The Days Without You: A Story of Love, Loss, and Grief

by Skylar Wilson

  “Fine.”

  A slight note of bitterness marred his tone. Surely, it was probably because of herself, she thought, biting her lip. No, that was selfish to think she could have that much influence over him. Maybe the deal fell through.

  “Oh. That’s good.”

  “Yeah, they want us to move up there as soon as we can to start recording. I already told Clark we were going up there to sign the contract, so he knows already. Not much else for me to do here, I guess. Just pack up and go. Ollie and I are taking the train up on Wednesday.”

  Kylie bit the inside of her cheek, hard.

  “You’re leaving Wednesday,” she echoed.

  The words sounded hollow and distant from her mouth. She felt dizzy, and her limbs slackened, her free hand clamping onto the armrest to support her. But, Wednesday…that was only two days away. That was it. In just two days, Adam would be gone. The last five months had been a blur. Despite watching her mother waste away, amidst all the anguish her cancer had caused, Kylie had found a content sort of happiness with Adam. His playful, joyful disposition had been her refuge, yet she’d refused to acknowledge it. Now it was too late. He was leaving. The reality of it all hit her harder than her board had, and it hurt in a much deeper way than the concussion.

  She felt breathless.

  “Oh. What about…what about your truck?”

  “Posted an ad online. Already got someone coming to look at it tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” It was barely more than a whisper. No, no, no. This can’t be it. Footsteps grew louder, the clicking of stilettos coming down the aisle. Breathily, she said, “I’ve got to go. I…I’m sorry.”

  “Ah. Okay,” Adam mumbled. “G’bye.”

  So, this was their goodbye. She’d never be able to return those three words to him. What had she done?

  Why, then, didn't he feel happier?

  “No, Dad, I’m fine. Seriously,” Adam said, shifting in his seat on the leather sofa. His Upper West Side loft still didn’t feel like home yet; it still seemed too foreign.

  “You’ve barely been in Manhattan for six months. You don’t know your way around yet. Oh, and I spoke to Ella the other day. She said she still hasn’t seen you.”

  “Well, you know…” He sighed. This conversation wasn’t one he particularly wanted to have right now, so late in the evening. Exhaustion was beginning to set in. “We’ve been working in the studio a lot, and Max has kept us busy with stuff since we hit the radio.”

  “Whatever you say, Adam. She does want to see you, you know.”

  “Oh, just like last time, when she never showed up?”

  “Adam,” his father warned.

  A minute passed in silence. The cold leather of the furniture creaked beneath him as he shifted again, uneasy.

  “Anyway, don’t be a stranger.”

  “Yeah. Bye, Dad.”

  Adam tossed the phone down beside himself and leaned his head back. The room didn’t feel like home, nor did the furniture. Hell, the entire loft didn’t. He’d begun, at least, learning to tune out the nonstop noise and city lights at this hour, close to midnight. Time, the band’s first single the record label released from their new album, 24/Seven, hit the airwaves two weeks ago. Since then, everything had seemed like a whirlwind, and, tomorrow, they were scheduled for their first on-air radio interview and had been booked for more.

  He still felt like he was dreaming.

  Sleep evaded him, just as it had been doing regularly since he’d moved. Adam ran a hand over his face and propped his feet up on the coffee table—a real table made of cherry, not crates and plexiglass—and flipped through the endless television channels. Infomercials, late night news, I Love Lucy reruns. A picture of the band flashed on one of the channels, and he had to flip back through—maybe he’d only imagined it—until he found it on VH1. Sitting up straight, he raised the volume. There they were, on the cover of their new album in the upper corner of the screen. The picture looked botched, though, making them appear oddly perfected. His stomach flipped and turned as he watched the two hosts, one woman awkwardly propped on a stool beside a young man with bleached hair, discussing Time on a rerun of the Top 40 Billboard program.

  “I have to say,” the woman began, crossing her legs under her hiked-up skirt, “Time is refreshing. It’s a fresh take on the old, recycled pop-punk bands of the early 2000s.”

