by BJ Knapp
“I have made a career out of trying to produce the best music and pack arenas, year after year. But recently I’ve learned that the music is not enough. I have learned that listeners want to like the people who write the music, too. I am trying to get a sense of whether I am even likeable or not. You are a listener. Now’s your chance to tell me what you think. Bring it.” He laughs a little bit but then regains his composure. He leans against the railing of the deck and gazes over Tent City.
I’ve noticed he spends a lot of time with that far-off look in his eyes, and I wonder if it’s because he’s a creative person, constantly trying to keep himself open to whatever stray idea pops into his head. Or is it that he never wants to be in social situations? I’m still not sure exactly what I should say to “bring it.” Does he even want me to bring it at all? Yes, his job is to produce the best music possible, but I still don’t think he really cares about his ability to be liked.
“You know,” he says, “I have read my reviews on Amazon.com, and I’ve seen the hashtag #KutKeith trend when they thought I went missing last month. I am not completely blind.” He pauses. “...And I know that there are a lot of people who do not like me. I would like to change that somehow.”
I wonder why, exactly, he wants to change that. Is it because he genuinely wants people to like him? Or do they need to just like him enough so he can sell more tickets? Maybe he’s focusing on what I said about making more of an effort with Damien. This probably isn’t really about his fans. Could it be about his family? I can tell he feels sad and lost without his wife and son. I know I would be devastated if Tim wasn’t in my life anymore.
The sun is grazing the tree line of the forest behind the house, and the clouds glow orange. He looks up at the clouds to take it all in, but I notice the tension in his hands. He is bracing himself against the railing as he waits for my response. “You’ve made a career of making other people likeable, right? Isn’t that what PR is all about?” He pauses again. “So, pretend I am a client. What is your impression of me?” In all my years working in PR, I don’t think I’ve ever had a client ask me that question. Usually it’s the case that I have to butter up to my clients and tell them I like them first, and then I have to make other people like them. They don’t actually care about what I, personally, think about them.
“Well.” I chew my lip. “If we’re being completely honest here, I am sure you’re a nice guy, but I kinda think you act like an asshole.” I wince after I say it. It’s probably one of the meaner things I’ve ever said to anyone, especially if he’s trying to become more likeable. It’s one thing to joke and call someone an asshole; it’s entirely another to be serious about it. But it does feel a bit of a relief to actually say it out loud. I’ve watched him sulk and brood around my house since he got here. I have kind of wanted to tell him to get over himself. Maybe I should. After all, he did ask.
“So long as you’re not holding anything back,” he says, and laughs, but his grip on the rail is still tight. He’s obviously tense; this is probably a hard conversation for him, as well. “Tamsen thought I was an asshole, too. She told me so when we first met. I fell in love with her right away.” He stares off at something across the back yard. A faint smile hangs on his lips; he’s probably remembering. Then he turns to me. “She thought I was an asshole because we’d just signed our first record deal and were out celebrating. I was drunk and trying to get her to come home with me. I can see why she thought so at the time, but I want to know why you think I act like one now.”
“Are you sure you want to know?” I ask.
He nods but doesn’t face me.
“You come off as an asshole because people can’t relate to you. Remember how awkward that dinner at the Stone Yacht Club was at first? You don’t do well with meeting new people and making them feel comfortable with you. You’re all about what people can do for you, and not necessarily what you can do for them.” I pause, and he nods. “You’ve lost touch with how life really is. When you met Tamsen, you were a twenty-something guy who was on the verge of becoming a big star, and you were trying to score. Of course you’re going to look like an asshole in that situation. But you should have grown up since then. And you didn’t. You were wildly successful and played in arenas packed with screaming fans that loved you. You have handlers that cater to your every whim. You have every privilege—”
“I worked hard for those privileges,” he interrupts.
“Yes, you did. But you also took advantage of them. Did you think that nothing would happen when you got behind the wheel after that barbeque? Did you think at the time that if you got pulled over, they’d let you go because you’re Keith Kutter?”
