same thing Will did, or at least what he claimed he wanted. Everything. All of him—all to myself.

  The question was, when would I make that happen?

  ELEVEN

  Some people might call what happened next fate. Or proof of a higher power. In all likelihood, it was probably just proof that we lived in a small town.

  When prom ended, I begged off the after-parties and left Dave to his usual swarm of adoring fans. When I got home, I turned off my phone, closed up my windows, and disappeared into a long, hard sleep.

  Morning came, and I didn’t feel better. But because I knew everyone was still passed out at various hotel rooms and parties, I decided to make a run to Florek’s.

  The old music store was my safe place. I loved the musty scent of it. The mixture of oils and resins, old paper and new reeds. No matter how messed up my head, an hour or two browsing new sheet music and old instruments made me feel better. Free, instant therapy.

  Winter was over, and spring nearly was, too. That meant that the roads were especially pothole-y. They always waited until the rainy season stopped to start fixing them. That meant three or four months of dodging chunked-up asphalt on every single errand.

  Turning down Epler Avenue, I bumped over one pothole. This was the older side of town, where the old Main Street met up with the new one. Cute joined-up storefronts competed with strip malls for attention. For some reason, the roads were the worst here.

  I jounced in my seat, no big deal. Except, in the bounce, I missed the very next gaping crevasse in the pavement. It was a grave of a pothole, big enough to bury the jerk who was responsible for patching them in. I hit it so hard, I heard concrete bang against metal.

  And then I had a flat, instantly. Pulling off to the side, I put on my hazard lights and climbed out to see the damage. I already knew it was bad. Just the sound and the jolt told me that the tire was seriously messed up.

  When I saw the damage, I groaned. The rim was bent. Not a small, unfortunate dent that a garage might be able to bang out with a mallet. It looked like a cartoon tire, practically flat on one side. The whole thing was shot. Karma had a hardcore sense of humor. In the very beginning, I’d lied to Dave about Jane getting a flat. Now the flat had caught up with me.

  I made a mental note to never lie about something that could actually happen again. It was metaphysically safer that way. Not to mention physically.

  Traffic shot around me as I trudged to my trunk to grab the donut. Wind yanked at my hair and clothes. The cars passed so closely, I swear, I felt the doors nearly brush me. Nervous, I fumbled opening the trunk.

  Finally, I got the keys into the lock and flung open the trunk door. The unpleasant scent of old motor oil and rubber greeted me as I peeled back the rug. Cursing under my breath, I unscrewed the jack and freed my spare. When I turned to put them on the ground, I yelped.

  Standing there in front of me, his hair tossed by the wind and his pale blue eyes serious, was Will.

  “Where did you come from?” I said, stunned.

  It wasn’t even noon, the day after prom. He should have been dozing in a suite somewhere.

  He nodded vaguely, toward nothing in particular. His black Miata sat parked at an angle in front of the strip mall. “Coffee run. Then I saw you.”

  I don’t know how he made it sound so forlorn. There was an emptiness in his voice that was hard to hear.

  It implied so many things, things I’d just started to realize. It was thrilling to kiss him. To have a secret, shared with just him, had been exhilarating. But last night wounded me. There might have been a time when it was enough to just want him. When it could have been a harmless crush, and I could have enjoyed that without wanting more. It was too late for that now.

  When we were together, I was finally free. Finally myself, exactly the way I wanted to be. That meant that a little bit wasn’t enough anymore. Knowing I couldn’t have him, not all of him, left me raw and broken.

  Hearing his voice made me realize he must have been miserable, too. When we shared a look, it was like we recognized each other. That’s the only way I could explain it. Something innate was built into us, lonely and waiting to connect. Beneath all the hunger and longing was something else—something real.

  Reaching for my tire iron, I tried to sound neutral. Casual, though I felt anything but. The middle of the street seemed like a bad place to talk with Will. Something would inevitably happen—something that we couldn’t risk anyone else seeing. Though my heart felt like it was trembling, I managed to smooth out my voice. “Some luck, huh?”

  Suddenly, Will caught my face in his hands and set fire to me. Lips smearing against mine, he buried his hands in my hair. The waves twined around his wrists. I shivered at the rough skate of his fingers against my scalp.

  There was no sweetness in this kiss. Tender and feral at the same time, Will claimed me. As if he was afraid I might escape, he gathered me closer, kissed me again.

  He kissed me in the middle of the street, where anyone could see. And people saw; car horns blared around us. They tore by, drafting dangerously close. But now I didn’t care. My flailing hands failed. The tire iron hit the ground, the metal ringing out like a church bell.

  Head swimming, I lost my connection to the ground. It felt like floating—absolute weightlessness. Gravity no longer applied. The world around us became a dreamy, hazy place. Like the background in a painting, or a radio playing just to fill up the quiet. Nothing else mattered. I only needed Will to anchor me. His hands on me, his lips on mine, his taste on my tongue. Folded in his arms, I had come home.

