Walking Heartbreak

by Sunniva Dee

“But I’ve told you… You know…”

  “And yet you come back.”

  I have nothing to say to that. He’s right. Why do I come back? Why can’t I seem to stay away? This trip of theirs will be good.

  Seven days I’ve known him. It’s nothing. I can go back to before. Work. Home to Jude. Slowly, surely get back on track again.

  Zoe and I stand side by side, backs against her car while the bus rocks into movement. She leans on me while I brace myself against the hood of her Mini for support. I register Emil’s playful make-out with the front lounge window and Zoe’s equally playful whining next to me, but the one I see is Bo poised behind Emil. He holds his phone against his ear, looks straight at me, and mouths, Hey, it’s me.

  And suddenly I think that death by ovary implosion wouldn’t be the worst.

  “He’s so awesome! I love him!” Zoe exclaims.

  We’re one week in. I wouldn’t say she gushes over every guy she’s with, but… yeah. Probably not yet. “Of course you do.”

  “Next weekend,” she decides. “Vegas, baby!”

  “Have fun,” I say, vowing to take on double shifts to not be involved.

  “Let’s go to my place and watch the video again.” She claps her hands excitedly.

  “I’m heading over to see if Scott needs me.” And oh my God, I know I’m boring, and I can’t believe my friend is my friend. She’s stuck with me through thick and thin. I love her. “Never mind—I’ll stop by your house and then go straight to work from there.”

  “Coolio. I actually do work today, remember?” I don’t, which isn’t a surprise for either of us. “We’ll go together,” she finishes.

  At her place, Zoe’s excited when she fires up her computer, excited enough to hold up a small bottle of Kahlua. “Want a drink? I’ll make you a white Russian.”

  “Just turn on your machine,” I say.

  She does. Not only that, but she hooks it up to the TV like a pro, finds the video on YouTube, and sprawls Clown Irruption’s handsome faces out all over her roommate’s big flat-screen.

  Zoe doesn’t know it’s my first time watching the video. How could I watch it at home? I recognize Bo’s dyed-black bangs instantly, the first thing appearing. Then he tips his head up and stares straight into the camera, his eyes so smoldering I gasp for air.

  “Damn, he’s hot. Look at his face, Nadia! That face is for you—you know that, right?”

  “Shut up,” I mumble.

  The video clips straight to Emil, who’s in love with his microphone, all but making out with it. Eyes half closed and sweat dripping from his hair, he’s hard, naked muscle with his T-shirt half-draped over one shoulder. Those little moans he makes. I recognize them from having been next door to them while…

  Okay, shush.

  I feel hot. I feel dirty. I stand, needing an escape—water in the kitchen—but Zoe grasps my hand. “Wait, it gets better,” she says. I want to tell her that’s not the problem.

  Troy’s there, hammering hard, looking like—yeah, I can imagine him too now, in my dirty mind. And then Elias. Wow, it’s like they’re in an orgy, all of them in a simultaneous build-up. Then it cuts to Zoe and me. Zoe’s ecstatic, laughing, rocking in her chair, all blonde waves and moving in a way that’s hauntingly similar to Emil’s, while I?

  Oh. Crap.

  I’ve got a hand clamped over my mouth. My clothing is more daring than Zoe’s. Part of my breasts are showing, I’m tugging at my short skirt, but I don’t look like I want to cover myself. I look like I’m dying to… help myself. My knees tip inward, only the toes of Zoe’s Loboutins meeting the floor. From the posture, I could have been taken for demure instead of wanton, I guess, only—

  I’ve got Bo’s eyes.

  Eyes burning with lust and need and want and yearning.

  “Damn, Nadia?” Zoe says. “Didn’t notice you the first time I saw it. I know who you’re looking at.”

  I don’t answer because I’m glued to the damn video now, sucked in while Emil tells us how much he wants to “Fuck you, fuck you until you come, come, come.”

  The angle zooms out, showing the whole band, how they rock their bodies in sync, shamelessly feeling the music, the need for a woman, dreaming, getting it all out. Just—

  Jesus!

  The video doesn’t stop with Emil’s scream. No, the camera follows him as he leaps to Zoe, straddles her, and gives her a lap dance. Then it fades into black as he buries his tongue in her mouth.

