Dreaming of Rhapsody

by Selena Laurence

  “Hey,” he grunts at me when I walk in.

  I walk to the kitchen and pull out a bag of cookies and pour some milk before walking back to the living room. When I get there he’s turned the volume down and is sitting with his elbows on his knees watching me.

  “So, can we talk for a minute?”

  “Okay.” I sit down in an armchair and put the cookies on the coffee table. I take seven out and line them up the way I like, then place the glass of milk next to them. I lean forward and pick up the first cookie, dipping it in the milk before I take a bite. I eat these cookies in two bites, the first dipped in milk, the second not.

  “So you took Rachel out to dinner?”

  “Yeah.”

  He scratches his head. “And how did that go?”

  “It was good.” I don’t tell him it was really good because then he might ask questions I don’t want to answer.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Romanos.”

  He purses his lips. “Good choice.”

  He sits and looks at the TV that’s still playing, but with no sound.

  “So, was that a date?” he finally asks.

  “Yeah. It was.”

  “And she was good with that?”

  I bite into cookie number three before answering. “She went. So yes.”

  He flicks off the TV entirely, then puts the remote on the table near my cookies. I reach over and put it on the tray that sits on our large square coffee table. He knows I hate it when the remote isn’t on the tray.

  “Look, man, I know you have girls on tour who you fool around with. And that’s cool. Tours are stressful, and if the groupies are willing, then I don’t think it’s any big problem, but Rachel isn’t a groupie, Toph. She’s not trying to live out some fantasy, she has a real life and women with real lives are going to have real expectations. She’s going to expect an actual relationship. And that’s just not you.”

  I don’t like the way Carson says these things. I know he doesn’t think I’m able to be someone’s boyfriend, and I hate that. I can be anything I want. My dad always taught me that, and I know it’s true.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying? Dates lead to dating, which leads to things like living together and getting engaged. Meeting the parents, and hanging out with couple friends. She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know that that’s a bunch of stuff you aren’t going to be able to do, and I don’t want her thinking that somehow you are going to. Then she’ll be crushed when she figures out the truth.”

  I put the last cookie in my mouth and chew, then swallow before I drink the rest of the milk. Finally I pick up the cookie bag and milk glass and stand.

  “You’re wrong,” I tell Carson. “You’re wrong that I can’t do those things and wrong that she doesn’t know me. She knows me inside, and no one has known me like that since Dad died.” I step around the armchair to take the items back to the kitchen. “No one has really known me since I was nine years old, and now someone does. I’m going out with her. You can get used to it.”

  Then I walk back to the kitchen and put everything away. I’m excited to get to my room so that I can text Rachel. I have plans to see her tomorrow, and that’s everything I need.

  * * *

  My dad was with the California Highway Patrol—like on that old TV show CHiPs. He was tall, and had a deep voice, and he never once made me feel like there was anything wrong with me. I was closer to him and Carson was closer to our mom. After Dad was shot one night while making a traffic stop on the San Bernardino freeway, I stopped talking, and I dreamed all night every night for months. Dark, dangerous dreams of men whose faces were in shadows shooting guns at my father, his chest exploding as blood poured out, me watching, unable to help him. I would scream for someone to come. I would cry until my tears ran dry. I would beg for help from God, from the police, from anyone. No one ever came.

  And when I was left alone with my father’s broken body, I woke up sobbing, tears falling down my cheeks. My mother would be there beside my bed, singing to me, telling me it would be okay. And then Carson started to come in and sleep with me. He never said a word, just brought his pillow in one night, climbed in beside me, and held my hand. Gradually my nightmares started to fade, and I started to talk again, but I never talked about him. I never talked about the dreams. I couldn’t. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to, but since then, I feel in my dreams what I can’t in real life. It’s a frustration, but also a comfort, because I know that somewhere deep inside I have those feelings, and maybe someday I’ll be able to access them like other people do.