  Finally breaking away, Will stared into my eyes. His shoulders actually shook with short, panting breaths. For all I knew, mine did, too. I’d never felt so intoxicated in my life. So bleary and blissful and right.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Sarah.” As if he had finally just broken, Will trailed his fingers down my face and murmured, “I couldn’t wait anymore.”

  ~

  After we changed my tire, Will followed me home. At the time, he said it was just to make sure I got there. I think it was a lie we both needed to hear.

  Inching along the back roads to my house, I couldn’t stop glancing in the rearview mirror.

  When he pulled in behind me, I stilled. For a fleeting moment, my instincts said run. But not from him. Just so he would chase me. So he could catch me.

  Climbing out of my car, I didn’t want just a kiss. I wanted more. I wanted to merge with him, to be inside his skin and to have him inside mine. Those late night fantasies we all had and blushed about and never dared to say out loud—with Will, they were possible. Agonizingly poss
ible.

  Up on the porch, I pulled out my keys. And in a breath, Will stood too close behind me. His hands grazed the curve of my hips. A low, appreciative sound rumbled from him as he touched my hair. His breath sounded so thin, and mine felt it.

  I couldn’t get enough air. Blood rushed in my ears, sweeping away the familiar music of my empty house. My empty house. Closing the door behind Will, I realized I didn’t know what happened next. The foyer felt strangely disapproving, like the walls were infused with parental concern.

  “I want to show you something,” I said. Then I blushed, because there were so many ways to take that. Slipping my hand into Will’s, I led him not to my bedroom, but to the music room at the far end of the house.

  When the three of us girls were little, it was a nursery, stuffed with toys and books. French doors separated it from the rest of the house, and the other three walls were nothing but windows. The walls, painted bright yellow, rose high around the windows. Even in the grayest part of winter, it was a warm, inviting place.

  Taking the longest path to my destination, I looked back at Will. He filled the hallways in my house in an exhilarating, terrifying way. Lights and shadows I took for granted painted him in unfamiliar angles. His spicy scent lingered in the air. He didn’t touch anything but me, but he left his fingerprints everywhere.

  Bringing Will into my music room was a test. I had to see how he would react to something that was as necessary to me as breathing. Lips dry and palms hot, I let go as I crossed the threshold. Spreading my arms wide, I realized how small the room had become. When I was little, the windows and ceilings soared. The space seemed endless.

  Now it was packed with music and too many guitars. Recording equipment, a half-assed sound board. The really good tech stuff sat in Dave’s garage studio. These were my bits and pieces, the ones I used when I experimented.

  When Will stepped inside, it was like he was stepping into a part of me. Relief flickered through me when he didn’t just grab an instrument and start goofing on it. That’s what people often did, when they didn’t understand how personal a guitar could be.

  Instead, Will was respectful. He held his hand over the smallest guitar—my very first. And he smiled. “You got this when you were . . . six years old.”

  “Good guess,” I said, sinking to sit on the little love seat in the middle of it all. “Five.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  Reaching for my favorite piece, I made room for him to sit with me. If he wanted to. Edging my nail against the strings, they pealed softly. It sounded almost like laughter. High pitched, far away. Gossip shared in the back room at a party. Fingering a simple chord, I strummed it.

  “My grandpa played,” I explained. “He let me sit in his lap. I felt the music vibrating on the back of the guitar. And his arms felt so strong around me . . .”

  Will sat. Draping his arms over his knees, he watched me intently. “He must have had pretty long arms.”

  Laughter bubbled right out of me. “He was six six, you’re good at this.”

  “I do what I can.”

  “Have you ever thought about running away to join the carnival? I hear you can make good money guessing people’s age and weight.”

  Comfortable anywhere, Will settled into the corner of my couch. “Are you trying not to kiss me right now?”

  Playing a sweeter chord, I looked up from the strings. Sunlight streamed through the windows behind him. It lit his hair and cast shadows beneath his brows. He was the devil and the angel on my shoulder. Studying the play of emotion across his teasing mouth, I played another chord.

  Finally, I answered, “I’m trying not to talk to you.”

  A painful smile touched the corners of his mouth. It didn’t take a genius to realize he was hurting. More accurately, that I was hurting him. An echo of that pain flickered through me. That connection again. Sometimes it felt like we were a single piece, split in two.

  He handled it with more grace than I would have. Clearing his throat and looking away, he said, “We don’t have to talk. We don’t have to do anything. Be anything. This could all be a dream we once had.”

  The same moment he said that, I struck a bittersweet chord. Slowly, I set my guitar aside. It was time to stop hiding. Though it was terrifying to say things most people only thought, it was necessary. It felt important.

