While You're Away

by Jessa Holbrook

  Spring rushed into full bloom. In days, little green shoots became daffodils and tulips. The birds came back. Sitting outside, enjoying the sunshine and the solitude, my phone finally rang again. Dave’s ringtone, a bar from one of his favorite Dasa songs, startled me. Dread filled me. He wanted his stuff back. We needed to work out the band breakup. My thoughts raced with all the things he might say.

  “Hey, Dave.” I tried my best to sound natural.

  “Hello, Sarah,” he said. His voice was soft. Tentative, like the first time we’d met. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  Sweeping my hair from my face, I sat all the way back. I gazed into the pale green leaves just starting to bud above me. They were still so thin that light poured through them. Their delicate, vulnerable veins stood out in delicate shadows. “No. No, I was just working on some stuff. No big deal. What’s up?”

  The line went quiet. Then Dave cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you were going to come to the garage this weekend.”

  Surprised, I sat up warily. “I . . . wasn’t planning on it. Did you need me to?”

  Though I couldn’t see him, I could picture his face perfectly. I knew it almost as well as my own. His blue-gray eyes were probably looking to one side, his lips pursed as he worked through what to say next. If I had to guess, I really wouldn’t have been surprised if he was rubbing his throat with one hand. He did that a lot when he didn’t know what came next. It was like he was massaging the words out of himself.

  There was a rustling sound as he shifted the phone, probably from one side to the other. Then he said, “You usually do. And you were still working on lyrics the last time we talked. How are they coming?”

  Just then, I wanted to see Dave more than anyone in the world. It was shocking how painful it was when the numbness wore off. I talked too fast, afraid I sounded desperate.

  “They’re done. I think they’re really good, but I don’t know.” My voice broke. “Without you, I just don’t know.”

  Exhaling softly, Dave said, “Look, Sarah . . . I said some things I really regret.”

  “Me too,” I replied.

  He cleared his throat, and it was better, really, that we had this conversation on the phone. Maybe if we’d been face to face, it would have been easier to avoid the hard stuff.

  I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d made a mistake. If not in breaking up with Dave, then at least in the way I’d gone about it. Was this a sign that Dave wasn’t ready to give up on us?

  Then he spoke again.

  “I also said some things I meant. I don’t know what I want right now, Sarah.”

  Weighted, I sank back in the chair. And I nodded, because it wasn’t a pleasant thing to hear. But at least it was honest. “Fair enough.”

  “I don’t think you do, either. But I miss playing with you.”

  “I miss that, too,” I admitted.

  “So, then, let me ask again. Are you coming to the studio this weekend?”

  ~

  “Don’t leave a bitch hanging,” Jane demanded, plowing through a veggie burger of epic proportions. “What did you say?”

  Shrugging, I picked through my cheesy fries. “I said yes.”

  The table shook when Jane slapped it. Way overdramatically, she cried out, “What!?” like she’d just found out that I had sold both my kidneys to a con man or something. Flopping back in her chair, she shook her head at me. “You’re going backward.”

  Sometimes, I wanted to throttle her. “He didn’t say he wanted to get back together.”

  “Do you?” Jane arched a brow.

  Impatient, I flicked a bit of real, actually-made-from-cow’s-milk cheese onto Jane’s vegan plate. Admittedly, a jerkwad maneuver. But she wasn’t making it easy to be sensitive to her needs. “No. The important thing is—”

  “The precious music. I know, you keep saying that.”

  Even though Jane and I got along really well, sometimes she got too strident. It was like she didn’t know how to stop being the hammer. When she saw a problem, she had to crash into it at full speed. Trying not to sound peevish, I said, “You don’t have to like it. It just is, okay?”

  Waving in surrender, Jane delicately slid her plate to the side. “Okay, fine. It just is.”

  “Great,” I muttered.

  “Sooo . . . have you talked to Will?” Jane asked.

  For the first time, I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to dissect it, and I didn’t want to hear anyone’s advice. The sound of his name left me reeling, but not in a good way.

