Walking Heartbreak

by Sunniva Dee

  We stayed in the car for a while afterward. He stumbled in and out of sleep for a few minutes at a time. Whenever he woke up, he’d be my Jude again. Patient, comforting, explaining how everything would be okay. “I’m just tired,” he said.

  “Jude,” I pleaded once he was well enough to take us the last two hundred yards to a gas station. “Don’t wait so long the next time.”

  Surrounded by reddish sand and cacti, I focused on the tiny building, wobbled to my feet, and straightened. In the mini-market, a sleepy old man slouched behind an old-fashioned cash register. “We need to always bring food. Right? If I knew, I’d have made sure we picked something up.”

  “Yeah, I always do, but—I’ve been busy today. I wanted to get my girlfriend to Vegas!”

  “I know, but still. Alive, right?” I only partly joked.

  “It’s okay. No matter what, I always carry glucose tablets.”

  “Do you always take them when you need them though?” I smiled at him; clearly, he didn’t. Jude winked, eyes twinkling.

  “My pretty fiancée made me forget.”

  “I don’t think wives would let that go. Now that I know, I’ll be hounding you.”

  Jude was still exhausted, a little shaky, but the color of his skin was normalizing. He lowered the backrest of his seat and drew a long, relieved breath. “Feels good now. That shit can sneak up on you, it’s weird. If I’m busy with something else, I forget why I’m uncomfortable.”

  “And then what happens to your body? I mean, I saw, but I don’t really understand.” I smoothed all the hair away from his face so I could see his tired features.

  “Just… I don’t naturally produce enough insulin. Basically, my pancreas doesn’t work, so I have to take shots to kick-start it.” He tipped his nose back against the headrest, looking down at me and straightening imaginary glasses. “Or as my doctor says: insulin is what makes our bodies able to exploit glucose—which we take in through food.”

  “And there’s insulin in the Yu-Gi-Oh pen?” I asked, causing a breathy chuckle to seep from him.

  “Yeah. And I need to eat afterward, because it’s dangerous to have too much insulin and too little glucose—or blood sugar.”

  “What happens if you do?”

  He rolled his eyes, head limp against the seat. “Nadia, nothing ever happens, besides this. I get exhausted and shaky and irritable. Then I eat. Then I’m fine.”

  “Good, yes,” I said. “But what if you didn’t have any food?”

  “Everyone dies without food.”

  We drove on in silence. We shared two packets of peanuts and a sandwich, but my baby was getting short with me, angry about my digging for information.

  “I’m sorry, Jude,” I said as the city of Las Vegas appeared in front of us. “All I want is to be there for you, to know what to look for if something like this ever happens again. Can you tell me why you didn’t take the glucose tablets before in time?”

  “Pff, I could have still taken them. Straight into the vein was just faster.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I don’t insist where I’m not wanted, but this was Jude’s health and I needed to understand.

  He didn’t look at me when he finally relented. Instead he raked a tired hand through his hair and stared at the yellow line in front of him. “I told you. Because I start feeling icky. Next thing I know, I’m feeling worse. Depending on what I’m doing, I don’t always put two and two together before I get upset and exhausted, and then I just want people to back off and let me rest.”

  Suddenly, he sent me one sharp glance before his attention returned to the road. “The insulin shock—the overload of it working on too little glucose—makes my body shut down. My brain isn’t working coherently, doing what’s logical, and I could launch into convulsions and faint. Then there’s coma. After that, death. Da-dum!”

  I sucked in a sharp breath, and he shrugged. “But seriously, that doesn’t happen. Not since the dark ages. Nowadays, it’s just an urban legend or something doctors love to scare diabetics with. Please don’t create scenarios in your head. We’re about to get married!”

  I couldn’t buy into his subject change yet. “What’s the worst you’ve experienced?”

  “Meh. I fainted once and had convulsions, but that was a long time ago, while we still lived in San Francisco. We’d been trekking with family friends, we ran out of food, and miscalculated the route a smidgen. My dad ran the last mile to the car with me over his shoulder.” He laughed. “That was the most uncomfortable ride of my life.”

