September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

by A. R. Rivera

  Jakes eyes danced with humor and something else as he took the wad of fabric from my hands, unceremoniously tossing it behind me. “I’ve been looking forward to this discussion.” Then his arms enveloped me, pulling me tight against him, as he leaned down and caught me in a breath-stealing kiss.

  Jakes’ mouth was spellbinding. His lips cast me into another world. Each kiss felt like the first—big and unbelievable. Like a blind man seeing for the first time. I was lost in him and it didn’t matter if we made it to my room. We were alone. There was no time limit. And the night was young. Like us.

  We did, eventually, make it to my room.

  I watched Jakes’ striated arms move in the moonlight seeping through the curtains. They embraced and overpowered me. His lips alone burned me up, tore me down, and rendered me to ash before we were done.

  And when we were done, he wasted no time starting the conversation in the exact place I cut him off. I traced my hands over the patterned muscles in his back as he talked. “So, the first guy, Gary, will play with us in Tempe and the second in Glendale. Whichever does better at the gig, gets the gig.”

  I nodded my head, moving in to kiss a mole over his shoulder blade and set myself upright beside him. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “So, you’re cool with this?”

  “Jake, I don’t get a vote. If I did, I would vote that you keep playing lead and singing, but that’s not what you want. You want to be the best at whatever you choose to do. And you choose to sing.”

  “I’ll still play rhythm. I’m just saying, I don’t want this to become an issue. I mean, she’s really good, babe.” His eyes widened, making his point. “Max and Andrew already want her. But I’ve never wanted a chick in my band.”

  He smiled when I pretended to be offended. But honestly, I couldn’t have been happier that he wanted to keep the group all guys.

  “Mixing genders makes drama. I can already see it: one of those two will end up trying to do her and then it’ll turn to shit.”

  “Tell them not to.”

  “I can’t do that. I mean, I did, but I shouldn’t have to. I’m not a damn babysitter.” His hand pressed into my back as he got out of bed.

  I stood alongside, watching him watch me get dressed. “You should write a song about it.”

  “What would I call it?” He worked one leg into his jeans and started on the other.

  “Is she cool?”

  He shrugged. “Seems like it, but you never really know a person until you travel together.”

  We made our way to the back porch where Jake pulled a red and white pack from his front pocket and lit up. If he smoked in the house Deanna would know. She’d just quit a few weeks before and had a heightened sense for nicotine. Jake was planning on quitting, too, but it was tough for him.

  A mild wind caught the ashes he flicked into the sandy dirt patch Sunny Vista trailer park called a yard. His hair, which had grown out some since his last buzz cut had transformed into a James Dean-like awesomeness that flipped back and thrust forward at the same time. He really hated it, kept threatening to cut it off again, but I loved it. I reached for the gathered mass in front and pressed the silken lock back from his eyes.

  “How about, Psychology of Jackals?”

  His perfect profile, illuminated by the neighboring porch light, disappeared as he turned to face me. “For what?”

  “For a song title.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “That’s . . . actually kind of cool.”

  “You’re surprised?”

  He pulled me close, setting his arms around me. “Everything you do surprises me.”

  I rested my head against his chest, listening to the sounds of his breath. His heartbeat. His strong arms curled behind my neck and across my shoulder. His talented fingers traced small circles down my arm. Aerosmith’s Come Together grooved through the night air from somewhere in the trailer park. Jake hummed the melody as I sighed.

  “What did you talk about in your session today?” He was always curious about my sessions with Doctor Williams.

  “My mom.” My voice sounded small.

  “So you didn’t talk, then?” I heard the smile in his voice as he tried to make light of the heavy subject and was flooded with appreciation for his unending patience.

  Of course, he had no way of knowing just how dark and difficult it all was. I had never told him much about my mother, beyond the facts that she died in the accident and I almost died because she hadn’t buckled me up. I didn’t have to say how much I loathed bringing it up, he just knew.

  “I tried not to.”

  “You tell her about me yet?”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “I wish you would. What if I wanted to talk to her?”

  I pulled away just enough to look up into his eyes. “Why would you want to do that?”

  He shrugged, setting his half-smoked cigarette in one corner of his mouth. “To help me understand. I’ve never been through the stuff you have and—let’s face it—you’re a walking enigma to me half the time. Is it so bad that I want the tools to help you?”

  “Jake, you already help me.”

  His brow furrowed. “How?”

  “By being with me. By caring for me. That’s all I need, Jake. If I have your love, I don’t need anything else.”

  “You’ve got it. In spades, baby. For as long as you want.” He reached over and practically pulled me on top of him.

  As his mouth trailed kisses down my neck, his heat coursed through me. “I’ll always want this.” I whispered.

  He stomped out the butt of his cigarette and tossed it inside an old coffee can on the corner of the porch while I reached for the backdoor.

  Sitting at the Fosters kitchen table, Jake locked eyes with me through his lashes. Holding his black acoustic guitar across his lap, his hair fell forward, not quite covering his eyes. It gave him a mischievous look that made my heart sing. As he mindlessly strummed, he talked. He loved to talk, and he thought better with music.