I wait for him to respond. He pauses and then slowly nods in response, and I know it’s an unguarded moment of honesty.
“Then that’s what makes you an asshole, Keith. You should have been thrown in jail. Anyone else would have been. Getting behind the wheel after drinking is the ultimate act of selfishness. You don’t care what happens, so long as you have your good time, right?”
He leans against the deck railing and holds his face in his hands.
“Is that all?” he asks.
“No,” I continue. He flinches. Should I continue? Oh, well, he is the one who asked. Might as well go all the way. “I can’t decide if you just look like an asshole or if you actually are one. After the accident, you spent your life perpetually high because you’d paralyzed your son. You left Tamsen to deal with that situation, which I am sure was damned hard on her. She had to deal with the sudden paralysis of her child. That’s not the behavior of a supportive partner. That’s classic asshole behavior. What the hell were you thinking? That everyone would understand because you’re Keith Kutter?”
“You have no idea what it’s like,” he hisses.
“You’re right, I have no idea what it’s like to almost kill my family and expect to walk away from the fallout. I don’t know what it’s like to have the world handed to me just because I’m famous. And I certainly don’t know what it’s like to take off on my yacht to escape it all and leave my mess for someone else to clean up.”
“So, what do I need to do so people like you don’t think I am an asshole?”
“Well, for starters, you need to get over yourself. I know you’ve had so much tragedy. But you’ve caused all of it. Do you claim any responsibility for it?”
“Yes.”
“Really? How? As far as I can see, you’ve decided to get over it by scoring with a bunch of hookers and passing out drunk on my couch. And then you pissed on my mother-in-law’s car. What are you? A dog? I mean, you’re a guest in my home, Keith. You are a grown man. You have been the worst houseguest ever.” I am really on a roll now. I didn’t realize how affected I’d been by having him and the band stay here. Maybe it’s starting to get on my nerves more than I’d realized, because I am really letting it fly now. Honestly, it’s a relief to get this all out. I need to stop and catch my breath for a moment.
“Okay, first of all, your mother-in-law was screeching at me and smacking me with that purse. What the hell does she keep in there? A brick?”
“I can’t defend Portia’s outburst,” I say. I shouldn’t have to. Who the hell gives her the right to storm into my house and assault my guest? “I am sorry that happened, and I am sorry I was a bit harsh with you right now. But Keith, since you’ve been here, you’ve only been in three states: drunk, passed out, or brooding. Do you really want to live like that?”
He’s staring at me. Is this seriously a question for him? He wants to live a miserable life?
“So, what do I need to do?” he asks. “How do I fix this asshole persona I project?” I can tell that I went way deeper than he’d expected. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Did I just hurt his feelings? Maybe I should dial it back a bit, focus on being more clinical than emotional.
I kick into public-relations-specialist mode. “Well, for starters, your public is demanding an explanation. They think
you are a spoiled brat for the way you behaved after the accident, and that is bad for your image. You have done nothing to convince them otherwise.” I pause, and he rolls his eyes a bit. “Hey, you asked me for my opinion, and I am giving it to you. I have nothing to gain by being dishonest with you. If you don’t like it, then go back inside and back to brooding over your life.” I am still being harsh; he looks stricken. But he asked me to be honest, right? I take a breath; I need to slow down a bit. “What is it that you want, Keith?”
He answers me with a brief silence as he thinks about it. I wonder if anyone’s asked him this question since things ended with Tamsen. “I want to enjoy my life again, he says, finally. “I know that things are over with Tamsen, and I accept that. But I want to have someone in my life. I want to feel that connection again.” He paces a bit; when he stops, I realize he is standing closer. I try to back off a bit, but the railing on the deck is digging into the small of my back. “I feel like I can talk to you about anything, and you won’t let me get away with being dishonest about anything. Nobody in my life does that for me, not even my mother. I’ve been missing that in my life.”
