by Frankie Rose
I started noticing him then. Every single girl with a pulse did. He had muscles overnight. His hair was fucking perfect—he had that tousled, messed up yet amazing hair style going on that you just wanted to dig your hands into and maybe pull a little. Except I was thirteen and I didn’t even really know that was what I wanted to do to him at the time.
“Avery? Ave, you okay?”
I realize my hands have stilled on the neck of Luke’s guitar. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just got a little lost there.”
“I don’t mean to be a dick or anything, but I’m pretty sure you were just swooning. I have a younger sister. I’ve seen it go down before.”
I fake scowl at him. “Nope. Just a minor detour down memory lane. I’m back now.”
“Hmm. It’s not safe to drive in reverse, Patterson. Look out of the windshield, not the rearview. That’s my motto.”
“Agreed. Sometimes it feels like your car’s been impounded and you’re not moving anywhere anyway, though. Then, you’re looking out of any available window, trying to figure out what the hell’s going on.”
Sam laughs. “This conversation would be a lot easier to understand if we weren’t talking in car analogies. You know…Morgan has a big mouth. She tells me things. And you should know, I maybe a six-foot-three, beer-swilling, ass-kicking, tattoo-covered guitarist, but I’m also pretty good at listening to people. It’s, like, my super power or something. If you feel like it…”
“I’m all good. Really. Let’s just nail this song, huh? I feel like it’s taking me weeks.”
“It is.” He sticks his tongue out, and I throw a cushion at him. He ducks the missile, laughing. “Don’t feel bad. It’s a hard song. The Beatles were kind of badasses. The rhythm on this one’s all over the place. It’s gonna take time.”
“I’m not a patient person, Sam. I want to nail it now,” I tell him, smiling.
He nods, leaning on the body of his own guitar, studying me. “Some of the best fucks of my life have been the ones I’ve had to wait for,” he advises me. “Playing the guitar is like that, too. You wait, you practice, then it comes to you and it was all worth it. The guitar’s not going anywhere. Your hands aren’t going anywhere. Just give it the time it needs.”
I feel like we’re not really talking about learning Blackbird, somehow. Somehow, I think we’re talking about Luke and that makes me really uncomfortable. I lean my guitar against the sofa beside me and I think about what I want to say next. It’s obvious Sam already knows everything about Luke. Would it feel good to talk about him right now? Would it be kind of cathartic, or would it feel like I’m picking at a scab I just can’t let heal? I’m seconds away from opening my mouth when the front door flies open and Morgan sweeps into the apartment, arms full of grocery bags, her bangs plastered to her forehead, swearing at the top of her lungs. “FARK!!! People are dropping like flies out there. I think the sun’s moved closer to the earth or something. I had to fight an old man with a walking frame for this soda. You bitches better appreciate what I’ve been through in the last hour. I may have PTSD.” She staggers to the kitchen and dumps her seemingly hard won items onto the counter, and then drags the back of her arm across her forehead, making her bangs stick up. She flicks the switch on the radio that’s sitting on the windowsill, and Justin Bieber’s voice blares out of the tinny speakers.
Morgan doesn’t seem to care, though. “Why do I feel like I just walked into a D and M?” she asks, her gaze shifting first from me and then to Sam. “Don’t do that, guys. I’m an emotionally unstable person. I can’t handle open displays of sympathy, empathy or any other kind of pathy. I’ll be bawling about it for weeks in my sessions.” She points an accusing index finger at us both in turn. “You know this about me.”
“We do. Don’t worry. There was no sharing going on here. What did you bring us?” I get to my feet, shaking off the gray cloud hovering over me. Perhaps it’s a good thing that the moment with Sam was cut short. He would have told me Luke was a dick, that he was a fucker for leaving me the way he did. He would have told me I was awesome and I didn’t deserve to be treated the way he treated me. He would have told me to hang in there, that I will meet someone worthy of my time the moment I’m least expecting it, and I would have smiled and said thank you but it wouldn’t have helped. I would still feel hollow and lost.
Morgan tosses me a can of soda, slippery from the beads of condensation trickling down the cool metal, and I hold it against the back of my neck, sighing in relief. “Oooooh, boy. That is so good.”
“All right, all right. Only my boyfriend and I are allowed to make those kinds of noises in the kitchen, Ave. If you’re planning on finishing somewhere, go do it in the bathroom, biting down on the hand towel like a civilized human being.”
I smile sweetly at her. “Are you implying that you masturbate in other people’s bathrooms?”
“No. I’m flat out telling you. When the need takes you, you’re not supposed to deny it. It’s bad for your health or something.”
Sam barks out laughter, accepting his own can of soda from his girlfriend. “That’s a lie dudes tell women to get laid, baby.”
“Whatever. I’m okay with not taking pills or coke but I’m damned if I’m gonna let society dictate to me when I can and can’t have an orgasm.”
“Please tell me you’ve never done that in my bathroom,” I groan.
“Of course I have! Jesus, woman, besides Sam you’re the only person I actually leave my apartment to go visit. By the way, you’re out of that fancy body lotion you keep under your sink.”
