Everything I Want

by MacMillan, Jerica

The problem is that the longer I’m around Aaron, the more I’ll want to spend time with him. And that’s dangerous. For me. For Maddie. For him. Even if he doesn’t know it. He’s trying to be sweet. He wants to reconnect with an ex from high school who stopped talking to him because of a supposedly jealous boyfriend. He doesn’t know the real reason. He doesn’t know that the jealous boyfriend was made up. That I haven’t had a boyfriend since him. That he still features prominently in my fantasies when I’m alone at night …

  “Okay,” I hear myself saying as I reach to take the three passes he’s holding out to me. “I’ll see you after the show.”

  The smile he gives me is equal parts breathtaking and terrifying.

  How am I going to manage to survive this?

  Chapter Three

  Aaron

  The rest of the show passes in a blur. Once again, muscle memory and the familiar routine of playing the same songs in the same order again and again, night after night, week after week for the last several months is what carries me through. It helps that my early training is all with much more complex music, and I still remember the Bach fugues that I memorized in high school. I could probably play one right now, despite dripping sweat at the end of a long show, not that this audience wants to hear that.

  They’re not here for that kind of music. They’re here for Marcus and Danny’s writing, which is definitely more interesting than most pop, but it’s got nothing on the complexity of a baroque fugue or a 20th century Russian protesting communism with music.

  Something about Sam popping up tonight has all those old pieces flooding my memory as well. Especially the pieces I worked on for my Juilliard audition. Sam sat and studied while I’d practice. She’d listen to me play when I asked her to. She played the clarinet in the high school band, so she knew a little about music, though she didn’t have the passion or the drive for it that I did.

  She was going to be a writer. She loved writing, all kinds, but especially poetry. “Poets don’t make money,” she’d say. But her poems were beautiful. Free verse and full of poignant emotion, even as a teenager.

  I wonder if she’s a journalist somewhere now like she’d planned. She didn’t say earlier, though to be fair we didn’t get much of a chance to talk.

  With a bounce in my step at the end of the show, I head for my dressing room to change my shirt and swipe on some fresh deodorant. I don’t need to show up to talk to Sam and meet her friends smelling like a swamp monster.

  I whip my shirt off and then dig through my bag for the deodorant I keep there. I’m hunting for my spare shirt when there’s a knock at my door. Assuming it’s Blaire, I shout, “It’s open. Come on in.”

  The door creaks open, but Blaire doesn’t demand I come meet fans or make a suggestive comment about my ass. Whoever opened the door doesn’t say anything, which is odd. If it’s not Blaire, then it’d be one of the guys, and they wouldn’t hesitate to say whatever they need immediately.

  Straightening up, I turn to see who’s at my door.

  Sam stands there frozen, a coat clutched in her arms, her mouth gaping, her eyes dragging down my chest. Casually, I run a hand through my hair, taking advantage of the opportunity to flex a little. I know I look good. I’ve been told enough times, and I’ve put in the work with our trainer and our nutritionist to maintain this, so it’s not arrogance or ego that makes me think so. It’s nice to see Sam appreciating my hard work, though. I was a skinny little shit when we were together, no appreciable body fat, but no real muscle either.

  “Hey,” I say.

  Her eyes climb back to mine, and I can’t help smirking.

  “Hey,” she croaks.

  I drop my hand to my side and step closer to her. “Wanna come in?”

  She visibly swallows, her eyes darting from my face to my body and back again. “Uhh …”

  I let out a soft chuckle at her hesitation, reaching a hand for hers and tugging her across the threshold so I can close the door. “It’s just me, Sam. I don’t bite.” Although I remember you liking the feel of my teeth on your earlobe. And your inner thigh. But I hold those words back. It’s been too long. And even if she said she doesn’t have time for anything serious, it doesn’t mean there hasn’t been someone else in the time between us. It’s been almost five years since I last saw her, after all. Lord knows I haven’t been a monk. I doubt she’s been celibate that whole time either.

