For the Love of a Lush (Lush No. 2)

by Selena Laurence

  He looks at me hard for a minute then picks the shovel up and turns his back as he starts to scrape up the remaining hay and dirt. "What I heard didn’t paint you in a good light, son. I don’t give a shit how twisted up you are. I won’t tolerate you being abusive—to anyone. Whatever pain you’re in doesn’t give you the right to take it out on her."

  "I know, man. All right? I know. I’ve felt like crap every day since, and I’ve tried to apologize. She won’t answer me. I know I was a complete dick."

  "Yeah, you were. And this time, you can’t blame booze—right?"

  Oh shit. Now he doubts my sobriety. "I swear. Jesus, if I’d been drinking, I would have never done it. That’s the fucking problem. I don’t think I’ve ever been that angry in my life. And if I was, I drank it away."

  A sliver of sunlight bursts in through the barn doorway, and I hear some of the guys shouting to each other as they head over to the main house for breakfast. Two-Bit comes trotting in and shoves his nose in my hand, begging for attention. I absentmindedly pat him on the head. I don’t really hate animals I guess.

  "You’ve got to figure out how to control it some way other than alcohol, Walsh."

  I nod. I know this.

  "Mike tells me there’s a pretty big hole in the wall of your bunkhouse?"

  I nod yet again.

  "That’s what you’ll be working on today. I’ve got some sheetrock in the attic of the shed. Cut a piece for the replacement and get it set and taped. You can texture coat it tomorrow."

  "All right," I say obediently.

  "This conversation isn’t done. I’ve told Leanne to give Tammy a few days off so she’s out of your sights, but I could fire her and have her ejected from the state and it wouldn’t change the fact that she’s out there, Walsh. You have to come to some sort of peace with her or you’re never going to be able to continue your recovery. Whether she’s down the block or halfway across the world, this is shit in your house and you can’t ignore it any longer."

  I clear my throat. "Okay. I hear you."

  He turns back to his work, and I’m decidedly dismissed. It’s about all I deserve at this point. I slouch out, choosing to skip breakfast and get right to work on the wall. What a clusterfuck we’ve created—me and Tammy. I wish I could be sure that we’re able to unravel it even half as easily as we made it in the first place.

  Tammy

  WHEN I was a little girl, I once saw my uncle hit my aunt. It was a lazy summer afternoon in Portland. The sky was hazy with moisture and heat, and I’d spent most of the day running through the sprinklers in my aunt’s backyard while she and my mom talked. I knew something wasn’t right because my aunt Jessie kept crying, but I was barely four years old and Aunt Jessie and Uncle Trent had a border collie puppy that was outside with me, so I was having too much fun to worry about the grown-ups and their emotions.

  Sometime not too long after I’d eaten my lunch, the back door to the house slammed and Uncle Trent appeared, his face angry and his posture aggressive. Both my mom and Aunt Jessie stood up quickly, blocking my view of Trent. I remember stopping my game and simply standing, water spraying all over me as I watched my mother’s back tense and listened to the mean, angry words my uncle was speaking.

  As their voices grew louder, I could feel my heart race and tears burned the backs of my eyes. I had no idea what the argument was about, but I knew that when grown-ups’ voices sounded like that it was a bad thing. In a few minutes, my mom came and grabbed my hand, saying as she did, "We’ll just get out of your way, Trent. Jessie, come on. Let’s go to the grocery store and pick up Trent’s favorite for dinner. He can rest while we’re gone. Doesn’t that sound like a good idea?"

  I looked over at my aunt and saw the terror in her eyes, the fear that had taken over her to such a degree that she’d lost the capacity to think rationally. Her gaze darted between my mom and Trent as if she weren’t sure who was supposed to be in charge.

  Trent stepped menacingly toward her and said, "You aren’t goin’ anywhere, so don’t even think about it."

  I could feel my mom’s hand tighten around mine, and she said softly, "Jessie? Remember what we talked about. Let’s just go on a nice quiet drive to the store. It’ll all be fine."