It takes me a second to figure out what she’s talking about. “Morgan! You used my hand cream so you could…?”
“I am so not sorry.” She pulls a red apple out of the paper bag on the counter, polishes it on her t-shirt, and then takes a bite. With her mouth full, she holds it out so Sam can take a bite from the other side.
He does, then mumbles, “My girl is all class.”
“Great. I am so going home now. You people are animals.”
Morgan shakes her head. “Can’t. I bought ingredients for dinner. You should hang around. We’re going to play Cards Against Humanity and drink Sam’s homebrew.”
“Why does that sounds vaguely sexual?” I ask.
Morgan smirks, following me out of the kitchen. “Because it usually is. We’ll behave ourselves if you’re here, though. Promise.”
I have a bunch of excuses on the tip of my tongue. I’m just picking which one to go with when Justin Bieber stops singing and another voice begins to flow out of the radio speakers, halting me in my tracks.
The three of us freeze like statues as we listen to the rise and swell of soft guitar and the singer’s raspy, bluesy voice as he sings. He sounds…he sounds like he’s in so much pain.
All the world was sleeping
You and I crept into the night
Brave, bare souls naked and shivering
To confess, confess all we’d lied
‘cause lying was the hating game
and winning and falling felt the same
we were lost
oh, we were lost.
Bring me your bright things and
Bring me a cause
‘cause our eyes are dried up and
no longer ours. This is love
caught up, cut up in love
it’s razor sharp and its not enough
this, our love
Stumble over your cottonmouth,
I’ll stumble over mine
The truth is just a pleasant story
To which we are resigned, but
Making do with half a truth
And half a life’s the same
As making do with half a heart
Forgetting why we came.
Double the cost
Oh, double the cost
Bring me your bright things and
Bring me those smiles
Cause our bodies are frozen
We’re lost out in the wild.
Yeah, we’re caught up in love
Cut up in its teeth
Sharp as a switchblade
We lose what we keep.
We lose what we keep
While other men sleep,
Afraid of all the nightmares that
Rattle them deep, and the
Swift, subtle singing of church choir wives
Ain’t enough to remind us of why we all die.
My knees buckle out from underneath me as the song ends. More voices on the radio—this time the presenter. “And that was the brand new track off the new album, titled Wild Halls and Dark Places at the End of the World by the equally enigmatically titled band, D.M.F. Cottonmouth is the first release from their Wild Places album, though a complete departure from their other rocky, heavier, more energetic stylings. I’ve heard their next song, and let me tell you, it is mind blowing. These boys from New York aren’t riding on the backs of a one trick pony. I get the feeling D.M.F. are going to be hitting us with one surprise after another over the coming months.”
A woman starts speaking next, saying how exciting it is to have such a dichotomy of music all flowing and charging in different directions on the same album, but I don’t really hear her.
I am cracking, breaking, falling apart. Morgan grabs me from behind and holds me tightly as I sob. I want to feel shame and embarrassment but I can't push past the devastating pain of hearing his voice on the radio. The band sounds amazing. The song…that song was heartbreaking. It wasn’t just the words Luke sang. It was the sorrow of the music. The painful bite of the melody.
Morgan strokes her hand over my hair, shhing me over and over again.
“I have to go,” I whisper. “I need…to go.”
“No. No, Avery, stay. Please stay. I hate to see you like this.” She clings to me fiercely, despite all her big words about not doing sympathy or empathy, refusing to let me go.
“Please.” My voice sounds strangled, barely there. “Please. I need to be alone.”
“C’mon, babe. Let her go. It’s what she needs,” Sam says quietly. He prizes Morgan’s fingers from my arms and takes her into his own, giving me a sad smile. “Call and let us know you’re okay, yeah?”
“I will. I will.” And then I’m racing out of the apartment, banging my guitar case against the metal handrail in the stairwell, not caring, not seeing anything, not really feeling. Just knowing that Luke is right.
We’re lost out in the wild.
I drive home, numb and cold despite the heat. When I walk into the apartment, a letter has been slid under the front door. It’s a subpoena from the Wyoming District Attorney, calling me back to Breakwater.
Chloe Mathers is petitioning for an appeal.
TWENTY
AVERY
“You have to go, Avery. There is no way around it. I’ll go with you, sure, but you can’t escape it, baby girl. A subpoena’s a subpoena, no matter how you look at it. It’s non negotiable. And think about it this way. Your testimony is probably gonna be what keeps this crazy bitch behind bars. She comes from a powerful family, Avery. Old blood in the community. If anyone’s going to find a way out of this, it’ll be her. And you wanna make it easy for her?”
Brandon has a way of putting things in perspective sometimes, but I’m damned if his logic makes me feel better about the prospect of heading back to Breakwater. I sigh, barely able to breathe around the worry that keeps hitting me in successive waves. “Okay. You’re right. I know you are. So why do I feel like the walls are closing in right now?”
“It’s a single day out of your life, Ave. At worst, it’ll be two or three days and you may have to spend some time with me of all people. And then Chloe will be back behind bars and you can fly to New York and forget the entire state of Wyoming even exists if that’s what you wanna do. I’m getting good at this whole flying thing, y’know.”
