by BB Miller
“You know what I mean. It kills me to see you like this. If I could trade places with you, I’d do it. We all would.”
My fingers tighten against the tablet as I fight to keep it together. “Shit. Don’t get all emotional on me. I feel bad enough as it is.”
“You’re stuck with us. You leaving, or whatever else is going through that thick skull of yours, isn’t happening, got it?”
Giving him a slow nod, I open up the tablet, my heart pounding. “Since I can’t play, I’ve kind of been sort of writing a bit. I mean, it’s not like your stuff, but it’s something.”
I finally glance back to him.
“Kind of sort of been, hmm?”
“Fuck, I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”
“If it helps, I’m a wreck every time before I share something new with you guys. What if it’s shit? What if they laugh at it? What if we can’t find a way to make it ours? A million questions run through my head, you don’t even want to know.” He glances down to the tablet. “Going all high tech?”
“I know you write everything out old school with notes and everything, but there’s a couple of apps I found.”
He lets out a laugh. “Jesus. There’s an app. Of course there is.”
“Welcome to the 21st century. Anyway, it lays down tracks for the bass, even drums, so you can get a feel for it. Obviously, it’s not going to sound like it would when you play it.”
“When we play it,” he says pointedly.
“Right. When we play it, but it’ll give you an idea.”
“You want me to call the rest of the guys? It can be a celebration. A little different than the one we had on New Year’s Eve.” He pushes up from the couch to start heading down to his studio.
“What happened New Year’s Eve?” Following him down the stairs, he flips the lights on. I can feel the familiar rush of adrenaline, glancing at the glass-enclosed studio at the far end of the room. How many hours have we spent down here perfecting a track, fighting over a chorus, playing into the middle of the night? History written right here in this room.
“We had a party in your room.” My eyes widen as he continues, “Sean blew up a bunch of those extra-small condoms you kept getting from fans, filled them with glitter.” He laughs, lifting one of his Fender acoustics from the stand and pulling the strap over his shoulder. “Fuck, that was funny. We had to wade through them, there were so many.”
“Wait, you spent New Year’s Eve in my hospital room while I was unconscious?”
“Damn right we did. Party hats, music, sparkling cider at midnight. The whole nine yards. It was pretty fucking epic. The nurses weren’t impressed.”
“I had no idea.”
“Course you didn’t.” He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “We didn’t want you and Tess to be alone.”
“Was Tom there?”
He glances at me. “Who do you think came up with the idea?” I stare back at him speechless. What the hell else happened when I was in that fucking coma? “So, show me what you got.”
The tablet weighs a ton in my hand. I know as soon as I do this, everything will be different. My voice in the band up until this point has been just that, a voice put to his lyrics. Sure, I add my own spin on the tracks when we record and play live, we all do that, but this? This is something else, something personal. Lyrics that are entirely and completely mine.
Kennedy just waits, sitting on one of the stools behind a microphone. He gives me the time I need until I open up the app and let him hear my soul.
Tessa
Matt sticks his head in my bedroom door. “Got any more tape, babe?”
“Sure.” I toss a roll across the bed to him, and he snatches it with his good hand. “I think there’s more on the kitchen counter, too.”
“’Kay.” He gives me a wink and then ducks back out, the sound of tearing packing tape echoing in his wake.
We’ve finally decided to take the next step and officially share his loft near the wharf. It’s been unofficial since his accident; most of my clothes are already there. This weekend will see the removal of the rest of my belongings from the lovely condo I share with Jada. Some things will go to storage; the rest will find a home nestled among his guitars and assorted bits of sound equipment. And the new keyboard that Matt uses to compose.
With a happy sigh, I grab my spare roll of packing tape and tear off a strip to seal a box of books. Thank God for the Redfall boys. In the weeks since Matt shared the lyrics he’d been working on with Kennedy, it’s as if a weight has lifted from him. All three of his bandmates have been incredibly supportive since the accident, of course, but I think the way they were so accepting of his compositions shocked him in a good way. He’s still too shy about it to share any of his new songs with me yet, but I’ve heard him plunking away downstairs some nights when I’ve awoken to find his side of the bed empty. I try not to push. He’ll share when he’s ready.
