CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Spending time with Maya and Mackenzie helps, but not in a way I’m entirely proud of. Maya has some advice for me and plenty of listening and understanding — the kind of thing where nothing can be fixed, but at least I can feel better about my misery. But there’s this other thing, too. And it’s the realization that if I have it bad now, Maya once had it a whole lot worse.
They can’t stick around for long, so when we’re done I thank them for coming. I didn’t know Maya would bring Mackenzie, but I should have; I’m just so used to seeing her in work mode that it’s easy to forget what her real life must be like. But I’m glad. Because I needed a friend to talk to, yes — but Mackenzie made me understand that there are bigger problems than mine … and that more often than not, even the worst ones turn out okay.
Maya hugs me before they leave. But when Mackenzie beckons me down for a hug, she tells me, “It’ll all be okay.” I almost cry.
Then I’m back to being alone. And again, I feel weak. It’s like I no longer know what to focus on. It’s like I don’t know how to plan my day. Gavin’s original song — the one he’ll no longer touch — was my mind’s constant companion, and now I can’t even hum it in the privacy of my mind. Thoughts of Gavin preoccupied me at, it seems, just about every turn. Now that I realize I need to knock off the fantasizing, it’s hard to find a substitute.
Should I think about the weather?
Should I focus on the rhythm of my feet as I walk?
But even that doesn’t really work because rhythm makes me think of music, and that makes me think of Gavin’s songs all over. That brings up a sense of helplessness within me because I can’t possibly banish all of the songs. Not if I want to be part of this thing, this creative enterprise, this rebirth of a band from its ashes. And I really do want to be part of it. It’s hard to admit, but writing lyrics this last week has unlocked something inside me that has, until now, been a sealed vault. It’s possible to think of myself as a writer now. It’s possible to believe I’m meant to be a creator. It’s possible — for the first time ever — to believe that I was right to leave home, Brian, and Princeton in the pursuit of something better.
Music — along with Gavin and Freddy as creative partners — has made me feel like everything might work out for a change.
I’m damned if I do.
And damned if I don’t.
I wander Old Town for a while, trying to appreciate its charm. I catch a glimpse of Stygian Hart, the big and burly bearded man the kids are all afraid of because of his constant grumbling. Everything annoys him. I hear he’s a supernice guy, once you get past the hate, which few people ever have.
Seeing him, it’s like I tally up a point, as if I’m in a scavenger hunt.
Because I know this town.
And then I realize I’m playing that game Gavin and I played over dinner, trying to determine who knew whom in this delightful burg. The seed of a smile leaves my lips, and I feel terrible again.
Finally, I end up back at my apartment and dodge Lisa for a while. It’s clear she knows something happened, but I eat one of her brownies to dull the edge and pretend to play along as a pothead for a day. Turns out, the brownies are just normal brownies. This isn’t intentional. I’m pretty sure Lisa has no idea, but I don’t want to spoil things for her so I take a nap in my room.
I sleep for an hour and dream. The dream is like claws on my heart.
I get dressed then head to the Overlook with a feeling of grim duty.
I tell myself it’s all fine. Nothing has changed. We had that fight earlier, and for me, its aftertaste is bitter ashes on my tongue. I can hardly think of looking at him without feeling furious or wanting to cry — which it is will be determined, I’m sure, once I finally see him. But Gavin didn’t have a clue. Not one single tiny goddamned clue. And maybe that’s a good thing. I’ve purged some of the poison from my system; I’ve eaten enough ice cream to dampen the fire. Maybe we can pretend there was nothing. This was always just business. Of course it was. There’s no need to feel bad, or be embarrassed.
Still, I feel nervous.
I need to run into the back room to refill one of the syrup boxes feeding Terry’s soda fountain, but I don’t want to because Gavin might be back there somewhere. And I’ll bet he is, too, because he’s usually circulating well before his time onstage. I even think Danny might require performers to be on site before the place is open; I don’t know.
I war between emotion and practicality. Eventually, practicality wins, and I go to refill the stupid syrup box with a feeling of pushing through something unpleasant. I don’t run into Gavin and quickly return to work.
I need a broom. That’s in the back, too.
Eventually, I go to find one. That errand takes heroic levels of courage because while the broom is where I expect it, there’s no dustpan. I have to search hard, and it means poking into most of the backstage rooms.
But Gavin still isn’t there.
By the time the doors open, the worrier inside me is telling tales.
Is this worse than I thought? Is he maybe not as oblivious as I’ve imagined? Is it possible he feels bad enough about what’s happened that he’s hiding? Will he call in sick? He knows I’m regular staff on Fridays and Saturday nights now, meaning we’d need to face each other for two long shifts each week. Could he have possibly quit? Decided he won’t play here anymore so he doesn’t have to face me?
