CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I’ve wanted so badly to call her.
What’s worse is that I’m not refraining for a reason she’d understand. I don’t understand, it. In the short term, my calling would be good for us both. Nobody would lose. I don’t know about Abigail, but I would have been ready to go out the next night again, if she didn’t need to work. Our conversation, the times neither one of us has gone into an exchange with baggage, has been light and natural. I haven’t felt so at ease with anyone since … well, I don’t really want to make that particular comparison, even in my mind.
But if we went out again, we’d both know what it really was. We’d both know that the second date would be a vehicle taking us to the end. And then Wednesday’s scene would repeat: me on her stoop or her on mine, in a light embrace, a kiss in the air. We’d move together, but this time we wouldn’t stop. I’d go inside when she asked because I wouldn’t be able to summon the intense will required to walk away the first time. Or I’d invite her inside my place, and it would all be over because this part of the script is one we both know and expect.
Clothes would hit the floor. I’d run my hands all over her bare body, exploring what I want so badly to see and feel and taste and smell. I’ve pictured it a hundred times since, trying and not trying at the same time to see the way she’d move beneath me, above me, beside me. Seeing the curves of her hips and the swell of her breasts. Wondering whether the beautiful freckles I’ve decided she works hard to cover up spill onto the milky expanse of what her dress, on that night, had hidden from me.
I didn’t embrace her because I was afraid I’d never be able to break it. I was worried the kiss would deepen. Hands would explore, even out there in the open. I’d have kissed her neck the way I longed to, nibbling my way to her collarbone, back up to her ears. I don’t think she was wearing a bra, because her breasts are small enough not to require one. I was afraid, if I wrapped my arms around her, that I’d find out.
As many women as I’ve been with since Grace, I don’t want to be with Abigail. Or rather, I desperately do. But once it’s done, it will be done. And I know how that story goes, because I’ve written it so many times.
Wake in the morning. Fascination is gone. Conquest achieved. I’m no longer interested, and neither is she. So we part. And that’s how it ends.
Or something worse could happen. As different as Abigail feels, part of me is terrified that the typical script won’t repeat at all. We’ll wake the next morning, and I won’t want her gone. Instead, my eyes will peel open with the sun, and I’ll want to watch her face as she sleeps. I’ll want to touch her again. I won’t feel disgust, or regret, or the sinking hangover that follows temporary satisfaction.
If I let it go that far, I’m afraid that I won’t let her go. And then I’ll have to face the ghosts, both within and outside me. The ghosts of my past. The ghosts that haunt my every day.
I’m caught in the middle. I don’t want her to hate me. I want her to look at me with adoration, to come forward, to want to kiss me again. But then it has to stop. We need to stay on the precipice, forever in between, the ultimate torment of indecision.
I can’t bring her closer, nor can I bear to push her away.
When she comes into the Overlook on Friday night, I’m offstage, on the opposite end from the hallway leading into the back. Freddy is with me, and we’re in the shadows. I’m hoping she won’t see me so I can maintain my middle for another few minutes, but of course she does. She looks right at me with those hazel eyes, ringed in liner. And those eyes are tentative, not hateful. Questioning, not pleading. Confused, not crushed. But really, it’s a bit of them all.
“ … handshake deal,” Freddy is saying.
I snap back to reality as Abigail nears the hallway. My gaze returns to Freddy, who is practically a vulture above me. I’m in a chair, and he’s half standing, one palm planted on each of the two chairs flanking me.
“Sorry. What did you say?”
Freddy’s head ticks toward where I’ve been looking. He sees Abigail vanish in a swish of light-red hair.
“I said no contract needed if paperwork and commitment bugs you out. We try it as a handshake deal.”
My attention still feels shattered. Freddy has me in a cage made of hands, and I’m almost literally cornered. “How would that work?” I ask, blinking.
Again, Freddy looks toward where Abigail disappeared. “I’ve got songs to spare. They’ve got no sparkle, but I have them. You want to end whatever we set up? Fine. You end it and take whatever we’ve written together. Hell, I’ll even finish my part and give you all of it. No risk for you.”
“Oh,” I say.
For a third time, Freddy looks back.
“That girl’s name is Abby, right?”
“Abigail.”
Freddy grins. He has a serious face, but every once in a while he grins like this, and it’s usually a look that says he knows something he shouldn’t.
“Riiight. I knew that. She doesn’t like being called ‘Abby.’ And you knew that too, of course.”
Now I’m back. Defensive, even. “What of it?”
“You know, I’ve heard her humming your new song. Constantly.”
“So?”
“Just sayin’.” He looks again, but this time Abigail reappears as if on cue. Quieter, he says, “She’s cute, isn’t she?”
“I guess.”
“She likes you, Bro.”
I fake a scoff. “Yeah. Sure she does.”
“Maybe you should pick her as your girl for tonight.”
That makes me glare at Freddy. Too late I realize I’ve done exactly what he expected me to do. Fucking Freddy.
“Fine, fine,” he says, still smiling. “Don’t pick up the waitress. See if I care.”
I watch Abigail prepping the bar. She doesn’t look over again, but I can tell she’s being deliberate about not looking over. The pull within me to go over and speak to her is almost overwhelming. Even if I can just catch her eye, I want to smile in her direction. I can tell she feels rejected. She knows I take girls home all the time, and yet I walked away from her. If there was a way to tell her outright how much of a compliment that is, I would. But there’s no way to say anything without sounding like a pig.
