While You're Away

by Jessa Holbrook

All at once, he stood beside me. And it was beside. He could have had blinders on, the way he stared out at the audience as he pulled on his guitar. The piney scent of an unfamiliar cologne clung to him. It was like standing up there next to a stranger.

  Producing a set list from his case, he taped it to the inside of his mic stand. “It’s the usual set,” he informed me.

  The house lights shifted, casting red behind us and bringing the audience glare down to shadow. It wasn’t a particularly packed night. Most of the tables had someone at them, everyone still talking over their drinks. The buzz wouldn’t stop, and we didn’t expect it to. But tonight, it made it harder to concentrate.

  “Thanks for coming out tonight,” Dave said, strumming a few chords to get his guitar in tune. “I’m Dave Echols. This is Sarah Westlake, and we’re Dasa.”

  Polite applause smattered through the crowd. The bartender chipped away inside the ice bin, some unexpected percussion.

  Skimming the set list, I was glad we hadn’t put together a new one. No matter how off we were, these were songs we’d sung a thousand times together. A lot of those performances had been right here. The playlist was familiar as a favorite pair of tennis shoes. Worn, comfortable, reliable.

  As Dave introduced our first song, I struggled with the sudden weight of emotion. This might be our last gig at the Eden. I remembered how punch drunk we were the first time we talked our way in to play. That whole experience glittered in my memory, a field of perfect stars on a moonless night.

  As we started playing our first song, an upbeat piece, I suddenly realized how sad I was to leave this all behind.

  The stage was hot. It always was. There was a restaurant kitchen on the other side of the wall. The lights weren’t gentle, either. We segued into another fast number, and I had started to let go of all my thinking when it was time for the third.

  It was a ballad Dave and I had written together after we’d gone to see some bad art movie because we thought it was something we were supposed to do. It was miserable, three hours of French people posing to death in black and white. Except for a single red glove, the only flash of color in the whole picture.

  Afterward, we’d tried to discuss it. We wanted to be those people who strolled through the night, richer and deeper, conversing like true artists. But I broke down first and admitted I had no idea what the red glove was supposed to mean. Dave dissolved into laughter, his blue-gray eyes dancing. He didn’t get it either.

  The next Sunday, we started writing a song called “Red Glove.” It was all about two people who pretended to be above it all, when all they wanted to do was fall. It was the first song we wrote where Dave led, and I embroidered with sweet, pure harmonies. For a piece written by sixteen year olds, it still felt meaningful.

  As we hit the chorus, I looked to Dave. Our eyes met—he’d forgotten to stop looking at me, too. The scarlet light glowed through his golden hair. It traced the fine lines in his face, gathering in a dimple that only appeared on certain notes.

  The cool distance he’d been keeping melted away. Rough and raw, his voice tumbled over the notes. The vibrato hung between us, buzzing on my skin.

  Our very pretty, practiced song transformed. There was new heat on the stage, coursing between us. An edge of desperation flowed through the lyrics. It had always been there, but Dave was consumed by it tonight.

  The talkative audience hushed a little. Did they feel a change in the air? It suddenly seemed like sacred space. Out of nowhere, I felt split in half. I missed this. I missed Dave.

  ~

  We had the stage for two and a half hours. After the final song, Dave invited the audience to buy copies of our CD at the bar. Instead of wading into the crowd the way he usually did, he disappeared down the hall to the bathrooms.

  Left alone to gather my equipment, I moved in a daze. Fingers numb and head stuffed full of cotton, I fumbled the simple latches on my guitar case several times before getting them lined up and locked.

  My skin itched. I longed to scrub myself raw, everything clean and new. A scalding shower where I washed my life back to normal sounded so good. Since both sisters and the bestie were in attendance, though, that shower seemed impossibly out of reach.

  “Grace went to buy a CD,” Jane told me.

  Winding up the battery packs, I tossed them in the club’s equipment crate. “She doesn’t have to do that. I can make a digital copy for her.”

