Ten

Felix

Jenna calls around ten o’clock, after my dad has already gone to bed, but before I stop hearing the moaning from his porn. I’m thinking of buying him some headphones for his birthday.

“Hey,” I say. I settle into the pull-out couch. It’s a piece of furniture Dad clearly bought for looks over comfort—the mattress is way too thin and the metal bar jams into my back while I sleep. But considering he fronted three stints of rehab and still offered me a place to stay, I’m not inclined to complain about his furniture choices.

“Hey, yourself,” she says back. “Just so you know, at some point in this conversation, I may need to shout, we’ve been had! and flush the phone down the toilet.”

I smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Especially while I worry that Alec is listening to our every word through the door.”

“I can put you on speaker. You could ask him yourself.”

An intense wave of jealousy rushes over me. I don’t want it to—it won’t help anything—but it tears me up that he gets to be there with her and I don’t.

“I’m kidding,” Jenna says. “He and Ty are both in bed, so I’m hiding out downstairs. The steps creak, so I’ll have plenty of warning if one of them is coming.”

I bite back a comment about the warning I’ll give her myself. Even though I’m pretty sure she was thinking the same thing as me back at the studio, I’m nervous as hell I’m going to mess this all up somehow.

Things are complicated enough as it is.

“So,” she says. “What did you think about practice?”

I groan. “I thought I sucked.”

“You didn’t. You’re a brilliant musician. We just need to practice.”

“It’s the sound, I think. I’m fine playing the songs by myself, but when I try to blend with you guys—it’s like I’m an orchestral cellist trying to play with a rock band or something.”

“Yeah,” Jenna says. “There’s a shock.”

I’ve played rock songs on my cello almost all my life, but rarely with other people, and when I did, it was always other classical musicians. I close my eyes. “I hate it when I’m not perfect.”

“And are you usually?”

Yes, I want to say. And once, years ago, it was true. “You really don’t want to hear this,” I say.

“As it turns out, I want to hear everything about you,” she says. And while there’s a hint of teasing in her voice, I can tell she means it.

My heart flutters. I can’t argue with that.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve never auditioned for a part I didn’t get.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Everybody warned me about it when I went off to Juilliard. I had to fail sometime, you know? Things would be a lot more competitive in New York. And they were.”

“But you were still the best.”

“No,” I say. “But I never auditioned for anything I wasn’t confident I could get. I would practice for hours and hours, stuff I knew, stuff I could do in my sleep. And not just at Juilliard. Before that, too. Because I had to be the best.”

“Did you do that for your audition with us?”

“No. It was different. You asked for music that I loved.”

“Ah,” she says. “So you’re not a fan of classical? Because that’s odd, for a cellist. Even Mason started in orchestra.”

“I didn’t say that. The third piece I played for you—the Shostakovich? That was classical.”

“I thought it was, but I didn’t recognize it.” She pauses. “To be fair, I didn’t recognize the first song, either.”

“The Meat Puppets,” I say. “‘Head.’”

“Right. That.”

“At least you got ‘Under the Bridge.’”

She makes a little sound like a verbal wince. “It sounded familiar.”

I bury myself under the crocheted afghan on Dad’s couch. “You’re a pop star. You cannot tell me you don’t listen to music.”

“I do,” she says. “I just don’t like classical. And I don’t know the Meat Puppets.”

I pull the blanket up over my head and pretend I’m mortally wounded. If Dad hears my death throes, he’ll probably just assume I’m doing the same thing he is.

“Um, Felix?” Jenna says. “Did I just murder you?”

“Close. But I might pull through.”

“Because I don’t like classical? Or classic rock?”

“Yep.” I make my voice sound hoarse. “That was the death blow.”

“Oh, shut up,” she says with a laugh.

I drop the act. “The Meat Puppets, for your edification, played with Kurt Cobain for his MTV Unplugged in New York album. He sang their song ‘Plateau,’ which should be required listening for anyone with a career in music. Probably a career at all.”

“Wow, you’re serious about this.”

I’m aware I’m ranting, and probably giving her serious second thoughts about ever having kissed me. But I can’t stop. “And if you don’t like classical, it’s because you haven’t heard enough of it.”

“Maybe,” Jenna says.

“You sound doubtful. No, you sound like a mom, like, maybe we’ll buy candy while we’re at the store, but really you’re just hoping they forget.”

“I am that mom.”

“Well, I’m not going to forget.”

“Neither does Ty,” she says. “Classical music is just—it’s like those books I had to read in high school.”

“Okay, sure, some of them. But didn’t you read even one book in high school you liked?”

Jenna pauses.

I’m incredulous. “I can name several offhand, the top of the list being Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried.”

“I didn’t read that,” Jenna says. “Come to think of it, I don’t think I ever actually read any of the books I was supposed to read in high school. I wasn’t exactly a model student.”