I’m sure this honest conversation is very intimate for Keith; but now I’m not sure how I feel about standing this close to him. On one hand, it is pretty exciting, I admit. His eyes are trained on mine; he’s staring intently at me. Maybe Tim was right. Maybe Keith has been looking at me like I am a piece of meat. I reach down and pull up my tank top. But honestly, I don’t really want to cover myself up in this moment. And I know it’s so wrong to feel this way. My heart is pounding. I never thought I’d ever again experience a first kiss. I feel an almost electric current in the air as I face Keith, who has now moved even closer to me. On the other hand, what I should do is say something like how he’s taking advantage of the situation and showing his asshole tendencies again. But I don’t. I just stand there, probably with my mouth hanging open.
He’s so close to me—close enough that his lips are just a few inches away from mine. I should just step away and break the moment. But I don’t. I don’t know why, but I feel like I am glued to this spot on my deck. I feel like I know him now, and that I’ve known him for a long time. It’s like I’ve seen inside of him. I feel him brush the hair off my forehead, and I don’t make a move to stop him. He sweeps his thumb across my brow, and I close my eyes for a moment. It feels familiar, even though this is the first time he’s ever touched me so intimately. I never imagined anything like this would ever happen when Hydra moved in. I can’t believe it’s happening now.
“Brenda, I want to thank you for being truthful with me. Nobody’s done that in a long time. And you are absolutely right.”
I try to compose myself, but the warmth of his hand on my cheek is making it hard to stay focused. I need to say something. I clear my throat, my mouth is so dry. “They don’t know who you are,” I say, “like I do right now.” I can’t break the eye contact. They don’t know him like I do? Where the hell did that come from?
I can tell by his facial expression that he isn’t paying attention to what I am saying anymore. Instead, his hand slips through my hair, and he cups the back of my neck. Before I realize what’s happening, he leans in toward me, and our lips touch. I know I have to say something, but what? I have to do it quick, before something happens that I am going to regret.
“Keith, I...” His hand is back to cupping my cheek. It’s warm; he’s stroking my cheekbone with his fingertips. I close my eyes and tilt my head into his hand; I can feel the pulse from his wrist lightly throb against my jaw.
I sense him leaning in closer, and before I know it, we are deep in a kiss. I feel his tongue slide against mine; I keep my arms frozen at my sides. It is all wrong, but I let his hand slide from my cheek and behind my neck to hold my head in place. His other hand slides behind my back and pulls me closer to him. I can feel his belt buckle press against my stomach and his breath exhaling near my ear. I give in to it all and slide my hands around his waist and up his back. I can feel the lumps from his vertebrae and his shoulder blades under my palms. I trace my hands back down again and grip his T-shirt near the small of his back. I am fighting the urge to pull it up and slip my hands beneath it so I can feel the warmth of his skin.
I don’t know why I am kissing him. But I am. And it’s exhilarating to be doing something and not know why I am doing it. With Keith, I feel that light-headed buzz of a first kiss wash over me while his stubble rubs against my chin and his tongue expertly plays with mine. It’s foreign, yet completely familiar at the same time.
I am so drawn in that I don’t hear the back door slide open. It’s Tim’s voice that brings me back to reality.
“Brenda? What the hell is going on?”
Chapter 18
IT ALL HAPPENS SO FAST. Tim shoves Keith backward. “What the hell are you doing with my wife?” Keith stumbles a bit and grabs the railing to steady himself.
“Hey, easy. Are you trying to knock me off the deck?” Keith protests. Seriously? Tim catches us kissing, and that’s what he’s worried about? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Tim get physical with anyone. It really is shocking to see the man you love rabidly angry to the point of violence.
“Tim...” I trail off.
“What?” He turns to me with his teeth clenched. “What could you possibly say to me right now?” His fists are curled into tight balls at his side; it looks like it’s taking all of his strength for him to keep them at his side and to not haul off and start punching me. He kicks the wicker chair with so much force that it flies backward, and one of the legs breaks off.
