“Hey,” she answers immediately. “Is everything okay?” It’s unspoken, but by everything, she means Jacks.
Nat was the one who he called when he needed a ride home from the hospital. Nat was the one who scrubbed his blood off the bathroom floor. Nat was the one who coddled him and made him laugh and gave him a soft spot to land. Of course, she was concerned, and I can’t even be jealous because I’m so goddamn grateful to her.
“He’s fine, but I’m coming out of my skin. Come over?”
“I can’t, I have a meeting with Karina in a few minutes. I’m at the Thorns. You could come to my place later though. Bex is in California. We’ll open a bottle of wine and play Scrabble or something.”
I laugh. Scrabble. Neither one of us has more than a high school degree or much of a vocabulary. It would be a board full of dirty words. “Maybe checkers is more our speed.”
She snorts. “We could work on some new material. Spill some of that angst in your brain out into music.”
I haven’t written a single song since Jacks tried to kill himself, and she knows it. The band had been in trouble—we’d been talking about auditioning someone to replace Nat so she could keep her job at that fancy club where she used to work. Because of that, I shouted at her and I blamed her, even though I knew Jacks’s suicide attempt wasn’t her fault.
Something in my brain snapped off that day and nothing has grown back in its place. Every time I even think about writing, I feel sick and ashamed. I can’t do it anymore.
“I don’t know, Natty.”
She doesn’t speak for a long time, but when she does her voice is stern and serious. “Do it for him. Because he knows you aren’t writing and it’s eating him up inside. I have to go. I’ll be home by six if you want to come over.”
It’s only four now. I let myself into the apartment and lock the door behind me. Jacks has left the bed unmade, so I straighten the sheets and fold it back into a couch. I turn on the water in the shower and strip out of my uniform. I toss everything into the laundry basket and step under the spray of the shower, the steam rising around me.
Before, this was one of my favorite parts of the day. Washing off the smell and stickiness of my shift, a rebirth into the time when I belonged to Jacks and to Vertical Smile, to music and sex and smoke. To Teri and Nat and the crowds that packed Bridgeview and screamed for more.
We have a gig on Thursday, only two days away, but it always seems like an eternity between shows. An eternity of empty evenings waiting for Jacks to come home after his shift and ignore me. But even staring at his back is better than being alone.
Nothing is better than being on stage with him. I crave that closeness every night, and not just Thursdays.
Natalie’s girlfriend thinks she can book us on tour this summer, but I don’t know how that’s supposed to happen when we all have jobs and responsibilities and rent to pay. Still, the fantasy of it—traveling around the country making Thursdays out of whatever night we want. But if we do that—we need new material. And I can’t write. When did Vertical Smile get so complicated?
I run soap over my chest and down to my groin. I clean myself carefully, thoroughly, wondering if Jacks might want to fool around later. Most nights, it doesn’t seem like sex is on his radar. And when it is, it’s different now. More frantic, more desperate. It’s still fucking hot—and just thinking about him can set me on fire. No, most nights fooling around isn’t on his radar. But I hope, and I burn.
I’m sitting on Natalie’s front stoop when she walks up, a smile on her face and a bottle of wine in one hand. Everything about her is relaxed and cool—clearly, her new job suits her. The pantsuits and high heels are gone. Instead, she wears designer jeans, cuffed at the ankles, and leather flats. Her hair is buzzed shorter than it’s been in years, and the only makeup she wears is her heavy black eyeliner. With a studded leather cuff on one arm and a heavy tungsten chain on the other, she looks more like the singer of Vertical Smile than she does a professional concierge.
Because she’s not a concierge anymore. She gave that up for Bex. She wasn’t going to give it up for Vertical Smile, but we sure are reaping the benefits. For the first time since we formed the band, we have a lead singer with no conflicts of interest. We have a manager who is well-connected on both coasts. We have press coverage of some of our shows and a growing fan base. And it’s all because she gave up the job that almost tore us apart.
