Serenading Heartbreak
Page 3
“It’s good,” he finally said after a few beats, “that you don’t do that shit yet.”
He was still staring at his messy notes, and I laughed. “Okay then.”
Sighing, he pushed his things away and folded his arms on the table. “You’re too smart to be getting mixed up in the wrong crowd is all. You’ve got goals.”
“I’m not that smart.” It wasn’t a lie. I was an average student with average plans. “And I just want to be around flowers all day, keep things minimal to better experience what comes. How’s that for goals?”
After blinking at me three times, he lifted a broad shoulder, and my eyes dropped to his tanned forearms. “It’s a goal, and a unique one at that. Doesn’t matter what it is. If it’s important to you and it’s what you want, don’t talk it down.” He went to get a drink, and I sat there, stewing over his words.
I was sure it was the most he’d ever said to me in one afternoon in the whole time we’d been hanging out.
“And what about you?” I asked when he came back with two cans of Coke in his hands.
He set one down in front of me and popped his open, taking a sip. “What about me?” He said it so nonchalantly as if I wasn’t supposed to expect him to have any plans.
Watching him swallow, the way his throat dipped, I shook my head and scratched my cheek. “Uh, well, your goals. Don’t you have any? College? Music?”
He licked his full lips, then smacked them together while studying my face too intently. “Nah.”
“Nah?” I repeated. “But you sing like a god, not to mention the way you play the guitar.” I paused then, remembering him and Mom on the piano in our living room last week. He wasn’t half bad at that either. “And soon, you’ll be able to add the piano to your list of skills.”
“That’s just fun. I’m not equipped for college.” He rapped a fist on the table, his knuckles tapping twice, then pausing before a triple tap. “And if I’m being honest, I’ll do just about anything that’ll take me away from here.”
Taken aback, I straightened my spine. “You’re leaving Plume Grove?”
“Yeah,” he said, pulling his books back and closing them. “It’s stagnant here, and I don’t know if I can do stagnant. Especially in a place where…” He stopped and blew out a breath.
“Where?” I prompted after a moment.
Standing, he gathered his pens into a pile on top of his books, grabbed his Coke, and stalked through the kitchen to the garage. “Nothing.”
“Everett.”
“Mind your business, Clover.” The door shut behind his cold words.
It was Christmas Eve when Everett Taylor snuck into my room for the first time.
The window opened, and a scream collected in my throat when he hit the floor with a thud that I worried would wake my parents. I held it at bay and scrambled upright, blinking as Everett rose from the ground.
He picked up one of my books and the jar of pens he’d knocked off my nightstand, setting them back on the glossy white wood as I held my breath, wondering if this was a dream. All the while listening for any sounds of the house stirring.
Nothing.
“What are you doing?” I moved to turn the lamp on, but Everett grabbed my hand.
“Don’t. I… Can I sleep on the floor?”
I frowned. “The floor? What’s going on?”
His hand was cold and large around mine, and kind of rough. I eyed it in the dark, and then he released me. “Just give me an answer. Or else I’ll go find a nice porch seat to sleep on instead.”
“Fine.” I shook my head, still dazed from sleep, his touch, and his sudden invasion.
I got up and grabbed the mink blanket draped over the chair at my desk, then tossed him all the throw pillows I had, and my second pillow. “Why would you need to sleep on a porch?”
I wasn’t shocked when he didn’t answer. A minute later, he’d kicked off his shoes and was lying there with the pillows piled around him, staring up at the ceiling.
Yawning, I glimpsed the time. 2:30 a.m. I rolled to my back, staring at the glow worms Dad had glued to the ceiling when I was a kid.
“I’m surprised those things still glow at all, considering how old they must be.” His words were a little slurred, a tell-tale sign he’d been drinking. Something he, my brother, and the band spent a lot of time doing these days.
I didn’t like the way he was trying to change the subject, or how easily he could derail my thoughts, so I said nothing.
“Clover?” he asked after another minute slid by.
“You went out tonight?”
“Some party down by the beach,” he mumbled. “Couldn’t get back inside, ’kay? No big deal.”
“You have keys,” I said, unwilling to budge just yet.
“You don’t want me here?” His tone conveyed playful humor, a rarity, but I didn’t let it fool me.
“I want you anywhere you’re safe,” I said, then added, “We all do.”
Silence arrived, and my eyes were drifting closed when he finally said, “They had the locks changed.” A gruff laugh lit my stomach on fire. “Figures. Can’t spare enough money to make sure we’ve got food in the house, but they’ll find a way to change the locks.”
My eyes widened as all traces of sleep fled. This was the most he’d ever admitted about his parents, who were now widely known throughout the neighborhood for their domestic disputes. As well as the rumors that shadowed them from the town they’d left behind. Though no one ever quite knew what to believe.
Some said they owed money to a huge drug lord and had to skip town or else they’d wind up dead. Some said there’d been an accident, but everyone had a different story on just who it was who’d been in the accident.
I did my best to keep any pity or sympathy from my voice, knowing it’d be the fastest way to make him clam up. “Everett.” I swallowed. “Why would they do that?”
I wasn’t sure if he’d answer, but he did. “To spite me.”