However, thrilled as I am about this new outlet for his pent-up creativity, I’m still worried. I don’t think he’s tried playing the guitar yet, and his nightmares have gotten worse.
The quiet snick of the latch brings my head up. Jada leans against the closed door, her hand still on the knob. “How you doin’ in here?”
“Almost done. When’s your next victim moving in?”
“Ha ha,” she says dryly and sits on the corner of my bed. “I’ve decided to keep it all to myself for a month or two. Maybe give Greg an opportunity to become my new roommate.”
I shoot her a glance. “Really? I didn’t think things had progressed that far.” While I’ve been staying with Matt since the accident, Jada formed a tempestuous friends-with-benefits arrangement with one of the IT professors. Their rumored tryst in the server room has apparently become the stuff of legend among the computer geeks at SFSU.
She shrugs. “What about you? It’s not that I don’t like Matt—he’s grown on me.” She chuckles. “Just remember that if things don’t work out, I’ve got your back.” Her deep ebony eyes fix on me with a sincerity that touches my heart.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” With a wry smile, I move the box I just loaded to the stack by my window. “This feels right, though. For both of us. We’re ready.”
“Good.” She cocks her head at me. “Have they caught that kid yet?”
I frown at the mention of Zach. “Not yet. Matt says it’s not surprising, considering how resourceful street kids can be. He’s probably long gone by now anyway.”
“He’d be stupid to stay in town.” She holds another box open for me to put a stack of sheets into it. “So, this is really it, then. You’re really leaving me.”
“Yep. Really leaving.” I stand on my tiptoes to reach a stack of bedding in my closet, and then turn to see her grinning at me.
“Good. Because what I really wanted to know was if it was safe for me to put the sex trapeze in here.”
I burst out laughing, and she easily dodges the pillow I throw at her. She skips to the door and opens it, with a promise to start boxing up my few and rarely-used kitchen implements. We both know we’ll remain friends—but I’ll make sure to call ahead so I don’t interrupt any wild computer geek orgies.
“Be careful of your shoulder!” I dart forward and take a box from the stack Matt is awkwardly trying to carry in the door at the loft. “You don’t have to carry three at a time, you know.” Stubborn man.
“These aren’t heavy.” He frowns. “It’s like all they have are towels or pillows or something. Doesn’t Jada know how to pack a full box?”
I sniff and set my load down in the corner where we’re stacking everything for now. “Don’t blame Jada. I was grateful for her help. How much is left in the truck?”
“There’re only a few more things for this stop.” The rest is going to be loaded into a small storage unit nearby. “Oh, and your brother had to leave to take Mason to his soccer practice. He said to call him later if we still needed help.”
I hum in acknowledgement and twist
one of the boxes around so I can read what is in it. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Matt trying surreptitiously to rub his bad shoulder.
“Did you hurt it?” I drop what I’m doing and march over to prod gently at the hard muscle of his injured shoulder. He sighs but otherwise bears my ministrations.
“No, it’s just a little sore, Nurse Baker.” He laughs when I frown at him. “Honest, it’s okay.”
However, the blue eyes smiling down at me are tired, and the deep bags under his eyes look even worse in the late afternoon light. He hasn’t gotten an uninterrupted night’s sleep all week thanks to the damn nightmares. “Maybe so, but you’ve worked it a little more than usual today. Why don’t you lie down and try to rest a bit? I can bring you an ice pack.” I try for a winsome smile. “I don’t want to bring the wrath of Tucker down on me for screwing up the progress you’ve made.”
Those formerly smiling eyes narrow in suspicion. “I don’t need a fucking nap, Tess,” he spits. “I’m not a two-year-old.”
I open my mouth to tell him to stop acting like one, but I clap it shut just in time. This not hovering stuff is hard. “Fine,” I retort instead, and whirl away from him to calm down. But before I get five steps away, I swing back around, my worry for him bubbling over.