  Her eyes widen when I reach over her shoulder with my free hand to push the door closed, her chin tipping back, her pupils dilating. My own breathing picks up to match my heart beating double time in my chest, and we stay there frozen like that for a long moment.

  Then she tugs her hand out of mine, her chin dropping, her eyes darting around like she’s looking for an escape. I withdraw a few steps, leaning back against the counter behind me and crossing my arms over my chest, blatantly looking her over, once again taking in her tight skinny jeans and the way her coat presses her boobs up against the top of her low-cut sparkly top. “You look good.”

  She tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Thanks.” Her eyes rove my naked chest. “So do you.”

  I bite back a smile at the breathless quality of her voice. Partly because it’s gratifying to know I still have that effect on her—though I can’t honestly say I remember her sounding like that just from looking at me when we were in high school—and partly because it’s so genuine.

  The women who tend to frequent the backstage areas of concerts have a practiced quality. Their breathlessness is a show, meant to entice. And that first tour? It worked like a charm.

  What red-blooded straight man would turn down hot chicks throwing themselves at him every time time he turns around?

  But then Danny, the lead guitarist, accidentally knocked one of them up. That put a big damper on my taste for groupies. Everyone else’s too, for that matter. We all became a lot pickier about our hookups, making sure we used our own condoms all the time. I’m not saying that Danny’s baby mama got pregnant on purpose … but when he offered her money to have the baby and terminate her parental rights, leaving the kid with him, she didn’t bat an eyelash. Took the payday and bailed as soon as possible.

  I felt sorry for the kid for a long time. Still kinda do, though not as much now. Having a surly asshole like Danny for a dad, on the road for long stretches at a time, and a mom who gave him up for cash? Who wouldn’t feel sorry for a kid with parents like that?

  But Danny’s actually turned out to be a great dad. And Eli’s an awesome kid. When Danny hired a nanny and brought Eli along on this tour, I have to admit I had my doubts about how it would go. But Ava’s been good for both of them, taking great care of Eli and mellowing Danny. Now they’re all one big happy family, with another baby on the way. Guess he’s got potent swimmers. Or bad luck with condoms. Either way, better him than me.

  Sam drops her gaze, picking at some lint on her dark gray wool coat.

  “Did you enjoy the show?” I ask, wanting to put her at ease. And I have to admit, after her comment about my high school piano teacher being mortified at my choice of profession, I’m curious what she thinks. But more than that, I want to get a conversation going. Find out where she’s living. Get her number so we can meet up again soon. And that’s just for starters.

  She glances up, those big green eyes making my breath catch in my chest again. Damn, this chick is more potent than ever. Her tongue darts out and swipes across her lower lip, and my gaze zeroes in on her mouth, wishing I could find out if she tastes the same as I remember. “Yeah. It was a lot of fun. I haven’t done anything like this in …” She looks around the room then returns her gaze to mine and shakes her head, a crooked smile on her lips, her expression tinged with melancholy. “Well, a long time.”

  I tip my head toward the loveseat wedged in the corner and slide that way. “Let’s sit. Talk a bit.”

  The melancholy fades, replaced with something more like suspicion, but she nods and perches on the edge of the couch cush
ion just like she did in the greenroom, setting her coat on the couch between us. “Things seem to be going really well for you guys,” she says as an opener.

  I stretch my arm across the back of the couch, not too far, just enough so that if she relaxes, my hand can graze her shoulder. I hope she does, because now that she’s close, I want to touch her.

  Taste her.

  But she’s hesitant, so I’ll have to be patient.

  “It is going well. Getting this album together was a little shaky, but Marcus and Danny finally found what they needed to make it happen. And here we are.” I spread my hands, palms up. “Partway through our second tour.”

  She smiles at me. “That’s great. Really great. I’m happy for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Looking around the room again, she takes in the bare walls, the naked bulbs surrounding the mirror behind the counter, my bag in the corner. “Must be hard, though. Being on the road like this.”