  Things were so screwed up and so confusing. Days had passed and nothing. Now, I wasn’t sure he was ever going to have a talk with Tricia. It was entirely possible we—I—had mistaken a moment for something more.

  When Will and I were together, I had no doubts. In his arms, his lips on mine, I knew we were meant to be. But Will hadn’t taken the one step that would put us together. I couldn’t make him. And honestly, I didn’t want to.

  Jane leaned in. “Well?”

  “It’s up to him now,” I said.

  “What was the point in breaking up with Dave if you weren’t going to take Will for a spin?”

  Darkly amused, I stirred my drink. “What do you care? You think Will is a douche bag.”

  “I’m judgey,” Jane informed me. It wasn’t a surprise, but it was funny to hear her admit it. “I judge everybody. What do I know? Okay, I know absolutely everything there is about film history that’s worth knowing. But seriously, I don’t date. But you . . . you actually seem to like interacting with other human beings on a personal and romantic level.”

  It was my turn to snort at her. “Okay, Jane-Bot, whatever.”

  “Seriously.” Jane patted my hand against her cheek. Sincerity rolled off her in waves. There was no sarcasm in the rise of her eyebrow, not a single hint of a smirk on her Sensational Scarlet lips. It was all Jane, entirely engaged and real with me. “Are you okay?”

  I didn’t even surprise myself when I said, “I am.”

  That was fine—Jane was plenty surprised for both of us. Her eyebrows pulled yoga poses: disquieted feline, perturbed goose. “Are you really?”

  That was enough of that. Sure, I’d waffled a lot lately. And no, it didn’t look like things were going to turn out the way I’d hoped. But I’d made a decision, and I felt good about that. It was a complicated emotion.

  Patting her fondly, I told her, “Everything will be fine. If it doesn’t work out, oh well. I tried. I don’t want to be fifty and wondering what-if.”

  “Let’s be fair. Nobody wants to be fifty, period.”

  The atmosphere felt so much lighter all of a sudden. It was easier to smile. To underscore that, Jane flicked a sweet potato chip in my direction and went back to her sandwich.

  I arrived at a realization: I was the one in control.

  ~

  I took a deep breath and typed slowly. I wanted to make sure autocorrect didn’t morph my text into something bizarre and incomprehensible. Leaning against my car, I watched Will toss a ball in the air, then swing at it with a low, lazy shoulder. There was a reason he wasn’t on the school team.

  It was a warm Saturday morning, but the batting cages were fairly deserted. Another symptom of small-town living: it’s never a shock to look out your car window and see someone you know. When I caught a glimpse of him as I drove to the music store, I pulled over immediately.

  It was the week before graduation, and most people had better things to do. There were parties and campouts, last trips to the amusement park. It was strangely touching to find Will alone.

  His black T-shirt clung to his chest. Every time he swung the bat, a slice of pale skin appeared at his waist. Though it was nothing but a hint of his back, I got swept up in the rush of seeing any part of him that usually remained hidden.

  Wit
h a held breath, I hit send. fyi, you’re still the once and future it.

  Will let the bat fall. His shoulders lifted and fell with a sigh. The text had arrived. Black brows knitted, he pulled his phone from his pocket. I took a shallow breath, wondering what would happen when he realized it was from me. A dark, terrified thrill ran in my veins.

  When he read the text, he lifted his head immediately. Unguarded, Will wore a look of raw need. For a long moment, he stood there, reading the text over and over again. I watched him hesitate, trying to decide what to say in return.

  It was like my nerves were waking again. Adrenaline shot through me. That magnetic pull began, urging my wanton body to get closer. To touch. To hold and taste and have. Fantasy splashed through my thoughts, urging me on. I could kiss him there—I could trace the rise of his ribs with my tongue. He’d whisper something wild; I would smear a kiss across his skin and cast my eyes up. Meet his and dare him to bare more for me.

  Hands trembling, I sent another message before he could reply. I see you.

