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Jordan
She walks away from me, her hand tucked safely in Nat's. I never thought about it until Hector said she was delicate, but there is something about her that makes me feel like she's weak. Not weak in her comebacks or her ability to stand up for herself, but there’s a crack that runs the length of her that threatens her stability.
Hector slaps my shoulder, and I know what he's going to say before he opens his mouth.
"I am not changing my mind, Hector.”
“Come on, man. It’s not a big deal.” Hector talks to me like I’m some sort of kid, but the way I cross my arms and dig my heels into the ground, I may as well be.
“It’s a big deal to me,” I reply, remembering that folder at home tucked away safely in the drawer of my brother’s desk. I got that letter a few months after Christmas. My brother pounced on my back, punching me in the arm while telling me how proud he was. I played along for a while, even believing it might be a viable option for me, and then I quietly put the folder in the drawer and left it there. I haven’t told anyone about it since. Not even Annie. I was pissed. Pissed that Hector would do that behind my back.
“Seriously though, Jordie. Think about it. You’re better than half of those pretentious jackasses.”
“And completely not interested.” My knee shakes as Hector searches for cracks in my resolve. When he doesn’t find any, he sighs.
“We’re going to be in London recording for the summer. We leave after our US tour is over in June and could use your pen, man. By the time we’re done, it will be almost time for the fall semester...” His voice trails off as my scowl deepens, and he hits my chest with both hands. “Fine, you stubborn bastard. Go. Get out of here; we have a concert to finish.”
I gladly turn and leave without any further prompting, and Sarah calls after me to make sure I’ll go for breakfast at midnight. I salute and step through the door, but I don’t move toward the club. I stand in the middle of the black hallway, letting the darkness inhale me.
Thoughts of ducking out the back door and disappearing swirl through my head, but then I remember the brightness of Evan’s eyes when she saw the band. The brightness of her eyes like stars in my eternally midnight mind. I head out to the club and spot her immediately, standing with Nat, her hand on her chest, and I wonder why she does that, like she’s physically covering her heart for no one else to see. She has this morose every time she places her palm against her hoodie, and I’m struck with the need to find out why. I have until sunrise to figure her out, and I’m determined to do it, which means I have to suck up my own problems and focus on her.
When I’m close enough, she punches my shoulder. “I can’t believe you writes songs for Lemming Garden.” She’s teasing me, and I have to search for my smile.
“Used to,” I correct her. “Used to write songs. And even then, not really. I was more like their phrase consultant.”
Evan and Nat eye me with heads cocked to the side, and their silence is uncomfortable. Nat snorts. “Has anyone ever told you you’re such an egomaniac?”
My amusement feels more genuine as the moments pass and the girls giggle uncontrollably at me. “Why is this funny?” I ask.
“What songs did you write for them? Seriously. We have to know.” The clock ticks by as I toss around options in my head.
“You’ve probably never heard it,” I say, because I don’t like the way Evan is looking at me. Like something has changed. Like she sees me differently now.
“Try me.” Nat taps her foot.
“Sugar Coated Highway,” I mumble, and they both gasp like it means something big.
“You wrote that?” Evan’s eyes are huge, and I can see her opinion of me changing. I can see her expectations shift and morph into the reason why I don’t tell strangers who I am. Why I refuse to work with Hector, why I was so pissed when he sent my work to the producer at their London studio. Why I lost it when I found out he forged my application to a poetry program there.
“That’s the first song I ever heard of theirs, like two years ago. I am in love with that song.” Evan’s expression morphs yet again into something sad, something distant, and it throws off my practiced reaction to people finding out what I’ve done.
“Then I’ve already succeeded in making you fall in love with me,” I tease her. Her nose wrinkles, and I want to kiss every squished freckle. “They must really be your favorite band because that was their demo song. I haven’t written anything for them since they signed.”