“No, it’s not fine.” With my hands on my hips, I choose my words carefully, trying to keep my tone even. I can see him getting his back up, and we can’t have this conversation if we’re yelling. “We need to talk about the nightmares, Matt.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He turns on his heel and stalks toward the garage door. “I need to adjust the Camaro’s carburetor. Call me when Tom gets here.”
“Hold it right there.” I’m surprised to hear my father’s steely tone of command in my voice, but it has the desired effect. Matt releases the doorknob as if it burned him and turns to face me like a recalcitrant schoolboy. I’m not sure if this is the right time to bring this up, but when is the right time? Taking a deep breath, I dive in.
“I’m not going to let you run away this time. Don’t try to deny it.” I glare at him, and he obediently shuts his mouth. “Because that’s exactly what you were doing. Every time Dr. Elliot or I bring this up, you find some way of deflecting. You change the subject or make an excuse to leave the room. I have to talk to you about this. I love you and I’m worried. I’m worried about you. You’ve made so much progress physically, but you’re ignoring the other effects of the accident. And you won’t let anyone help. You won’t let me help.”
My voice quivers against my will, and his shoulders slump in response. “You shouldn’t have to deal with my bullshit,” he growls, rubbing his hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t want it to affect you.”
“But it does, Matt. It affects me every time you thrash yourself awake, fighting an invisible foe. I have bruises from it.” My hips and biceps—his favorite handholds when I help him exorcise his demons during the night—are peppered with fingertip-sized marks. He ducks his head, avoiding my eyes. “I’m not complaining, just stating a fact. I understand that you don’t want to talk to me about them, but you have to talk to someone. You need to see a counselor.”
He raises his head at that, bristling. “Will you still move in if I don’t?” he challenges. Every inch of his body is quivering in restrained emotion, his chin stuck out, just waiting for the shoe to drop. Always assuming the worst.
“Of course I will.” I take a deep breath and relax my shoulders, suddenly realizing how rigid I am. “Ultimatums aren’t my style. Getting you healthy is.” I move over to my purse and rummage around for a moment, finally finding what I’m looking for tucked in a pocket. Walking up to the brooding figure by the door, I brandish it, startling him.
The business card is battered, frayed at the edges, and bears a coffee stain on one corner. Based on the panic in his eyes, you’d think I was threatening him with a cobra.
“Her name is Sheila Mercer. She helped me—all of us, really—after Paula died. Even my dad went. I thought it was complete crap at first, but Conner and Casey talked me into it, and I’m grateful they did.”
“Did Tom put you up to this?” The haunted look in his eyes tears at my heart, but I’m relentless. I stand tall and continue to hold the card out, daring him to take it.
“No. Has he suggested it, too?”
He frowns down at his feet, and that’s all the answer I need.
“I was angry at the VA for not getting Paula back on Dad’s coverage sooner, at the disease, at Erik for leaving. Even at Paula for dying. Sheila made me see things differently and gave me tools to use to cope. Eventually, I was able to get over the worst of my grief.” My recently conquered problem with commitment, which was due to the tragic disappearance of Paula’s fiancé after her death, is beside the point.
“I don’t need to talk to some quack doctor,” he argues, but there’s no heat in his voice. He’s eyeing the card in my hand suspiciously, so I wiggle it a little between my fingers, enticing him.
“Well, she’s a psychologist, not a psychiatrist, so she’s not a doctor.” I smile, but it fades. “I love you, and I will continue to do whatever I can to help you in whatever way you need it. However, I can’t be your cure, Matt. It’s not fair to either of us. You need to take control of whatever is fueling your nightmares. This might be a good way to start. Please, just think about it.”
I hold my breath. He scowls, and I feel a frisson of fear. He doesn’t look like he’s going to explode, but then again I never thought he’d trash one of his prize guitars.