It’s a good question. What could I possibly say? I don’t come up with much. I am stammering. I am scared. I don’t even know how to react right now. His expression changes from expectant to beyond disappointment. He’s so far beyond it that his eyes are dark and his fists are still clenched. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look this angry. I wonder if he’s going to slug Keith. I hope not.
“I can’t be around you right now,” he mutters. He reaches inside the back door and grabs his keys off the hook and heads down the deck stairs toward his car.
“Tim, wait!” I call after him. I run down the stairs and grab his arm. “Where are you going? Will you please wait?”
“Bren, I really don’t want to talk to you right now.” He pulls his arm away and opens the car door.
“I wish you’d let me explain...”
“Brenda, no. I can’t right now.”
“Tim, I’m sorry,” I say, pleading with him.
He opens his mouth to speak, and then closes it again. I can tell he’s counting to ten as he stares. His jaw clenches, his teeth pulsing together as he counts. “So, was it some teenage fantasy of yours?” he asks, struggling for composure. “Was it everything you thought it would be, making out with a rock star in our home? You were watching him through the window—were you thinking about kissing him then?”
“Tim, it wasn’t like that,” I say, trying to explain. But then I realize that I don’t know how to explain it. Anything I say at this point won’t come out right. Yes, I enjoyed kissing Keith, but I didn’t plan for that to happen. It just did. Tim’s pretty black and white about stuff like this. For Tim, things don’t just happen. He probably thinks it was premeditated, and how could I possibly prove that it wasn’t?
“Then what was it? All I know is I walked out there and saw my wife sucking face with Keith Kutter. So tell me, what wasn’t it like?”
“I have no excuse. I am sorry, Tim. It was wrong.”
He gets into his car and slams the door shut. He grips the wheel and stares straight ahead. I watch his jaw shuffle side to side, and I know he’s grinding his teeth; he does that when he’s angry. I hope that he’ll just sit there for a minute and shut me out until he collects his thoughts. He’ll probably come out in a few minutes, and then we’ll talk about it. He’ll accept my apology, and we’ll move on. I am watching him—but he doesn’t come out of the car. Instead, he jams the ke
y into the ignition and starts the car, yanks the shifter into drive, and pulls out of the driveway. I need to say something. I need to do something. But what? I am frozen to this spot, watching my husband drive away when he’s so furious with me.
I stand there and wait for him to turn around and come back. In real life, people don’t just drive off when they’re mad, right? Surely he’ll just drive for a few minutes to calm his nerves. Should I wait for him out here? It’s pretty awkward. I can hear the voices from the fan corral on the other side of the front yard. They’re talking, and I wonder if they’ve heard us argue. Do they know about what just happened?
After a few minutes, it’s pretty obvious that Tim’s not coming back, and I feel like a loser, standing out here. Is the crew watching me through the windows? I don’t even want to look back. I turn my head down and shuffle back to the steps to the deck, kicking a few rocks out of my way. I don’t want to go back inside; Keith’s in there. Eventually, the mosquitos help me make up my mind. I go inside and ignore everyone, closing myself and Vito in the bedroom to wait for Tim to come home. I can hear the band and crew downstairs talking in hushed voices; I’m pretty sure they’re talking about me and Keith and Tim.
***
I doze off after two in the morning and wake to the sun streaming through the window. Tim’s side of the bed is empty. I grab the phone off my bedside table and call his cell; it goes straight to voicemail. He probably slept on the couch in the back room at the shop; maybe he just needs some space, and he’ll come home today. I hope so.
I dress for work and avoid the band as much as I can when I get downstairs. I don’t speak to anyone, and they don’t speak to me. A hush falls over the room when I enter the kitchen; it’s pretty obvious who the crew was talking about. Without acknowledging anyone, I pack some leftovers into a container for lunch and head for the door.