  “I know. But I went to grab some footage of people buying CDs, and she decided she needed one, so . . .”

  “That’s sweet,” I said finally.

  “It is,” Jane agreed.

  She watched me, unable to hide her curiosity. Though she was doing her best not to ask anything out loud, her expression shouted. Had I noticed the heat with Dave? Was I feeling okay? The answers were yes and no, in that order. Since she hadn’t voiced her questions, I avoided replying.

  “I don’t think I’m up for House of Tokyo after this,” I said to fill the quiet.

  It was a teppanyaki place not too far from my house. The showmanship wasn’t great; I think I could have made a better onion volcano than most of the guys on the grill there. But it was fun, and silly, and out of the ordinary for all of us. We’d planned to stop for dinner after the show, but now the last thing I wanted was a long, drawn-out meal.

  “If you want to talk . . .” Jane said, letting her voice trail off.

  “I’m really tired,” I told her. It was true. Then, to offer an explanation, I said, “It’s been a while since I played a full set. It took a lot out of me.”

  Shuffling along the edge of the stage, Jane nodded. “Okay, sweetie.”

  That annoyed me. It felt like she was coddling me, and I wasn’t sure why. Yes, the performance had been unexpectedly emotional. Yes, I felt kind of stripped in front of half my family and my best friend. Still, I wasn’t made of glass. I wasn’t so easily breakable.

  Before I could call her on it, Dave came out of nowhere. He hopped up the stage steps and tapped me on the shoulder. With a jerk of his head, he said, “Can I talk to you in setup real quick?”

  Setup is what we called the dingy office where the club’s manager let us lock our stuff when we weren’t playing. It was plastered with yellowed posters from bands gone by. The place smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and old, sour coffee. It was my least favorite part of the Eden, but that’s usually where we got our cut of the receipts.

  “I’ll be back,” I told Jane and followed Dave down the hall. To him, I said, “Are they trying to get us to wait until next time to get paid again? We told them before that it wasn’t gonna happen.”

  Reaching back, Dave caught my hand and tugged me inside the cramped office. There was no one in there. Just the two of us, pressed into a tight space. Crowding me against the wall, Dave let go of my hand.

  He wasn’t touching me at all anymore, but I could feel the heat from his body, transferring to mine because he stood so close. There was something darker in his eyes, too. Not dangerous, just wanton. His gaze never slipped from mine. I felt undressed by it, that same sting and connection we had on stage spilling out into our lives.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. I hated that my voice went fluttery and soft.

  Planting a hand against the wall, right next to my head, Dave said nothing for a moment. It was like he was reading me from the inside out. In a strange way, it felt like he had just noticed me for the first time. An old, dormant flicker of infatuation rose in my chest. It was physical, I told myself. Just physical, a screwed-up body-response to a really emotional performance.

  “I know I wasn’t alone out there,” Dave finally said.

  A flash of tongue touched the bow of his lips as he paused. Why was I staring at his lips? I shouldn’t be staring at anything but the screen of my cell phone, waiting for Will’s call.

  Swallowing hard, I put a hand on Dave
’s chest and pushed him back gently. I couldn’t help the way the music sometimes made me feel. But I was 100 percent in control of the way I acted. “It was a good show. That’s all.”

  Brushing his thumb against my chin, he studied my lips. Then he said, “I’m not giving up on you.”

  Rather than let me respond, he leaned in close again. For a second, I was sure he was going to kiss me. The air was electric, and he felt wild and alive so close to me. But instead of touching my flesh with his, all I felt was his breath. It skimmed over my mouth, and he lingered there for a split second.

  Then, he was gone. Out the door before I could say a word. Flustered, I slumped against the postered wall. My heart pounded against my ribs. I felt horrible, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. I hadn’t mixed my signals. I hadn’t done anything to give him the impression that things had changed between us. We connected when we sang. We always had.