  When I wake up in the morning after my date with Rachel my dick is rock hard. And while that’s nothing unusual, I remember what it felt like to have Rachel’s mouth on it, and it only gets harder. I wrap one hand around it and begin to stroke up and down while I check my phone, looking at the last message she sent me:

  Sweet dreams, Topher.

  That’s when I realize that I didn’t dream last night, or if I did I can’t remember it. My breath comes faster and it’s not because of my hard on. I fist my dick and just stay frozen trying to remember a dream—any dream. But nothing comes to me. No talks with my mom. No feelings that I need to try to hold on to in the bright light of morning.

  And I feel it all start to rise, the itchy nerves, the sensation that everything in me is spinning out of control and I won’t be able to stop it. I sit up, burying my face in my hands and rocking. No, no, no, no. I need the dreams. If I don’t have them I won’t ever know what things feel like. I won’t ever know what it’s like to be normal. I use the memory of those dreams to show me how I should be feeling when I don’t actually feel that way.

  Even though I never cried for my mom in real life, at least I cried for her in my dreams so I knew what I should be doing. In my dreams I learn what it’s like to cry, to hurt, to be excited, to be sad. And when I’m trying to figure out what people around me are feeling I remember the dreams and I can make better guesses.

  Without the dreams I’ll be lost.

  I rock harder, groaning into my hands. This can’t happen. How do I make them come back? I need them to come back.

  Then my phone chimes. I realize that I still have it clutched in my hand, so I pull it away from my face and look. It’s a text from Rachel. I take a deep breath and sit up straight even though she can’t see me. In the movies the guys are always tough and strong for the women. I need to be that way for Rachel. I need to handle my shit so she’ll still like me.

  The message says: Margo went to work. I’d love to get some breakfast. Want to go with me?

  Yes. Of course I want to eat breakfast with her. So I text back and say that I’ll pick her up in forty minutes. Then I decide that maybe no dream was a mistake and I’ll have more tonight, and I go to get in the shower. Because the dreams are important, but so is Rachel, and I have things I want to do with her. I even watched a movie last night to get ideas. It was called 9 ½ Weeks, and I can think of at least nine and a half things from that movie I’d like to try.

  Rachel

  Topher pulls up in front of my apartment building in a different car than last night. This one is a red Volvo coupe, very sporty, but still practical. He parks at the curb and hops out, walking to where I’m waiting. He’s grinning before he even gets to me, and I can’t help but grin right back at him. He’s so beautiful. He’s wearing a green t-shirt that matches his eyes and has a v-neck. His jeans are faded and fit him perfectly, hanging off of his hips that way that makes you want to run your fingers up the v-muscles that are right above the waistband. Yum.

  “Hi,” he says when he reaches me. He touches my hair, his gaze fixed on my mouth.

  “Hi,” I answer, sounding stupidly breathy. My fingers immediately go to his abs, and curl into his t-shirt. It’s soft and he smells like soap and nice clean guy.

  “Can I kiss you?” he asks, pressing closer to me.

  I smile wider. “You’d better.”

  When his lips touc
h mine, little sparks set off in my chest. It’s like a light fizz that bounces around and finally lands on that big muscle that pumps joy all through my body.

  He nibbles on my lower lip, swiping his tongue across it then sucking it gently.

  “I like this,” he whispers.

  “Me too.”

  “Are you hungry?” he asks, pulling back a touch.

  I nod.

  He sighs. “Okay. But then more kissing.”

  I laugh, and he does too before opening my door for me.

  “How many cars do you have?” I ask when he gets into the driver’s side and pulls away from the curb.

  “Just this one. The other was Carson’s.”

  “I like this one,” I tell him. “It suits you.”

  He nods in that quiet way of his and reaches over to hold my hand.

  “I know a place that has good breakfast burritos. Would you like to go there?”

  I smile because he remembered what I told him last night.

  “I love breakfast burritos.”

  “These are the best ones in L.A. Just wait.”