  I often wondered if he thought in song form. If the notes and melodies that flowed from his fingertips were just a small part of a massive, never-ending symphony within his head. It was a very special thing to witness, to be in the presence of someone who was so inexplicably talented. So anomalous and unearthly.

  “I’ve been tinkering with your song.” He grinned, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “I think it sounds better on acoustic. It should be tender, like you.” I don’t know what look he saw on my face, but he stopped playing.

  “You changed my song? But I love my song.”

  “I made it better. Angel, when I first wrote it, all the feelings were very big and felt like they happened fast. So, the music was big and fast.” He gestured towards me, guitar pick in hand. “We still feel very big and intense, but I want the song to reflect you and me; our soft solidity. That music is on a different song, now. We’ll play it at the show. My lyrics—your words—I’m keeping.”

  Jake set the pick on the table and plucked the strings with his fingers. It wasn’t mindless anymore, but a simple melody. He rocked back and forth with a subtle, joyful concentration. He straightened one leg out before him, resting his big boot in front of my opposing chair.

  “Just listen. You’ll like it.”

  The tune was soft and sounded happy. Catchy. I nodded my head with the melody, hoping that he would do what he did next.

  Jake had super powers. When he sang, time froze. With a single note he could stretch a moment—a simple pluck of a string or the tightening of a vocal cord—into a lifetime. As he began to weave his magic my well of emotion surfaced, blurring his face. The moment was so raw—my love for him and his gifts so strong and pure, against the words that were so beautiful. My song was remade. Brand new. I listened closely, quietly singing along with some of my favorite lines . . .

  The ash in my hand is remade in golden dust

  A smile brings sunlight along with the lust

  The days begin again. Renewed
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  I wait for miles and miles. Nights become skewed

  Searching the skies, cursed with hope

  Trying to stand, still on the ropes

  When the music’s loud, I’ll seek you out

  In the crowd, find your mouth

  I’ll call you sweetheart and you’ll call me king

  If I were Adam, you would be my Eve

  My song was light, melodic, and simple.

  “That was beautiful.” I covered my lips with my fingers.

  “Angel?”

  I blinked away the choking wet, trying not to sound so affected. “What’s up?”

  “I’m glad you like it, baby.” The light smile he always carried faded. “Do you remember the promise we made when we first got together?” He took the instrument from his lap to set on the dining table.

  “Wasn’t there more than one?”

  Jake and I made many promises after our first night together in his motel room. As I struggled with landing a new foster family because the last ones kicked me out when I left to make that show, Jake promised he would help in any way he could. We promised we’d stay together even if we ended up far apart.

  “We promised to always be honest with each other.”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  It was that major moment in the drive-thru: Jake had just told me that he loved me and I was feeling so free, so desperate, I would have built him an altar and sacrificed myself upon it to have him say it again. When he gave me those words, a sense of value that rarely impressed itself in me was birthed and expanded. Oh, I felt like flying. So high.

  And then, I went flying off at the mouth. I forced a pledge; one that his confidence assured me I would never have to fulfill. When Jake said my name, “Angel . . .” it was like a song. He followed with the surprising, stuttering confession, “I think . . . no, I know. I fucking love you.”

  We weren’t in the throes of any kind of passion. We were sitting in his dads’ truck, in a line of cars at the drive-thru burger stand. He had just ordered his cheeseburger and my milkshake. And he didn’t look like he was nervous or like he was joking. He looked like he knew exactly what he was saying, like he’d put a lot of thought into it.

  I told him exactly how I felt in that moment. At first I loved his music, but grew to love him, too, apart from the miracles he created. And he smiled, thanked me for my honesty. Then, we promised one another, at my bidding, that should either one of us ever meet someone else that we wanted more than who we were involved with, that we would be honest about it. Because Jake had talked about relationships before—not ours, but in general—and how they were fundamentally flawed because no one ever tried to stay honest. He wanted his own relationships to be built on truth. His parents were divorced. His dad had an affair and he hated how the lies broke up his family.

  So we promised never to lie, no matter the cost. To always be faithful. Even if that meant one telling the other they were attracted to someone else, or just plain wanted something different. Even if it was only for a night. We never talked about how something like that might be put into practice because we didn’t know. We just loved day to day and said what we meant.

  Right then, as Jake nervously rubbed a water stain on Deanna’s kitchen table, reminding me of that promise, I wondered if I was about to learn a lesson.

  “What do you have to be honest about?” I adjusted myself in the seat across from him.

  “I’m worried.”

  “About?”

  “That girl; the guitar player. Her name’s Angelica. She’s cool as hell.”

  I didn’t like the direction of the conversation. We’d already talked about her and here he was, bringing her up again. It made me feel small. “I hear hell is pretty hot.”

  “She’s hot, too.”

  He could’ve kicked me in the stomach and it would have been less jarring. He was looking at the floor when he said it and I knew why. He didn’t want to see my reaction to his honest opinion.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  He shook his head and kind of half-shrugged. “I thought I should say something before you meet her. You can be insecure sometimes and I don’t want you thinking I’m keeping secrets.”

