CHAPTER TWENTY
We decide to go to the Friendly Whale, across Old Town from the Nosh Pit but essentially the same kind of place: my request. I don’t actually care, but I know that if I didn’t say something, Gavin would try to take me somewhere like Ragazzi. I know he can’t afford it, or wouldn’t want to. I don’t think he’s cheap, but I do think he’s driven, and I’ve seen a few things from him that tell me any dollar not saved for the future is a dollar wasted. I figure this is a good sign. Gavin is guarded and mysterious, but anyone who squirrels his pennies for some big hit later is planning ahead. And you don’t plan ahead if you don’t care about your future.
Lisa told me she liked Firecracker Confession’s music. She followed them when they were hot and was crushed when their shooting star hit its tragic end. She didn’t know that Gavin had ended up in Inferno Falls until after she’d followed Push marijuana’s siren song here, but she wasn’t surprised. The band’s old circles weren’t far away, and like the drain at the bottom of a trendy tub, everything cool has seemed to end up running toward Inferno over the past decade.
Lisa told me that Firecracker fans had been wondering about a solo Gavin Adams effort almost from the start. Because the band itself never got signed (close doesn’t count in music, it seems), the wondering was restricted to a splinter of a subset, but those who loved the band in their cult-like way stood waiting. Then a year passed, and another. Still there was nothing, and it began to look like Gavin might just go away.
But if he’s saving? If he’s planning? If he’s trying out new songs? It could be the beginning of that new future. And I won’t let this date derail him if that’s something I can help.
I’ve never been to the Friendly Whale, but despite its name it actually turns out to be pretty nice. Like the Nosh Pit, it’s technically a diner, but also like the Nosh Pit, it’s more a diner for hipsters than for average townies. Everyone here dresses casual. That works for me in my multipurpose light-blue dress, and it works for Gavin, who’s worn a nice collared shirt but kept it untucked, and stuck to jeans and brown shoes.
We settle into a throwback booth — new but kitschy and made to look old and refurbished, all velour with chrome accents. The menu is full of common bar food, but classed up and made delicious by what must be a creative head chef — but, to my relief, all reasonably priced. There are slowly turning bamboo fans overhead. Like my dress, they shouldn’t work, but do.
“I’ve never been here,” Gavin says, looking around. “It’s nice.”
“I keep seeing it when I come by here.”
“You come by here often?” He kind of laughs because to both of us it’s almost like a cheesy pickup line.
“Do you know Ticket to Ride?”
“No.”
“Stables. I used to take lessons. It’s not far from here.”
“Lessons?” His eyebrows draw together. “I thought you hadn’t been here long.”
“Adults can take riding lessons.”
“Really. Isn’t that an expensive hobby?”
I shrug. In truth, it is — and the more you allow it to be expensive, the more expensive it is. Most horse people are crazy. They’ll spend money on horses that they won’t spend on rent. I realize how much I’m giving away right off the bat, and not even meaning to. He’s confused because I’m a waitress, but when I first came here my parents still held illusions about dragging me home. So for a while, I’d had their money, even if my pride usually told me not to use it. That was at the start. Before they’d cut me off.
“It’s not too bad.”
“Did you have your own horse?”
“I just took lessons.”
“Why would you take lessons if you don’t have a horse?”
I reply halfheartedly about enjoying the experience, but I can see he’s already seeing through me. His brow smooths a little, and I want to be angry because he clearly thinks he’s figured something out and caught me.
“You did have one, didn’t you?”
“Where would I keep a horse?”
“At a stable,” I say, as if he’s stupid to ask.
“Where did you grow up, Abigail?”
I sigh. “Hartford.”
He nods. “Money.”
I don’t know why this shames me, but it does. Most people are proud of coming from wealth. I’m the opposite.
“Rich parents, right?”
I sigh again.
“I get it. I totally understand. My parents were rich assholes too.”
“My parents aren’t assholes.”
“Mine weren’t either,” he says. “But that kind of money makes people assholes. It’s like a default.”
I don’t know if I should laugh or not. Finally, he does, and that makes it okay. Lisa’s fears were groundless. And what I’d felt before about Gavin, seeing him at the club — that’s groundless, too. He’s a man with a past. Of course he has an attitude onstage. That’s a musician’s stock-in-trade.
This is the real Gavin. Who he truly is.