  “You’re crazy,” I croak out. “Are you okay with that being spread all over the place and watched by… so many people?”

  Zoe stares up while I shakily get to my feet. “You’re kidding, right? He freaking digs me in that video—I’m so stoked! I swear, I’m like a mini-star now. I’ve got tons of friend requests on Facebook, mostly from girls who want to be me. Dude, and even a few guys. Not sure if they want to be me or do me though,” she giggles out.

  “You should screen them. People are crazy,” I say.

  “And you should check your own Facebook. Betcha you’ve got some requests too. Maybe from some porn pimp, because, omigod, Nadia. You were—”

  “Don’t! Ah please. I feel horrible.” I turn away, swallowing the guilt in my throat.

  “You have no reason to feel horrible. It’s natural and beautiful to be into a guy the way you are with Bo.” She continues, teasing me: “And I know you’ll secretly be watching the video at home now.”

  She means well. She really does. But Zoe doesn’t understand. How could she? She has never been in my situation.

  “No way am I playing that under Jude’s roof.”

  “Your roof.”

  “Either way. He can never see it.”

  “And Nadia, he won’t!”

  And here we are, with Zoe plunging us right into our biggest disagreement all over again. Sometimes we’re from different planets, she and I.

  Yeah. Here we go.

  BO

  We’re six days into the tour, and it’s more than we could have dreamed. We’ve popped by radio stations, visited suddenly formed Clown Irruption fan groups. We took a detour for an impromptu gig in a rich, village-sized town that likes to flex muscle and compete with Vegas.

  Now, we’re in Sin City. It’s been chop-chop since we arrived. We’ve deposited our shit in the complimentary hotel rooms. Sound-checked. Now, we’re on our first two-hour breather to grab food and relax before the concert.

  I stare at my phone and slide my thumb over the smooth glass. Nadia has answered two of my texts since we left, but only to tell me she isn’t coming to Vegas. My reply was that she just poured gasoline on my fire.

  I’m calm. Still collected. But I’m heating slowly from the inside out.

  Zoe never stopped grinning from front-of-house during all of sound-check. The girl made it seem easy to speed into town and lunge herself at Emil. They’re displaying way too much PDA for my taste, reducing me to what I was when I first came to the States two years ago: lonely.

  I’m lonely at the center of a pulsing cluster of happy drunks, intense gamblers, and hot girls in short-short outfits and perfect war paint. When I’m like this, I miss my country, my parents, and my siblings, but most of all, I miss my best friend—the ex my cold heart never stopped demolishing.

  I look around in the bar where I’m seated. Small, cobalt blue lamps tinge the darkness with a luxurious, detached feel. I’m anonymous here. No fan girl recognizes me. But Emil and Zoe do.

  “Hey, man! Ready to rock?” Emil asks in his version of polite. That nugget of missing someone breathes beneath my sternum.

  “Sure.”

  “Sorry about Nadia,” Zoe says, slumping down on the stool next to me. “Don’t give up on her, okay? I haven’t seen her like this in a long, long time.”

  I flick my attention to her and feel my brows draw together.r />
  “I mean, the way she is with you,” she specifies without my asking. “When she’s around you, she can’t take her eyes off of you, and… Nadia is very composed. To be honest, besides her husband, I’ve never seen her look at anyone the way she looks at you. I think that’s why she didn’t come along this weekend.”

  Desire lasers through me and hits my crotch. Because apparently my ears are connected to my dick.

  “Dude, it’s none of my business,” Emil starts, making things his business before I can reply, “but you can do better, Bo.”

  Zoe lets out an offended huff. “What the fuck are you talking about? Nadia’s the sweetest, nicest, coolest girl in the world. If she likes someone, she’s there for you forever.” She blinks quickly at her own words, and we might both be thinking about Nadia’s marriage. “Anyway, she’s amazing, and I totally get why you’re in love with her.”

  “Hey now,” Emil says, warning her, not wanting his girl to start a fight with me. Wouldn’t be the first time one of them did. “Bo isn’t in love with anyone, all right? He just digs having sex with her.”

  “Omigod, how rude! You did not just say that, Emil. She’s so much more than sex.”

