Out of Sync

by Vanessa North

  “Before Jacks, I was a homeless nobody playing bass in a band with Glitter in the name.”

  “I said without Jacks, not before Jacks.”

  “I don’t know who I am without Jacks,” I confess. “He’s been a part of me for so long.”

  “Then you have a perfect opportunity to find out.” She moves a case of tequila to get at the shelf behind it. “Think about it—you have a new job, a new dog, a new life basically. You can figure out how to be you.”

  “I went to a therapist this morning.”

  “How’d that go?”

  I think about it for a long time before I answer. The therapist—Chanda—was nice. She’s a soft-spoken middle-aged lady with a penetrating gaze and soothing demeanor. Instead of asking me about Jacks’s suicide attempt, she asked me about my whole life story, telling me she wanted to understand who I was. So, we spent the entire hour talking about me and didn’t even get around to talking about why I was there. Hell, maybe she can tell me who I am. I don’t think it’s going to be that easy though.

  “It went well, I think.”

  “That’s good. You going back?”

  “Yeah.” I nod and fetch the step stool so I can count the bottles on the top shelf. “Definitely.”

  Tuesdays are open mic night at Bridgeview, which means a quieter, less horny crowd than our Thursday night Vertical Smile shows. Three weeks have gone by since Jacks went to California. Three weeks with nothing but text messages and hurt feelings.

  There’s a different group of regulars on Tuesdays, and I’ve gotten to know a few of them well enough over the last three weeks to be prepared for their usual drink orders. There’s a brunette who sits at the end of the bar, orders a Manhattan, and watches the stage wistfully. I’m pretty sure she wants to get up on the stage, but not sure what’s holding her back week after week.

  “You trying to work up the courage to sign up?” I ask her as I set her drink in front of her.

  She smiles. “Sort of. I don’t know. Thanks.”

  I smile back. “It’s really nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Easy for you to say. I’ve seen you play on Thursdays. You’re really good.”

  I fold my arms and lean on the bar. “Thanks. What do you play?”

  “I play lots of things. But my favorite is the harp. I play over electronic beats, and I sing too.”

  “I know you don’t have a harp stashed in your handbag. No room.”

  She shakes her head. “No. Maybe next week I’ll work up the nerve.”

  “I’d love to hear you play,” I blurt out, not sure why. She looks at me in surprise, her big blue eyes wide. Her hair curls away from her face, a soft brown that looks reddish in the neon lights over the bar. Her smile is shy and pretty and it lights up her face. Yeah, okay, I do know why.

  “Okay,” she says.

  “Yeah? I’ll give you my number. I’m Ritchie, by the way.”

  “Sarah.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Sarah.”

  She hands me her phone and I enter my number, then hand it back.

  “Are you coming Thursday?” I ask. “I think Jacks will be back.”

  Her face falls. “Your boyfriend, right?”

  Pain slices through me, because I don’t know how to answer that. And I’ve been flirting with this pretty stage-fright-stricken girl.

  “Um, we’re on a break.” I test the words out carefully. “But yeah. He was. Is. Was. It’s complicated.”

  She nods. “Yeah. I know how that goes. Maybe we can get a coffee sometime? If you need someone to talk to.” She looks flustered as she says it.

  “I have a therapist already,” I tease. “Maybe we could get a coffee just because?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. You have my number.”

  She pats her phone. “I’ll use it.”

  “Cool.”

  “Ritchie!” Farrah calls from the other end of the bar. “I’m in the weeds down here.”

  I glance back at Sarah. “Duty calls. See you.”

  There’s a giddy little high running through me the rest of the night. Though Sarah disappears long before last call, the zing of surprise at our conversation continues to warm me. Farrah even catches me humming over the dishwasher after we close.

  “Look at you.” She smiles. “That look have anything to do with the pretty little thing at the end of the bar earlier?”

  I duck my head and grin at her. “Maybe. Is that bad? Am I allowed to flirt with pretty girls?”

  “You’re allowed to be happy, Ritchie,” she says, patting my arm. “Do you feel like it’s bad?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I feel guilty, but I know that being sad about Jacks leaving sucks. I know that I don’t like being alone. I know that he fucked off to California without even telling me and I know that every time I talk to him it hurts.”

  “I didn’t know you two were still talking.” She scrubs at a spot on the bar. “I guess that makes it complicated.”

  “Not talking, Just the text messages where he says he misses me.”

  She huffs. “He’s the one who left.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You’re allowed to be happy,” she repeats. “That’s all I have to say about that.”

  Sarah texts me the next morning while I’m walking Britney.

  Sarah: hi. It’s Sarah from the bar. How about grabbing that coffee this afternoon?

  I stare down at the message, butterflies in my stomach. Was she texting so soon because she was eager to see me again? Or because Jacks would be back tomorrow?

  Ritchie: yeah, I can do that—or you could play your harp for me?

  Sarah: one step at a time ;)

  Ritchie: where’s good for you? I’m in Park Slope. Are you in Bay Ridge?

  Sarah: Yeah. How’d you guess?