  “The guys of One Night Young are at the top of my watch list. Get your preorders in now for their debut album, 24/Seven, which will be available for sale on Tuesday.”

  Weird. A mixture of excitement and discomfort came over him. Goosebumps prickled on his arms at the sight of his own face on TV, at hearing people talk about their music, the music he’d written a good chunk of. He had made it. His dream of being a famous musician had come true; everything he’d worked so hard for—booking small gigs in Charleston, writing song after song, never giving up on his dreams—had paid off.

  Why, then, didn’t he feel happier?

  Rubbing his eyes and leaning forward, he grabbed his notepad from the table to work on his song—the one that had evaded him for so long. Bits and pieces were finally coming together.

  Thanksgiving was in just a few days, and Kylie found it hard to believe that Maggie and Colton would be getting married in just two weeks more. She could barely focus on work—not that she really cared. Apathetic, really. She had permanently taken over the advice column, and her day was split between her usual articles and the advice column, yet she didn’t care to answer all the silly questions or give meaningful answers.

  Maggie had been visiting Kylie’s cubicle all morning with a storm of questions about what to make with the turkey, in between questions of reassurance that the weather would cooperate for the ceremony. Kylie was to be one of five bridesmaids; the other four seemed nice enough, but she still felt like an outsider, lost on the cusp of the group in their plans. All morning, she focused more on talking to Maggie than any of the anonymous questions.

  When lunchtime finally rolled around and she’d fought her way through a few answers, she pulled on her thin cardigan, grabbed her purse, and headed down the stairwell. A hint of nip hung in the air as she stepped outside; people passed by, dressed in sweaters and scarves, some in jackets. College-aged girls in colorful galoshes on account of last night’s shower splashed across the streets.

  Autumn had always been Kylie’s favorite time of year for several reasons: The temperature was no longer scorching hot, but not bone-shivering cold, which made for good surfing; the foliage turned its deep shades of orange and brown, giving all of downtown a warm glow to its southern charm; and, of course, there was Thanksgiving. This year, though, she wasn’t looking forward to gorging herself on turkey and all the fixings like she usually did.

  Sarah’s necklace rested heavily at her throat. She toyed with the pendant. In the middle of the sidewalk, just outside a coffee shop, she came to a halt. All hunger soured into nausea at the thought of not having her mother at the dinner table, and she closed her eyes and swallowed hard. It wouldn’t be the same sweet potatoes her mother always made, or her secret ingredient of rosemary and a touch of cinnamon in the stuffing and dressing. None of it would be the same.

  Kylie swallowed hard again and settled for just a cup of coffee, cutting her break short.

  “That’s sweet of you to think of me,” said Bruce, pretending to reach for her coffee as she passed.

  “Very funny.” She slinked out of reach and headed down the aisle.

  But Bruce followed and leaned one arm on the cubicle divider as Kylie sat and took a careful sip of her drink.

  “I was on my way in this morning when I happened to hear your boyfriend’s song on the radio, by the way,” he said.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Weeks had passed since she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t miss him anymore. No, she couldn’t even think his name. What song is he talking about? I haven’t heard anything. Then again, she hadn’t been listening to the radio, and the d
emo CD he’d given her lay on the backseat floor of her car.

  He smirked. “One Night Young, right? Or are you not seeing him anymore?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Sorry, did I hit a sore spot?”

  He stepped into the cubicle, too far into her personal space and close enough that she could smell his overly musky cologne. Standing behind her chair, he clapped his hands on her shoulders, and she held back a gag. Every muscle in her body tensed, shuddering as Bruce began to knead her shoulders, hard enough to cause pain. With gritted teeth, she gripped the arms of the chair.

  His breath felt nauseatingly hot on her ear as he leaned down to whisper, “Forget about him. I can do so much better. Just give me one night with you, and I’ll convince Amanda to let you work leads with me, and I’ll get you in touch with The Herald.”

  Heat flooded through Kylie, her stomach turning, and her vision blurred with indignant anger.

