by Lacey Dailey
“Hallelujah!” I cry, throwing my hands in the air. “Maybe we will actually make it in time for you to perform.”
“I’m not scheduled to go perform until ten tonight, Gia. That’s over nine hours away.”
“With this traffic, four could turn into nine easily.”
“Nah, you’re just being a drama queen.”
“Oh, piss off, Mr. Robot!”
“Is it that hard to believe I don’t give in to road rage?”
“Actually, no.” He’s a cucumber. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get grumpy.”
“Sometimes I do.” He adjusts the air conditioning, turning the vent so it’s blasting him in the face. “But I work really hard not to.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s healthy to get angry every once in a while.”
“You might take that back if you ever see who I become when I get angry.”
“Do you slice people up?” I lift up his console and peer inside. “Do you have your bloody spatula hidden in here?”
“You are such a goof!” A hearty laugh falls from his mouth, his hand falling over mine and guiding it downward so the lid clicks back into place.
Instead of repositioning his hand on the steering wheel, he keeps us connected, skin to skin, hesitantly wrapping his fingers around the tips of mine.
I think this is the part I’m supposed to talk about the electricity that moved from his fingers to mine, robbing me of breath and changing the way I see him forever.
That isn’t what happens.
I don’t feel electricity, my hand doesn’t ignite just because his skin is on mine, and it doesn’t get harder to breath.
It gets easier.
Warmth moves through my blood, boiling beneath my skin as though I’m inside a pressure cooker somebody just turned all the way up. It feels like a hug from the universe—the most comfortable thing I’ve ever had the privilege to experience.
“I’m just double checking.” I squeeze his fingers.
He squeezes back. “I guess it’s good to know you’re worried about your safety.”
“Wouldn’t anybody be concerned about being sliced up with a spatula?”
“I’m still trying to figure out what type of spatula is sharp enough to slice a limb from a body.”
“Modern technology is astounding, Maxwell. You never know what somebody—”
The sound of Max’s phone buzzing inside the cup holder drowns out my words. I drop my bag of cheese puffs, lifting his phone for him and effectively removing the need for him to pull his hand from mine.
“It’s Knox.” I announce.
“Put it on speaker.”
I swipe to answer, put it on speaker, and hold it close to his mouth. “Dude! I’ve been gone twenty-four hours. Are you checking up on me already?”
The speaker crackles, and Knox wheezes into the phone. “Max?” My best friend’s muscles turn to stone, his fist tightening on the steering wheel. “Have you heard from Beck?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“He was supposed to be home, Max.” Knox’s words are sharp, his breath shallow and choppy. “He isn’t fucking home!”
“Knox, breathe.” Max takes a breath, speaking calmly—a direct contrast to Knox’s frantic tone. “When was he supposed to be home?”
“Ten minutes ago. Do you know what can happen in ten minutes, Max?”
Ten minutes? Knox is two gasps away from calling search and rescue over ten minutes?
“He calls, Max! Whenever he’s gonna be late, he calls.”
“I know, man, but it’s only been ten minutes. Take a minute, okay? You’re close to hyperventilating.”
“It doesn’t fucking matter if it’s only been ten minutes, Maxwell! He calls even if he’s gonna be thirty seconds late. We promised each other we'd be available. Where. The hell. Is my. husband?”
Knox makes a harsh noise, and all sounds cease after that. “Knox?” Max rips his hand from mine, tearing the phone out my grip, and bringing it close to his mouth. “Knox, breathe. Don’t do this to yourself, man. Beck is fine. The man that hurt him is gone. You know that.”
“Max…”
“He’s okay, man.” Max repeats soothingly. “Just give him time. Maybe there was traffic.”
“He would’ve called.” Knox is sniffling now, crying possibility, and I’m so confused.
Ten minutes?
A rough bang comes through the speaker of the phone, accompanied by Beck’s voice. “Knox! I’m sorry!”
Max exhales, cushioning the car with his relief.
“You fucking asshole.” Knox chokes. “God damn it. Answer your fucking phone! You scared the hell of me. I thought—”
“I know. I’m so fucking sorry, babe. My phone died, my car charger wasn’t working, and there was an accident so I had to wait in traffic.”
Knox’s breaths are less erratic now, and I listen to him catch his breath.
“Hey!” Max raises his voice. “You guys good?”
“Max?” Beck speaks now, and it’s clear he’s confused. “Hello?”
“Dude, you scared the fuck out of your husband.”
“I know. I suck. Thanks for talking to him.”
“Anytime, brother. I got your back.”
“Thanks. I’ll call you later. I need to take care of Knox.”
“You better end this damn call before that happens.”
Beck's chuckle holds an infliction of pain I’ve never heard from him before. When the call disconnects, Max locks his phone and places it back in the cupholder, resting his hand back over top of mine. He shifts in his seat, getting comfortable now that his muscles no longer hold tension.
“Max? What just happened?”
“Ah, that was Knox two shakes away from a panic attack because Beck didn’t answer his phone.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Beck not answering his phone? No. He always answers it.”
“No. I meant Knox having a panic attack.”
