Walking Heartbreak

by Sunniva Dee

  Nadia chuckles. “Been there with the forbidden sleepovers.”

  “Not with me,” I hum out, and her breath hitches on the phone.

  “Sort of forbidden,” she whispers back. “It wasn’t right.”

  “Felt fucking right to me,” I retort, harsher than I mean to, and she goes quiet. I don’t speak up until she does.

  “So… how did you guys end things? Why?” she asks.

  She’s curious. Maybe she doesn’t know how to end her relationship. She must be talking about these things with Zoe, but I want to get in under her skin. If I share my shitty story, maybe she’ll share hers.

  “I never loved Ingela.” My voice sounds flinty in the tiled bathroom of my hotel room. I stare at my own reflection, the icy grey of my irises further broadcasting my lack of emotion.

  I’d expect her to be offended on Ingela’s behalf about now, but Nadia replies, “Hm. I think you love her a lot.”

  “In a different way, yes,” I say. “I’ve always loved her like I love my good friends, my sisters, my dog. Sure, she turned me on—I’m a man. But she actually moved to the States to get away from me. I lasted two years before I followed her. I had a bright moment and chose the opposite coast. Sadly, it was still too close, so I just went right ahead and messed up her life again!”

  I can’t help laughing a little. “She’d come visit me here. I’d go see her in Deepsilver where she lives. I almost ruined an actual relationship that was good for her, the first she’d had in the five years we’d been on and off. Her boyfriend almost killed himself—”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He’s an adrenaline addict. Used to throw himself off cliffs BASE-jumping. One time, he did it to escape the situation Ingela put him in over me. He got sloppy and stopped calculating the danger.”

  “Wow, I’m sorry, Bo. You’ve been through so much.”

  I’m speechless. How does she see me as the victim in this?

  It’s like she knows when she says, “It’s hard to watch someone suffer and not be able to do anything about it.”

  “No, Nadia. I was an A-class douchebag. I should have done something sooner, but I remained comfortable, keeping things the way they were. Whenever she came, needing me, I enjoyed her. You don’t know me, Nadia. I’m a dick. I knew she’d feel worse, not better after every time we were together. Even when she started dating Cameron, she’d come when I called, and it took me a good while to stop and think.”

  “Did she finally wise up?” she asks, again taking the blame off me.

  “Not exactly. The two of them had so much distrust between them, so many misunderstandings, I had to help untangle their knots. I sort of…” It’s been a while since I’ve talked about this. Come to think of it, I might not have discussed it with anyone besides Ingela and Cameron.

  “What?” she prods.

  “I kinda pushed them a little. Especially Ingela. She needed a full-on reminder that we both had to move on.”

  “And it worked?”

  “Yeah. Has been for over a year now. The two of them are so lovey-dovey it’s not even funny. Cameron spent the first few months mad as hell at me, but he’s mellowed out. Gets that I only want the best for Ingela, which—at least for now—is him. It definitely never was me.”

  She’s silent after I finish my sad excuse for a love story, and I kick my shoes off and let myself fall on the bed while I wait for her response. Wait for her to finally judge me, tell me what a prick I am.

  “Wow. That’s a nice thing you did there for them.”

  “Geez.” I drop the hold I have on a pillow and scratch my forehead. Everyone knows I don’t do nice. Ingela had a tendency of seeing amazing things in me that didn’t exist, but even she never called me nice.

  “Yeah, unselfish. She’s your best friend, right? And did you give her up because of another girl?”

  “No, I’ve been in Flingville since we broke up,” I say, rubbing an eye with the heel of my hand. The exhaustion from the night is getting to me. The show, the club, the trip here. Not to mention the misconception—the delusion—Nadia has about my less-than-saintly past. “But don’t for a second believe that I did it because I’m a good person.”

  “Why did you do it then?” she asks so fast I’m momentarily stunned. When I don’t reply, her voice grows firmer: “Why did you help them sort their stuff out? You helped them find each other, didn’t you? And why did you leave her be after that? You could have run straight back in there again and messed things up if you wanted to, right?”