Natalie hands me the bottle and gives me a hug. For all her hard punk exterior, she’s skin and bones, delicate in my arms. She feels like she’d snap in two if I squeezed too tightly.
“I don’t see your bass.” She pulls back to look me in the eyes. I can’t meet her gaze. Instead, I glance away—at her door, at my feet, at the bottle of Chardonnay in my hands.
“Natty…” I trail off, shifting from one foot to another.
“It’s okay.” She unlocks the door and I follow her inside. Her apartment used to belong to her uncle Xavier, and after he passed, she’d left it the same for a long time. Lately, it’s started looking less like a middle-aged bachelor decorated it, and more like a Hollywood starlet has. The ancient couch has been replaced by a sleek midcentury sofa in teal velvet. The recliner is gone, and a leather chair sits in its place. The photos on the wall have all been removed from the cheap frames X used and reframed and matted and arranged in an artful pattern. The carpet’s been torn up and replaced by smooth hardwoods. Something in me lurches, and I’m dizzy like I’ve got vertigo.
How long has it been since I’ve been here?
“Wow, it looks—” I turn in a circle. “When did you—?”
She grins. “Oh, that’s all Bex. I’m glad she sponsored me for membership at the club because she’s had so many work crews here, I wouldn’t be able to get any work done if I couldn’t use the office space there.”
“And the new job’s working out for you?” I ask, shedding my jacket and heading for the kitchen to find a corkscrew. The kitchen looks different too, the hardwood flowing in seamlessly. There’s a new refrigerator and it’s pink. Good god. “It must be weird being on the other side at the Thorns.”
She follows me and shrugs. “Weird, but good. I mostly use it as a workspace now. Like the library, but with better food. Karina’s a great boss. She doesn’t micromanage me at all, she doesn’t care what hours I work as long as her shit is handled. She’s got a lot going on and I’m good at managing stuff. It works out. And the money’s good. Who knew being a personal assistant to a TV star would be the sweetest job ever?”
She gets the glasses down from the cupboard and rinses them while I open the bottle. We take them out to the living room and sit cross-legged, facing each other, on the teal sofa.
She raises her glass. “To the Smile.”
“To the Smile.” I tap mine against hers and we both drink.
“I miss writing with you,” she says, no preamble. “And I think you need it. And I think if you really feel like you can’t do it anymore, then you should talk to Jacks’s therapist. Or get your own therapist. Because you’re a fucking mess, Ritch, and you need someone to give you a swift kick in the dick.”
I wince. “I’m not the one who’s messy.” I take a long drink from the glass, barely tasting the buttery golden wine.
“No?” She asks. “You’re the one who can’t write. You’re the one who can’t be alone. You’re the one who calls me, desperate for attention, as soon as you clock out at the restaurant. Teri has given you three new tattoos—for free I might add—because you showed up at her shop because you didn’t want to be in your apartment without him. That’s all pretty fucking messy. You need to talk to someone about what you’ve been through.”
I can’t breathe. I set my glass down and stand up, roaming her house. I’m not the one who tried to kill himself. I’m the one who’s been holding it all together. I tell her as much and she snorts.
“If that’s what you want to call it.” She opens a drawer on the table and pulls out the Scrabbl
e box. “So, we could do this. Or my guitar is in the corner.”
I sit back down, running my hands through my hair. My heart is racing.
“Breathe.” She says, putting a hand on my knee. “Just breathe, Ritch. I’m done with the dick-kicking. Let the pain in your chest out.”
I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly. I meet her gaze, which is as kind as it is troubled, and suddenly there are tears prickling behind my eyes.
“Don’t be nice to me, Natty, I can’t handle it.” My voice shakes.
“You can.” She squeezes my knee. “Let’s play.”
She’s leaving it up to me, the guitar or the game. I stand and pace around the room. I don’t want to write. I need to write, but the pressure in my chest builds as I cross toward the guitar, and I turn away, pacing back toward the sofa.