  “No, yeah, but I’m just sayin’. And your friend is using my friend. Does her husband get off on sharing or something?”

  “Screw you, Emil—you don’t know them!”

  “Guys,” I interrupt. “We are not discussing me.”

  Emil sticks a toothpick in between his front teeth and wiggles it hard enough to draw blood. “Yeah, but you do love sleeping with her. I mean, clearly. She’s got you whipped.”

  This is so much more than I can take right now. I’m fuming.

  “That’s it,” I say, clenching my teeth. “I’m outta here.”

  It’s been a while since I called Ingela. The intensity of this tour, the close quarters with the band, Emil having Zoe here, while I’m barely getting two-word texts from a married woman—it all makes me want to hear Ingela’s voice.

  “Inga?” I breathe as soon as she picks up.

  “Bo! Are you okay?” There are no nervous sighs or choked sobs from her. Back in the day, she’d curse me out first, then ask if I was okay, so it’s a good sign that she goes straight to being worried about me.

  Yeah. Ingela’s life is good. She doesn’t miss me in the sad way she once did. Sometimes I just need to be reminded that even if I’m lonely, my best friend is happy.

  “Yeah, I’m okay. You’ve heard, right? Have you seen the video?”

  “What video? Of Clown Irruption?”

  “Yeah,” I laugh, hoarse already. We’ve got more than two weeks left of the tour, and Troll has been on my case over saving my voice and using it right on the backup vocals. “We went viral.”

  “Dude, no way?” She’s so excited she’s squealing. I feel my lip quirk happily at the sound; Ingela always was loud. “Does that mean you’ll be a rich rock star soon? Cam—baby!” She screams so loudly I go momentarily deaf in one ear.

  “What?” he shouts back, matching her level. Then there are weird suckling noises and giggles for a few seconds before Ingela screams, “Oh quit it, you cocksucker. Bo’s on the phone, and he’s got neeews!”

  “Wrong cussword again, babe,” he explains. “Try something simple yet efficient, like dork or— Wait, that’s Bo? Bo!” he yells to me next. “Inga, speakerphone.” Then comes, “’Sup, man? You a rock star finally?”

  They’re so in sync I can’t stop the void stinging in my chest.

  “Not exactly. But we’re on tour. You taking good care of my friend?” I ask like I always do since we buried our hatchets.

  “Always, man. And she takes care of me.”

  “I do not. This gay here doesn’t need to be taken care of—not since I sold his squirrel suit. He finally stopped BASE-jumping from cliffs. I told you, right?”

  “You did,” I say. “Excellent.” I suppress a laugh at our Swedish mother tongue still breaking her English; she has lived here longer than me.

  “Guy, not gay,” Cameron patiently reminds her.

  “Anyway, we’ll be in Deepsilver for a gig in eight days,” I say.

  Ingela cheers, much more excited about my coming to her little town this time than when we dated. “Where’re you playing?”

  “The Deepsilver campus. After the viral video, brats like you dig us.”

  “Whoa,” she laughs. “Look at you, all indie, underground college band. But don’t worry—we’ll both be there to heckle you. Hell, we’ll bring Leon and Arria for quadruple effect.”

  “Who?”

  “Our friends. They own Smother, the bar we work at.”

  I vaguely remember now. Beautiful Indian-looking woman and a part Japanese guy. “Okay, sounds good. I’ll make sure you get tickets.”

  I feel better after we hang up. Ingela’s shrill, sunny voice, and her boyfriend being close by and loving her caused something to drop from my chest.

  Nadia’s situation had me freaked out. I have no impact on her fucked-up home life. She said he wasn’t violent, but her answer, “It’s complicated,” when I asked if he was an asshole was a giant, red flag. Just knowing you can’t influence a situation can piss a guy off.

  So yeah, at least Inga is good since I handed her over to Cameron. She has written me off now, as a boyfriend, and it’s the way it should be.

  I need to find out more about Nadia. As I go on stage, I decide to play Twenty Questions with Zoe before she leaves.

  I’m bad news for most women, but for Nadia? Hell, if that jerk she’s married to—Jude was it?—plans to keep her chained to him for the rest of her life, I’ll volunteer as the voice of reason. I’m not going to promise her what I can’t give—love and an actual relationship. I’ll be up front about my limitations.