  “It’s so strange,” I told him. “You were almost imaginary to me before that party. I think, before, if I’d moved toward you, you would have moved away. That it would have been impossible for you to see me.”

  He nodded. We both knew it was true. As he slid closer, he struggled to keep his hands in his lap. I was glad to see that, because I was struggling, too. There were things I needed to say. Things I had to clarify, things that weren’t even clear to me yet. But my body didn’t care. My skin tightened when our knees touched.

  Licking the part of my lips, I steadied myself before I went on. “I don’t know why our magnets flipped. I don’t know why I see you and I want to do unspeakable things . . .”

  “You could speak those things,” he teased gently.

  “I sort of am,” I pointed out.

  “You’re right. Sorry. Go ahead.”

  “But I’m not going to lie to you.” I gestured at the music room, at all the things in it. “This is what I love. This is who I am. And Dave is a big part of that.”

  “So figure it out,” Will said. His restraint faded, and he stroked a hand up my knee. Leaning into my space, he let his gaze wander. It trailed over me. Over my lips. It lingered there, and he slipped imperceptibly closer. “Stop making everything so hard, Sarah.”

  My voice fell faint. “What about Tricia?”

  “I’ll handle that,” he said, buzzing ever closer.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe things were simpler than I was allowing them to be.

  Tired of denying myself, I pushed up, trying to capture the teasing kiss he promised. Instead, he darted away. His blue eyes sparked. Dark, flashing, they dared me. I tried again; once more, he pulled away.

  Electricity crackled through me. It snapped and burned, running rays of heat to the tips of my fingers and the soles of my feet. He couldn’t just kiss me on the street and then expect me to wait for his permission. Without waiting or begging or hoping, I took what I wanted. Catching the back of his neck, I pulled him to my lips.

  Then it was fire. First light after winter’s dark. Our tongues played in a slick, silken tangle. We skipped past shy exploration. We didn’t need to pretend to be civilized together.

  Tugging Will’s hair, I arched beneath him. His sculpted chest, his flat belly—I laughed drunkenly in his mouth, because hip to hip, I felt how much he wanted me. Before I could return the favor, he pulled away. Completely. Everything inside me protested. He took all the heat with him, leaving me to shiver because he moved too quickly for me to catch him back.

  Overheated, Will put deliberate space between us. He stood there panting, face streaked with red, mouth bruised and still slick.

  “Let me know what happens,” he said.

  I couldn’t tell if it was an order or a plea. And I didn’t have the chance to ask. He left, and left me there to figure it out on my own.

  TWELVE

  It didn’t take much to get Dave’s full attention. When I walked into the garage studio and said, “We need to talk,” he froze.

  There was a new guitar undergoing surgery on his workbench. It looked like a lost cause. Leave it to Dave to throw himself at the impossible.

  Leaning back against the workbench, Dave crossed his arms over his chest. Already defensive, he studied me with his stormy blue eyes, an unexpected touch of darkness in an otherwise sunny face. “What’s going on with you lately?”

  “Can we please . . . ?” I asked, gesturing at the couch.

  “Is it about ‘Scrambled Eggs,’ Sarah?�
� he asked. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d want to show it off, it’s a good song.”

  Wrong guess, and it made me feel even worse that he was so ready with an apology. And not a good one; it rankled me that he kept calling it that when he obviously knew I didn’t like it. All this time, I thought he’d been clueless about certain things. That he was a good person who just didn’t realize how I felt when he flirted, or how little I liked being the lesser partner in the band. But I was starting to realize that maybe that wasn’t the case.

  “It’s not the song. Could you . . . can we just sit down together? Please?”

  Pushing off the bench, Dave approached me warily. “I don’t think I like where this is going.”

  I wanted to yell at him to quit being psychic and just sit down and take it. Instead, I bit my tongue and waited for him to make it to my side. Three years was a long time to be with someone. We had more history than most couples our age, and I didn’t want to just blurt it out. At the very least, we deserved a real conversation.

  Reaching for his hand, a felt a bittersweet pang. His rough fingertips rasped against mine. Neither of our hands were silky. We’d calloused them with hundreds of hours on our guitars. Those scars were badges; we’d earned them together.

  “I don’t know how to say this,” I began.

  Dave stiffened. “Now I’m sure I don’t like where this is going.”

  Forcing myself to look at him, I faltered. He was good at hiding his hurt behind bravado. When we got a lousy review, or when we auditioned and got cut, he was all bluster. He could rage for hours about how ignorant a particular judge was. Creatively, in ways that were almost inspired. But in the end, his impenetrable façade always boiled down to hurt.

  But I had to do it. I had to. “You really won’t like it, and I’m so sorry. I’m just . . .”

  “You’re breaking up the band.”

  “No,” I said abruptly.

  Now confused, Dave squinted at me. “Pardon?”

  “Not the band.”