  Trent angled his body toward my mom, and as she pulled me behind her, I heard her snarl at him, "Don’t you dare. Rob will put you out of your misery permanently." He hesitated for a minute and then turned his attention back to my aunt, who was as pale as a ghost and had her hands over her mouth as if she could stifle her own voice if she held on tight enough.

  My mother stood still for a minute more as Trent started shouting at my aunt. Even as young as I was, I knew that you shouldn’t speak to other people that way. I knew that Uncle Trent was wrong and what he was doing was somehow evil and twisted.

  My mom scooped me up and headed to the gate that led to the driveway. She held me tight, and I could hear her heavy breathing and feel the quiet sobs that escaped as she nearly ran out of the yard. At the last minute, as I looked over her shoulder at the retreating forms of my aunt and uncle, I saw Uncle Trent raise his fist and bring it down on the side of Aunt Jessie’s head. She stumbled and cried out then fell to her knees, sobbing. He raised his arm again, and I screwed my eyes shut, buried my head in my mother’s shoulder, and didn’t look again until we were in the car, speeding toward the nearest payphone.

  The thing about that experience that stuck with me for the next twenty-some-odd years wasn’t the actual moment of Trent striking my aunt. It was the look in her eyes as he did it. There was a desolation—a hopelessness—that said my aunt had given up. She couldn’t step out of that yard because she was more afraid of what was outside than inside.

  As I stand looking at myself in the bathroom mirror at Mrs. Stallworth’s on day three of my required "vacation" from the Double A, I see a similar look in my eyes. Something broke inside me when Walsh and I crashed against each other in that parking lot, and now I feel hopeless. But I’m so afraid of what waits for me away from him, away from here, that I can’t even begin to imagine doing something different. I’ve spent the last six months of my life dreaming of how to get him back, preparing for how to get him back, working to get him back. And now that I’m here, and he hates me, I find myself adrift. I’ve started to think that, even if he hates me, I’ll keep trying to get him back simply because I’m too afraid not to.

  I give myself a small mental shake. At least I have some time off. Leanne called a friend who works at the Downtown Diner to go cook for the guys at the ranch today so that she and I can have a girls’ day. We’re going to Dallas to shop, and then tonight, we’re going to see some new band at The Bronco. I haven’t been out in months. The last time was with Mel and some old high school friends back in Portland. Thinking of Mel reminds me I should give her my daily check-in. I pick up my phone and open the text icon.

  Me: Hey. Just checking in.

  Mel: Hi! How are you today?

  Me: Okay. Got the day off from work. Going shopping :)

  Mel: Tammy D. is in the house!

  Me: Then out tonight.

  Mel: With Walsh?!

  Me: No, just Leanne. Stuff with him is complicated right now.

  I’ve barely pressed "send" before my phone is ringing in my hand. It’s Mel.

  "Hey," I say as I shut the door to my bedroom and lie down on my bed.

  "So did he finally start talking to you?" she asks without preamble.

  "Um, not exactly…" I hedge.

  "What does that mean?" I can hear the skepticism in her voice. Mel’s never been a fan of me coming to Texas and trying to get Walsh back. I think she’s worried that I’ll have another breakdown. After the parking lot event, I’m not so sure that her fears are unfounded.

  "We had a sort of, um…encounter. But it didn’t involve a lot of talking." I can feel my cheeks heat at the memory of his hands and his mouth on me—and also his rage.

  Mel’s voice goes up about an octave. "You and Walsh
made out?!"

  I snort. "Something like that."

  "But I’m getting the feeling this wasn’t a good thing…"

  I sigh. How do I explain something I don’t even understand? "It was angry, Mel. He was angry. He’s been angry ever since I got here. The make-out session was just a new way to express it."

  She’s quiet for a moment. Then she says hesitantly, "He didn’t… I mean…he didn’t hurt you, did he? I can’t imagine Walsh ever being like that. Right?"

  I’m quick to correct her. "No, of course he didn’t hurt me. Trust me—I was a willing participant. But you should probably take any notions you have of what Walsh would or wouldn’t do and throw them out the window." I look outside my own window at the big oak tree rustling in the breeze. A pretty little blue-and-white bird is watching me from his perch on a high branch. "He’s so different, Mel. I feel like I don’t even know him anymore," I whisper.