Yeah, baby, I could have totally fucked you, but didn’t. Aren’t you flattered?
Again, my attention flicks back to Freddy, and the asshole is grinning at me. I stare him down, and after a moment he relents and seems to reset, his focus returning to his usual pestering, about us working together.
“So what do you say, Gavin? I know you’re used to … well … working collaboratively.” He gets awkward for a moment here, surely aware that he’s only reminding me of how I used to write everything with Charlie and Grace, and how it was almost always Grace who’d do the singing. But then he pushes past. “So I can be your new collaborator.”
That came out of Freddy’s mouth too easy, too fluid. “I’m not looking for a ‘new collaborator,’” I snap.
“Look, no offense. Not trying to push. But maybe you’re ready to try again — just a bit, I mean — and maybe it’s time to do something, anything, even if it’s just one little song.”
My tongue goes into my cheek. Freddy has been banging his head against this for months, but for some reason I find myself thinking of it tonight with actual possibility. Abigail’s words, the other night, got me to thinking. What is it that causes block? How can I get past it — and do I want to get past it? Deep down, I do. Working without my partner and lover hurts, but not working hurts more. I can’t write with Charlie and Grace again, but I remember how it felt to do so.
It won’t be the same if I write or perform with someone else, but maybe it can be close. Maybe it can be the beginning of a long, slow climb out of the hole I’ve been in. One step. Just one tiny step.
I’m definitely not looking to replace my old partners with a new one, but maybe Freddy has a point. One trial. What could it hurt?
“Okay. Fine.”
Freddy looks for a moment like someone slapped him. His eyes get wide; he straightens up so he’s no longer a vulture; his face drops five or even ten years, even though the kid barely has years to spare. He’s not happy, really, and it’s not like I’ve given him a present. For a moment, he reminds me of the proverbial dog that likes to chase cars … but has no idea what to do once he finally catches one.
“R-really?”
“One song. Just one.”
“To start.”
I consider digging in my heels to be a hardass, but then realize I’m resisting just to resist. Freddy has bugged me about working and playing together for so long that part of me feels it’s a cold war, and that settling the issue is tantamount to losing. But even as muddled as my head has been feeling, I know this isn’t about win-lose. If Freddy gets his way, I don’t fail. In fact, I strongly suspect he’s been right all along: I need a kick for my own good. I don’t want to come out dancing, declaring that Freddy is my man and that I’ve seen the light, but there’s no reason to be a self-sabotaging asshole, either.
Instead of rebutting Freddy’s “one song to start,” I repeat it: “To start, Freddy.”
Freddy is trying to contain himself. As much as I’ve fought him, there’s a ton of respect between us. Freddy thinks my talent is, despite my taking the stage every weekend, still an untapped treasure trove. And from my end, I dig Freddy’s ethic. Some people treat music like a hobby and others treat it like an art, but Freddy treats it like a business. Not in the way that the producers of boy bands do; he’s not looking to toss out a prefab commodity and make a buck. But his head’s on straight. He’s not shooting blind. He’s a talented kid, but his major skill is his sensibility and unending relentlessness. I could use some of that drive and dedication on my side.
“Oh, man. Okay, sure, yeah,” he’s saying. “This is kick-ass. So kick-ass.”
“Take it easy, Freddy. It’s one song.”
“Lennon and McCartney had one song, once upon a time.”
That makes me laugh. Hard. Abigail looks over, possibly because she’s never seen me laugh. Well, other than when I’m with her, of course.
“Fuck off before I take it back.” I’m still trying to give him only what he needs, but I can’t keep a tiny smile from my face. I’m not truly happy about this; my real feelings are a torn species of ambivalent: some good, some bad. But I am happy to see Freddy like this — a kid on Christmas.
“That new song. You got anything written down on that yet? I can play with it and — ”
“Not the new one, Freddy,” I say, the smile vanishing.
“Okay. Something else then. You want to start it, or you want me to give you something — a few chord progressions, some lyrics?”
“I don’t love your lyrics, Freddy.”
“Chords then. Or whatever comes.”
“Give me what you get, and I’ll see what I can do with it.” As I say this, it sounds like a task — one more thing I now have to do, in doctoring Freddy’s songs. But that’s not what’s going on, now, is it? It would be our song. Just like Grace and I had dozens, and even Charlie and I had a few.
“Cool, cool,” he says then scampers off like a puppy in a black hoodie. Almost immediately, I hear the distant sounds of a guitar from somewhere in the back.
I pick up my guitar. Without moving to the stage, I start to play.
The song is finding its shape. Over the past few days, flesh has grown on those bones. The chorus is filled out; the verses, empty of words, are a wireframe in need of contours. But I’m finding it. For the first time in three years, I’m discovering something new.
I can imagine the lyrics. I can imagine how someone might sing this song, even though I’ve only played instrumentals for so long. Even though I haven’t written any lyrics. Even though I’ve tried, both before and after the accident, and have resigned myself to the truth that I might write good music if I get out of my own way … but I’ve never been competent when it comes to lyrics.
I strum the song. I picture the lyrics. The fingers of my right hand move up and down the Gibson’s neck, minuscule squeaks escaping as I slide across frets and upside-down strings.
I can imagine words in the chorus.
I can imagine some of the verse.
It’s enough that I almost find myself singing, until my conscious mind realizes I wouldn’t be singing solo. Instead, I’d be joining a duet.
Because Abigail is wiping down tables in the room’s middle, half humming along, half singing words to my song that I’ve never written.