  I feel myself shrug against the pillows, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “It had to be done. I couldn’t live with myself any longer, knowing I was making someone I loved suffer day after day, year after year.”

  “Exactly. Unselfish. And you just said ‘love.’ The love you have for her is bigger than you think.”

  We talk for another hour. I can hardly keep my eyes open by the time we say goodnight. When I fall asleep, it’s with a quiet in my chest. A peace. A guilt that’s become smaller than it used to be. I’ll never forget how I made Ingela suffer for the better part of five years. Still, Nadia sees me in a different light, and it’s fresh wood on a broken guitar neck. Glue to a cracked ego.

  Delicate features flash through my mind, lips moving while she speaks. I wish I were the upright, noble man she believes me to be. And I wish upon her a better life than the one she must be leading.

  NADIA

  I work a lot. I try not to call Bo a lot. And then I still do. He’s careful about returning my calls when he doesn’t pick up, always texting me first. We’re sneaking around. Every now and then he asks about Jude, and of course I dodge his questions.

  They’ve made it to the East Coast now, after crossing the country. Too many “pit stops” as he calls it made the trajectory slower, and they’ve been on the move every day except for the weekend in Vegas.

  I have a double portion missing in my heart. One for Jude—I raise my gaze and meet his at the thought.

  And one for Bo.

  Last night Bo asked me if I could send him a picture of myself. I said “no.” What would be the point? He answered, “It’s okay. I’ve got you on video.” When he started pondering the possibility of isolating specific frames on the video and keeping a screenshot of me as the photo he wants, I gave in and told him I’d send him one.

  Tonight they’ll be in a big arena in Pittsburgh.

  I need that pic, hot stuff, he just texted. Or it’ll be screenshot-time.

  Me. Looking like I’m about to jump Bo’s bones—spread all over his phone screen whenever I ping him. No. Just no.

  What do you need it for? I add a whiny-face to my text.

  So I have something to jack off to.

  Oh my God. He did not write that. My face is hot with guilt and an odd sort of pleasure. I want to rub my brain free of the visual he’s given me.

  A while back, Jude wanted to immortalize everything we did with actual photos, better types of photos than the one Bo is talking about. My heart hammers as I walk to our closet and pull out a small box.

  “Baby,” I say out loud. “I’m going to take an iPhone snapshot of one of these. It’s… the least of two evils. What Bo’s proposing is way worse than him having a photo of me that I approve of.”

  I don’t expect a reply. I don’t get one.

  Of course I don’t.

  I grab the stack of photos and fan it out on the kitchen table. These glossy splatters of color sum up our most intense years together. I know I’m going to get lost in the pictures. Remember beautiful moments. Heartbreaking moments. It’s going to take me a while to go through them, even if the goal is simply to find one single photo that’s appropriate.

  And I’m going to bawl again over what Jude has allowed us to lose.

  It’s been a while since I pulled these out. I hope that I�
��m stronger now. My glance instantly goes to the bottle of wine I bought yesterday. If I can’t stomach memory lane, I’ll drown my sorrows right here, in the safety of our home.

  I start out with a happy photo. It’s of me still wearing the long, brown dress with half sleeves Mother wanted me in. But my hair isn’t in a tight bun on the back of my head. It’s free, blowing in the wind, and a cautious smile, like I can’t quite believe what’s happening to me, softens my features.

  Yes, my hair is blowing. It’s messy, wild, loose. Because Jude took that picture with the windows down in his car while we drove out of Payne Point, while we drove north, while the car was jam-packed with our belongings.

  “Is this real?” I asked.

  “Sure is, baby girl,” he replied, nodding from behind the steering wheel. Not a trace of doubt marred his face as he bobbed his head to the music—rock music I’d rarely heard in my sheltered existence.

  I remember the breeze, the smell of sage as we climbed Southern California in his small car: to me, this picture symbolizes the beginning of the rest of my life. I’d never again be controlled by my grandparents.