My next breath burned my lungs. “You never said where you moved here from.”
His exhale was rough. “Because it’s not worth talking about.” A moment later, he cursed, hissing through his teeth as he shifted on the floor.
“You’re hurt,” I said, rolling over to switch on the lamp.
He flinched, shoving his hand up to shield his eyes. “Fuck, Clover. I said not to turn that thing on.”
Absorbing the busted lip and his half shut, swollen eye, anger had me shooting out of bed.
“Wait,” he said. “It’s okay, really.”
“It’s not okay. They fucking beat you up!”
His lip curled. “Cussing now, Clover? We really are a bad influence on you.”
I ignored him and went to the kitchen to fetch an ice pack and some towels, trying to make as little noise as possible.
When I returned, I locked the door and then dropped them beside him. “This needs to stop, Everett.”
His emerald eyes were on my stomach, and I glanced down, noticing my tank had risen. I wasn’t even wearing a bra, being that I had been asleep and all. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but my boobs had grown, and having his eyes on me did something that had my nipples hardening against the cotton.
“Get in bed, Clover.”
I did, but I was still too angry, too worried to simply fall asleep. “I’m serious, Everett.”
A sigh filled the room, the towel scrunching as he moved the ice over his face. “It wasn’t them. Not this time.”
Not this time. “Then who?”
“I got drunk, okay? And then I got into a fight with some asshole. That’s all you need to know.”
I didn’t press for more. Judging by his impatient, more sober sounding voice, he was tired and not drunk enough to humor me any longer.
“The glow worms,” he said. “I know there’s gotta be a reason you still have them up there. Scared of the dark?”
His question wasn’t a barb, just a question, so despite my annoyance, I gazed up at the fa
A few minutes later, the small thud of the ice brick hitting the floor had my eyes drifting open, and then the sound of his soft snoring had them closing again.
“Look who decided to show up. Not like it’s Christmas or anything,” Hendrix said, ruffling my hair as I poured some orange juice and nabbed a piece of bacon.
“Didn’t sleep well,” I mumbled around the bacon that was exploding on my taste buds.
When I woke, Everett was gone. The blanket had been folded and draped over my chair, the pillows set back on my bed, and the window closed as though he’d never been there at all.
But he had been, and that he’d chosen to come to me in his time of need, instead of Hendrix, sent a flood of warmth filling my chest.
“Merry Christmas, honey,” Dad cooed, squeezing me in a hug and almost spilling my juice.
“Merry Christmas, Daddy.”
Mom placed a kiss on my head, smoothing some of my frizzed blond hair back from my face.
They waited for me to finish eating before we moved into the living room.
The climate in Plume Grove was too warm for snow. But staring at the tree adorned with mismatched decorations from our childhood, I found myself longing for it as slices of light from the sun danced through the window, over the hardwood floor and piles of presents.
Sometime later, with my books, stationery, makeup, new boots with pink hearts on them, and a flat iron piled expertly by the window, a violent silence fell over the room.
Hendrix placed his new electric guitar by the window with his amp and cable leads, his only presents due to how expensive they were, and raked a hand through his finger mussed, dark blond hair.
Mom and Dad shared a look, and finally, after the ticking of Grandpa Angus’s clock became unbearably loud, Mom sent Hendrix over to check on Everett.
I tried to busy myself with my presents and began carting them to my room.
When I returned, Dad was carrying something down the hallway. Not just any something, but a Gibson acoustic guitar with a red and green ribbon looped around its neck.
Hendrix was back a few minutes later, and I retook my seat on the end of the couch, staring at the guitar with tears threatening to cloud my vision.
Mom gasped as soon as Everett stepped into the living room. “What happened to your face?”
Hendrix looked at Dad, who was frowning, his shoulders tense.
“Fight with one of the guys we go to school with.” When my parents said nothing and continued to stare with matching looks of concern, Everett sighed. “It’s okay. He looks way worse than I do.”
That didn’t defuse the tension, but Hendrix forced a laugh, choosing to keep his mouth shut about his whereabouts the night before. A wise move. Mom and Dad knew he went out sometimes, but they didn’t always allow it. Especially on Christmas Eve.
Mom, tucking some of her curls behind her ear, cleared her throat. “Well, Merry Christmas. Come on.” She waved a hand. “Sit.”
Everett did, mumbling, “Merry Christmas,” as he settled beside me.
He smelled like an ashtray, sweat, and stale beer. I was willing to bet he still hadn’t been home, and therefore, hadn’t had a chance to shower off the events of the night before. If my parents noticed, they didn’t let on.
Dad grabbed the guitar from beside the tree and handed it to Everett. “Merry Christmas. Now you’ll have your own to fuss over.”
Everett’s mouth fell open, his throat bobbing as he looked from the guitar to my dad. “You’re joking,” he breathed, and my heart pinched.
“I’m not.” Dad chuckled. “And don’t look too shocked. It didn’t cost that much. It’s secondhand.”
Finally, Everett took the guitar, holding it so carefully as though he were meeting a baby for the first time. “But…” He blinked at it. “I can’t just…” Eyes closing, he lowered his head.
