by Mandi Beck
Her eyes land on mine and I mouth, “So pretty,” and wink, making her pink blush turn crimson. Fuck me, I love her. How did I live without this for the last couple years? How in the fuck did I let it all slip away from me?
After Willow has done a few songs, one with me even and another with Law for some percussion, she’s choosing her last one for the night before we go up there and play for a bit.
“I have to admit, you guys, this has been fun,” she says into the mic as she unfolds the paper. She wrinkles her nose. “Prince. Seriously?”
“I’ll take that one,” I say in a rush, standing from the table, pushing Law to his feet and kicking Ro’s chair to follow.
Law grabs my shoulders from behind and shakes me, “I know what we’re doing,” he singsongs “This gonna be the cover part of your challenge?”
I nod that it is as he walks past me and heads behind the kit, sticks already in hand, Arrow following, grabbing up the bass.
Pointing one of his sticks at me, “I approve!” Law yells from his seat at the drums.
“You sure you can handle Prince, rock star?” Bear calls out from the bar. I flip him a double bird and leap onto the stage to his deep belly laughs.
Wills puts her guitar in the stand and hands me my Fender. “Better you than me, I would have butchered Prince,” Willow says grinning. “Sing pretty,” she tells me, catching her bottom lip between her teeth to try to hold back the shit-eating grin.
“Go sit and watch how it’s done,” I say with a smirk catching her off guard with a kiss to her cheek.
Using the bottom of my shirt, I wipe the frets and then plug into the amp hoping like hell the sound will be okay since we clearly didn’t have time for a sound check. Knowing Bear though, all this shit is spot on. “You know what we’re doing right, Ro?” I ask as he plugs in.
“I figured it out right before Law told me,” he says, offering his hand for a quick fist bump.
Sure that we’re on the same page now, I walk over to the mic stand and raise it up, buying me some time to get the crowd quieted down. “So, I’ve been singing to this woman for a lot of years now. I mean, it’s the only weapon I’ve got. I’m a fucking rock star, I need to use that shit to my advantage, right?” The audience breaks out into applause and calls of agreement. I look over at Willow as she sits at the table, clinging to Judge’s arm, her head against his shoulder, watching me with the sweetest, sexiest smile on her red painted lips.
“Well, apparently she’s not a fan of all the songs I choose to sing to her, so she threw down a little challenge. A challenge I accepted. I think she’ll like this one though. I said on the way here that she was turning me into some kind of pussy, all these ballads I’ve been laying on her. Told her I needed to slay the shit out of something dirty. This will do.”
I wink at her and pull out the only guitar pick I’ve never lost, rubbing my thumb over the initials on it. The minute I strum out the first couple chords, the room explodes. The cheering so deafening it nearly drowns me out. They quiet when I put my lips to the mic. My eyes locked on Willow. “I never meant to cause you any sorrow . . . I never meant to cause you any pain . . .” I grin at Wills look of surprise, and point a finger at her when I start the next verse. “I only wanted one time to see you laughing . . .” By the time I hit the first chorus the lighters and phones light up the whole rooftop. People swaying from side to side, singing with me. And Wills, my beautiful fucking Birdie, standing there, with her face pulled tight, nose scrunched, lips pursed, mirroring my own as I shred, feeling the notes clear to her soul, same way as me. Like it’s a living breathing thing. And I can guarantee that as sure as my dick is hard right now from the music coursing through my blood, that she’s wet. That insider knowledge of her body and how music, my music, affects her, makes Willow mine. Now and forever. Fuck anyone who thinks otherwise.
Stepping back to the mic, I wail, “Honey, I know, I know, I know . . .” Pulling from that place deep inside where my music lives, letting the emotions and the high of knowing this is what I was born to do take me soaring into the stratosphere only reachable when I’m playing. Eyes squeezed closed, face screwed tight, my fingers fly over the strings, caress the fret, digging in and owning the moment where I’m one with the song, where nothing can touch me. It’s the realest feeling in the world and the only high I ever want to be on again.