  Ritchie: Bridgeview’s a neighborhood kinda place. I assumed you lived nearby. There’s a place a few blocks from there, I can’t remember what it’s called, but it has a blue awning out front. It’s not fancy but it’s open 24 hours and the coffee is great.

  Sarah: I know the place. I only work a half-day today—is three o’clock okay?

  Ritchie: Three is great. I’ll see you then

  * * *

  I slip my phone back into my pocket and grin down at Britney. “Daddy has a date. You want to help me pick out what to wear?”

  That afternoon, I step into the coffee shop and spot her already in a booth, a menu sitting unopened in front of her. Her thumbs fly over the screen of her phone, and she doesn’t see me until I’m at the table.

  “Hi,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her.

  She looks up and her face flushes. “Hi.”

  “Been waiting long?”

  She shakes her head. “Just got here. I ordered at the counter, but I took a menu in case you wanted it.”

  I smile at her, then glance around. At one point, ten years and two or three owners ago, I’d had the menu memorized. Jacks and I had spent a lot of time here while he was living with Nat and Xavier. I pick up the menu and flip through it. It’s changed some, but still serves standard breakfast fare all day.

  “I’ll just go order a coffee. I’ll be back.”

  I place my order at the counter, slipping the menu onto the pile at the register. I push a dollar into the tip jar, take my coffee, and make my way back to the booth. My hands only shake a little as I set it down and smile across the table at Sarah.

  “So—”

  “I wonder—”

  I gesture for her to go first.

  “So, how do you know this place? If you’re a Park Slope guy?”

  I look down at the coffee in my cup. “My friend Nat lives near here. Has for years. Jacks lived with her for a while. We came here a lot.” I don’t add that he’s living with her now, instead of with me where he belongs. No. He belongs wherever he wants to be.

  Her mouth makes a small oh as she nods. “I see.”

  “I don’t want to t
alk about him.” I put a hand over hers. “Let’s start over. Tell me about playing harp over electronic beats. That sounds fascinating.”

  Her smile is shy and sweet. “You know how the harp can kind of sound—I don’t know, plaintive?”

  “Yeah, totally.”

  “So, some of my favorite electronic music has a similar vibe, and I thought, what if I did the beats electronically but then played over it and sang—and I started writing some songs and it became a good outlet. I’m a social worker, and I see some shit, you know?”

  An image of a bleeding Jacks in the back seat of Teri’s car fills my mind. Damn it. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Anyway, it became my escape. And a way to let out some of the sad and angry shit I felt about the state of the social safety net in this city.”

  “I get it. I’ve seen some shit too.”

  She cocks her head to the side and studies my face. “Yeah, you look like you have. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re one of the helpers though, that’s cool.”

  She shrugs. “Until I burn out because there are way more people needing a hand than there are hands to help them. Maybe I already have. I’m sorry, this conversation has taken a turn.”

  Her hand is still under mine on the table, and I stroke my thumb over the top of her knuckles. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

  And I didn’t. I listen as she tells me about how she started out as a sunny idealist and slowly grew jaded over time. “I see so much trauma—I feel like I’m standing in a flood of it sometimes.”

  “Do you think people can ever really recover from a trauma?” I ask.

  She takes a sip of her coffee. “Recover, yes. But it never goes away entirely. We live with our personal histories. With our generational histories. Sometimes we can break cycles of trauma and change them, and sometimes they compound and destroy us.”

  “I try to understand—” I swallow, then shake my head. “It’s hard to care so much.”

  “It is. But I don’t think we’re talking about my job anymore.” She smiles sadly and pulls her hand from mine. “I know you said you have a therapist. But if you want to talk about it—”

  “I don’t want to talk about my relationship with Jacks.” I frown down at the table.

  “Ah.” She glances away. “I think this was a bad idea.”

  “No.” I shake my head again. “No—I’m bad company hung up on bad memories. It was a good idea, but I’m not ready.”

  “Yeah. And I know better than to get my hopes up about someone who describes their most recent relationship in the present tense. And uses the phrase ‘it’s complicated’.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. But I’m going to go now. Walk me out?”

  I walk with her out the door, not sure what to do next. I want to apologize again.

  “I’m this way.” She gestures to her left. “I’ll see you around?”

  “Sarah—” I take her hand and pull her close for a minute, leaning in to brush a kiss over her cheek. “Thank you.”

  She stands up on her tiptoes and hugs me. “You’re welcome.”

  I watch her until she turns a corner, then I start walking. I don’t realize until I’m standing on Nat’s doorstep where I was headed, but once there, it makes all the sense in the world.

  I knock.

  Jacks opens the door, his eyes wide. His mohawk is gone, his whole head buzzed short. He looks like a beautiful stranger and my beloved Jacks all at the same time. “Ritchie—I wasn’t—I—”

  “I should have texted that I was coming over. I was in the neighborhood, and I found myself here.”

  “Well, come on in.” He steps back and lets me through the door. “Natalie’s out, but Bex and I were just talking about Vertical Smile’s social media.”

  I follow him to the kitchen, where Bex is sitting at the table. She looks up at me in surprise as Jacks pushes his fists into the pockets of his hoodie and turns away.

