The sound of the water tempts me. If the water is running, she’s in the shower and if she’s in the shower, I could massage the tension away from her shoulders, I could kiss every inch of her skin. But I can’t just go and knock on the door and ask her if she needs help showering. That sounds way too cheesy, and she made it clear so many times that she only wants to be friends.
So instead of giving in to my desires, I sit down at my computer and try to do some damage control. I haven’t been on social media since the band split up, but I still lurk from time to time. My last tweet was from January last year.
Thanks everyone for the love and support. Need some time to regroup. Talk later.
That tweet had so many notifications that I stopped checking.
I clear my throat and cross my fingers Grégoire is not going to go via the deep end. He must have already told that woman about Olivia because the first tweets are coming in my feed. “Oh wow, the band is reuniting!”
“Olivia and Lucas Forever.”
“Fuck Olivia.”
Fuck that Jen girl.”
People really tend to forget themselves behind a screen. I crack my knuckles and type. “New song. New video. It’s going to be awesome.” No hashtag because I can’t think of any, but I do tag Olivia in it. Trying to leave Jen out of the spotlight as much as possible.
And then I call Grégoire. “Jen needs a new number. Can someone take care of that?”
“How is she doing?” And he actually sounds genuinely worried.
“Like shit. People were attacking her from all sides.”
“I’m almost at your door. Your driver said he dropped you off at your apartment, right?”
“You don’t need to come here.”
“Actually, I do. I talked with the director of her ballet company, and both of them came up with a great idea to promote both the new song and their company. Jen is much shrewder than I gave her credit for.”
And my hands clam up, the same old doubts come crashing back. “What do you mean, she came up with a new idea?”
“Let’s talk once I’m there.”
I totally forgot to tell Grégoire about what I put up on Twitter and how I want to try to drive the narrative. My eyes dart back to the bathroom door. The water has stopped. Why would Jen talk about a possible marketing idea with her ballet company first? Why didn’t she come to me?
Everyone has an agenda. Everyone is always looking for something more. Olivia’s words come back to haunt me. After I confronted her about sharing those pictures of us, about giving an interview about Benji, about the fake engagement, she looked up at me, her eyes full of tears. And that’s what she told me. Then, she said, “And you’re looking for someone who is not me. That’s why I left the band. I thought maybe you’d chase after me. But you didn’t.”
“I never used you!”
“Of course you did. We used each other and that’s why we’re so broken now. I’m sorry for everything. I really am. But I’m not the only one to blame.”
Was she right?
Did I use her in some way?
I loved her. I did. I never betrayed her the way she did with me. I could have forgiven the engagement story if she had come clean with it. Our trip to Corsica two weeks after Benji died was supposed to get us back on track; it was our last chance to save a relationship that had felt like it was way past its expiration date. I had lingering doubts about her and Benji. I didn’t want to believe the gossip magazines, but she lied so many times.
And if I’m a hundred percent honest with myself, I still had doubts nothing happened between her and Benji while I was giving interviews in the UK for several weeks.
Jen opens the door from the bathroom, her hair in a knot above her head. She’s back in her sweatpants and sweater from the School of Performing Arts. She looks so fragile yet so strong. And with her I have a feeling I’ve never really had with Olivia. With her, I feel like we could support one another, lean on each other. That there wouldn’t only be one taking and the other giving.
“Hey… Can I talk to you?’ she asks and plops herself next to me on the couch. She smells like my shower gel.
“Of course. Is it about what you and your director came up with to do more marketing?”
She raises one eyebrow in the way I’ve learned she sometimes shows she’s confused. “What are you talking about?” She leans back and crosses her leg under her. She looks so at ease, so much like she belongs, and it’s hard to keep my thoughts straight.
“Grégoire is coming over. He mentioned you and your director thought about a special event to help promote both your company and the new song.”
“Ohhh…I didn’t suggest anything. My director apparently has some sources who told him what band was auditioning, and he had the idea that during the show we have next month, you come and play the piano while I dance.”
The expression on her face remains open, like she’s telling the truth. “Okay,” I say slowly.
“But there’s something else I need to tell you. And I need to tell it to you before Grégoire arrives.”
“What?”
“It’s about…” The doorbell rings but she puts her hand on my arm.
“Please, you’ve got to listen to me. I don’t want you to hear about it from anyone else.”
I ignore the doorbell; my entire attention is on her, on the way she bites her lip and on the way she looks so distressed I want to take her in my arms.
“I…I had a problem with drugs.”
My mouth opens but there’s no sound. I shake my head. The doorbell continues ringing and I stride to the door. “Grégoire, give us two minutes. Okay? Two minutes.”
And I turn back to her. She squares her shoulders like she’s ready for a fight.