“They’re mostly about when I was living on the street.” He stares at his shoes, taking a steady breath. “And my mother, if you want to call her that. None of it is pretty.” I swallow back the lump in my throat and wait. I thought I wanted to know, but seeing his haunted expression raises doubts. Is it fair for me to ask him to dredge up painful memories of the past? The thought of a young Matt trying to make it on the streets stabs at my heart.
With a gulp, he lifts his head and takes the card. A relieved smile creeps across my face, and then I’m in his arms, holding on tight. He smells of spice and strong, warm man. We stand quietly, wrapped in each other, and the tension in both our bodies begins to ease. How could I ever have doubted that this is where I’m meant to be? Burying his face in my hair, he takes a deep breath. “I’ll call her,” he whispers, his hot breath tickling my ear. “I can’t guarantee it will do any good, but I promise I’ll try.”
Tears spring to my eyes. “That’s all I ask.”
After our tumultuous afternoon, we’d decided the storage unit could wait. Matt wanted to give Tom a call, and I wanted some fresh air. And some spanakopita. So I took the Camaro and ran down to our favorite Greek restaurant to pick up dinner. One of these days, I suppose I should learn to cook, but—I pluck a stuffed grape leaf from the bag and pop it into my mouth—today is not that day.
At the corner, I notice a motorcycle cop wrapping up a traffic stop. I give him a wide berth and turn down our alley. My mouth waters from the delectable aromas wafting in the car. I jab the garage gate button impatiently, wondering if we have another bottle of that yummy sauvignon blanc left.
The godawful grinding of the gate is punctuated by an even greater noise, before the whole thing shudders to a stop. Awesome—it’s finally broken. Now maybe I can talk Matt into getting a better gate.
Grumbling to myself, I get out of the car to see if I can still pop the handle and open it manually. The gate is stuck about only a foot off the ground and . . . what the hell?
There’s a short piece of rebar stuck through a gap in the gate and into the track. The opening mechanism strains against the obstruction; if I can pull it out, maybe it will—
“Leave it.”
I whirl around, shocked to see Zach standing about three feet from me, and I automatically step back, almost into the gate. He looks like he’s been living under a bridge—maybe he has. His holey sweatshirt is stained and hanging off his thin
frame, and his jeans are torn at the knee. Lank dark hair hangs into his eyes, eyes that are full of malice and frustration and aimed directly at me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand, my shock giving way to the anger that’s been simmering in me since the accident. “Haven’t you already done enough?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” he spits out, his words interrupted by a hoarse cough that rattles in his chest. “I just wanted to fuck up the bike. I didn’t think he’d be able to get it out of the garage, much less take it on a joy ride. Stupid prick.” I’m not sure if the loathing in his eyes is directed at Matt or himself.
“He could’ve died!” I glare back at him with my fists clenched at my side. The edges of my vision turn red and my body shakes with rage.
“So what if he did!” he screams back, his pale face turning red. “Rich fucking rock star. Who the fuck does he think he is, telling me he ‘understands’ what I’m going through.” He steps closer, penning me in. His rank odor turns my stomach. “He doesn’t understand shit! He lives in a fancy apartment with tons of money—what does he know? He’s got everything he wants. I bet you’ll get on your knees anytime he snaps his fingers, ready to suck his—”
My hand draws back to slap him, but the sudden appearance of a knife in his hand is like a bucket of icy water. My rage evaporates, replaced by cold fear.
“What do you want?” I ask flatly. The adrenaline is pumping as I turn over the possibilities, my father’s instructions on self-defense rushing back to me. Can I do this?
He grips the knife like a lifeline, seeming to regain his confidence. “You have to tell him I didn’t mean it. Tell the cops I didn’t mean it.” I take a deep breath as he continues, “Look, I don’t want to hurt you.” With his free hand, he grabs my wrist.
Okay, then.
In an instant, I twist my wrist in his grasp, clamp my other hand on his firmly, and wrench his arm to the side. The knife clatters to the pavement, and he cries out in pain as I force him to the ground, maintaining the wristlock. I don’t stop moving until I have him face down with his arm behind his back, and my knee firmly planted on his tailbone.