I make another noise like I’ve just been murdered. “You are comparing classical music, my first love, to books you didn’t read in high school? That’s it. Challenge accepted. I’m going to teach you to love it.”

“Yeah, all right,” Jenna says, probably mostly to appease me. “I’m sure I could learn to appreciate it.”

I groan again. “People say that about music they think they ought to like but don’t. You’re not supposed to appreciate music. When you love it, it appreciates you.”

Jenna laughs. “That sounded like it was supposed to be deep. But I don’t think it made sense.”

“Yeah, well,” I say. “I’m the guy who suggested that we should have emotional intimacy instead of sex, so you get what you paid for.”

“Ha, yes,” Jenna says. “And what does that make us again? We’re not dating. We’re emotional . . . intimators?”

I laugh. “That has an interesting ring to it.” Then the words settle in my mind, the words for what I hope we are, and I can barely breathe.

“You’re quiet all of a sudden,” she says.

She’s right. It’s a heavy quiet. One pressed down with things I’m afraid to say, afraid to even think. I change the subject. “So are you worried I’m going to mess up the performance?”

“No,” she says. “Are you?”

“I’m nervous. That’s also new.”

“You never get nervous before a performance?”

“I never used to,” I say. “I’m a cocky bastard. What can I say?”

“Yes, well. I noticed that.”

“The scariest gig I’ve ever had is the first day I played the street. In a concert hall, you know what’s expected of you. The culture is rigid. Everyone knows exactly when to clap, when to bow, when to stand, when to sit. People are there because they’ve bought tickets and they want to hear you play, excellently, exactly what’s in the program. It’s all very . . . structured.”

“Okay, yeah,” Jenna says. “More so than our concerts, even.”

“Definitely. On the street, people are there for a lot of reasons, but you can bet it isn’t to listen to you. You’re hoping to give them something they aren’t expecting, something that makes them want to give back to you. But I had no idea if anyone would pay me to play, and even less idea of whose territory I might be stepping on, which norms I might be breaking.”

“Why’d you do it?”

I hesitate. I want to tell her the truth, not just what I want to believe is true.

“Because I did the structured, good, and expected things until I was nineteen years old. And it took me places I never want to be again.” I pause. “And because when I stopped, everything got scary, so what was one more thing, you know?”

“And look where it got you,” Jenna says.

I smile. “Feels pretty good. But it’d be a lot better if you were here.” I feel that deep ache again of wanting to hold her close to me—to be back at that Ramada with her tucked under my arm, her head on my shoulder and her body pressed alongside mine.

“Crashing with your family.”

I laugh. “Okay, less that. But hiding out on your couch hoping Alec and your kid don’t catch us doesn’t seem like a picnic either.”

“Maybe not,” she says. “Though Ty would be happy I’m talking to you. He likes you.”

“And I like him,” I say. She’s quiet for a moment, and I wonder if that was the wrong thing to say. I don’t want to insert myself into her life in ways I’m not welcome. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” she says quickly. “I guess I’m just nervous about giving him false expectations. With things being so . . . uncertain.”

“That’s fair. Do you want me to discourage him? I don’t like the idea of ignoring him, but I could if you—”

“No, nothing like that. I’m just overprotective, I guess. He and Mason were friends. I even left Ty with him a couple of times, but then I found out later that Mason was high when he watched him. I’m pretty sure he even did drugs at our house.”

I sink down into the couch cushions. The gaping pit in my stomach is back. I want to tell her the truth, but this isn’t the moment. Besides which, I’m terrified. It seems like my opportunity to say, “Hey Jenna, by the way, I’m about five minutes out of rehab” passed me by long ago, but at the same time, I’m not sure when that could have been because it’s only been a few days.

“You don’t have to worry about that with me,” I manage. “Like I said, you can test me anytime.”

“I know,” Jenna’s voice is quiet. “Sorry, I don’t mean to put that stuff on you. And it’s not like I’m asking you to watch Ty. I’m sure that’s the last thing you want to be doing.”

She sounds sad, and I think back to us talking about Jerry Maguire, how she’d been so sure I wouldn’t want to date someone with a kid.

“I wouldn’t mind,” I say. “I mean, I’m sure you have plenty of people more qualified to do so, but—”

“Ha,” Jenna says. “I was a mom at fifteen. Sometimes I’m not sure I’m qualified.”

“That’s not true. You’re a good mom.”

“Who leaves her kid with her drug-addict friend.”

“Who trusted someone who it turned out was lying. Welcome to the world, Jenna. That happens to everybody.”

She doesn’t speak for a moment, and I realize how much I mean it. She is a good mother. I can tell by how much she worries about being a bad one.

“Four years ago my son barely knew me,” she says. “My parents were raising him—them and Rachel, who was only seventeen at the time. Mostly I wasn’t even living with them.”

There’s a harshness to her voice, a judgment she’s passing on herself. And while I do that, too, I still hate hearing it from her. “Where were you living?” I ask.