“Yeah, what’s your deal with labels anyway?” Evan takes a sip of her water as her purse starts singing. It’s a Lemming Garden song, and I laugh. She glares at me. “Shut up.”
She fishes her phone out and curses at the screen. “It’s my dad,” she says then picks up. “Hey, Dad. How was your flight...yeah, totally...I did already... promise... yes, Dad, lots of water... yep, at the hotel... oh... we were getting ice probably... yeah, Nat came with me... hotels are creepy, and they always keep those machines in dark corners... yes, Dad...uh huh... It's the TV... yup... It’s my glue. Bye.” Evan sighs, and I’m thoroughly confused.
“Glue?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.
“Nothing, it’s dumb.” Evan spins to Nat leaving me more determined to figure her out. “Nat, bathroom?”
They both act like I’m a complete intruder on their silent conversation.
“Find me?” I slowly study Evan’s face as a thousand things pass across it, but her eyes are steady on mine. She nods and turns. I grab her hand. She spins into me, and I stop her with my hands on her hips. “This doesn’t change anything, does it? There’s nothing special about me. I’m still exactly who I was before I took you back there to meet them. They’re my friends, but I’m still me. I need you to know that.”
Evan looks at my hands on her body then at my face. She leans forward and kisses me, soft and sweet, before stepping back and pinching her lips together tightly. She shakes her head so slightly I almost don’t notice it before she turns and follows Nat to the bathroom.
10:05 PM
The band has started again, and I’m leaning against the wall next to Rick who has managed to find himself a fangirl. One of the mini-skirt girls from earlier is attached to him with arms like a vice around his waist. His arms hang loose, one draped over her shoulders like he doesn’t give a shit about her. Which he doesn’t. Why does this have to be the way in relationships? The less you care, the more they cling to you. The more disinterested you act, the easier it is to get what you want.
This never used to be on my mind. Not until a few months before Annie cheated on me. We were sitting on my brother’s dusty old couch, and she sat as far away from me as possible.
“You okay?” I said, and she shrugged.
“I’m fine.” She stuck her finger in her mouth, clicking her fingernail against her teeth and hugging her knees to her chest. That was the first time I felt the coldness that would become synonymous with Annie pulling away. I didn’t worry about it at first because everyone gets in bad moods. Sometimes I wanted to disappear into nothingness and be left alone. But days of distance made me frantic for her to touch me like she used to. To kiss me hard like she used to. I was desperate to satisfy her. So desperate I got angry.
“I feel like you don’t give a shit, Annie. Why are you even with me if you can’t stand to be around me? Do me a favor and leave!” I yelled on the cold street outside of my apartment. I turned to walk away. She stopped me. She touched me. She clung to me, and I forgot everything—the weeks of fights. I forgot the threat I’d made as she whispered I love you between kisses. I forgot what strength was as she gave me what I wanted.
Connection.
We had sex that night. My first time. She cheated on me a couple weeks later.
“So did the girls run away or what?” Rick nudges me, and I lower my head, not even realizing I was staring up at the ceiling. “Or now that you introduced them to the band they have no need for you anymore?” Rick jokes, and the girl he has his arm around traps me in laser focus.
“You know that band?” Her eyes become greedy, embodying my every reason for not staying on with Lemming Garden.
I push off the wall and nod at Rick. “Rick knows the band, too. He didn’t tell you?” I flip off my friend as soon as the girl has turned away from me, and Rick glares. He’ll never get rid of her now.
I wander across the bar to stand at the edge of the crowd. The music weaves through the bodies packed into the tight space and washes over me. It’s a slow tune, one that deserves the stillness of the crowd. I do miss songwriting a bit when I stand still and absorb. To have sounds put to my words to enhance their meaning is pretty surreal. I was pumped when Hector told me the producer liked their demo. He told me at a show, in some dive-bar filled with college kids who had no idea they were idolizing a bunch of high-schoolers. Hector and I were barely sixteen. Nate was seventeen. Sarah, Steve, and John were eighteen. But I’m not sixteen anymore, and I don’t get that puffy-chest pride in telling people what I write.