On my last riff, the whole place loses their mind. I can even hear the crowd downstairs, their screams echoing up the stairwell, egging me on. Slowly I open my eyes, immediately landing on Willow, and I’m positive I just crushed the fuck out of her challenge.
Willow
AFTER LAST NIGHT AT THE Dirty Bird and Stone’s ridiculously hot performance, the one that had me wanting to jump his damn bones right on stage, I needed a little break from him. He’s overwhelming in all the best and worst ways. For as long as I can remember. It’s not Stone’s fault. Artists are all the same. We feel too damn much. Our emotions are raw. Everything we do we do with passion because that’s what makes us artists. Whether we paint, sing, take pictures, design clothes, play an instrument, we do it with passion. That is both a blessing and a curse. Especially to someone like Stone who doesn’t know how to shut it off. He’s always on. Always full out passion.
When he left me at my door last night, I was a quivering mess. Every one of my nerve endings screaming from even the slightest touch. A simple brush of his arm against mine. I was reeling from uncontrollable need. A desire I’ve never felt with anyone else and know I never will. He asked to see me today although I know he wanted to come in and lose himself inside me. He was showing restraint and it means more to me than he’ll probably ever know. I told him I have classes all day, a little white lie . . . I only have one. And after promising not to drive my Jeep at night until he can look at it, he left. And then ten seconds later he came back. I was still leaning back against the door, Cora watching me try to get myself together from the couch when he rapped on the door. Startling me and making me jump. When I opened the door he kissed the hell out of me. And then left again like he didn’t just rock both of our worlds.
Groaning, I flop onto the bed making Lyric giggle from her spot amongst the pillows, abandoning them to crawl onto my chest. “Hey there, my little songbird,” I sing. “You ready to get dressed and go make music?”
She slaps her little hands against my cheeks happily. “Let’s go get pretty,” I say, scooping her up and snuggling into her neck as we walk into her room to get ready for our day. Lyric squeals when I tickle her under her little chin. Placing her on the changing table, I buckle her in place and pull out all her baby business.
She claps her hands, drawing my attention to her and then signs for me to sing. We’ve had a woman in class with us for the last couple months signing as we sing, and teaching the children to sign as part of our therapy, and Lyric has picked it up rather quickly. Way quicker than I have. I’m just thrilled she’s finding ways to communicate. “You want me to sing?” I ask making a sweeping motion with my hand up and down my arm. She smiles her little toothy grin and claps some more, and once again I’m amazed at how happy she makes me just by being here. By being happy and teaching me that she’s who I’ve been put on this planet to love more than anyone else.
As I change her and put a little bow in her thick dark hair, I sing “Love Me Tender,” our favorite non-lullaby lullaby. Delighting in the way she sways in time to my singing. She’s such a musical baby. I’m sure it has so much to do with the therapy sessions she sits in on nearly every day, but I also like to think that she inherited my love for music and that it’s something we can explore together as she gets older. With a flourish, I finish the song and unbuckle her, both of us smiling contentedly as we get a start on our day.
With a happy but sleepy Lyric on my hip, I head out of the school, classes over for the day, and make my way to the Jeep. I’m just buckling Lyric in when I notice a large package on the passenger seat. Worriedly, I scan the parking lot to see who might
have left it, if they’re still there. I’m about to pull the baby out of her seat and head back in when I recognize Stone’s writing. I close Lyric’s door and climb behind the wheel, firing up the Jeep and reaching for the envelope taped to the top of the box, pulling the note card out.
Birdie,
I’ve been holding onto these, wondering if I should give them to you, knowing that some will probably do more harm than good. Here are the letters I wrote to you while I was in rehab and after. I wish I had some for the months before but I was too busy being a selfish prick to think about doing something like this. Anyway, read them or don’t, they’re yours and you should have them. I can’t remember what’s in a lot of them, but always know they were coming from a good place even if at times it doesn’t seem like it.