It’s wild to me that Brandon will fly across the country to see me whenever he needs to, and yet my own mother who lives in the same city as me can’t find the time to come visit me. She did invite me to her place, it’s true, but I just can’t picture her ever stepping foot in my walk up. “Fine,” I sigh. “But you're going with me. I'm not setting foot inside Breakwater’s city limits without you.”
“I live here, remember. I’m always here. Anyway, I'll talk to you later this week. Keep your chin up.”
After I hang up from speaking with Brandon, Noah and I meet for coffee. My heart still feels decidedly bruised. We sit and talk about Neve, the fact that Noah’s parents are planning on coming out to the States to visit soon, and the whole time I make the appropriate grunting sound and nod my head, hoping that he doesn’t actually ask me to participate in the conversation. I’m a zombie. I’m a ghost. Zombies don’t have opinions. Ghosts don’t make small talk. They fade or lurch from one location to the next, making weird groaning noises and generally being disturbing to the people around them who are still functioning, living, and breathing.
Noah takes a deep drink from his coffee, his eyes sparkling over the rim of his mug. He’s said something. He’s said something and I missed it. This is exactly what I was worried about. “What?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing. Y’know…I just told you I was planning on selling my only daughter into child slavery so I could cover her costs at home, and you made a variety of noises that implied you thought this was a grand idea.”
I huff, slouching down into my seat. “God, I’m sorry, Noah. I’m just having a really shit week.”
He puts down his coffee cup and stares at it, not looking at me. “I can probably guess why, huh? I saw the band on TV this morning. Neve even knew the words to the damn song. It’s everywhere—on the radio, on every single channel on the television. It’s even on that car advert.”
“I know. I saw it.” It’s true. This morning I nearly choked on my damn cereal when I heard Luke’s voice pulsing out of the surround sound system on the TV. And worse still, when I looked up to figure out what the hell was going on, Luke’s face was on the screen, too. I found myself wondering how Toyota knew the track was going to be such a huge hit. Big enough that they’d have the band’s lead singer acting in the commercial, anyway. But then I saw Luke aggressively driving the car, tattoos spiraling up his arms, onto his neck, and I instantly knew why. I mean, he’s breathtaking to look at. Always has been. And now, with the added edge he has with D.M.F… there’s no way they weren’t going to make it. I should have put money on their guaranteed success or something. I’d be rich right now.
“I just…I should be over this by now, y’know?” I pick at the peeling Formica veneer of the table in front of me, not wanting to look up and deal with the expression on Noah’s face. “I’m sorry. You’re the last person I should be talking about this to, but…”
“Ahh, hush yourself. You can talk to me about anything. Do you think I’m still heartbroken over you, crying myself to sleep at night or something?” he says, laughter in his voice.
“No. I didn’t mean that. I—” Jeez. Now I feel like an asshole on top of everything else. Why on earth would Noah still give a crap about me? It’s been months and months since everything that happened between us. Of course he’s over it. I can feel my blood rising, a furious blush burning at my cheekbones. “I just meant that guys don’t really like talking about this sort of stuff with women. In my experience, anyway.”
Noah nudges me with the toe of his shoe under the table. “I’m just fucking with you, Ave. I do cry myself to sleep every night, I swear.” His laughter echoes off the walls around us, and the couple in the booth next to us look over to see what all the fuss is about.
“Screw you,” I tell him, poking my tongue out. “You’re so full of it.”
He stops laughing and his features arrange themselves in a very serious, I’m-not-joking-around expression. He takes his index finger and crosses across his heart, one eyebrow lifted, lips drawn tight into a line. “I wouldn’t lie to you, sweetness,” he says. “Neve made me promise
.” His eyes are shining brightly, and I know he’s just giving me shit, but there’s something about the way his face dissolves into a smile that has me thinking he might not be joking.
“So your four-year-old made you promise never to bend the truth, huh? That’s gotta be a bit of a wake up call.”
“Pssshhh.” Noah picks up his coffee cup again and drains it in one go. “Only when it suits her, the minx. It’s okay for me to make up excuses about overdue assignments so long as I spend my evening playing Barbies with her and not studying, but with you?” He shakes his head. “She said I was flat-out not allowed to fib to you in case it made you cross and you didn’t want to hang out with us at the park anymore. I may have told her that...well, that I upset you before and you were being kind to even talk to me now, so…”
I can hardly say that I don’t think about what happened last year with Noah anymore, but I suppose it feels like I was dealing with an entirely different person back then or something. Maybe that’s being lenient. Maybe that’s letting him off too lightly for scaring the crap out of me and making me feel like shit, but I’m a firm believer in the old adage that actions speak louder than words. Since we started spending time together recently, Noah’s been nothing but the perfect gentleman. He’s been funny and sweet, and the way he treats his little girl is enough to melt the icicles from anyone’s heart.
“We really don’t need to even think about what went down then, okay?” I say softly. “We’ve moved past it. Or at least I have. And you don’t need to be troubling Neve’s head with stuff like that, either.”