  Concern takes over Mel’s tone. "Tam. Are you sure this is what you need to do? I’m worried. If he’s angry and still fighting the whole thing, maybe it’s not the right time? I can’t even imagine him angry. It sounds like there’s some really serious shit going on with him. As much as I love him, I love you more, and I can’t bear to think you might get hurt."

  My love for my sister has never known any bounds—or boundaries, my therapist would tell me. Her protectiveness at this moment touches me deeply, but I know that, just as she needs to figure out her life and love on her own, I do as well. She devoted half a year to taking care of me. I have to do it on my own now.

  "It’s okay. Really. I’m all right. I have Leanne here. And Mrs. Stallworth. When Ronny heard about the encounter, Leanne said he tore Walsh a new one, so there are plenty of people looking after me. I promise. I won’t do anything stupid."

  It’s amazing that I can hear my sister sigh in frustration over an invisible wave of sound that’s traveled a couple of thousand miles.

  "Hey," she mutters. "Take care of my sister. She’s the only one I have and I kind of love her."

  I smile to myself. "I love you too. I got this. Now, tell me about you and Joss."

  Yeah, my sister and Joss—the guy I grew up with, was best friends with, cheated on Walsh with. It’s a twisted little world we created with the boys of Lush. After she found out what had happened between Joss and me before he fell for her, my sister was a bigger person than I ever would have been. She forgave me, took me home, and took care of me, and when Joss braved contacting her again months later, she even started emailing with him.

  Now they’ve been emailing for a while, and I know this won’t be the extent of it. I know Joss, and he’s absolutely in love with my sister. I was against it at first, but now I think they owe it to themselves to see where it’s going. Who am I to tell other people who they should love? I’m in a tiny town thousands of miles from home, slinging chili to cowboys in the name of love. I can’t judge anyone at this point.

  "He’s… Well, I think maybe he’s coming back to Portland." Her voice is tentative. It puts me on high alert.

  "Yeah? What’s going on?"

  "I got this email from him. It didn’t explain anything, just said to be at this club next Friday. It’s the place right across the street from Studio B."

  I remember the recording studio we made Lush’s last album in. The place across the street was a local favorite, an old theater that had select live shows and was popular with the hipster set.

  "So is he meeting you there or what?"

  "That’s the thing—I don’t know. All the message said was the date, time, and place."

  "Well, you know Joss. He’s got to be in charge of everything and everyone, so you’d better be on time." I laugh, remembering the world’s bossiest guy with a fondness I never thought I’d recover for him.

  Mel laughs along with me. "I’ll let you know how it goes. And you take care of yourself. Your heart too, Tammy."

  That actual organ squeezes tight at my little sister’s admonishment. "I promise, Little D. I promise."

  Walsh

  IT’S SATURDAY night and I’m so fucking happy I’ve got the day off tomorrow that there aren’t words to describe it. Ronny’s punishment for what I did to Tammy has been relentless. I’ve worked harder in the last few days than I have in the rest of my life combined. A lot of guys in my position would have told Ronny to fuck himself and left the Double A, but I know I deserve whatever he’s throwing at me. I also know that, if I were to go back to Portland right now, Tammy would follow, so it wouldn’t really solve anything.

  Mike’s been a nervous wreck all day. Tonight, we’re going to play backup for the preacher’s daughter, Jenny, at The Bronco. Mike’s apparently put together a forty-five minute set for her. Covers of sharp, smart, sexy country tunes that he thinks showcase her voice and leave her options for crossing genres as well. He seems really serious about all of this, and I’m wondering if he’s going to be grabbing this girl and heading back to Portland to get her into Studio B one of these days soon. I’m not sure how I’d feel about being here alone again. Of course, Tammy will still be here, so I guess I wouldn’t really be alone—just alone with her, which might be worse.

  It’s about eight p.m. when we load up into Mike’s truck and head to town. He’s jumpy with anticipation. I’m not sure how much of it is the girl, how much is the music, and how much is getting back onstage. Maybe it’s a little of each.