My mind goes to the women he left with on Friday and Saturday nights, trying to argue. But I push the thoughts away and focus on the moment. There’s a light, tinkling music coming from the restaurant’s overhead speakers. The breeze from the slowly rotating fans — all of which are linked by long straps, each driving the next like pulleys spun by a central motor — feels like a lingering kiss on my skin. I won’t think of his past if he won’t think of mine. We’re two people. This can be a clean slate. I desperately want it to be.
“So,” he says. “I guess we have something in common.”
“They cut me off,” I say, laughing. “So don’t get any ideas.”
“Mine lost it all before they died,” he says, “so don’t you get any ideas, either.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. But I don’t know if I’m saying I’m sorry for his loss or for his parents somehow losing a fortune. I want to know how that happened, but I won’t ask.
“It’s fine.” He looks around the diner, and I can sense the topic about to change. “This is a nice place to wash up, you know? Small towns like this, you see the same people over and over. I’ve spent time in New York, LA, and Chicago. Like I’m trying to be sure to hit the big hubs.”
“So why are you here?”
“That was a long time ago.” Something sad washes over his face, and I realize he must have toured with his old band back when they were trying to make it. I can’t know without asking, but he probably came here when it was all over. When he was solo, looking to start over, or maybe to hide.
“I wish I could show you around,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone else. If I’d grown up here, I could show you around.” Show you OFF, my mind interjects. But even though I didn’t grow up here and don’t have school pals to thumb my rock-star-dating nose at, I still kind of want to drop by the Nosh Pit and rub Gavin in Roxanne’s face.
“I never knew you.”
“I guess the town’s not that small.” Then I shrug. “I did know you.”
“How?”
“As local talent. Everyone kind of knows you. Kind of like everyone sort of knows the local personalities. Like Roger.” I point, pleased to be able to identify Roger Barker, this place’s owner, entering the kitchen. He’s big and loud, but nothing like Ed. Roger is friendly, like the name of his restaurant. I could work here. I’m not sure why I never tried, knowing the owner’s name and face as it turns out I do. “I guarantee I know more about this town than you do, even though I’ve hardly been here longer.”
“Who else do you know?” Gavin asks, grinning playfully.
“All the Nosh Pit regulars.”
“Doesn’t count. We’re talking local lore here.” A bigger smile crawls onto his features, and although I’m trying to keep Lisa’s warning in mind, I can’t quite manage it.
“Mayor Pratt.”
“Doesn’t count either. Everyone knows the mayor.”
“Does everyone know the rumor that he has five families?”
“What, like the Mafia in The Godfather? The heads of the Five Families?”
“Like, he used to travel a lot and kept up five distinct sets of kids.”
“That can’t be true,” Gavin says.
“I didn’t say it was true. It just matters that I know the rumor. And that’s just one. Some people say he has a controlling interest in Pole Position and takes his pick of the girls who work there.” Saying this reminds me of the way Gavin seems to take his pick of the Overlook groupies, but I push the thought away.
“Pole Position? You mean the strip bar?”
“Oh, so you know it?”
“I mean, the library?”
I smile then go on. “Earl Stuckey. Crazy guy who lives on the edge of town and only comes in to bitch about how things aren’t like they used to be. Or Father Marriott, the crazy reverend.”
“Maybe he’s just counterculture.”
“Stygian Hart. The burly guy the kids are afraid of.”
“You can’t just name wackos,” says Gavin.
“I don’t think Mr. Hart is a wacko. He’s just really angry. And I gave you the mayor, too.”
Gavin folds his hands on the table, trying to appear thoughtful, like this is a contest and he’s figuring his next move.
“Okay. But you have an unfair advantage at knowing this place. You’re a waitress.” He stops, blinking dramatically with revelation. “You’re a double waitress.”
“So what?”
“Waitresses hear a lot.”
“I think the question was whether I know the town or not. Not why I did.”
“When did this become a competition?”
“When you started losing, apparently,” I say, reaching out to swat playfully at his hand.
“Hmm. I know everyone at the Overlook.”
“Big deal,” I say. “Me too. And I know everyone at the Nosh Pit. What do you know about Inferno — or even just Old Town — other than home and work?”
“There’s that guy who owns the donut shop.”
“Who?”
“Carl?”
“You’re guessing. What’s the name of the shop?”