  My head swirled, trying to separate the comments from my fear and put them together as I struggled to stay and talk to him. I wanted to run away, but that wouldn’t solve anything.

  He’d just played my rewritten song. And now . . . what?

  “So, in the interest of honesty you’re making sure that I know she’s an excellent guitarist. And that she’s very cool . . . and good-looking—no you said ‘hot.’ She’s hot.” My throat bulged. “Hot enough that Max and Andrew want to bag her.”

  I thought very carefully before asking my question, but asked anyway. “Do you?”

  Jakes’ eyebrows drew together at my serious expression. He took to his feet and walked around the table. Taking my hand, he bent onto the linoleum and looked me in the eye. “I’m telling you because she’s the better of the two guitar players, because if I don’t get my way she will end up in my band. That means I’ll have to spend time with her. That means travelling, practice and gigs. That affects us.”

  It was hard to miss the way he skirted my question. “Do you, Jake?”

  His eyes seemed to shine. “No. I mean . . . I don’t think so.” He turned quiet and thoughtful. “No. Not yet, at least.”

  I ripped my hands away from him, shoving back so fast the chair clattered to the floor behind me. My thoughts raced down the hallway and into the safety of my room. I wanted to shrink away.

  “My turn to be honest: that’s a shitty reassurance.”

  He came at me with both hands, grasping. I pushed him, tearing myself out and away. “Go home, Jake.”

  I was heading to my room, aiming to dive into my safe-place. My closet. And curl up into a tiny ball where I could cry until everything disappeared. But Jake caught me in the hallway, banding his arms around me, pulling me into his chest. My back pressed against him. He buried his face in my neck. The hot feeling of his breath and strength of his arms gave me such a deep comfort. My resentment crumbled, leaving only the raw hurt.

  “‘Not yet’?” I couldn’t keep my voice from trembling. “You expect to?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “That’s what you said!”

  “It just—baby, it came out wrong. I love you. Please, don’t make me go, baby. I’m sorry.” Jake held me closer, tightening his hold until I could barely breathe.

  Outwardly, I stilled. Inside, his confession ripped at my gut. Those two words felt like a tiny little monster, with huge fangs had crawled into my chest and began devouring my heart.

  I thought about pushing him away, what that would be like for me: to feel him loosen his grip, to no longer touch him. And desperation lodged in my throat. I couldn’t take it, not even the idea of it. I considered how it would make Jake feel. He’d said he wanted to stay. Who was I kidding, anyway? When it came to resisting him, I never had a shot. For both our sakes, I bottled my tears and told him he could stay.

  I felt his body relax against mine as he turned me in his arms. His eyes glistened in the dim light of the hallway as he lifted and carried me to my room. For the rest of that night, Jake lavished me with his passionate remorse, trying to reassure me. But his kisses felt desperate. Mine probably did, too.

  The radio fed the low sounds of Warrant into the dark surrounding us. Janie Lane was oozing over heaven and I was sure I’d gotten a peek into hell with those two words that seemed to cancel out everything else.

  “Not yet.”

  He held my body, but my mind was beyond reach, thinking of that girl, wondering what she’d done to him to make him say that. What did she look like? Where was she from? But I also knew I would never ask him about her. I really didn’t want answers. I just wanted to hold onto him as long as I could, because I had lived without Jake for fifteen years. Now that I had him, I couldn’t imagine what my life wou
ld look like without him, or that there would ever be a time when I wouldn’t desperately need him.

  “Not yet.”

  14

  —Angel

  Garfield had it right when he suggested getting rid of Mondays. That whole weekend stunk. Friday afternoon with my shrink had gotten the stink-ball going. Then Jake and his confusing visit.

  “Not yet.”

  I’ve suffered migraines since I was five. Noting I can do about it, but they come more often when I’m upset or worried. And Jakes’ painful admission that night—“Not yet”—had me stressed to the max. The pain came on early Saturday morning, just before he left.

  I didn’t do a thing for two whole days except lay in my room and writhe. Jake had felt bad, of course. He wanted to take me with him to visit his mom and little brother, Henry. There was nothing he could do for me, though. So, he went by himself and then picked up some extra shifts at work on Sunday.

  And Avery was sick with a flu or something. She’d called a few times, but I told her to stay away. The only thing that could help was silence. Austen looked in on me when Deanna was gone. He brought me water and my pills. On Sunday morning he made special brownies, but wouldn’t let me have any. Deanna brought me soup, but I couldn’t touch it.

  By Monday morning, I was exhausted, poking around in my bag and digging out a thin white binder labeled Language Arts. It wasn’t a Language Arts class, it was Advanced English Literature, but I’d gotten the binder from this shelf in the office where they kept used materials for students who couldn’t afford them. I opened the thin binder and started sifting for my writing assignment.

  I couldn’t remember what I did with my homework. Last Thursday I’d started my essay. I completed the outline and prepared a first draft. Then, after my headache went away, I got it out again to write the final draft but could not recall anything beyond that.

  I strained to remember . . . sitting in my room, lying on my stomach. I was on the floor, my knees bent up behind me. I remember, music playing and I was stretching, trying to touch my head with my toes. Then . . . nothing. Did I fall asleep?