  I shrug. “The first tour was pretty rough after a while. At first it was cool, y’know? Traveling, performing, groupies and parties at every stop.” Her face shutters at the last part, but I plow through. It’s not like it’s a secret. She’d find out eventually.

  I wave a dismissive hand. “But it gets old. And the constant travel gets exhausting. Marcus insisted we take breaks more often and for longer this time. The label balked at first, but he promised he’d be able to write more if we had time off. He can’t write songs and perform constantly. It’s too draining.”

  “Makes sense.” She chews on her lower lip, her brow furrowed. “So … um …”

  I wait, wanting to know what she’s hesitating over, but after a moment she relaxes and shakes her head. “Good for you guys,” she says at last.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I let loose my smile, charmed by her just like always. Unable to help myself, I lift my hand from the back of the couch and slide it over her shoulder and down her back. She stiffens a little but doesn’t pull away. I’m not an asshole, though. I let my hand drop to the couch. “What about you? Fill me in. What are you doing back in town? Did you finish at Virginia? Are you working on your MFA?”

  Her face gets paler with each question, and her mouth hangs open. Then she snaps it shut, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

  “No MFA?” I don’t know why that would make the blood drain from her face and her shoulders to hitch around her ears. A thought occurs to me. “Did something happen to your parents?”

  Her eyes pop open, and I run my hand up her back again. She’s distressed, and I have the undeniable urge to comfort her.

  “No, no,” she protests. “My parents are both fine.”

  Still, she seems unnerved. Or something. I move her coat out of the way and wrap my arm around her, scooting closer. “What’s wrong? You seem spooked. Or like something terrible happened. Is everything okay?” She nods. “You’re sure?”

  She nods again, covering her face with her hands. I pull her closer and place a kiss on her head. When she looks up at me, her eyes are filling with tears. Worry clenches a fist around my heart. It’s like no time at all has passed. All my dormant feelings for her are back in full force, and I’d do anything to wipe that look off her face. Make her world right again. I’ve always wanted her to have everything she wants.

  “Sam,” I whisper. “You can tell me anything. What’s wrong?”

  Chapter Four

  Samantha

  Oh god, what’s wrong with me? Why am I even here? I shouldn’t have come.

  I wasn’t going to. But there was nowhere to ditch the backstage passes after Aaron gave them to me. Not without an audience. And when Kami and Sandra, my two friends who surprised me with the concert tickets, saw the lanyards dangling from the plastic badges in my hands after the security guards escorted me back to my seat, they jumped and screamed and couldn’t be denied.

  I close my eyes tightly, hoping to force back my tears, but two leak out and down my cheeks.

  He feels so good, holding me against his chest, his lips brushing my hair, his arm wrapped around me. He feels and smells like a home I lost years ago. And I so want to believe him when he says I can tell him anything.

  But I’m afraid he’s going to hate me.

  Just as I’m mustering up the willpower to straighten up and push him away, his finger touches my chin, tips my head up, and his lips meet mine.

  It’s a soft kiss.

  Comforting.

  And it breaks me.

  My hands come up and curl around his shoulders. His hand presses on my back, starting to climb to my neck. Maybe my hair. His lips part, and as much as I’d love nothing more than to sink into his kiss and make out with the only man I’ve ever loved, I can’t.

  When I push him away, he pulls back, surprise written all over his face.

  “I never went to Virginia,” I blurt out. “I had a baby.”

  The surprise on Aaron’s face only intensifies, like my words don’t make sense. His eyes dart back and forth between mine—gray, just like his daughter’s.

  I hold my breath, waiting for his reaction. Bracing for his anger. I know it’s coming. It has to be. Who wouldn’t be angry?

  “What?” he comes out with at last.

  I slump, burying my face in my hands again. I can’t look at him while I tell him this. “I never had the abortion,” I whisper. “I couldn’t go through with it. I kept the baby.”