Dad reached over to clap him on the shoulder, and Mom started singing to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” when it came on the TV that sat above the fireplace.
“Hendrix, help him tune it and then clean up this paper. Ma and Pa will be here soon,” Dad said, leaving the room.
“He knows how to tune it better than I do, and it wasn’t just me who unwrapped presents. That’s not fair.”
Seeing Everett brush his thumb over the strings of his Gibson caused tears to gather fast and strong, so I started cleaning up to hide them.
I couldn’t help but peek at his face every few minutes.
If Everett noticed I hadn’t turned the page in my book in more than ten minutes, he didn’t let on.
His pen left indents in the paper of his journal, pressing the lyrics deep into the page. Unable to read them even if I wanted to, I could only glance at him when I felt it was safe.
Sometimes, his head bobbed to an invisible beat, and every now and then, I’d hear his feet shift beneath the table as if they too were helping to create something only he could see.
I knew he could be doing many other things during the short window of time he spent sitting with me. He could watch TV, hang out with friends, or play. He always found time to practice, but as if it was some new routine of his, he made sure to sit in the same room as me first.
In his company, whether he remained silent, I began to watch him too much, and my chest began to fill with flutters. I felt like my presence was needed—as though it comforted him in some way—and I liked that. To make someone smile, especially him, brought something inside me dancing to the surface. But to make someone feel at ease was rare, and I didn’t want to walk away from it or take that unspoken trust for granted.
“What makes you unhappy?”
Dumbfounded, I breathed out a laugh. “Why would you ask that?”
“You can tell a lot about a person by finding out what they don’t like.” Scratching at some of the hair on his cheek, he lifted his head. “And you don’t tend to make a lot of noise about that stuff.”
“About stuff I don’t like?” He nodded. “There are things I don’t like.”
He sat, waiting, as if he didn’t believe me.
I frowned, trying to think of what to say as his steady gaze drilled into mine, and my stomach continued to jump. “Celery,” I blurted.
“Celery?” He repeated on a gruff breath, his lashes rising to his lowering brows. “Really? That’s all you’ve got?”
Nodding, I tried to ignore the embarrassment creeping up my neck. “Celery is for suckers; can you write a song about that?”
A short bout of laughter and then, after eyeing me a moment, he nodded again. “For you, I can probably write something.”
“About celery?” I asked, nerves straining my voice.
He tipped up a shoulder, tapping his fingers on the table. “About whatever I want. What else don’t you like?”
Caught off guard, it took me a moment to answer. “Crowds.” I forced a shiver. “I need space.”
“Fresh air?”
“Any open space.” Growing more confident, I said, “What about you? What don’t you like?”
Seeming taken aback, he slouched in his chair. “Not many things.”
That kind of surprised me. Given his quiet, solemn nature, I thought he’d answer differently. “Such as?”
With a smile tipping the corner of his mouth, he huffed. “You really want to know?”
Frowning, I said, “I really do.”
“Fine. Sirens and royalty.”
“Is that it?”
Another half shrug. “Pretty much.”
“Royalty?” I repeated.
He hummed in confirmation, giving nothing else away.
We stared, the drumbeat in my chest increasing with each second. I wanted to ask why. Desperately.
As if he knew that, he dropped his eyes to the table. “You’re a flower bound to suffocate without sunshine, fresh air, and tasty nutrients.”
I blinked. Hard. “What?”
Pushing up from the table, he said, “You heard me just fine.”
Then he was gone, and I was tearing apart his beautifully constructed sentence for countless minutes, the warmth in my chest spreading to my unstoppable smile.
I was sixteen when I saw the boy I’d watched blossom into a young man kiss someone.
Someone who wasn’t me. Someone who looked nothing remotely like me.
Why I thought she even would, I wasn’t yet able or ready to dissect.
The Orange Apples had finally started booking some local gigs, and even though hardly anyone showed up, those who did took their role as fans pretty seriously.
It had me feeling woefully young and inadequate in my cutoffs, off-the-shoulder T-shirt, and worn Doc Martens.
When rumor spread that their next gig in town was set to bring a higher turnout, the trouble began.
An echoing whine shrieked from the speakers. “Checking, one, two, skip a few, ninety-nine, a hundred,” Hendrix said into the mic, chuckling to himself as he adjusted the stand.
Spinning on a stool at the bar with a cherry Coke in my hand, I watched the guys set up.
Adela sat beside me, giggling at my brother’s embarrassing antics.
He’d finally gotten his braces off, but ever since, he’d only become more of an idiot. Especially since he’d scored some part-time work at the local garage with Everett after school and on Saturdays. He had no shame in swaggering around in his greased-up wifebeater long after work. The money from that and the tiny amount they’d made from gigs were going toward a sweet ride, he’d said.
Nothing wrong with being confident, Dad had said.
Mom had given him a look that said she disagreed. Me, well, I just did my best to stay away to help curb the temptation to smack him with something.
“Can I break girl code and marry your brother when we’re done with school?”
Most would probably be grossed out by the question, and I was, but I didn’t care enough to say that. “Go for it.” I snorted. “I wish you luck. You’ll need it.”
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