  Immediately, he lifted his head. Sunlight slanted across his face. Blue eyes illuminated, he turned. His motions were sharp. His gaze keen, until he caught sight of me. Considering me through the fence, he approached slowly. Chain link separated us, the thinnest barrier.

  “You on the visitor’s list?” he joked quietly. He devoured me with longing looks, tugging on the fence between us.

  “I’m not breaking you out,” I replied. Unlatching the gate, I slid inside. “I’m breaking in.”

  The crack of wood on leather echoed down the row.

  Will considered me, his pale eyes unreadable. “I haven’t talked to Tricia yet.”

  My heart sank, but I reached for the bat. Picking up a ball, I weighed it lightly. When my sisters and I were little, our dad would spend an occasional afternoon in the backyard, pitching to us. I don’t think he expected any of us to become professional athletes, but he wanted us to be well-rounded.

  I tossed the ball in the air and swung. Bat connected with ball, the bright, rich sound of wood against leather echoing between me and Will. Leaning over, I reached into the bucket for another ball. “I know you haven’t.”

  “I don’t want to ruin her graduation,” he continued.

  How thoughtful of him, I thought somewhat bitterly. But what about me?

  With a lazy swing, I tossed another ball in the air and fired it at the end of the lane. “That’s fine.”

  My quiet must have unnerved him. He slipped closer to me, his hands straying into the space between us. Like he yearned to touch me, but didn’t dare. Shoulders angled, he watched as I knocked another ball into the distance. “I want to be with you, Sarah. You know that.”

  Tossing the ball into the air, I watched it arc and fall. The red stitching had long since faded. Its casing, once white, was gray. And it still felt good to knock it right down the cage. My shoulders didn’t burn, and I wasn’t out of breath. Inside, I was dying, but I refused to let it show.

  “Prove it,” I said.

  With that, I sent a line drive into the dirt, dropped the bat, and walked away.

  FOURTEEN

  In our time apart, Dave had revamped the garage studio. His workbench remained, but it was newly organized. A pegboard held all his tools. The long rows of nearly refurbished guitars had disappeared.

  The space was just as sharp as Dave was, in his new, clinging jeans and shirts cut to follow his broad shoulders and narrow waist. A line from an old Hole song flitted through my head: he’d made himself over. Suddenly, he was Hollywood hot, super comfortable in his celebrity skin.

  Trying to take it all in, I said, “You’ve been busy.”

  Dave pushed a hand into his hair. It sprung between his fingers, streaks of summer gold. “I’ve had a little free time to play with.”

  Turning slowly, I tried to absorb everything that was new. He’d pushed the couch against the far wall. The long counter in the back of the garage was clear. Now it held music stands and pencil cups. Alligator clips clung to the top of a corkboard. The song lists we usually put together on scraps of paper were all neatly pinned.

  “It looks nice,” I said.

  As if confessing, Dave exhaled heavily. “I e-mailed the studio; they have time on their calendar next week if we want to finally record a demo.”

  Tension I didn’t realize I had drained from me. Looking at the garage again, it came into perfect focus. This wasn’t just some cleaning up and rearranging. He’d taken a long, hard look at what had gone wrong. And he’d done everything he could to fix it. To move forward.

  “I locked in the rate,” he added when I was quiet too long. Edging toward me, he slipped into orbit around me. It was like he wanted to reach out, but didn’t dare. “So if next week is too soon, we can do it whenever.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I meant it with a depth that just a couple of words couldn’t convey. It came from the marrow of my bones and from the deepest part of my heart, from the same place songs were born, an unnamable place that still—I had to admit—belonged to Dave.

  Nodding, Dave moved closer still. “I’ve been thinking about the harmonies for ‘Scrambled Eggs.’ Trying to work them out. I don’t have the music, though.”

  Finding a smile, I caught his hand. Turning it in mine, I smoothed it between my palms. So familiar. The scars and the calluses, the worn crease of each finger. His hands were so beautiful. Will was the one who’d left things hanging, so I didn’t try to deny what lingered. With Dave, I felt a sense of peace. Of rightness.