His sigh is deep and troubled. “Look, Gia, it’s one thing to spill my beans, it’s another to spill theirs.” The car slows again, and I’m close to ripping my hair out. “I will tell you Knox and Beck have been struggling since Beck’s accident. It’s been a year but the event changed them.”
“They’re struggling?” My eyebrows dip. “But… why didn’t they say something?”
He smiles softly, flashing me a look. “Probably for the same reason you kept your problems to yourself.”
“Their struggles are real, Max.”
“So are yours, Gia Maria. Theirs is just a little more intense.”
“A little? Max, Knox almost filed a missing person’s report because Beck was ten minutes late. That level of panic trumps anything I’m going through. I’d rather talk to them and help them in any way I can than burden them with my hatred for high heels.”
“Sadness is not a competition, Gia, and I’m not sure talking to Knox and Beck is going to be what helps them. That ten minutes probably felt close to ten hours for Knox. The two of them struggle incredibly bad if they don’t know exactly where the other is.”
“That sounds…”
“Dangerous.” He flicks his blinker, merging into a lane that is moving a tad faster. “I love both of them. They are loyal and honest friends, and I think the way they love each other is the kind of shit poets write about. It’s dangerous too though, Gia.”
“You think it’s dangerous to be in love?” Even though he’s referring to Knox and Beck, he’s revealing small pieces of himself that help me see past his surface.
“I think it’s dangerous to be in love the way they are. The two of them have practically rewritten the definition of codependency.”
“Can you blame them? I can’t even image what they went through the night Beck got hit.”
“No, Gia, I can’t blame them.” He releases a harsh sigh, and I suspect if he wasn’t driving, his eyes would be sealed shut. “And I don’t have to imagine it. I was there.”
“I know.” I lower my tone to match his. “You chased the car and called the cops.”
He takes back possession of his hand, using it to pull at the sweaty skin covering the back of his neck. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. I shouldn't have said that.”
“Okay.”
I dig back into my cheese puffs, unwilling to push him when he looks to be a breath away from crumbling. I don’t know the details of that night. I’m not sure anyone does aside from the three people who were there, but I have to believe the sight of your best friend unconscious and covered in blood isn’t something that ever really leaves you.
Max is still rubbing at his neck, as though he’s trying to shift the images inside his head to better ones. I stay silent, leaving my cheese puffs open while I consider his claim that love is dangerous.
I think maybe he’s right.
Just the concept of love is frightening.
The act of giving your heart to somebody and trusting them not to destroy it requires certitude and a hefty dose of faith. You’re giving away your lifeline, the piece of you that keeps your blood pumping beneath your skin and your lungs from betraying you.
“I’m sorry, Gia.” He says. “For silencing you like that.”
“You didn’t silence me, Max. I understand. It must be difficult for you to relive it.”
“You have no idea.” He scrubs his face and then places his hand back on the console. “Can I have your hand back?”
“It’s covered in cheese.”
“So, lick it off.”
“Ew, Max! Then my hand will be all slobbery.”
“Gia, give me your cheesy hand before I reach across this car and take it.”
“Maxwell Mitchell! Are you trying to hold my hand?”
I’ll hold his big toe if that’s what he needs.
His mouth opens several times, searching for words before he finally settles on something. “It’s just… easier to talk about it when your hand is in mine.”
I wipe the cheese residue on my shorts, tangling my fingers with his. “Sometimes it’s easier when you have a friend to hold onto.”
“Yeah. I think maybe that’s what I am for Knox and Beck. I didn’t have friends growing up so I'm lucky I found them.”
“Seems to me like they’re the lucky ones.”
“Honestly, Gia?" He gnaws on his bottom lip. "I don’t remember the accident much. I just remember screaming at Knox to move and Beck shoving him out of the way.”
“I think our brain blocks out bad things sometimes.”
He snorts, jerking in his seat and tucking his face into his shoulder. His chest rocks with laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“If you only knew how much that sentence pertains to my life.”
“Which one? The one about bad things being blocked?”
He nods, face flushed with laughter. “I’m gonna spill some beans. There are to be no follow up questions, understood?”
I’d like to argue with that condition but I don’t. I take whatever he’ll give me. “Yes.”
“There are a lot of things I don’t remember about my life. Big black holes in my memory where the bad things reside.”
“Your brain probably doesn’t let you remember them.”
“You could say that.”
“Why do I feel like there’s more to this story?”
“Remember how I said no follow up questions?”
I shake my head, more confused than I’ve ever been. “You’re a mystery, Maxwell Mitchell.”
“Good.” He steps on the gas. “That’s the way I like it.”
7
Gigi
“Okay, Johnny.” After securing his guitar in its case, Max carefully slides it from the backseat and slings it over his shoulder. “Let’s do this thing.”
“You talk to your guitar?”
“Don’t make fun of my pre-performance rituals, Gia.” Slamming the car door, he saunters towards the back entrance of the bar. “Johnny and I have many conversations.”
“And he talks back?”
He flicks me on the earlobe, pulling open the steel door that will lead us to Max’s first gig. We pulled up to the building a few minutes ago, right on time.