Love you always,
Stone
With a shaky breath, I lift the lid on the box and see rows and rows of letters. Hundreds. Instantly I wonder if I’m strong enough to read them. If I’ll survive the look inside his mind, his heart, while he was working on his sobriety. This is a huge statement coming from Stone. Leaving himself open and vulnerable, at times even weak, I’m sure is not something he would normally go out of his way to do.
Closing the box, I put the Jeep in gear and drive home. “What do you think, Lyric, should we read them?” I ask watching her in the rearview mirror while I wait at the light. She looks at me like I’m crazy and then signs for me to sing. “You’ve got a one-track mind, little girl,” I sigh, knowing damn well I’ll be spending my evening reading the damn letters.
It only takes a few minutes to get home and carry a sleepy Lyric in the house, setting her in her play yard while I run back out to grab my guitar and the box of letters. Depositing both next to the couch, I call for takeout and start building a pillow fort on the floor. If I’m saying home to torture myself with an onslaught of feelings, I’m doing it comfortably like a ten-year-old child. Once that’s finished, I go and make some tea and a little dinner for Lyric since I doubt she’ll appreciate the curry I just ordered. Back in the living room, I place my armful on the tray sitting on the ottoman and pluck Lyric out of her enclosure. Propping her up on a comfy stack of pillows I flip the TV to the music station and spoon some yummy summer squash into her little open mouth. “You really do look like a little bird,” I laugh. She answers with loud smacking noises and points for more. Happily, I oblige, spooning and swiping up excess as we sing and dance to Sia on the music station until all of her food is gone and her eyes droop contentedly.
Making sure she’s comfortable, I settle back against the pillows propped against the couch and reach for the box and my tea, sitting them both beside me. Just as I’m about to grab the first letter, my phone pings, making a nearly asleep Lyric jump a bit.
Perry: I’m coming over unless you’re doing the nasty. I heard about last night.
Me: I’m not doing the nasty, but you can’t come over. I’m reading.
Perry: Why? What the hell are you reading?
Me: Letters from Stone. He left them for me.
Perry: Ooohhh, can I read them?
Me: NO!
Perry: Fine. You suck. Call me if you need me xo
Me: xoxo
There is no way I would ever let anyone read these. With a deep breath, I take the first letter out of the box noting the date and look at the next few to see if they’re in order, and they are. Carefully I slip a nail under the sealed flap and pull the first letter out.
Wills,
Where are you? You weren’t at home. They told me you wouldn’t be but I didn’t believe them. I wanted you to be home so fucking bad. I tried calling you but the phone was disconnected. Doesn’t matter now though, I can’t have a phone in here. Law convinced them to give me a notebook and something to write with though. I’ll write you every day until I get out. I promise, things are gonna be different. I’m gonna be different. Clean.
I love you so much.
Love,
Stone
Already there are tears making it difficult for me to see. Blinking them back rapidly, I neatly fold the letter and slide it back into its envelope, reaching for the next.
Willow,
I hate it here. They treat me like a criminal. Where the fuck are you? I need you. I can’t do this shit without you. Nobody knows where the hell you are. Or if they do they’re not telling me. Where are you????
Stone
Birdie,
We had to cancel the last leg of the tour when I ended up in here. I didn’t care at the time because I was so fucked up. Now though, it bothers me. I let everyone down. I let myself down. I let you down so long ago and I continued to do so day after day. I’m so fucking sorry.
I love you
Love,
Stone
Wills,
I feel muted. Like I’m in a fog. Everything is happening around me but it’s like I’m just watching it from this dulled out place where the colors aren’t bright enough and the sounds are too loud. I hate it. I hate myself and I miss you. I miss you so much it hurts.
Love you.
Love,
Stone
The third has me swallowing back a sob that by the fourth I can no longer contain. Crying openly, my tears drip from my chin on the paper, leaving ink stains as I push forward.
Glad that I was so easy to quit. That all the promises you made were bullshit. I needed you and you fucking bailed. Whatever.