  "Brings back memories, doesn’t it?" I ask as we bump down the back roads in the dark. "How many dirty old bars do you think we played in before we finally got our first show in a theatre?"

  "Shit," he answers as he swerves to avoid a pothole. "Maybe hundreds? It seemed like it at the time, anyway. Do you remember that one place in Sacramento that we played where no one showed up? Not one single person other than the three who worked there?"

  "Oh my God, I’d forgotten all about that place. That was before we hired Dave, and you and Joss were doing all the bookings. The old dude who owned the bar scheduled us and then forgot to announce it. Remember? No one had the slightest idea we were playing that night."

  Mike grins. "But you remember the after-party we had?"

  I let out a frustrated breath. "Not really, which would be the problem," I quip.

  "There was this little Asian waitress—about five feet tall, long black hair. Remember her?"

  "Oh, shit. Hobart girl?" I use the nickname we gave to the little wildcat who fucked Mike on top of the commercial dishwasher in the kitchen after the show.

  "Yep. That was her." He pauses for a moment. "You’ve never really had sex until you’ve done it sitting bare-assed on a vibrating dishwasher with a girl on your lap."

  "Stop!" I holler at him. "I so do not need that image in my head, dude. Jesus, no one should have ever eaten in that place again."

  He laughs. Mike loves nothing more than being outrageous.

  "Sorry to break it to you, but I’ve done worse shit in your kitchen, my man."

  "My kitchen? You mean at my house in Portland?"

  "Yep. Right there on the countertop at rent-a-mansion. The party you and Tammy had to launch As Lush As It Gets." He reels off the title of our biggest-selling album, and for a moment, I’m transported back to that night—the excitement, the anticipation, the sensation that we were on the brink of something important. Little did we know, it was the beginning of the end.

  "Yeah, you know the rent-a-mansion isn’t a rental anymore," I say with a touch of pride in my voice.

  "Really? I thought Tammy was still living there. Well, before she was living here. What happened to it?"

  "I bought it man. Lock, stock, and Italian-marble floors."

  "No shit! So you’re a property owner? God, that’s so… I don’t know. American or something."

  I hedge. "Well, actually I don’t own it." Now I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. He’s going to give me a ration of shit for what comes next. "I bought it and signed it over to Tammy. A few days after Coachella. I wanted to make sure she never
had to worry about a place to live." I brace myself.

  He looks thoughtful and nods. "I get that. I mean, you still love her even if you don’t want to be around her. You want her to be safe and shit, right?"

  "Uh, yeah." I shoot him a quick look as he drives. "I didn’t expect you to get it."

  "No, I don’t get why you’d give her all your damn money. I get why you’d want her to have a nice place to live. You really need to see if you can get some of that money back while she’s here. I mean, what the fuck are you going to do when you leave here? Work at McDonald’s? Not one of your brightest moments, Walsh."

  I sigh. He’s probably right. I wasn’t thinking. I was hurting. My heart was bleeding, and when the money from the dissolution of Lush came, all I could see was that it was tied to Tammy and Joss, so I didn’t want it. I needed it gone. I had a check cut for the whole damn thing—Pay to the Order of Tammy DiLorenzo—and I washed my hands of it. Now I’ve got enough money to pay for a plane ticket out of here and first and last months’ rent on a crummy apartment in suburban Portland. I did sort of screw myself over with that one.

  "I’ll figure something out," I mumble. Luckily, before he can analyze my stupidity any further, we pull up behind The Bronco.

  He puts the truck in park and turns to me. "You ready, bro?"

  "As ready as I’ll ever be," I answer.

  We’ve been saying those words to each other ever since our first performance in Joss’s mom’s garage the summer after eleventh grade. It feels wrong somehow though to say them without the companion words. See, it was a four-part routine. You ready, bro? As ready as I’ll ever be. We going to do this? We’ll do it and then some. The last question and answer came from Joss and Colin. I don’t think I’ve ever performed without all four of us. I remind myself that this is my new reality and I need to get used to it, but in my heart, I doubt I ever really will.