  “Ritchie, hi.” She stands and gives me a hug. “How’s everything going with Britney?”

  “Really good.” I smile, glad for the distraction again. “I really lucked out. She’s so well trained already; I feel like she clicked into my life like a missing puzzle piece.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Bex sits again. When I do the same, she hands me an iPad. “Have a look at what Jacks and I have been up to.”

  The electronic page in front of me has been scribbled on in both her handwriting and Jacks’s. I can only vaguely follow the notes, so I give up. “What does it mean?”

  “We’re going to streamline the social media—give it a more uniform look across platforms. Bex had a graphic designer friend work up a new logo for us.” Jacks drags a hand across the screen in front of me, and the logo appears. I have to admit, it’s better than the one we’re currently using.

  “We can sell merch directly from our website, and he did some mockups of t-shirts and stickers for us.” He looks at me expectantly.

  “You cut your hair,” I say finally. He runs a hand over his head, rubbing the shorn scalp. I want to do the same, but I keep my hands to myself.

  He smiles that sweet Jacks smile I love so much. “Yeah. Seeing Ade, spending time with her now, all grown up, I remembered why I cut my hair into a mohawk in the first place. And maybe it’s time to let go of my teenage rebellions, you know?”

  I feel like I’ve been kicked in the guts. “Like me? Is that what I am? Another one of your teenage rebellions?”

  His jaw drops open and hurt floods his face. “Ritchie—”

  “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.” My chair screeches across the floor as I stand, and I scramble to keep from tipping it over. “I have to go.” I make my way blindly past the pink fridge and the teal sofa, out the front door, and down the steps. I’m fighting back tears, and I don’t want anyone to see me like this, especially him.

  “I didn’t mean you,” Jacks calls after me, and I stop, my hand on the railing.

  “I think you did.” I turn around. I know my eyes are red and my lips are twitching, but I face him all the same. “I think we keep hurting each other without even trying.”

  He comes down the steps after me, stopping in front of me, one step up. He puts a hand on the side of my face, skimming his thumb across my cheekbone. It comes away wet.

  “You were never a teenage rebellion.”

  I sniff and look away from him, my head bowed. I can’t meet his gaze. “Then what was I?”

  “You were my love—and my lover. And a friend, when I really needed one.”

  “And now?” I look up at him, and then away again.

  “You’re—” his thumb rubs across my cheekbone again. “Ritchie.”

  “Yeah.” I push his hand away. “I sure am. You know, I was on a date this afternoon? That’s why I was in the neighborhood. I was on a date. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and she could tell, so she left.”

  “Wow.” He furrows his brow and squints out over my shoulder. “I didn’t realize it was like that now. You dating other people.”

  Fury wells up in me again. “You left me,” I remind him.

  He nods. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. We should have had this conversation before I left. I was scared. So, you’re dating other people?”

  I laugh, but there’s no mirth in it. “I went on one date. I don’t know. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “I don’t want you to be alone.” Jacks rubs his hand over his scalp again.

  “But you don’t want to be with me.”

  He sits down on the steps and pulls me down next to him. “Remember when I first came to New York, you wouldn’t do more than kiss me for months and months? You kept telling me I was vulnerable.”

  And I was right to wait—it had given us time to get to know each other, and for him to find his feet. “Yeah, I remember.”

  He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “It was the right thing to do. And you’re the one who’s vulnerable no
w. And you’re vulnerable because of me. I wanted to believe as long as we were together, I wouldn’t be depressed anymore. That I wouldn’t hurt myself. And even after I knew that I wasn’t okay, I let you believe I was, because I was scared. That was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “What were you scared of?”

  He shakes his head. “Losing. You. The Smile. This life we’ve built with each other. Depression steals the joy out of everything. Makes me think I don’t deserve it. That my parents were right and I ruin everything I touch. I was afraid my pain would always be bigger than my joy.”

  “I wish you’d told me—this isn’t a judgment or an accusation. I only would have liked to help you.”

  He lets out a broken sound that’s half-laugh, half-something monstrous. “I can barely talk about it now. I wanted to be perfect for you. You saved my life, Ritchie. Do you know how, how—” he pauses and takes a deep breath. “—how ungrateful it made me feel to be depressed? How selfish I feel talking about being depressed after what you did for me?”

  His words strike deep, and I close my eyes to let them land where he can’t see. When I can open them again, he’s watching me warily. Nothing I can say will take away the pressure he felt all those years. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want me to try.

  “Are you depressed now?” I let my hand rest on his knee.

  “Most days I’m okay. I’m on a good medication for me—and I’m taking it every day, I’m not fucking around. Therapy helps. But some days are bad, Ritchie. Really bad. And there’s a very real chance I’ll have bad days my whole life.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” He picks up my hand from his knee and holds it. “Nat says you’re seeing a therapist too now?”

  “I have some unresolved issues of my own.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I think we all do, but I’m sorry I contributed to yours.”

  “Are you going to play tomorrow night?”

  He rests his head against my shoulder. “Do you want me to? Nat says Drea sounds really good. She was always a better drummer than me.”

  I freeze. Is he really making this my decision?

  “Of course I want you to come back.”