  “Get the hell off me!”

  As hard as she could, she rammed her chair back into Bruce’s stomach. His breath came out in a huff as he crashed into the cubicle wall; it shook, threatening to collapse into the desk behind it. A rush of confused gasps and heads popping over their partitions shot around the room. The chair toppled over, clattering onto the floor as Kylie whipped around and flew to her feet, screaming, “I’ve had enough of your shit! I can’t take this anymore!”

  “What the hell is going on?” Amanda’s shriek crossed the space moments before she appeared, the rapid clicking of her heels muted by the carpet.

  Kylie reached out and slapped Bruce hard across the cheek, leaving a bright red print on his face.

  Amanda rounded on Kylie, her hands waving frantically in front of her. “Kylie, you better have a goddamn good explanation—”

  “I’m done! I’m done putting up with Bruce’s harassment, done with answering the same questions day in and day out. I’m done with this place!” She ripped her purse from the desk and shoved past Amanda. Every pair of eyes, every gaping mouth followed her as she rushed by and flung the door open, slamming it against the wall with a resounding bang. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her pulse drowning out the echo of her hurried footsteps down the stairs.

  As she burst outside and slumped against the brick exterior, gasping for air, the perspiration immediately evaporated from her forehead, leaving it oddly cold. Her adrenaline rush subsided faster than it had coursed through her, and an icy chill spread through her core. I just quit my job. I just quit my job. I just quit my job. I can’t go back in. Not now. The thought reverberated in her mind. Her breath stuck in her chest, and her head spun. She closed her eyes, fighting to catch her breath and to remain calm. No, she needed to put as much distance as she could between herself and the office.

  Every motion, every step felt stiff and robotic as she put one foot in front of the other, forcing herself to walk. Not that stupid girly magazine that you hate anyway. The words were a distant echo, but they lingered. She stumbled into the driver’s seat of her car and sat there, staring at the steering wheel until she realized she had yet to turn the engine. The Relief blared from the speakers.

  Kylie paused.

  Had Bruce truly heard One Night Young on the radio? She flipped the radio switch to FM.

  “Stay tuned, folks, we have 106.9 The Tide’s daily pop quiz coming up in thirty. Right now, we’ve got some requests, starting off with Nora’s request for—”

  She snapped the radio off and shook her head. What had she expected?

  That's good. Good for them.

  Adam found the inside of the radio station to be a letdown. He was mildly disappointed—it didn’t look at all like he’d imagined: instead of shelves upon shelves of CDs and records and old-style microphones, like movie sets that depicted old radio talk shows, the bland interior was equipped with computer monitors, a mixer board, and a few microphones. But it had never occurred to him that stations might have all digital music lists, allowing them a wider selection of music.

  Staff had already set up four rolling chairs for them, placed in front of two microphones. The room itself was plain, with beige walls and scuffed vinyl floors.

  Ollie and Shawn grinned at each other while Benny adjusted his headphones and leaned closer to the microphone. The DJ sifted through what looked like a thousand more questions, while Benny answered what felt like at least the hundredth, speaking about how they met. Adam’s legs already tingled and were falling asleep.

  “Shawn and I had been out of high school for a few years when he met Ollie at the restaurant where he worked. Then Ollie got Adam a job as a waiter with them, and things just kind of fell together after that,” he explained.

  The DJ nodded, not looking up from his list. “So, what got you guys into music originally, before you all met?”

  Ollie leaned toward the microphone next. “Me and Adam were in our school’s orchestra together. It was kind of nerdy,” he said, glancing at Adam and laughing. “My mom pushed me into it when I was a kid, even though I didn’t want to at first. It ended up being my favorite class.”

  Chuckling, the DJ then nodded at Adam, who leaned forward reluctantly.

  “Like he said, we were in music classes together in school. But I started learning piano when I was little,” he said. Performing music live never freaked him out, but for whatever reason, answering these questions while knowing thousands of people were listening did just that. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and cleared his throat. “My mother is a pianist. I always liked listening when she played, and she taught me. I’ve loved music as long as I can remember.” His stomach knotted.