  The past still glimmers in my mind as I pay the cab driver and pull my suitcase onto the curb. The urge to send a message to Bo, tell him I’m not coming after all, is so strong my finger trembles against the phone screen.

  But a boy that looks about nineteen slows down next to me. He has honeyed locks that are little bit too long and a suitcase in one hand. Still, he offers to take mine.

  I nod wordlessly even though mine has wheels and is easy to roll inside. Because in an airport like LAX, where people shove past and mind their own business, it must be destiny when a boy who looks like my past breaks the norm and shortens my road to Bo.

  BO

  I haven’t been in Deepsilver since Ingela’s meltdown, not since I helped her straighten things out with Cameron. The two of them visited in L.A. during Christmas break, but over the last year, that’s all I’ve seen of them.

  I sit in the front lounge of the bus with the TV blasting a Van Halen documentary on the way into town. Funny to be in Deepsilver, not to comfort Ingela or to find solace in her, but for a gig that pays actual money.

  Clown Irruption has played the area before, but back then we rented a cheap van and the rest of the money went straight to gear rental and bills in general. We’re nowhere near rich now either, but a year ago we were prototype starving musicians.

  My phone buzzes, and I swear it’s louder than usual. Which makes sense because it’s Inga. I pick up quickly so Troy, who’s slumbering in the captain’s chair next to me, can keep doing his thing until the bus parks.

  “Bo!” she shouts. I hold the phone out from my ear until she finishes the question. “Are you here yet?”

  “Ja. We’re pulling up to some sort of museum? Says ‘University of Deepsilver’ on it. Guess we’re in the right place.”

  “Cameron!” Her hand must accidentally be covering the phone because it’s muffled. She muffles nothing on purpose. “He’s here, baby!” Something clangs hard against the speaker before she’s back on, yelling excitedly to me. “We can be there in, like, fifteen! Or wait… I’m showering first. And I need to decide what to wear. But we can be there in—soon, super-soon!”

  It’s four hours until showtime. We better be all set before Ingela comes, because the girl knows how to make an entrance and keep it that way. I’m a hundred percent sure it’s a terrible idea to have these two hanging out while Troll’s going crazy prepping the stage, setting up dressing rooms, and politely fighting with Luminessence’s tour manager over details.

  Already she has managed to wake Troy up. He’s staring at me dazedly, golden eyes flitting from my phone to my face in question.

  Ingela, I enunciate, and his mouth forms a quick “o.” He’s the only one in the band who hasn’t met my ex. The rest has seen her at her best—and her worst. Troy has heard stories though. The less Emil has going on and the drunker he is, the more he’ll rip into old adventures involving Ingela.

  “We need to get ready first, but I’ll put you on the guest list as soon as we’re situated.”

  “You sleeping over at our place, right?” she scream-asks. “The couch is gross, but you don’t care, and I got thick, new Swedish duvets from my mom! You can have two!”

  “No, I’m renting a hotel room tonight,” I admit. Troy gives me the courtesy of looking away, knowing my hopeful plans with Nadia.

  �
�Why? It’s cheaper to sleep here. Cam makes poached eggs for breaky, and they taste like real boiled eggs. The real way!”

  “Nice. Well, I’m having a visitor.”

  “What do you mean, a visitor? Someone from home? Not your sister, right? Oh my God, is it your sister? Cameron, you’ll get to meet—”

  “No one from home, Ingela.” I can’t help smiling at her ferocious enthusiasm. She’s the Ingela I used to know, from our first year together. That lightness in my chest shines again. Damn, it’s nice to know she’s happy. “It’s someone from Los Angeles.”

  For a moment, Ingela loses her footing. She has no retort. During the time we were on and off, we were both aware of each other having lives outside of our strange agreement but didn’t delve into the other’s hook-ups. Yeah. I suddenly realize she hasn’t heard me confess to something like this before.

  “Bo?” Her voice is so low it could be taken for a normal person’s. “Are you freaking dating someone?”