  Those five years with Ingela weren’t for nothing though. I know what I’m capable of, and I know most pitfalls about myself. If a woman likes me for instance, she ends up liking me a lot. If I give an inch, they become obsessed. I remember Ingela yelling at me about charisma, intensity, and stoking a girl’s greed for a man. Whatever the last part meant—Jealousy? Because they do get jealous.

  We pour a smooth, loud-as-hell wall of sound out at the audience. Troll grins from the sound booth and gives me the thumbs-up when everyone goes ape shit on Emil’s shout of faux climax after the final song.

  We’re charged with two encores, the audience stomping against the floor, screaming Emil’s name, then shouting mine faster and faster until we jog back on for a last song.

  Afterward, Troy and I listen to Luminessence before we meet up with Emil and the others at the hotel club. Even for me, there’s no going to sleep after the rush of a frantic audience. Thank God there’s no backstage chummying tonight. My head is too full.

  The band has found a quietish corner, and strangely Zoe and Emil aren’t dry humping. I point at them, lifting my hands in surprise to Elias, who shrugs. He downs his beers while ogling some beautiful African American dancing queens. Damn, are they dancing.

  “You got plans for the night, I see,” I say.

  “Dude, those are my sisters—nothing but honorable intentions, please,” Troy jokes, causing Elias to snort.

  “Check that one out.” He points at the shorter girl, curvy and fierce on the dance floor as she launches into top-speed krumping. “Ah I could fuck her to Mars.”

  “Poetic.” I nod.

  “Let me rephrase that for you,” Troy says. “She would fuck your brains out and shoot you off to some planet to never be seen again—perhaps Venus.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed, Troy. I’d give you an A in all sorts of college courses about—” Before I can continue, my cell buzzes in my pocket. The light flares from the slit, and I pick it up, finding Nadia’s number.

  Frowning, I push Accept Call and check my watch as I walk out of the cl
ub. It’s two a.m. “Nadia?”

  “Hey…” Her voice is tiny and sleep-deprived. And how do I even know that?

  “Are you okay?”

  She doesn’t sound like she’s been crying.

  “Yeah, I was just wondering…”

  I wait, leaving her to finish the sentence. Walk toward the elevators because I want her alone even if it’s just on the phone. She doesn’t finish though.

  “Tell me, Nadia,” I murmur into the receiver. “Please. I want to hear what you were wondering about at two in the morning.”

  She lets out an embarrassed titter. “Oh Lord. I’m an idiot. I couldn’t sleep and started thinking… that I wished I were with you guys in Vegas. It’s late. I probably woke you up. Ugh, please ignore that I called, and I’ll hang up.”

  “Shhh, you’re babbling. And no worries—I’m still awake.”

  The connection scratches and dies in the damn elevator on the way up to my room, but I call her back as soon as I get out on the eleventh floor. “Nadia, I hope I didn’t disturb… anyone? I should have just texted you to call me back,” I whisper.

  “No, it’s okay. Jude isn’t complaining.”

  And that sucks bad. If I were him, I’d be awake and dragging her back to bed. Finding sweet spots to trigger on her body and make her meow instead of be on the phone with another man.

  “Your ex,” Nadia says. “What’s her name?”

  “Ingela. You want to know about Ingela?”

  A shy laugh trickles through the speaker. “If you don’t mind? I understand if you don’t want to talk about her. I was just curious.”

  I smile because there was a time when Ingela’s name in a direct question would have pissed me off. Not anymore. Shit, it’s so much better to be alone than to drag someone down with you. “You want to hear the whole story?”

  “Please?”

  Goodness, I love the sound of that. I’d make her beg for other things if she were here.

  “Get comfy because it’s a long one.”

  And so I tell her how I’m two years older than Ingela. About always having known her. How we went to the same elementary school, middle school, high school in a tiny place in Sweden. Getting a puppy-crush on her. Beginning to date around the same time as I started my band. I’d sneak in through her window on forbidden sleepovers. Later, I began college in nearby Gothenburg. She’d travel to be with me for the weekend, and I’d visit our hometown so we could be together.