  If Dave had decided there was some hope in a lost cause, that was his problem, not mine. With a few deep breaths to center my thoughts, I headed back to find Jane and my sisters. Odd impulses shot through me. I felt like a marionette, taking big, exaggerated steps.

  Coming back into the club, I found my mini-entourage huddled together, whispering to one another. Grabbing my guitar case, I hefted it off the stage. The exhaustion had lifted. Now I had too much energy and nowhere to burn it. So, lightly as I could, I bounced up to them.

  “Think I’m up for dinner after all,” I told them. “I’m starving.”

  ~

  I slipped away from the table between the “making fried rice” and “throwing shrimp at the ladies” portion of the show. My hands trembled as I secreted myself in the hallway by the bathrooms.

  The only thing that would make me feel better was a chance to talk with Will. It had been two days since our last real conversation, and I needed to hear his voice. I dialed his number and waited, thumping my head faintly against the wall.

  When the line connected, a girl’s voice answered. “Will Spencer’s phone, how may I direct your call?”

  A wicked, vicious hook twisted in my belly. I thought I recognized the voice. I’d heard it often enough, popping up in the background when Will sent videos or talked to me on Skype. Forcing myself to sound neutral, I said, “Hey, Hailey, is that you?”

  “Oh my God, are you psychic?”

  I noticed the slightest slur in her voice. It made me want to reach through the phone to throttle her. I admit, the reaction was completely overblown, but I needed Will. And I needed Will to be the one who answered his phone when I called. Not some girl who may or may not be drunk. Gritting my teeth, I said, “No, it’s Sarah. I just recognized your voice.”

  Suddenly gushing, Hailey sounded like she was moving through a crowd. “That’s so sweet, you recognized me. Will’s right about you. So seriously smart.”

  Good. I was glad that Will talked about me. It would have been nice to know he talked about how incredibly sexy I was, and how he couldn’t live without me. But for the moment, hiding in House of Tokyo while my sisters applauded the knife skills of our chef, all I wanted was to talk to him. Immediately.

  “Thanks. Crazy question, is Will around?”

  “I’m looking for him,” Hailey replied. Her voice went muffled for a moment, that weird place between too loud and too soft that happened when you tried to talk under the music but over a crowd. Then she came back, “I know he’s around here somewhere.”

  Chest growing tighter by the moment, I ducked into the bathroom. Some cold water on my face would help. It would chase away the unbearable heat that swept over me. I hated the way my voice echoed off the tile, making me sound empty and distant.

  “You know what,” I said, cranking the tap open. “Just do me a favor and have him call me when he can. Anytime, I’ll be up.”

  Laughter erupted on the other end of the line. I heard a roar of voices in the background. It sounded like a party chant, but I couldn’t make out the words. Dipping one hand into the water, I patted it against my throat. I wanted to be angry that he was at a party, but it was Friday night. There was no reason for him to be home. He knew that I had a gig tonight. I didn’t want him sitting around in his dorm room, lonely and bored.

  But a mad little bit of my brain wanted him to realize that something had happened, and I needed him. I wanted that psychic connection we seemed to have to kick on. Where was he? Why didn’t he know I needed him?

  “Hailey,” I said, louder.

  “Sorry, it’s crazy here,” came the reply. “As soon as I find him, I’ll let him know, okay?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to thank her. Or to say goodbye. I just hung up and put my phone on the mirror ledge.

  Staring into the glass, I tried to wash away the red splotches that stung my cheeks. And I tried not to wonder why he was out with Hailey. Why Hailey had his phone. And where he was in the middle of a party, when no one could find him.

  Because I’d met him at a party. I couldn’t help but be reminded—I’d met him at a party, when he was supposed to be with someone. And he’d ended up with someone else completely. Wrenching the water off, I snatched my phone and hit the bathroom door a little too hard.

  That was different, I told myself viciously. You were different. Are different.

  I’d heard those exact same words from Will’s lips, not so very long ago. Why was it suddenly so hard to believe them?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Will didn’t call me back that night.