She starts unboxing the game, and I let out a breath. I pick up the guitar and pull the strap over my head.
She watches me with one eyebrow raised as I check the tuning. The guitar isn’t my instrument, but I play it well enough for this. I’ve never had lessons, but I play by ear, and it’s easy enough to move from one stringed instrument to another. I stretch my fingers and pick through the intro to “Little Wing,” watching Nat try to hide a smile.
“How about something more recent?”
I start into “Toxic,” and she laughs and sings along, for once not teasing me about my love for Britney Spears.
“More recent,” she says again.
I launch into “When the Party’s Over.”
“You and your pop music,” she says, grinning. “How about something brand new?”
I stop. I can’t.
“Okay, the Eilish song again,” she says, and when I start playing, she sings along. Nat has a beautiful voice: a sweet vibrato in her falsetto and a rasp to her chest voice. It always sounds like she’s either about to tear your clothes off or burst into tears. It’s devastating on stage.
When we finish the song, I start strumming aimlessly, not really seeking a melody, just keeping my hands moving. She stretches out on the couch and looks up at the ceiling. “Jacks is coming over when he gets off his shift.”
“Yeah?” I pick out a melody that I can’t name. Probably the theme song to a TV show or something. “He didn’t tell me.” It hurts a little, but it’s not surprising. Since the incident, he’s taken to checking in with me when he arrives somewhere, but he’s never been good about sharing plans before he makes them. I’ve always assumed it was a holdover from living with an abusive father he always felt he needed to hide from.
“He texted me while I was meeting with Karina. He’s not closing tonight.”
I nod, still picking at the melody, repeating it, and trying to put a name to it. “What song is this?” I ask her absently. “I can’t figure it out.”
She listens intently. “I don’t know it.”
It’s driving me crazy. I pick it out again and again, and she pulls out her phone. I know she has a bunch of apps that can identify songs. I play it louder, more confidently, and she shakes her head.
“I think it’s you, Ritch.”
“No, I don’t write stuff like this.”
It’s not exactly a lie. Vertical Smile’s music is loud and raw, raunchy and full of hard edges. This melody could go that way, but that doesn’t feel right. It feels playful, gentle even.
“Let me record it?” She asks, and I nod. She listens as I play it a few times. “Okay, now what would you play behind that. I’ll hum a harmony.”
I can hear the bass line in my head, but this isn’t my instrument. I shake my head. “I don’t know, this is Teri’s instrument.”
“That’s okay, what about the bass line, can you sing it?”
I’m a tenor and it’s way out of my range, but I do my best to hum it for her.
“Yeah, that reminds me of Claypool. I can work with that.” She grins. “Want me to text Jacks to bring your bass?”
I stop playing, ice running down my spine. “No.”
Her face falls. “Okay. It can be just ours for now. But it would be great for him to hear you writing again.”
I set her guitar back down on its stand in the corner.
“We wouldn’t be able to get it ready in two days anyway.” I shrug. “Maybe over the weekend we can try it.”
On Sundays, we have a few hours of practice time booked in a space we share with a couple of other bands. Lately, we’ve been working on perfecting our set, since Natty and I haven’t written any new material. But maybe we can work on whatever this is. Or I can figure out which TV show from my childhood it was the theme song for.
“That would be really great.” She beams at me. “Have you eaten anything?”
I shake my head. “Not since my shift.”
“Jacks is always starving when he comes over. I usually cook something for us.”
“You don’t have to cook for me.” I sit next to her on the sofa. “But if you’re cooking for Jacks…”
She smiles. “Let me see what I have on hand.” She gets up and goes to rustle through the cupboards in her kitchen, then opens the fridge. “Eggs okay?”
“Eggs are great.”
Then her door opens, and my boyfriend walks in, staring down at his phone.
God, he’s beautiful. Ever since the first time I saw him, I’ve thought he was the most stunning man I’d ever seen. His delicate features and wide eyes captivated me then and he’s only gotten more handsome with age. Sometimes I can imagine him as a sexy old man—but I have to stop myself before I get mad at him for trying to take that future away. My phone beeps, and he looks up from his and grins. It lights up his whole face.