  * * *

  Topher’s right, the breakfast burritos are amazing, and afterwards I’m so stuffed I’m not sure I can do anything other than lie down for the next hour, but then Topher surprises me.

  “I want to take you somewhere,” he says as we get into the car. “But I don’t want to tell you where before we go.”

  “Okay. So, a surprise then?”

  “Yes. Is that alright?”

  “Yeah. It’s great.”

  He grins and we drive. We head for the hills northeast of L.A. proper, into an area of open space and ranchettes that probably belonged at one time to movie stars who wanted to own a horse or two.

  After an hour or so we enter a long drive that winds up a hill until we arrive in a circular driveway in front of a mid-century modern ranch house.

  “Where are we?” I ask, looking at the cute potted plants that adorn the front patio.

  “This was my mom’s house,” he says, looking at it through the windshield.

  Oh. “It’s very pretty. Did you grow up here?” I ask, wondering what we’re doing at his dead mother’s house.

  “No. But Carson and I bought this for her when we got our first recording contract. She loved having land and being out of the city.”

  I nod. “What will you guys do with it now?”

  He turns to open his door. “Not sure. Come see inside.”

  I don’t know why he’s brought me here but I climb out of the car anyway and let him lead me inside.

  The house is lovely, bigger than it looks from the front, with slate tile floors and lots of flowering plants everywhere.

  He gives me the grand tour, five bedrooms, four bathrooms, a media room, living room, kitchen and dining room. Plus a series of patios outside before the house gives way to a rolling lawn fenced in by split rail farm-type fencing. It’s beautiful and restful.

  “Did your mom have pets?” I ask.

  “Yeah. But her little dog died while she was in the hospital the last time. We never told her.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad. Was it old?”

  He shakes his head. “It missed my mom too much. I just found him dead one morning when I woke up. Carson said he died of a broken heart.”

  I feel tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “Animals are so much more perceptive than we give them credit for.”

  “I’d like another dog,” he announces. Then he grabs my hand. “Let’s go find one.”

  “Topher!” I admonish. “You can’t just go get a dog on a whim like that.” I know I said it would be fun to look at dogs, but I wasn’t thinking he’d just get one. It’s a process, one that shouldn’t be rushed.

  “Why?” he asks, his brow furrowed.

  “You need to read up on what you want in a dog, and decide how he’s going to fit in with your lifestyle—like we talked about with you traveling so much—” I raise an eyebrow at him. His lips tighten. “You’d have to decide about who will dog-sit him while you’re gone, or if you need to get a dog small enough to travel with you. You need to think about things like whether you have a fenced-in yard or if he’ll need to be walked, how long he’ll be left alone every day. All kinds of things.”

  “I’ll walk him, and take him with me everywhere. He won’t be alone very much because he can come with me to the rehearsal studio and the recording studio. And you’ll be his vet.” He looks smug now, as if he’s aced my test.

  “You need to also decide what kind of dog you want—a terrier? A poodle? There are several breeds that are small enough to travel with you. Do you want a dog who likes lots of exercise or one who just wants to lay around all day?”

  “Any kind with smooth fur. I don’t like scratchy fur,” he reminds me.

  I sigh. “And what about Carson? Does he want a dog?”

  Topher rolls his eyes, and I struggle not to laugh. I’ve never seen him roll his eyes. It’s awkwardly adorable on him.

  “Carson doesn’t care. We had our mom’s dog living with us for two months and I took care of it. He never complained.”

  I sigh. “You’re going to do this no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

  He nods.

  “Okay. Let’s go find you a dog.”

  * * *

  The Greater Los Angeles Humane Pet Sanctuary is the biggest no-kill animal shelter in the world, and even though I think it’s ill-advised of Topher to get a pet this way, I’m in heaven here.

  “Oh my God, Topher,” I squeal as I kneel down by the wire front of a kennel. “Look at this little guy.”