  He didn’t call the next morning, either. I tried to busy myself with a new song for Jane’s movie, but nothing came out right. A single chord put me right back in that smoke-stained office with Dave. Everything else sounded sour and distorted. Since music was part of the problem, I couldn’t escape into it.

  That meant I had to resort to cleaning. Anytime things were really messed up, I liked to straighten. Physically organizing things was the only way I could feel like my emotional life was in some kind of order.

  Turmoil meant I was going to wipe down the ceiling fans and scrub the crown molding with a brand-new sponge. The good china, the set we only used at Thanksgiving and Christmas—it was so soothing to pull down all twelve place settings and wipe each gilt-edged piece individually.

  For 345 days of the year, I was a perfectly normal person. I kept my clutter to a minimum, wiped up my spills, and took the trash out before it tipped over the edges. The other twenty days, spread randomly throughout the calendar? I danced just out of reach of OCD. Today I felt compelled to break out the vinegar and old newspapers. It was a two-story house. We had a lot of windows.

  Climbing onto the stepladder, I pushed curtains out of my way. The picture window in the living room was tricky. It was extra-wide, and it had no panes. One little streak in the middle invariably meant starting over. I attacked it with relish.

  Padding through in slippered feet, Grace stopped with her cup of tea. She peered up at me, watching as I alternated between vinegar and newsprint. The glass squealed with each stroke, a sound that drove Ellie crazy. Clearly, it didn’t bother Grace. She sipped and watched, watched and sipped. Finally, I looked down at her.

  “Are you that bored?”

  With a shake of her head, she sat on the arm of the couch. “No, I just think it’s interesting.”

  “What?”

  Setting her tea on the end table, Grace folded her hands in her lap. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face, remnants of last night’s braids. Dark eyes thoughtful, she trained them on me as she weighed her words. Grace was always deliberate. This was no different.

  Finally, she seemed to nod to herself. “You and Ellie are so much alike. Except when you’re upset. I like to clean away the pain, too.”

  Being that she was immaculate all the time, I was surprised. What was left to clean when her apartment and her room were always so perfect? But it was sweet for her to fi
nd a similarity between us.

  She was right—I would have never considered us alike. Except in the usual ways; if we stood next to each other, people knew we were sisters. We had the same coloring and the same crooked smile. But that was on the surface.

  Attacking a few white-ringed spots, I said, “Yeah. Ellie likes to break things. She’s the yin to our yang. Or the other way around. I don’t know.”

  Her voice buttery soft, Grace asked, “Did something happen last night?”

  A lot of things happened last night. Performing as Dasa was weird. Dave’s personality facelift was uncomfortable. Hailey answering Will’s phone sucked. Then, waiting up until four in the morning for Will to return my call, for nothing . . . But I wasn’t sure I wanted to confide that in Grace.

  “It’s just stuff,” I told her. “Senior year, the band, Jane’s movie. It’s a lot.”

  Grace stood and looked around. She peered down each hall, precisely, then came back to me. Putting a foot on the bottom of the stepladder, she put a hand on my back. “Don’t get mad . . .”

  I stiffened. “That’s the worst way to start a conversation if you don’t actually want somebody to get mad.”

  Quietly, Grace glanced around again. “Ellie overheard you talking to Will about . . . um, how do I put this delicately?”

  The picture window was about to get streaked. I put my vinegar bucket down and turned on the stepladder. With my best dark look, I pretended I wasn’t trapped there. I was, unless I wanted to knock Grace out of my way. Depending on what she said next, knocking her down might have been an option.

  Lifting my chin, I said, “Just put it however, Gracie.”

  “Fine.” Pressing her lips together, Grace drew a deep breath. “She heard you making a date to get naked on camera with Will, and far be it from me—”

  “What the hell?”

  There was no way I was going to stand there for this conversation. Lifting one of her hands, I stepped down and seriously considered bolting for my room. But why should I bolt? I hadn’t done anything wrong. It was my nosy, gossipy sisters who were on the side of fail this time.