  And that’s when it dawns on me that I should have kept my big yapper shut. I regret my sharing like a motherfucker. I can see so much go up in flames right now it’s not even funny. Ingela talking with Nadia. Nadia’s eyes going wide with incredulity at whatever cow dung Ingela litters out, like tips on stuff Nadia should try on me—oh Jesus.

  “Ingela.” I grab the cell with both hands and lean over my knees, cupping the device as if it’s her face I’m restraining. “You have got to listen to me. No. I’m not dating this girl. Here’s the deal:

  “Her name is Nadia. I like her very much. She’s special. She tries her best to stay away from me, while I try my best to get her to spend any amount of time with me. Get it? So do me a favor tonight: obviously, you’ll meet her. Just keep your mouth shut. Don’t make up stories—”

  “Oh fuck you,” she sings, the queen of random cursing as usual. “I never make up stories.”

  “Okay, fine, how about: don’t warp the truth to make it sound interesting. Don’t tell her I like her. Don’t—”

  “Really? That’s the level you’re at with her? You’re a rat if you think she doesn’t already know you like her. And, Baby Christmas, this can’t be happening: Bo is worked up over a girl!”

  I groan into my hands while Troy clears his throat to disguise how hard he’s laughing. Speakerphones are a waste on Ingela. She’s her own loudspeaker. Pun intended.

  “Why are we talking in English?” I ask, frazzled. “You make more sense in Swedish.”

  “Because Cameron is here, you douchewaffle! How else can he understand?”

  Douchewaffle?

  “How does he understand anything around you?” I mutter.

  “Or ‘douchebag,’” Cameron suggests sweetly. “See you tonight, Bo,” he adds.

  “Good deal,” I reply, though all I see is the night going up in flames, forest-fire style. Now, my only hope is that Cameron keeps Inga busy.

  BO

  According to Nadia’s flight schedule, she should have been here by now. I text her but get no reply. I’m hoping she’s delayed because the alternative is going to mess me up. It’d mean another harsh after-show workout and maybe some random chick from the meet-n-greet.

  Troll grumbles about my per diems going straight into the hotel room and how it’s up to me what I use it on. I nod once, because exactly: per diems are for us to do what we want with, a small daily advance on our income before we’ve finished the tour. And back the fuck off, Troll. I’m not in the mood.

  Sound-check is over, and we’re picking off of hospitality trays set out in our dressing room while the guys, or more like, Emil, downs beers.

  “You heard from Zoe?” I mutter.

  “Oh!” He widens his eyes. “You mean my chick? Who’s working your chick’s shifts so she can come out and see you? No. She’s busy.”

  “She’s not my chick.”

  “You act like she is.”

  “Shut up.” I get up, grab the guitar, and exit the room. I hate hanging with everyone else before a show anyway.

  We’re playing the university’s theater stage tonight—they offer performing arts as a major here. The backstage area is deep with layers and layers of thick curtains that divide it into roomy pockets. I find a dark corner in the back and sit down with my acoustic guitar over crossed legs.

  It’s quiet, and I feel the stress ease as soon as my fingers begin working the strings. I hum out a melody, a new one that came to me last night. It mixes nicely with this chord I’ve been experimenting with. I stop abruptly and add two raps with my knuckles against the wood before moving on.

  I play another riff inspired by Nadia. I don’t have lyrics to it yet. It’s a platonic emotion, but I couldn’t verbalize it without sounding ridiculous if someone asked. There’s just the soundtrack to her skin for now and the way it felt beneath my fingers.

  Stroking the notes out of my instrument, I ease myself into concert mode. It’s soothing and opens me up to the audience.

  This will be a ballad. Definitely a ballad. About the way she lies, arm covering a mixture of elation and embarrassment on her face after an orgasm. The paler, fragile skin on the inside of her arm, so exposed to me on top of the sheet.

  “Bo!” Troll’s gruff voice reaches me from beyond the exit sign. “That you?”

  “Yeah. It’s early still,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t answer, but light footsteps move in my direction. I look up as a silhouette I don’t recognize approaches. I keep playing, wishing I could keep my peace longer.

