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Three days later, Dante sat in his studio, strumming on his guitar, a Gibson Les Paul. A stunning blue lacquer beauty he called Cara, a nod to his late, beloved Italian grandmother, an opera singer, it bore a gorgeously figured top, pearl block inlays, and bound split-diamond headstock...all marketing words meaning it kicked some royal ass.
It had a tiny, silly cluster of hearts painted on the head between the pegs, courtesy of Madeline, taunting him to feel something, anything, besides the numb block of ice in his chest cavity. I’m trying, Maddy. I’m trying. He’d been working on a new song, ever since he saw Kennedy. What a cliché. Rockstar meets girl, pours out his heart in a song. Girl never calls, making it a sorrowful, minor-key majesty.
The chords came out wrong, his fingers fumbled with the frets, and he wanted to hurl the fucking guitar out the window. Only what a waste that would be. He’d be throwing over $6K away. His father would shit a brick at his total disregard of a solid investment.
The door to the soundproof room flew open, and Gia dragged in, looking like she’d been on a three-day bender. “Fuck me,” she mumbled. Her eyes were lined with dark circles, floating in her pale, grayish skin. “Why’d you have to call practice so early?”
“One in the afternoon isn’t early,” Dante practically yelled at her.
“Good fucking morning to you, too.” She sauntered across the room, picked up the constantly brewing coffee pot, and poured a mugful. Positioning her back to him, she reached in the cupboard, retrieved a glass bottle and poured a swig in her cup.
“Think I can’t see what you’re doing?”
“Merely hoped,” she said, taking a swallow. “Don’t need a lecture.”
“You’re killing yourself,” Dante muttered.
“And I’m mine to kill, not yours.”
“That’s a bullshit statement, and you know it. People care about you, Gia.”
She shrugged. “They’re not fighting my demons, so they can all shove it and mind their own business.” She chugged the entire mug, poured another, sans alcohol, and wandered to her drum kit. “Where’s Beavis and Butthead? Why aren’t they here yet?”
“Probably the same reason you’re late. Hungover, wasted and miserable.”
“Why, thank you for that assessment, oh, great leader. What’s got your ass in a sling? That Kennedy chick? You sure were acting goofy around her the other night. Never seen you in such a twist. Except for...”
“Don’t say her name. Please. I need to move on.”
“Oh, come on. If you truly wanted to move on, you’d paint over those stupid little hearts on your guitar, throw out the pictures you have all over your apartment and fucking let Madeline go. This place is a fucking shrine to her. I mean it, D. She’s been gone for well over two years. Move on. Make room for the new and fucking move on.”
Dante gave her a pained glare. “Yeah, you’re probably right. And yeah, I’m in a twist over Kennedy. I gave her control. I gave her my number and told her I’d let her make the first move. The second biggest mistake of my life.”
Gia let out a long, low whistle. “Damn, D. That’s serious. Sweet, but serious. I can see why you’re in a mood warp. What was the first mistake?”
“Letting her get away when I had a chance.”
Gia got up from her seat, strode to where he sat, and wrapped her arms around his head and shoulders, kissing his hair.
Dante returned the hug with one arm, his other balancing the guitar in his lap. “Thanks, Gia. You’re a sweet friend.”
“You got half right. I’m definitely your friend, but sweet, I ain’t.” She strode back to her drum kit, as the door burst open, and Heat and Keys stumbled in.
“Trying to punish us?” Heat asked. “We were both sandwiched between two fine shorties a couple hours ago. The only reason we dragged our asses out of bed was one of them began ragging at us to get out of her house before her boyfriend came home.”
“Maybe he did us a favor, Heat,” Keys said, yawning. “Don’t need a run in with a pissed off boyfriend.”
“You’re probably right,” Heat said.
The two males helped themselves to coffee before striding to their instruments.
“What shall we do today?” Heat asked.
“Let’s start with Wet,” Dante said, something he’d like to explore with Kennedy, in exactly the same manner as when he wrote the song. Why didn’t she call? Chicken?
Hours passed as they rehearsed song after song, making alterations here and there, playing to perfection. Two pizzas, an order of Chinese take-out and many beers later, they decided to call it a day.
“Let’s catch some rest then head back to Crow & Wicket,” Heat said, yawning. “Didn’t get much shut-eye last night.”
“You go,” Dante said. “I’ve got shit to deal with here.”
They all seemed to raise their eyebrows in unison.
“Don’t wallow, D,” Gia said.
“Not wallowing. Taking care of business, like you suggested.”
She nodded at him knowingly, then sauntered out the studio door with the two guys.