“Donut Emporium?”
“You’re making that up.”
“Maybe?”
This time when I reach out, I lay my hand over his. I’m sure he’ll find a reason to pull away, but he doesn’t. It’s hard to square the man across from me with the sullen, brooding musician I’ve seen take Danny’s stage. This man is light and fun and open. The guy onstage is closed and dark. God help me, I’m falling for both.
“Okay. I know Mason James.”
“Who’s that?”
Gavin’s eyebrows go up, a tentative victory.
“Owner of that construction company in Cherry Hill.”
“Nice try.”
“Life of Riley,” he counters. “That’s its name. Mason is the owner. Rich guy. Everyone knows him, maybe even your rumor buddy the mayor.”
I look sideways at Gavin. “You don’t know him.”
“I know of him. Do you know Crazy Priest Man?”
“You’re cheating. You implied you knew him.”
Pause. “I know Mason’s daughter.”
“No you don’t.”
“Yes I do! I met her once or twice.”
I’m staring at Gavin, my hand still on his.
“I know her husband a lot better. Brandon.”
“So you know Mason James’s daughter’s husband.”
“Yes.”
“Wow. I’m so impressed.”
“I know Brandon too. Guy with a beard.”
“A-ha!” Gavin slaps the table then points triumphantly in my face. “He doesn’t have the beard anymore. He shaved it.”
I roll my eyes and say, “Okay. You win.”
The waiter comes. I’m not sure what to order, but Gavin asks if he can return the favor by ordering for me, the way I ordered for him the other day. This strikes me as dangerous but cute, so I say okay. Twenty minutes later, I’m eating slow-roasted pork shoulder carnitas with black beans and fresh hot buttered tortillas. It’s heaven in my mouth, and I have to admit Gavin chose well, as if he’s known me for more than a handful of days.
We pass most of an hour with small talk. I tell him more about my Hartford past than I should, and he tells me a few details about his gambling, entrepreneur father. I don’t ask how his parents died, but I do get the feeling it’s not as painful a memory as it would be for me. It’s something in the past, maybe long ago. The money isn’t gone; it was simply never there by the time Gavin might have had access. He grew up wealthy, like me — and seems to be hiding from it, also like me. He tells me his school tales: how he was good in art, music, geography, and at least the conceptual parts of geometry. He wasn’t as good with anything involving numbers or rote memorization and got through school by the skin of his teeth. Everyone assumed he was stupid. So I tell him my story, which is the exact opposite.
My closely held dominoes fall one by one: the full ride to Princeton I turned down. The fact that I did so not because I felt I’d be a cog in a machine, as I told my mother … but because I was afraid I’d fail. The way Mom used to analyze us all then use us in her research. How I used to resent it more than I do, and secretly wish I could get over myself and make amends.
“So what did you come here for?” he asks as our plates are cleared and the check is delivered.
“Freedom,” I guess.
“Ah. Just like the Pilgrims.”
“I always wanted to write. Mom and Dad both thought it was stupid.”
“And for that, you had to cut yourself off?”
“Going to Princeton would have been like staying at home. It’s like some kind of blue blood network. Even my fiancé, Brian, came out of that. My parents were so happy. Got into a good school then met a good man. Never mind that he was a shit. Never mind that he was screwing everyone he could. The credential was all that mattered. I told them I wanted to write a novel, and they scoffed. Actually scoffed. Mom said I could maybe ‘fiddle a bit’ on the weekends if I wanted, after they saw how offended that made me, but only as long as it didn’t take time from my studying or from Brian. And that’s what really sold me. I already knew I was through with him but hadn’t yet had the courage to break away, and I’d told my parents about how he was cheating. But like the novel, it all took a backseat to the credentials. Proper education, proper husband. Half of me left just so they’d see me doing something wrong for a change. Just to throw it in their faces for not even considering what I might want for a second.”
“So how’s it coming? The novel?”
I sigh. Even the sigh hurts. I left home for freedom, like the Pilgrims, then put myself right back into bondage. I came to the New World of Inferno Falls so I could indulge, but instead I got two jobs and left my dream on the shore.
“That good, huh?” Gavin asks.
“It’s easier for you. You want to play, and you just play.”