  “You kept the baby.” His words are full voice, but wooden. Robotic. Then, “You kept the baby.” It’s a tortured whisper.

  Everything is still. Not a breath. Not a whisper. Not even the rustle of fabric. Only the sound of my heart banging in my ears as wait I for whatever comes next.

  Then he shoves himself to standing. I pick my head up in time to see him yank a T-shirt over his head and shove his arms through the sleeves. His face is dark with fury.

  There it is.

  “You kept the baby.” He spits the words at me, accusation in every syllable. He crosses his arms over his chest, looking all around. “It’s been almost five years since we graduated high school. Since the summer you got pregnant. When were you going to tell me?”

  He stares at my face as I spread my hands in front of me helplessly. The lines of anger soften, and his face morphs into the boy I used to know as realization dawns. “You weren’t going to tell me, were you.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  But I shake my head, all the reasons I’ve repeated to myself crowding my mind but stopping short of making their way out of my mouth.

  The anger is back, galvanizing his expression into indignant man instead of hurt boy. “Why not?”

  I spread my hands again, letting out the short version of my defense. “It was my choice. You didn’t want to be a parent. You weren’t ready.”

  “Neither were you! We agreed! I didn’t pressure you. You said you didn’t want a baby. That you weren’t ready. That you wanted to go to college. You had dreams. Plans. You didn’t want to give them up.”

  “So did you,” I return softly. “And I knew that if I told you I changed my mind, that you’d stay. That you’d give up everything. I could handle making that choice for myself, but I didn’t have the right to make that choice for you.”

  He bends down so his face is level with mine. “No. You made the choice to keep me from my …” He almost chokes, and takes a breath to recover before he continues. “From my child. You took the choice away from me. You had no right.”

  The words are quiet, but fierce. And they pierce me.

  I hang my head, unable to bear the weight of his anger. His indignation. “I’m sorry. I did what I thought was right.”

  He doesn’t say anything to that, and when I risk looking at him again, he’s just staring at me, arms crossed, face set. “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl.”

  He makes a garbled noise and looks around the room. When his eyes meet mine again, there are tears there. “Name?” he demands.

  “Madison Erin Barnes.”
<
br />   His eyes blaze as I tell him our daughter’s name. His nostrils flare and his lips press together like he wants to say something but is stopping himself. Finally, “Take me to her.”

  “What? Now?” I splutter.

  He nods, a short, jerky motion. “Yes. Now. You’ve kept her from me for long enough. I want to meet my daughter.” The last word is gruff.

  I swallow, looking down at my phone and shaking my head. “She’s in bed. It’s after eleven already and it’ll take almost an hour to get to Pottstown even if we left right now. I’m not going to wake her up in the middle of the night to soothe your ego.”

  He narrows his eyes at me, his body vibrating with suppressed emotion. “Soothe my ego?” He repeats the words calmly, but he’s anything but.

  Blowing out a breath, I stand. “I’m sorry. That was a poor choice of words. But she’s a child. She’s only four. And you’re angry. She doesn’t deserve to be woken up from her sleepover with her grandparents to meet some big angry stranger.”

  He straightens from the counter, his arms slowly uncrossing and moving to his sides while he towers over me. “I shouldn’t be a stranger.”

  I swallow hard. “I know,” I whisper. “But you are. And I’m not going to wake her up to meet you at midnight.”

  “Fine. Tomorrow then.” He turns and rummages in his bag, coming up with a pencil and a sheet of paper. He scribbles on it, tears off the corner, and hands it to me. “Text me with a time and place. I’ll be there.” Then he spins on his heel, yanks the door open, and stomps out.

  Chapter Five

  Aaron

  The door bounces off the wall as I fling it open, but I don’t care. I’ll pay out of pocket to fix the drywall if it’s damaged. It’d serve ‘em right for not putting in a proper doorstop if it does poke a hole in the wall anyway.

  All of that pales in comparison to the nuclear bomb that was just dropped in my lap.