After they left, Dante strode into the living area of his penthouse apartment. The apartment wasn’t the biggest on the block, but it gave him spectacular views of the city, like right now. The sun made its sultry descent into early evening, casting a gorgeous wash of gold across the skyline. Dante turned away from the window and looked around the room.
A chrome and leather designer wonder, worthy of Architecture Digest, he could look out his windows from on high and feel remote from the chaos and drama on the streets of New York City, one of the most vibrant cities he’d ever walked. He loved the way he could be quiet or loud in his lofty perch, like an eagle, removed from city life.
Then an elevator away, he’d set foot on the sidewalk, plugged into the hustle and flow that vibrated all around him on the streets and in the buildings of Manhattan.
His eyes swept the walls and tables, all adorned with pictures of Madeline. He picked up his favorite, the one of him and Maddy at the top of the Empire State Building days before her death. “We looked so happy. You seemed like you’d conquered your addiction. I really thought you had it licked.” Twelve days, thirteen hours and forty-two minutes later, she overdosed in some sleaze bag, junkie apartment, rat hole complex. Dante wanted to die by her side, caught up in some maudlin Romeo and Juliet moment. He’d been utterly devastated.
He wandered into the kitchen, opening the pantry door in search of a garbage bag. Pulling one out of the box, he made a ritual of picking up a picture, kissing it goodbye, and placing it gently in the bag, frame and all. When finished, he made his way into the bedroom and repeated the process until every damn reminder of her lay in the bag. He got a little choked up when the last photo made its way between the sheets of plastic, his heart beginning to crack. “Don’t quit now,” he advised. “Keep going.”
An idea came to him. “Maybe Damien can help me. Think he’ll go for it?” he muttered. “May as well see.”
He pressed the button to the elevator in his private lobby and took it down to the first floor. There, he strode purposefully toward the doorman, a friendly older man named George White.
“Hey, George.”
“Mr. Vega,” George replied. “How are you this evening?”
“Lighter than I was a couple hours ago.” He held the plastic bag high. “This is a heavy load.”
“Housecleaning?” George asked, holding wide the door.
Dante sputtered a laugh. “You could say that.”
“Taxi?”
“I’ve got it, don’t worry.”
Inside the cab, the plastic bag full of memories by his side, he kept staring at his phone, wishing he could telepath Kennedy to call. Did I spook her? Come on too strong? Gia had it right. He’d been a brain-dead, hormone-crazed idiot around Kennedy. He typed her number into the display, murmuring, “She’s not stupid. She had to know I’d clock her number, right?”
“Excuse me, sir?” The cab driver’s eyes met his in the rearview.
“Nothing. I’m only talking to myself.” Sighing deeply, he switched screens so he could no longer view the tempting digits, pocketed the phone for the thousandth time, and stared out the window, watching the world go by.
Forty minutes later, he stepped from the cab, paid the driver and strode toward the plain brownstone building in the outer borough where his brother lived. He took the steps two at a time, holding the bag of photos in both arms like a precious bundle. At the top, he pressed the buzzer for number two-o-nine and waited.
“Dant!” His brother’s voice burst through the speaker. “Come up, Dant!”
“Hold on, Damien,” another voice said. “Are you Damien’s brother?”
Dante turned his face toward the tiny camera lens. “That’s me.”
“Let him in, let him in,” Damien said, excitedly.
“Okay, okay,” the male voice said.
The buzz of entry sounded, and Dante swung open the door, entering the clean, worn lobby.
Pounding footsteps echoed, and a few minutes later Damien appeared, breathless. “Come up, Dant. Come up.”
“Give me a hug, first.”
Damien jumped from the third stair, rushed to where Dante stood and hugged him briefly. “Come up, Dant,” he repeated. “Where’s Madeline?”
“She’s in here.” Dante lifted the glossy brown bag.
Damien frowned. “You have Madeline in the sack? Can she breathe in there?”
“She’s all right. You’re going to help me say goodbye to her.”
“Is she going on a trip?”
“Yes,” Dante said, following his brother up the stairs. “She’s going far, far away.”
“Will we ever see her again?”
“No, buddy. We’ll never see her again.”
Damien twisted around to look at Dante, pain, and bewilderment in his eyes. “Don’t we like her anymore?”
“We still love her, buddy. We love her a lot. We’re doing her a favor in letting her go.” A lump formed in Dante’s throat. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
A look of determination fell over Damien’s face. “Okay. As long as we still love her, we can say good-bye.”
“Good man,” Dante said, nodding.
Damien pushed open the door to his apartment. “This is where I live. Me and Sam. Ben lives with us, too, but only during the day. Fred sleeps here and fixes us breakfast.”