I can tell immediately that it was the wrong thing to say. Gavin doesn’t seem mad, but I clearly hit a soft spot. Maybe it’s not that easy. Maybe I’m attributing ease that Gavin doesn’t feel.
“Maybe so,” he says. “So, if you want to write, just write.”
“I keep trying. I get stuck.”
“Stuck how?”
“I overanalyze everything. I can’t write a second sentence until the first is perfect. Then, after a page, I realize that the story has already started to shift, and I write it over, incorporating a better beginning. But it shifts again. It’s like trying to hold sand.”
“Maybe you just need to push through. Give yourself permission to suck, as they say.”
“I try.” I frown then flap my hands palms-up in a gesture of futility, as if to say there’s no point, but I’ll pretend to do what I can. Then I look at him and ask, “What is it like for you? Writing music? Do you just pick up your guitar, and it comes?”
He shrugs.
“What about the new one? That song I heard you trying out the other night?”
“Maybe some day it’ll be a neat little tune, who knows. But so what?”
“What do you mean, ,so what’?”
Another shrug. I sense he doesn’t want to talk about this, but suddenly I find myself needing to know. He’s a captive audience. He manages to create his art, whereas mine never leaves the starting gate.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“I guess,” he says, clearly sensing my direction but too polite to say no.
“Why do you only play old Firecracker Confession songs?”
He sighs. “They’re what I know.”
“But you’ve changed them. You don’t sing the lyrics.”
“I’m not much of a singer.”
“I’ve seen you sing on YouTube.”
It’s not as good as seeing him in person would be, getting all the nuance and watching his closed eyes, but it was enough to tell his voice is good, and to know I want to hear more.
“I don’t sing anymore.”
“Danny says you sometimes sing before the club opens. When you’re warming up.”
“I just don’t like to, okay?” His hands leave the table and cross his chest. Subtly, not overtly, but the closing off is hard to miss.
“I’m just asking for me,” I say. Then, weaker, more submissive, half apologizing but still needing to know, I add, “I don’t understand why I can’t write more than a few lines, when I know I want to.” The more I think on it, the more maddening that itch seems. From time to time (and this has happened no fewer than three times this past half week), I’m struck by a drive to make a story. I fall flat every time. The notion that I’d be so inspired but unable to perform is the ultimate cruelty, like creative impotence.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Sometimes it’s there, and sometimes it’s not.”
“How do you compose?”
“I don’t. Not anymore.”
“But the new song … ”
“I don’t know, Abigail,” he says, and I can sense him trying to be kind through clear discomfort. “If it comes, it comes. I can’t rush it or put it on a schedule. I don’t know what to tell you.”
I’m worried that I’ve offended him after he falls silent, so I don’t ask more. A sense of sinking fills my stomach, and I realize this is all my fault. All I did was to make conversation on what should have been a perfect topic, but somehow I’ve done something terrible. He’s mad, and I’m sorry, and I doubt either of us could truly articulate the reasons.
He’s thawed by the time we’re leaving the restaurant, but I can tell it’s taken effort. He’s smiling again, but the expression seems less natural than it should. I try to play along, and by the time he’s walked me back to my place, the air between us feels clear but fragile. He’s taken my hand. We’re quiet, but the electricity, at least, has again begun to build.
When we reach the door to my building, he turns to face me. His beautiful face is close; his intense eyes are on mine. I can practically feel the heat coming off of his body. He’s holding both of my hands, and sheer magnetism wants to push us together — to mesh our chests, our hips, our mouths. I feel almost light as we face each other under the door light, a slight tug of his hands being the only thing standing between us.
Finally, he leans toward me. I close my eyes and meet him, feeling the slow crush of his lips. We move against each other for one pulse, two, three, his breath escaping around our moving lips, curling down the slope of my bare neck.
Then the kiss ends, and I find myself blinking up at him, lost. My body wants his, but it never came forward. The magnetism between us is broken and wanting.
It’s over. That’s all there is.
“Would you like to come up?” I say, my voice soft, hesitant, timid. I feel fragile like a figurine, one touch able to destroy me.
He squeezes my hands. “I should be going.”
Then he kisses me again and tells me he’ll call. A moment later, he’s walking away, looking back at me as I stand on the stoop, smiling in a rather curious way.
I could fall on the spot. I don’t know if I’m light as a feather or heavy as an anchor.
I only know that darkness has come, my heart aches, and I’m alone.