No, that’s paranoid and stupid. He has a career, and it’s clear the music matters a lot more than I do.
But maybe there’s another club. A better club. I don’t know of any, but it’s not something I’m up on. I know that Gavin knows Brandon Grant and Brandon works with Mason James, and everyone knows that Mason is one of the richest people in town. There might be an elite music set that Gavin has been on the cusp of all this time, and now that I’ve ruined things with my tantrums, he’s finally called in a favor.
All I know is that customers filter in and fill the seats. The first acts begin. And Gavin is nowhere to be seen.
“Terry,” I say, approaching the bartender. “Do you have the schedule for tonight?”
“Sorry,” Terry replies.
I ask a few of the waitresses. I feel déjà vu, then even more déjà vu when one or two raise their eyebrows. That kind of thing is even more obvious lately because now there’s no question whether Gavin means something to me. Everyone watched me embarrass myself that one night, singing his song. To everyone here, my stupid, naive, girlish heart is right there on my sleeve. They pity me. Poor little fool, in love with someone whom everyone wants, who clearly couldn’t care less.
But despite their annoying grins and knowing looks, I get nothing. I go to Danny, and he gives me a look that suggests I should get the hell back to my station given how packed the club is right now. I find Danny with Dimebag, arguing like a father and son.
I feel stupid asking, but I do anyway.
Where is Gavin? Is he on tonight?
But Danny seems too annoyed by Dimebag. His friendly disposition is at war with his insect-like frenetic demeanor, and he comes off like an agitated Mr. Rogers. He doesn’t want to yell at me any more than he wants to yell at Dimebag, but he’s clearly having a rough night. Maybe because Gavin should be here but isn’t; I don’t even find out before one of the other girls is grabbing my arm, pulling me back, telling me that one of my tables got rammed and all the drinks ended up in broken glass on the floor.
I clean up. I get new drinks. Miraculously, nobody gets cut feet, and that’s saying something because this is flip-flops and sandals weather. The table seems thankful rather than annoyed, but I’m so dizzy and worried, I don’t even notice Dimebag taking the stage.
Only once I’m standing beside Carla back at the bar does the noise assail me.
“Wow,” is all she says, her eyes watching Dimebag rap with an expression somewhere between pity and disgust. We’ve all seen him during the week, but to my knowledge this is the first time Dimebag’s performed on the weekend, in front of a packed crowd. Now the argument between him and Danny makes sense, as does the proprietor’s exasperated expression.
Put me in, coach! I imagine Dimebag saying to Danny. I can step up; I’m ready!
But Dimebag isn’t ready. He’ll never be ready because he’s worse than terrible. Danny keeps giving him stage time because he has a soft spot for the kid, but he’s smarter than to put Dimebag onstage when it matters. It’s hard to believe this was intended yesterday, or possibly even a few hours ago. Maybe it’s because an act failed to show, and the club had to shuffle, using the people on hand.
I look at the clock. Time has flown. It’s just after ten, and we’re in Gavin’s usual slot.
I was already aching, but this is worse. My heart sinks.
This is my fault.
Gavin is gone. He can’t face me. I fired off at him, and now he gets it. Whether he feels right or wrong inside his head, nothing changes. He left. This is Gavin’s normal time on stage, and now there’s a hideous white rapper pacing it instead.
I put my head down and keep serving. I should feel relieved, given how I felt before about having to look Gavin in the eye after this afternoon, but I don’t.
Because it’s all over.
Not just my infatuation with Gavin, but everything we’ve been building.
Have I seen Freddy around? No, I don’t think I have. Freddy doesn’t always perform on weekends, so that’s not unusual, but I’ll typically see him scuttling around in his black hoodie like an industrious beetle. The fact that I haven’t noticed him wouldn’t normally strike me, but now it feels like a knife in the chest.
No Gavin.
No Freddy.
I was a lyricist for one week. Now I’m a waitress again.
It all begins to collapse inside, with one thought riding its tails: this is my fault.
I’m so preoccupied with hurt and guilt that I don’t hear Dimebag’s set end, just as I didn’t hear it begin. There’s a lull, then it dawns on me that my ears are no longer being assaulted. The new music, once the lights go down, is softer and kinder. And I keep working, knowing that Chloe’s music, at least, won’t make me want to retch, and might even soothe me.
But Chloe’s voice must strike me as different, because all of a sudden my hypnosis pops, and I pause, drink in hand, to look at the stage.
It’s not Chloe who’s come on in the eleven o’clock slot.
It’s Gavin.
And he’s singing our song.