I knew the real reason I left. He didn’t. And for that I feel just the smallest twinge of guilt. No matter that people would call me stupid for even feeling a modicum of guilt, I do. Reaching for the next and then the one after that, I sit for forty-five minutes reading letter after letter until the doorbell rings, startling me. I place the letter I had just pulled out aside and swipe at the tears sliding down my face. Looking out the side window, I see that it’s my takeout and open the door. The delivery man does a double take at my appearance. I had since thrown on leggings and a baggy shirt to go with my top knot and puffy, tear-stained face.
“Umm, are you okay, miss?” he asks nervously.
I nod at the poor guy and hand him the money for my food including a fat tip and take the bag from him. “Thank you,” I mumble, closing the door and going back to my forest of pillows. Balancing a container of spicy curry on my lap, I pick the abandoned letter up eager to see what this one will say. If it will be hurtful and blaming like some or sincere and heart wrenching like others.
When I finish reading it I take a deep even breath and reflect on his words. The way I could feel his pain leaping from the page as he described what it was like to have to sit through sessions filled with loved ones baring their souls and seeing me. The clarity he gained from being in rehab was in every line, every word and my heart felt lighter even as it sank.
Careful not to wake a peacefully sleeping Lyric, I weep silently into my hands. I cry for me, I cry for Stone. I cry for us and all that could have been and for all we endured at the hands of the other and still came out on top. Stronger. Better. More resilient versions of us. I cry until my throat is sore and my eyes are gritty and then I cry just a little bit more. When there is not a drop left for me to cry, I pick up my phone and text him.
Me: Can I see you tomorrow?
Stone: You can see me anytime, Birdie.
Me: I don’t have classes or anything tomorrow so whenever.
Stone: I’ll bring breakfast.
Sighing deeply, I put the phone down and look at the stacks of envelopes around me. I made it through all of them and while some of them were downright painful, others were eye opening. Heart lightening. If I wasn’t so emotionally spent right now I would have begged him to come tonight, but I’m just too raw for that. I need the night to process everything. To accept my feelings and what they mean moving forward. Am I ready to forgive him completely and move on, put it all in the past and build a life together? The life we had always planned on? I’m not sure. I do know that I want, more than anything, to be in his
arms right now. Somewhere I never thought I’d be again. So for now, I’ll just start there.
Stone
HOW EARLY IS TOO EARLY? I wonder, standing in front of my dresser, a towel slung low in my hips, water dripping from the tips of my hair onto my shoulders. Pulling clothes out of my closet, I toss the towel on the bed and dress. I’ve been up since seven, just killing time until it’s a decent hour to go over there. I’ve done my workout, fucked around with some music, made some phone calls to Austin. There’s not shit else to do so, eight thirty will have to be late enough. I jog down the stairs and out to my truck, practically skipping like a little bitch I’m so stoked. I’m not sure if she read the letters and that’s why she asked to see me or what, but I’m taking it. Grabbing my hat at the door, I pull the brim down low and dip out without Dane. I’ll hit the auto parts store first and grab whatever I might need to fix her headlight and then over to Spun to grab some breakfast stuff.
About a half an hour later I’m walking into Spun trying to not make eye contact with anyone. I was recognized twice at the auto parts store but thankfully made it out of there with everything I needed without it becoming a fucking circus.
“You trying to blend? Because I’m not sure it’s working,” the chick from the other day, Kim, I think, teases.
I chuckle, “I’m doing my best and failing epically.”
With a sympathetic look she asks, “Are you meeting Willow here?”
“No, I just need some of her favorites to go and whatever other shit you throw in there. I told her I would bring breakfast.”
Kim nods and smiles, “Sounds good. Here are your coffees. I’ll get your stuff together while you fix ‘em up.”
Cups in hand, I walk over to the coffee station and put seven sugars and seven creamers in Willow’s, same as she’s been drinking since she was in high school, and just two and two for me. I like my tea sweet, my coffee not so much. Sliding those little sleeves on the cups, I go to the counter and wait. Within a few minutes she has me all set to go, wedging my coffees in a cup holder and placing it inside a huge paper bag. “There. That’s on me. Enjoy your breakfast,” she beams. I look in the bag and see all that she’s put in there and pull out two crisp one hundred dollar bills and put them in her tip jar.