“Was just texting you. Didn’t know you were here.”
“Didn’t know you still had a key.” I grin back at him. He crosses the room and sits down on my lap, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and kissing me. It’s sweet and a little hungry, and way more affection than he’s been willing to give—or accept—in months.
I moan into his mouth and grasp a handful of his mohawk in my fist. Shivering, he breaks the kiss and smiles at me.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I whisper back. “I missed you.”
The moment I say it, I wish I could take it back, afraid he’ll take it as some kind of pressure, that he’ll stiffen up and move away. But he doesn’t. He simply smiles and closes his eyes and curls his body into mine. It gives me a weird sense of déjà vu, sitting here with him on my lap in this room where we spent so much time ten years ago.
“I half expect Xavier to walk in and warn us not to make a mess of the sofa,” I murmur with a twinge of sadness.
Jacks smiles and kisses the side of my neck. “I wish he would. I miss the old man.”
“Hey.” Nat interrupts our cuddle. “You want a glass of wine?”
I let go of his hair and Jacks looks up at her and shakes his head. “No thanks. Do you have any beer?”
She nods and fetches one from the fridge. It’s not a fancy microbrew like the ones he serves at the bar, but Jacks has never cared how fancy his beer is.
“Thanks, Natty.”
She goes back to the kitchen and soon I hear and smell peppers and onions sizzling on the stovetop. Jacks groans and stands up, stretching. “Let’s sit in there with her while she cooks.”
I follow him as he lopes into the kitchen, his expression as hopeful as a dog. I lean against the door frame, watching as she hands him a can opener and a big can of tomatoes.
He gets to work next to her, silently. He opens the can of tomatoes and sets it by the stove. She hums and stirs her onions. They move around each other like they do this every night, though I know that’s impossible. I wonder how many times though? And I wonder how I never noticed?
The oven beeps, and she turns to Jacks. “Bread?”
He nods and fetches a take and baker from the pink fridge, unwraps it, and sticks it in the oven while Natty hums the song that had confounded me earlier.
�
��What is that?” Jacks asks her. “It’s pretty.”
“Ask your boyfriend.” She shrugs. “He’s convinced he didn’t write it, but I think he did.”
Jacks turns to me, shocked. “Ritchie, it’s so pretty. I didn’t know you were writing again. And something like that—it could take your music in a whole new direction.”
My face flushes and I curl in on myself a little, embarrassed. “It’s probably something I heard on a TV show. We can’t place it.”
“No—you remember every song you’ve ever heard, where you heard it, what time of day it was, what you were wearing.” He’s shaking his head emphatically. “You don’t place songs; you etch them onto your soul. It’s one of the things I love about you. If you can’t place this, it’s because it’s yours.”
And maybe it is mine. Maybe this pretty little melody with its quiet playfulness is mine, but where the hell is it coming from and why now?
“It’s not a Vertical Smile song,” I say as if that means it can’t be mine. The words come out petulant.
Jacks comes and wraps his arms around my waist. His body presses warm and familiar against mine. “Not everything in your life has to be about the Smile,” he says softly.
He’s wrong though. My entire life revolves around who we are, the four of us together. Making music with my man and my two best friends is all I have and all I am. Without it, I’m just a guy serving lunch at a gastropub in Park Slope. Maybe it shouldn’t be that way, but it is, dammit, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted it to be.
I wrap my arms around him and hold him tightly.
Natty’s shakshuka ends up being the best meal I’ve had in weeks. Eggs poached in a thick tomato broth, seasoned with peppers and onions, served with thick slices of rosemary-scented bread—a perfect comfort food.
Jacks apparently agrees. “I don’t know how you do it, Nat. You always know what to serve a person to make them feel like they’ve just gotten a great big hug. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” I echo. “This was delicious.”
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