  “It’s called ‘Everything’ now.”

  “I like it,” he murmured.

  Quiet, I tried to see the future again. I tried to catch just a glimpse, see where this was all going. Who was future Sarah? Who was she with? What was it like? But I still couldn’t see the answers. Now more than ever, I realized that imagining a future with someone meant nothing. I could make up fantasies all day long. What mattered most were actions.

  Dave tugged me closer, wrapping his arms around me. “I can chill after our gigs, too. I didn’t know it bothered you that much.”

  Though Dave’s arms were safe and familiar, I missed the spark I felt when I was close to Will. Things were still unsettled. Though I wasn’t quite ready to sever the connection I felt to Will, I was starting to consider it. Muffled against Dave’s chest, I asked quietly, “Can we sit and play some songs?”

  “Absolutely.” Dave brushed a rough kiss against my hair and let go. Trailing toward the couch, he picked up his guitar and waited for me to follow.

  When I settled, he still stood. Plucking a few notes, and tuning one of the strings, he smiled down at me. It was an anxious smile, laced with shyness and hope. Coaxing a beautiful flourish from his guitar, he asked, “Know any Iron and Wine?”

  Just like that, it was like we were all the way back to the beginning. Warmth filled me, spilling over inside me and painting an unstoppable smile on my lips. Fingers danced across guitar strings, drawing honeyed notes to swirl around us. Seeing his face again, remembering his face again . . . it felt good. We moved together, our lips parting, harmony lacing together effortlessly.

  The song ended too soon. When the last notes trailed away, I didn’t want the spell to end. Neither did Dave. Was it possible that the connection we had when we played together could translate in other ways? He moved closer, our weight distressing the old couch and tipping us toward each other. With a quick, downcast look, Dave clutched his guitar.

  Then, he said, “We should concentrate on the music right now. Get ourselves sorted out.”

  At first, the suggestion shocked me. But I appreciated that he was willing to be careful with me. With us.

  Nodding, I said, “Okay.”

  When he looked up, he seemed transformed. I remembered the round-faced boy I met on the first day of high school. But he wasn’t there anymore. Dave
had grown up since then.

  “All right,” he said, readying his fingers on the freeboard. “What key is ‘Everything’ in?”

  I told him. His voice slid into my song.

  This time, I didn’t have to jump. Together, we fell.

  It was a long, wonderful way down.

  ~

  When I finally left Dave’s garage, a pleasant tension played on my skin. It bothered me all the way home, and all the way through my last bit of homework before the school year officially ended.

  Slumped at the kitchen island, I kept humming, ignoring downward-sloping aggregate demand curves in favor of brand-new music with Dave.

  The landline ringing shattered the relative quiet. Exactly two people called the house line regularly. The first was Mimi Sally in Tucson. The second was Grace, away at college. Plucking a quarter off the counter, I flipped it as I answered. Heads said it was a Grandma call. Caller ID said it was my sister. I chose to believe caller ID.

  “Hey, Gracie,” I said smoothly. “Did you sense I was being attacked by a graph?”

  “Is Mom there?” Grace asked. She sounded weird.

  Immediately, I was on edge. I could tell something was wrong. She skipped the ritual teasing, which was never a good sign. A worse sign was her asking for Mom. While they got along fine, Grace was more of a Daddy’s girl. The only time she wanted to talk to Mom first was when something needed fixing.

  Pacing down the hall, I said, “I don’t know if she is or not. I’m looking. Is everything okay?”

  “I just need to talk to Mom,” Grace said, more firmly.

  If she’d sounded a little more like herself, I would have given her hell for biting my head off. Or pointed out the million reasons why she should talk to me first. One, I was an excellent listener. Two, I was an impartial judge. Three, I was her baby sister, and it had been a long time since we’d caught up, and I was worried about her. But it just didn’t feel right today.

  I was weirdly relieved when I found Mom in her office. She was pretending to work, but when I came around her desk, I caught her watering digital zucchini on Facebook.