  “Any special ladies in your lives?” he asked with a sly smile, looking between them all.

  “I just want to focus on music,” Ollie said in a flat tone. Then he nudged Adam and gave him a stupid look—grinning so wide it looked like he was in pain, opening his eyes wide, and wiggling his brow. He wanted him to mention Kylie, Adam was sure.

  He froze, just for a split second, before he muttered, “No, not at the moment.” He wondered if she was even listening, or did she even know that they were doing interviews?

  The interview continued, and, finally, they discussed their album rather than overly personal topics.

  “Do you have a favorite song from the album?”

  Shawn answered, “Time, definitely.”

  “Speaking of time, that’s all the time we have today. Thanks for joining us here on FLY 98.8. One Night Young’s debut album is out today, so make sure you check it out. We’ll be right back after the break.”

  The subway remained another aspect of New York that Adam couldn’t acclimate to. The stuffy air smelled pungent. He scanned his yellow Metro card—how he hadn’t lost the little card yet, he had no idea—pushed through the turnstile, and stepped onto the platform. A cab probably would have been faster to get to his mother’s neighborhood, albeit much more expensive. (Not to mention he was always terrified of careening into another vehicle.) And it wasn’t as though he felt any need to rush; he didn’t care if he was late. Ella could wait on him like he waited two hours for her back in June before giving up and leaving. Another half hour, she finally called to say she’d been caught up at rehearsal.

  Already, the subway platform was filled with people. Adam found a spot by the wall to wait, although he didn’t dare lean against the dirty, stained, graffitied tile. While he waited, he popped in an earbud, turned his music on—The Relief had just released a new album, too—and flicked through the Top 40 charts. They were on it at number seventeen! He forced himself to remain calm and collected and shoved his phone in his pocket. From the group of teens in front of him came hushed whispers as they shot backward glances at Adam. He tried not to laugh, then paused.

  Wait, are they talking about me?

  One girl broke away from the group, her shoulders hunched as she approached Adam. “Um, excuse me,” she mumbled with pink cheeks. “Aren’t you from One Night Young?”

  Adam stared at her for
a moment. No, he wasn’t dreaming. A total stranger recognized him. He yanked out his earbud and nodded. “Yeah.”

  The girl turned to her friends and waved frantically, and they scurried over. One boy pulled out a copy of 24/Seven and flashed it in her face.

  “I told you it was him! Hey, can I have your autograph?” he asked, fishing a marker from his backpack and thrusting it at Adam.

  “Er, sure.” Adam took the marker, scribbling his name on the cover of the CD case.

  The rest all fished for scraps of paper or things to be signed. For so many years, he’d dreamed of this day—the day he was famous enough to be recognized. A few commuters waiting for the train turned to gawk. Adam’s neck grew hot, and after he finished signing the scraps, he pulled his phone back out and stared at the blank screen just for something to do.

  Finally, the train rumbled down the tracks and the brakes squealed as it pulled up to the platform, saving him from all the indiscreet stares. He stepped into standing room only, grabbed the handle above his head, and kept his eyes on his phone.

  Not long later, he hopped up the steps to street level, glad to be out of the grimy stench of the subway. He tightened his jacket about him and pulled his hat down farther over his ears. The bitter air nipped at the tip of his nose, which already began to run. He used to think Charleston was cold in the short thing it called winter; it would be a warm vacation compared to New York now.

  Weaving through the mobs of people on the sidewalk had grown to be second nature, and he still surprised himself at how fast he had learned to navigate the streets. Walking too slow meant more people crashing into him, more people spewing cusses at him.

  The inside of their agreed coffee shop proved bigger than expected, not to mention noisy with hissing steam, clinking mugs, and baristas calling out orders. Dim lights hung low throughout the café, casting a soft glow over the industrial-themed space. Adam stepped up to the counter and squinted up at the oversized chalkboard with minute writing.