  “Hey,” Nadia murmurs, breathless like she ran all the way from the airport.

  I set the guitar down, jump to my feet, and laser in on her. “Shit, Nadia. I didn’t think you were coming.”

  She lets out air that could be a chuckle. “I almost didn’t.”

  “Did he try to stop you?”

  “No, not Jude...”

  The plan was to not pressure her if she came out to see me. I’d play nice. She’d have to take the first step if she wanted more than friendly.

  Screw that.

  My arms are around her before I can think because damn it to hell and back. Her ribs are soft ridges under my fingers. Bird-like shoulder blades, neck delicate with small nubs leading into the fine hairs at the top of her nape. Nadia’s mane is thick and silky in my fist when I pull her head back.

  “Ah I’ve missed you,” I murmur. Run my nose up the side of hers until our mouths are spaced only by warm air. I shouldn’t. I don’t want to scare her, but—

  Her scent.

  Her skin.

  Her lips.

  I crash my mouth to hers and kiss her harder than I ever kiss. All this time we’ve been apart. I don’t even know her, and still I’ve missed her so much!

  “I don’t know what you do to me. I think about you day and night.” My voice cracks, but I want to say more—talk, talk, talk to her.

  “Bo,” she starts, her voice rejecting something—me? What I feel? What she feels? But her arms squeeze around me with slender, strong hands that don’t want to let go any more than I do. “Last flight was delayed.”

  “I wish you’d texted me.”

  “Sorry…”

  She sits down with me after, when I finally release her from my embrace. She listens to me prepare, and we have a full hour to ourselves, there, on the floor. Nadia’s dark eyes glint with unwavering belief in me, charging me up, making me stronger and more focused, and it’s magic the way my notes spill out rich where they were stale before.

  “You’re my muse,” I whisper, rewarded with her wordless smile.

  “Fifteen minutes!” Troll bellows from the exit. “You need anything from the dressing room?”

  “The other guitar, a water, and…” I bring Nadia’s hand to my lips. “What would you like? A beer? Wine?”

  “A bottle of water would be nice,” she say
s, and I repeat it to Troll.

  I lace our fingers and pull her hand behind my neck so she has to lean in. She does, and with her cheek on my shoulder, I tell her the title of the ballad she’s heard me plunk out. “She Came is the name of this song,” I whisper, kissing her temple. “And it’s not dirty. Just: you came. Because I was worried you wouldn’t.”

  NADIA

  I’m behind Bo on stage in a concert hall that looks more like a theater. The band blares music out over velvet seats, gold walls, and enormous crystal-adorned candelabras that must be vibrating from the volume. It’s weird and beautiful the way the boys desecrate this reminder of ancient glory.

  Emil even sheds his shirt half way through the concert, perspiration glistening under red, blue, and green stage lights.

  The orchestra pit holds no musicians tonight. It’s jam-packed with girls dancing and screaming along to their songs. I don’t remember people being so frantic at Clown Irruption’s concerts in L.A. Is this what “going viral” means for a band?

  All the way in the front, two couples tap the rhythm and bob their heads calmly. The couple to the left are both dark-haired and gorgeous; he, of some sort of Asian descent, and she seemingly Indian. The other girl, a skinny blonde with a short bob, sings the lyrics perfectly, and despite being cozy in the crook of her tall, equally blond boyfriend’s arm, her eyes remain on Bo.

  I’m surprised when I realize the boyfriend also focuses on Bo most of the time. He laughs heartily with his girl when Bo loses his guitar pick and fumbles for another in his pocket. At one point, the four of them shout-talk with each other over the music, and my heart jolts as I realize exactly who these people are.

  The blonde, right there, is Ingela. Bo’s ex, the one who made him think he was incapable of loving anyone. From a distance, she looks innocent, sweet, and the epitome of Scandinavian-model-gorgeous.

  Wow. And suddenly, it’s hard to believe he couldn’t love her. I know I’m not being rational. Looks mean nothing and chemistry is everything. But what a cruel twist of fate when one person loves dismally and the other never did?