  We had talked about it for years. I was nineteen, Jude just graduated from high school, while I had nothing to show for myself.

  “We fled, huh?” I asked.

  “We’re eloping,” Jude specified. “Just one stop on the way to Vegas first. We need to do something.”

  In the next picture, I’m standing outside the Alhambra Apartments. My arms are spread, my mouth slack with shock, and my eyes so wide they seem to cover half my face. I’m forming a “What?” and I remember screaming it out, laughing, and Jude’s toothy grin as he scooped me up and swirled me fast, fast.

  “For you, baby, because I’ve loved you forever. Because I will love you forever. ‘For now I have chosen and consecrated this house that my name—Jude—may be there forever. My eyes and my heart will be there for all time.’ Because you’re my heart, and my eyes will be watching you, baby. Forevah! You can trust the holy Jude!”

  “Oh goofball! But how did you do this? How could you afford it?” I giggled the words out as he twisted the key in the door to our very own apartment in St. Aimo, Los Angeles.

  “Sorry, it’s not big,” he said, his voice proud instead of apologetic. “It’s my first time here too. Guess we’ll have to see how it is, right? If it’s a pile of shit, then there goes a ton of my mom’s savings for me because I paid up front.”

  “And sight unseen?” My steps took me gingerly through the small den, the adjoining kitchenette only separated from the den by a counter. Cracks in the paint—surely only cosmetic. Dripping faucets.

  “Naw. The realtor had videos up on the internet and tons of photos.”

  “You never showed them to me,” I whispered, smiling big, negating the almost-complaint.

  Jude pulled me into a tight hug, burying his face in my neck and inhaling hard. “No. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “Oh goodness, it is. Our own place? Just you and I, no one else around to decide what we can do?”

  “You got it.” Jude’s chest filled with air and dropped out fast with relief. “You and I. We’ve moved to L.A.” Suddenly, he looked up. “We need to hurry though. Vegas next to find a drive-in church that can marry us. And we need wedding bands.” He frowned. “I forgot about wedding bands!”

  “Those are expensive…” I trailed off, knowing I had no money at all. Mother believed Father should be in charge of our finances, down to the smallest amounts.

  Jude laughed softly. “Nadia, they are as good as free compared to this place.”

  “You bought us a house,” I repeated again, incredulous.

  “I bought a home for my girlfriend. And the next time we step foot here, this home will be for my wife.”

  The next picture is freedom. We’d driven all night, dumped our stuff on the floor of our apartment. With the sun rising in shades of pink and yellow, we rushed out of Los Angeles, en route for Las Vegas.

  In the photo, I’m in the desert, trying not to lean against a prickly Joshua tree. My smile is so wide—I do look free, with just the smallest glint of insecurity at the corner of my eye. We’d been to the bank, where Jude took out as much of the savings he had access to as he dared. Then we went to a jeweler right as they opened their doors. While Jude took this snapshot, my mind was on the two rings in his pocket. They weren’t in a fancy box because they charged extra for it. Beautifully swaddled in a thin silk cloth the jeweler gave us for free, they rested against Jude’s thigh.

  “A few hours, and we’re there,” he whispered just as he took the picture. “Once you’re wearing this ring, you’ll be mine forever. No old prick from the Heavenly Harbor can ever approach you again about the holy matrimony he wants you in. You’ll be holy with me.”

  “Don’t mention him,” I’d said, because it was over. Never again. Never ever.

  “Only me. Me, me,” my Jude continued, dropping the camera and collecting me in his arms. “We’ll talk about you and me—no one else. ‘I will sing aloud of your steadfast love in the morning. I’ll be your fortress and a refuge in the day of your distress.’”

  I giggled. “You know how to woo a girl with warped biblical quotes.”

  “Years of experience.” He smiled against my mouth. “You should try it sometime—it’s been quite effective on my fiancée.”