But Hector’s right; I am a purist. I love words alone. I love the sound of them, the feel of them, the way they roll around inside my head and fall from my tongue like a gumball machine. The way they press through my teeth, leak through the black ink of my pen. They’re mine. The words. I own them and mold them and live through them. I don’t like sharing them with anyone I don’t love. I don’t trust the world to understand them. I don’t trust—
A hand slides into mine. The steady calm that always follows her touch mixes with the music, and my shoulders relax. I didn’t even realize I was tense. I squeeze Evan’s fingers as she uses her free hand to tug the pen from the cap around my neck. She writes on her palm before smiling and holding up her arm. There’s a little heart drawn in the center and one word above and one word below.
Nothing’s changed
She clicks the pen in the cap and slips her hand back inside mine. I mean to focus on the stage, but I can’t. I take in the slant of her nose and how it wrinkles as she lifts her chin to see the band better. I can’t stop staring the way her lips move to words of the song. She’s not singing out loud—she’s speaking them to herself—as she raises on her toes to get a better angle. She’s keeping them to herself. She’s owning them. She’s owning me, thoughts of Annie completely out of my head. I take a good, long, deep breath. Having Evan dominate my thoughts is different, clearer, a light soothing mist that hovers in my mind. I can see through it. I’m able to see myself in there somewhere.
“Hey, you want up?” I point to my shoulders, and the confusion on Evan’s features smooth out into realization. She shakes her head. “Why not? You can’t see. We can get to the front or you can hop on.”
“You couldn’t lift me,” she says, leaning close to yell over the music. I lean back and play it off like I’m offended. “No, I mean—”
I stop her by squeezing her hand again. “Don’t. Don’t be a ridiculous girl right now. Trust me, I can lift you.” I crouch down, and she takes a moment before she steps over me and sits on my shoulders. I lace my fingers through hers so we’re palm to palm and stand up. She tenses as she rises up, and Nat watches intently, like a mother concerned her kid’s gone too high on the playground. I remove my hands from Evan’s and grip her thighs to steady her weight. To balance her. To support her.
She takes my hat from my head and puts it on. She gazes down, smiling. I feel like I could actually fall in love with that smile. For real.
10:45 PM
The last song of the show, Hector steps up to the mic, steadying his cello in his hand. “Thanks for coming out to our show, Philly. You know we love you. We have one more tune left and want to dedicate it to Evan. For your safe trip home, Sweetheart.” Hector winks, and my heart implodes inside my chest, and then sucked into its own tiny black hole.
Evan taps my head and points down, so I squat until she can hop off. I roll my stiff shoulders and stretch out my back, mostly to avoid having to look at her as the first sounds of the song solidifies that sinking inside my chest. The band starts to play the only song I’ve ever written for them in full. Evan stares with sad eyes. Her breathing is labored, and her hand is over her chest.
“Did you ask them to do this?” Her voice is tight, and I’m unsure why. Why would she be upset that her favorite song is being dedicated to her personally? Although, I know why I’m upset about it.
“I didn’t.”
Leaning against my chest, Evan tilts her head to as if double-checking that I am not behind the song dedication. I wrap my arms around her shoulders, but she moves them to her waist. The way she absorbs the song, and I can almost feel her feeling it. I’m uncomfortable so I focus on the floor while my own words are sung back at me.
Cracked broken heartache
A crevasse in my soul
Caramel apple syrup
used to fill out all the holes
Glue my feet to the pavement
I watch you slip away
sticky sweet promises
Along a sugar-coated highway
“I can’t believe you wrote this song,” She says, and I shrug.
“I was fifteen when I wrote this.” I brush it off because it’s the last thing I want to talk about.
“I was fifteen when I heard it,” Evan states, and her expression goes to that sad place again. “It saved my life, Jordan.”