  It’s a Jack Russell terrier, one of the smartest spunkiest breeds there is. This one is obviously not past middle age and really excited to go home with someone. His butt shakes like crazy as he licks me through the gaps in the wire of his cage.

  Topher kneels down next to me and puts his fingers out where the dog can reach them. “Hey, buddy,” he says softly. The dog immediately moves from my fingers to Topher’s and I can tell by the look in his eyes that he thinks Topher is about the best thing to hit this kennel in forever.

  “He likes you,” I say as Topher smiles sweetly at the little dog and strokes it on the nose.

  “I like him too.”

  “You also liked the St. Bernard, the lab mix, and the Cockapoo. You can’t have them all.”

  “You pick.”

  I stare at him before shaking my head vigorously. “No. Absolutely not,” I say. “You need to get the dog that you want and that will be the best match for you. You have to love and care for this dog for the rest of its life, Topher. This isn’t a decision to be made lightly.”

  I’m concerned now that he doesn’t understand the seriousness of what he’s about to do. Topher’s different, but he’s plenty smart. I know he gets the responsibility in theory, but what if he doesn’t understand the more subtle aspects of it?

  He looks somberly up and down the row of dogs, walking between the St. Bernard, the Cockapoo and the little Jack Russell. He paces and I fret. Responsible animal ownership is one of the things that I’m the most passionate about. Am I going to stand here and allow this guy to take a dog home with him when he’s done no preparation for it?

  Finally he walks to the Cockapoo’s cage and puts his face up to the bars. The little dog unrolls her tongue and slurps Topher on the chin. “You’re so cute, you’re going to get adopted really soon,” he tells the dog quietly. “I promise. I’ll even check on you next week to make sure. Just wait and be a good girl and your new owner will come.”

  Then he turns to me. “The St. Bernard and the Jack Russell,” he says.

  “No. You can’t get two—”

  “Yes. Both of them. The St. Bernard isn’t going to live a long time. He deserves to have a nice home until he dies. The terrier will live a long time. He can travel with me because he’s small. He’ll be the band’s mascot.”

  I sigh. I’m quickly learning that Topher has this way about h
im, a will of steel, and when he’s decided something it’s decided. Right now he’s decided he’s going to adopt not one, but two dogs on a whim.

  He steps to me and takes my face in his hands. “It will be good. You’ll see. I promise.” Then he kisses me in the middle of the kennel with all the dogs barking, and I realize that I’m defenseless against him. All he has to do is kiss me and I’m putty in his hands. It’s disgusting, but I’m too busy being happy and horny to care.

  Topher

  I come back inside with Sebastian and Carlos after their morning walk and put their leashes away before feeding them breakfast.

  “You’re going to get sick of walking those two,” Carson says shuffling into the kitchen in his sweats and no shirt.

  “No I won’t. I like walking them. I walked mom’s dog every day and didn’t mind it.”

  He yawns. “I guess.” He leans down and rubs Sebastian on the head. Sebastian shakes and spit flies out of his jowls. “Fuck, that’s gross,” Carson complains, wiping slobber off of his sweats before he goes to the sink and washes his hands.

  “So, you want to drive to the studio together?” he asks. We have another recording session today. We spent all day yesterday and the day before rehearsing so I didn’t get to see Rachel at all even though she came over and walked Sebastian for me. I took Carlos with me to practice. I found doggie earplugs for him so he won’t get his hearing damaged from the music.

  I’m worried now because Rachel’s already been here ten days and she only has ten more before she’s supposed to go back to Colorado. I don’t want her to go, and I have a way for her to stay, but I’m afraid that she won’t want to.

  “Toph?” Carson asks again.

  “No, I need my car. I’m taking Rachel out after work.”

  Carson pours himself a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and takes it to the table. “Do we need to talk about birth control, dude?” he asks.

  My face feels prickly. He’s had this talk with me before. I hate it. I’m not stupid, I had sixth grade sex ed like everyone else. “I know, I know. Wrap it up. I got it.”