  BO

  Towns blur by. Small ones. Medium-sized ones. Big cities too. We’re mostly with Luminessence, stirring up campuses, but on nights off, Clown Irruption also plays clubs too small for Luminessence. Which means nights off from gigs are far between.

  Emil has spent his per diems on flying Zoe out twice, reminding me of how I’d rather have Nadia with me than the occasional groupie in a hotel room; since having a tour bus cuts into our touring budget, we only sleep in hotels when we play at the hotels’ own venues and they comp us the rooms.

  Tonight is a bus night.

  “They’ll be here soon,” I tell Betsy or Betty, dragging her over me onto the bunk bed. She gasps, still in disbelief that her insistence during the backstage meet-n-greet paid off and she’s going to be fucked by her “hero,” aka me. I draw the curtain, giving us as much privacy as possible.

  Knowing my fellow band members, they’re still mingling, boozing up, perhaps moving on to a bar. There should be plenty of time to empty my balls and send Betsy slash Betty on her merry way. Then I’ll get an early night, hopefully with minimal creaking from Emil’s bunk above mine. He’s got Zoe here again, and he’s loud. Her hot little squeals are what keep the rest of the band from complaining.

  “God, you’re so sexy,” Betsy/Betty pants. “I can’t believe you chose me. I’m, like, nobody! My friend Trina won’t believe it when I tell her. Can I take a picture?”

  “Of what?” I ask, biting her lip and nudging her head into the scrawny, little pillow. “Me screwing your brains out?”

  She titters. “I don’t know—us? Hold on.” She starts fumbling with her iPhone while I hike her skirt up, find a thong that’s so skimpy it’s completely buried between her buns. I dig deep and pull it off.

  “Damn, you’re fast,” she moans, breath hitching. I’m getting points in the underwear department too? That’s a new one.

  “Thanks,” I mutter and start on her blouse thingy. A few buttons in and she’s left wearing nothing but a pink bra. Good look for her, actually. Maybe I should leave it on. She snaps a picture of my face as I push her boob far enough out of her bra to latch on with my mouth. A strange little iiih surges from her throat, but she doesn’t stop snapping pictures. Whatever.

  “Ah you’re so freaking beautiful!” she moans as I pop two fingers into her pussy. Groupie-girl undulates on them, which is nice. Either way, I’m still hard from our last song on stage, Nadia’s song, and don’t need much in terms of chemistry right now.

  “I’ve
followed you on Facebook for so long, like months, and you’re so… ah, on stage you’re even more… I can’t wait for you to make love to me!”

  Jesus. And I wish she weren’t a talker. How to shut her up?

  I grip her chin and push the back of her head into the mattress. “So flippin’ lucky—I can’t believe it…” she keeps moaning, though the mobility of her mouth is partly obstructed.

  “Shhh,” I say and cover her mouth. Lash into it with my tongue, and she eagerly responds, kissing me back. Even her moans have that incredulous I-can’t-believe-I’m-having-sex-with-a-rock-star tinge, and she’s seriously starting to piss me off. I hope I can hang on long enough to come.

  When I let go to fetch a condom, she hikes up on her elbows, panting and taking more pictures. Playfully, I hold the packet up, watch the flash go off with each new stage of revealing the rubber.

  “Enough,” I say once I’m ready, and I shove her hand—holding the phone—under her body before I pull my pants down enough to wrap myself. She wheezes something about me being beautiful down there too, and I feel like slapping her.

  “My mind is also beautiful,” I hiss as I lower myself over her.

  “Yeah, I bet—omigod,” she whimpers, tilting her hips up. “You’re soooo talented and sexy.”

  Dammit. Here goes my inspiration.

  I hurry up and shove in before my cock gets the memo of us not being excited anymore. I rock quickly, while Bet—she’s officially just Bet now—tells me how exceptionally great I feel inside of her. My eyes are closed so I don’t have to see her face—nose excitedly tipped backwards, and short, yet somehow thick lips wide open while she takes me. Yeah, she’s cute—she had a doll-like quality to her I hadn’t tried before. It’s why I figured why not?