I slip past Max, into the dimly lit room. The smell of alcohol and body sweat assaults my nostrils. “Where is the rest of your band?”
“I don’t have a band.” His eyes squint as they scan the large building, likely looking for the person who runs this place. “It’s just me and Johnny.”
“Really? I thought most singers had drummers and what not.” All I know about musicians is from what I’ve seen on television and the classical music concert I was dragged to when I was thirteen.
“Most of the places I play have an in-house band who play back up.” He takes my hand, tugging me deeper into the bar. We stay tucked along the wall as we move, avoiding the crowd of people fighting for the attention of the bartender. My flip flops stick to the wooden slabs of the floor, and I have to curl my toes to keep them from being ripped off my feet entirely.
The walls we walk past are covered in graffiti from floor to ceiling. The low lighting and all the bodies in the room make it difficult for me to see the designs or make out the rest of the bar.
“How do they know your songs?”
“I send them my music beforehand so they can learn it.”
I wonder how he plans on doing that this trip when he has no idea where he’s going to be next. “Does this bar have a band?”
“Nope. Tonight, it’s just Johnny and I.”
That excites me. I'm eager to watch Max perform. I've never heard him sing. I haven't even heard him strum his guitar, and I don't want the magic of what I know will come from him to be hidden behind drums and backup singers.
Max quickly turns down a narrow hallway, pulling me with him. We pass two doors labeled as restrooms and come to a stop in front of one covered in chipped red paint. He knocks twice. “Yo! Leslie!”
The door is cracked open, and we’re suffocated beneath a cloud of cigarette smoke. I fight the urge to cough and cast a polite smile at the women who appears in the doorway. Her eyes are rimmed red, and they brighten when they see Max. “Max! You made it.”
Leslie’s smile is crooked as she pushes open the door the rest of the way, inviting us in. She sashays past a small group of people sitting around a glass table, sharing cigarettes and passing around a bong.
A man with tattoos covering his bald head, and eyes that only open halfway, lifts his hand in a greeting. “What’s up, Mitchell? Who’s the chick?”
“She’s off limits, Taser.”
He holds his hands up in surrender, slurring his words. “I’m cool, bro. Just haven’t seen you travel with a groupie before.”
“She ain’t a groupie.”
“Is your name really Taser?” I find myself blurting.
“Nah, sweetheart.” Taser slumps back into the purple suede couch, tossing his arm over the woman beside him. “My name’s Roger. People call me Taser cause the cops hit me with a taser and I didn’t fall over.”
“Why’d they hit you?”
“It doesn’t matter, baby.” Max's grip on my hand grows tighter. He slides me behind him. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he wants me as far away from Taser as possible. I’m not sure why. The man looks so baked, I doubt he could walk, let alone be a threat to me.
“Here you go, Max.” Leslie slaps an envelope in Max’s hand. “You’re up whenever Randy gets his dumbass off the stage.”
Leslie moves around the table, picking up a glass of clear liquid and sipping it as she takes a seat of the lap of a man sitting beside Taser. The man looks to be asleep but it’s hard to tell with the dark bangs covering most of his face.
Leslie lifts her drink to me. “Wanna chill with us while your old man is on the stage?”
“Uh…”
“No. She doesn’t.” Max’s fingers flex against my hand, and he guides me toward the do
or, shoving me through it. “Thanks again, Leslie.”
“Anytime, Max!”
“That was interesting.” I declare once the door is shut behind us.
Max snorts, and I follow him another few feet down the hallway. He stops in front of another door. This one has a bunch of signatures and an obscene number of dicks drawn all over it. He kicks it open with the toe of his boot.
I think the room is supposed to be a place for musicians to relax and warm up in. There’s a dirty mirror stuck to the longest wall in the room. Only one of the six lightbulbs above it is still lit. I watch Max’s shadowed reflection as he lets go of my hand to set his guitar on the long vanity in front of the mirror.
“Don’t sit on the couch.” He says, popping open his case and lifting Johnny with as much care as he’d lift a newborn baby.
I sneak a peek at the couch that’s an exact replica of the one Taser and Leslie were getting blasted on. “Do you scratch itches on that couch?”
Even in the dark room, the disgust on his face is clear. “Hell no. I come here to play.”
“You and Taser aren’t total best friends?” I tease.
“Not at all.”
“Really? I would totally think an upcoming musician would be all up in whatever was happening in there.”
“That is a complete stereotype, Gia. I just want to play music. Most musicians do. They just give into peer pressure and can’t find their way out of it.”
“But not you?”
“No. Never me.” He straps his guitar to his body and pulls it in front of him. “Let’s go.”
“You don’t need to practice or something? Warm up? Do vocal exercises?”
“No. I’ve never done that.”
I bristle. “What if your voice cracks or you mess up?”
He shrugs and blows a lock of hair from his eyes. “Then people see I’m real. I’m not about auto-tune or lip syncing. I just go onstage and sing. If people don’t like it, they don’t have to listen again. I’m not here to sing for them.”
That's odd. What musician doesn't sing for their audience? “Who are you here to sing for then?”
“Anybody who wants to connect with my music.”