“Cool place, Dami,” Dante said, his eyes scanning the functional-looking room. Same as the lobby, everything looked a little worn, but clean. A brown corduroy sofa backed against the wall. Next to it sat two sturdy, cloth-covered recliners. A picture of a pasture hung over the couch. Two closed doors stood opposite the sofa. In the corner sat a small kitchenette, complete with white refrigerator, a two burner stove and a tiny oven. The countertop consisted of gray-flecked laminate.
“Thanks. It’s not Mom’s, but it’s okay. That’s my room.” He pointed to one of the doors. “That’s where Sam and I sleep. Sam’s at work. The other door is the office. Ben’s in there. He’s on the phone. He got a phone call right after we buzzed you up.”
“Got it. Let me see your room.”
Damien swiftly made his way to his door and opened it wide. “Two beds. Two dressers. Two closets. One of each.”
“I see that,” Dante said, striding closer to peer inside. He stood in the doorway and studied the well-made beds and tidy space. At his parents’, his brother never kept his room, or his environment clean. His dad had constantly berated his mother for not insisting Damien clean his room. His mother had volleyed her complaints about how she tried, and nothing worked and “why aren’t you around to help?”
“That’s my bed,” Damien said, pointing to the twin bed on the right. A small window overlooked the bed. “The other one is Sam’s.”
“Uh huh. You sure keep it clean.”
“Yeah.” Damien rolled his eyes. “I don’t clean it, no video games. I keep it clean, and I get an hour each night.”
“Motivation. It seems to work,” Dante said.
The office door opened and a short, portly man stepped out. He wore round, wire-rimmed glasses, making his face look even rounder. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat. The sun beat a direct path into his office window, making one last stand before it headed toward the skyline. “Sorry I didn’t greet you earlier. I got a call.”
“No problem.” Dante set the bag on the floor and reached out his hand. “Dante Vega. Sorry I haven’t been here to see him sooner. I’ve been traveling.”
“Ben Steinhauer. We understand.” He shook Dante’s hand with a firm, efficient grip. “Damien keeps us in the loop on your whereabouts. He adores you.”
Dante grinned at his brother. “It’s mutual.”
“Congratulations on playing the Garden. That must be a big deal for you.”
“Huge. Huge deal. First, Grammys. Now, this. I have to pinch myself sometimes.”
“I can imagine. So, are you just here to visit or did you want to go out with your brother?”
“Actually...” Dante glanced at his brother and back to Ben. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Sure. Come on into my office.”
“Dami, this will only take a minute. I need to talk to Ben about where we need to put Madeline.”
Damien frowned. “I thought you said she was going away. Doesn’t she know where to put herself?”
“Yeah. Yes, she does. You’re right. This will be quick.”
“Okay,” said Damien. “I’ll be in here.” He pointed at his bed.
“I’ll be there in a second.” Dante followed Ben into the small office. A desk dominated the room with barely enough space for an office chair and a couple of chairs opposite the desk for visitors.
Ben settled at the desk and gestured for Dante to take a seat. “What can I do for you?”
“I had an idea. Damien’s therapists all urge us to try and help him with the memories he fixates on through some sort of practical means. You know, like drawing maps and diagrams, putting the past in boxes and drawing lines to the now? I’m struggling here with terminology.” He ran his hand through his hair.
“It’s okay, I know what you mean.”
“Okay, good.” Dante swallowed, realizing his mouth had become dry. He lowered his voice. “My girlfriend died a couple years ago. Overdosed. It happened about the same time Damien took a blow to the head. He loved her. He’s still stuck back there. Has no recollection of her passing. Every time I see him he asks about her. I, well...” Dante forced back the lump in his throat. “I need to move on. Let her go. I brought over every picture of her I own. I thought maybe if we...if Damien could help me take the pictures out of the frames, and we could do something with them...I don’t know. Something. Anything. I told him she’s going away and we’ll never see her again and we won’t since I don't have any more pictures of her.” He let out a small, wild laugh, feeling somewhat out of control.
Ben folded his hands on the desk and regarded Dante with kind eyes. “It’s a good idea. It’s worth a shot. I’m here for a couple more hours, so if anything goes amiss, I’ll be here.”
Dante nodded. “And then, you can...well, you want a dozen frames?” He laughed again.
“I’m sure we can put them to good use.” Ben smiled warmly.
“Okay. All right. Here goes,” said Dante, getting to his feet. “Let’s get this over with.”
“You’re doing the right thing, son. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Dante wasn’t so sure. But at least it would get Madeline out of his line of sight on a daily basis. Maybe, eventually, he’d have someone to replace her in his heart. He still hoped it would be Kennedy Swift.