“With guys, mostly. Boyfriends, sometimes. I was a mom with a four-year-old son, and I was out partying and drinking and—”

She takes a sharp breath, like there’s more. I can tell there’s something she’s deeply ashamed of, and I’m afraid to ask. I’m still not telling her everything about my past. I have no right to ask for everything about hers.

But I can’t help but wonder. “Was it drugs?”

Jenna sighs. “That was part of it. I did a lot of pills at parties. I prided myself on being up for anything, so half the time I didn’t even know what I was taking. I don’t remember a lot of that.”

My breath catches. “You don’t remember because guys drugged you.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I mean, I knew what was happening. I took the drugs. It’s not like they made me. But sometimes I’d wake up and not know who I was with.” Her voice grows quiet. “Or how many.”

This sick feeling settles over me. Sometimes when I was high, days would pass and I wouldn’t really be able to account for them, but nothing ever happened to me like that. But I know how much worse it is for women—I got drugs from a lot of girls who were looking for a partner to get high with, someone they knew who would be by their side, making them that much less vulnerable to asshole guys taking advantage of them.

She told me before about the frat guys, about the statutory rape. I want to use that word now to describe this, but if she isn’t ready to hear it, I’m afraid it will just shut her down. I take too long to figure out what I should say, and she continues. “I get it if that changes your mind about me.”

“What?” I say. “No, no way. And I still think you’re a good mom. God, to have gone from places like that to having the relationship you guys have now—it’s really impressive, you know?”

“I don’t know about that. The way I let them treat me—I wish I could just go back to the girl I was and shake her, you know? She had this amazing kid who needed her and a family who loved her and everything in the world going for her.”

“I was that person once, too,” I say. “Minus the kid. And I hate myself for it.”

“Really? I mean, you said you partied, but you were in college, right? Practically everyone does that.”

The part of me that wants to rationalize screams that she doesn’t need to know. I’m not on drugs, and I’m not going to be on drugs. It’s the same part of me that wants to rationalize going by the houses of some of my old friends, just to see how they’re doing.

I know how that will end up, and it’s not pretty.

“I’m going to tell you something,” I say. “I’m not ready to get into all the details yet.”

“Okay.” Jenna sounds nervous, and the longer it takes me to get this out, the worse that’s going to get.

“I used to do drugs.”

She’s silent, and my mind reels. After what happened to her with Mason, this is the end. It has to be.

“Is that it?” she says. “Because yeah. I used to do drugs, too.”

“No. I mean, yes, that’s it, but you don’t understand.” I take a deep breath. “I did heroin.”

“I’ve heard that’s intense.”

“It was. And I did things on drugs I’m not proud of. I got kicked out of school, and I gave my family hell.”

“I know what that feels like,” Jenna says.

She doesn’t. She can’t. But it feels so good to hear her empathizing with me instead of rejecting me that I tell myself it’s enough for now.

“You’re sure that’s not a deal breaker?” I ask. “I’m not on drugs now, and I’m not going to be. You can test me every week if you want to.”

“No. I’d be a total hypocrite to judge you for that, after everything I’ve done.”

A wave of relief crashes over me. I can let the story come out slowly. I don’t have to bare my soul overnight, and I don’t have to lie to her, either.

For the first time, I let myself think about telling her everything. If I could be sure she wouldn’t hate me, I’d do it right now.

“So you’re sure my stuff isn’t a deal breaker for you?” she asks.

“Of course not,” I say. “We’ve both done stuff we’re not proud of, but . . . god, no. Not a deal breaker. Not even close.”

There’s a pause, and I wonder if I should say it again, say it stronger somehow so she gets that I wouldn’t judge her for any of that. Not like I do the guys who did that to her.

“The worst part is, I don’t really know why I did it,” she says, softly. “Any of it. It’s like there’s some part of me that’s so broken I just needed someone to need me, but god, I shouldn’t have wanted anyone to show it like . . . like they did.”

There’s even more behind those words, more darkness she’s not telling me, and it makes me furious to contemplate the kinds of things she might have been subjected to. But I don’t think telling her that will help her any.

There is, however, something that just might.

“I need you,” I say. The simple truth of those words stun me. I’ve spent so much of my life not ever thinking I needed anyone, not really.

Her breath catches, but then, as if she can’t let herself believe my words, she scoffs. “Yeah, I’m so sure you need all of this dumped on you by some crazy girl who makes your life more difficult.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I do. And I think you need it, too.”

She’s quiet for a moment, but then her voice is softer. “I do,” she says. “So, my emotional intimator. What the hell are we going to do?”

I know she’s talking about the future, but for now, that’s a question without an answer. “For starters,” I say, “I’m going to keep you on the phone for at least another hour. Maybe two. And at some point in there, you’re going to tell me how you got insanely good at pie-making.”

“Mmmm, okay,” she says, the smile evident in her tone. “I think I can live with that.”

I curl up, hugging my pillow. Wishing it was her. “Me, too.”