Breaking Giants, page 11
“I’m addicted to you, Julian,” I say, looking at him.
His eyes widen, then narrow, dark with promises of his body over mine. I clear my throat and take a cautious step back.
“What do they say in recovery? Something about the only cure being total abstinence?” He nods slowly, and I swallow. “We both know this is going nowhere. I have to get over you. And to do that I need to get away from you.”
He takes another step, and my spine hits the front door. I clutch the knob in my hand, ready to turn and bolt.
“And if I ended things with Missy?” he asks softly, tensely. “What then, Rose?”
I laugh humorlessly. “And started dating your lead guitarist’s fake ex-girlfriend?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t care about that.”
Another step. He’s close enough now that I can see his pulse hammering in his throat, racing to catch mine. And his eyes… ah, I can’t even meet them, the look in them is so raw. And I know the question he’s going to ask before he asks it.
“Would you be able to handle me being an addict like your mother? The fear that will always linger in the back of your mind? The fear that I’ll drink again?” His head bends toward mine, lips grazing my ear as he whispers, “Or is all you really want to fuck me and get me out of your system? Because there’s a bedroom ten feet away and I’m ready to go. That’s all it has to be.”
If there’s a feeling more profound than shock, that’s what slices through me at his words. Or maybe it hurts so much because it’s a cocktail of shock-disgust-arousal.
Disgust wins.
“You’re a real piece of work,” I snarl, then tear open the front door and run down the driveway.
I don’t look back, don’t see if he follows, just jump in my car and get the hell out of there.
14
brace yourselves
Could I? Could I be with an addict, even a recovering one? I don’t know.
I don’t fucking know.
When I drive into the cemetery parking lot, I don’t question why my brain and body brought me here. I simply park and walk on autopilot to the gravesite I’ve only visited once, at thirteen years old, when the bodies were put into the ground.
Patrick and Grace Cunningham
they loved music
their daughter
and each other.
It’s been over fourteen years since I threw the first handful of wet earth into their graves, and the ground shows no sign of its long ago invasion. Crisp, mown grass covers the space before the massive headstone. There are several vases of whimsically arranged, partially wilted wildflowers resting at the stone’s base; I easily recognize Aunt Katherine’s handiwork.
‘Find your mother! Find her, Rose!’
What if I had? What if I’d woken at the first ring of the house phone and answered? Would I have been able to reach my mother in time? Would I have dialed 911? Would paramedics have been able to shock her heart back to life?
I’ll never know.
One evening when I was seventeen, Aunt Katherine, drunk on wine and sad, had told me she’d dialed 911 herself when no one answered at our house the first time. But the dispatcher wouldn’t send an ambulance because in her terror, Katherine hadn’t thought to lie—she’d told the dispatcher she’d dreamed her twin’s death.
I know she carries that guilt with her, just as I carry mine for not waking up sooner and answering the phone.
And my father… I’ll never know, either, exactly what happened. What he was thinking. Why he carried my mother’s unconscious body to his car and started the engine with the garage door closed.
The coroner reported no alcohol or drugs in his system, but he did have a sizable bump on his head. Blood was found on a corner of the kitchen counter. It was determined he’d fallen while carrying my mother and suffered a concussion, and once in the car, had passed out before he could open the garage.
Why hadn’t he called 911? Was it because my mother was already dead? Did he really pass out or was the thought of living without her too much?
I’ve mostly comes to terms with the fact that the answers to these questions will never surface. But sometimes, like today, the old scars burn.
When I feel a presence beside me, and smell Aunt Katherine’s perfume, I’m not the least bit surprised.
“Let me guess, the spirits told you where I was.”
She chuckles softly. “No, actually. I come every Wednesday around this time.”
I then notice the fresh flowers in her hands. Blinking my dry eyes into focus on her face, I ask, “Can I help?”
She smiles softly, her own eyes glistening, and hands me a bouquet.
Afterward, we sit for a while against the sun-warmed back of the headstone. I don’t feel any pressure to speak and neither does she. We sit with our eyes closed, faces tilted to the sunlight. The silence is encompassing and restorative. Or maybe it’s being close to my parents—the memory of them—and finally being able to admit that the inscription is true.
They loved music and each other.
And me.
In time, Katherine stirs and invites me home with her. I follow in my car, and we spent the rest of the afternoon in her small backyard drinking lemonade and playing a raucous game of croquet. And when the sun dips low, sending chills along my sunburned shoulders, we head inside to make linguini and salad.
We eat by candlelight, talking and laughing about nothing, though with the darkness a new awareness rises. That old scar flares, itching with painless heat.
Setting down my fork, I finally ask my psychic aunt the question that haunts me the most. “Did he commit suicide?”
Katherine lowers her glass of wine to the table. “No, Rosie. No. He merely panicked and was trying to get her to the hospital. He slipped in the kitchen and knocked himself out. When he came to, Grace was… she was gone. He couldn’t accept it and got her into the car. Her seatbelt was on.”
She frowns, staring into a world only she can see. Tears fill her eyes and she blinks; they roll silently down her cheeks. “He fought to stay conscious and got the car started. He was thinking of you. That he couldn't let you lose your mother.”
The old scar splits open.
I sob.
For a long time.
Hours, it feels like.
Katherine helps me to the living room couch and holds me the entire time. Rocking me, murmuring, singing… all the things a mother does for her hurt child. Things my mother did for me when I was small. Before she started using. Before she disappeared into her addiction. Before the screaming fights, and the affairs, and the week-long disappearances.
“Let it all out,” whispers Katherine.
And I do.
♫
My schedule at Tullamore rotates weekly, but very rarely do I work an opening shift. I’m not what you’d call a morning person. But Owen has a doctor’s appointment Thursday morning, so my alarm jolts me awake at the ungodly hour of four-thirty after a few restless hours of sleep.
Stumbling around in the near-dark, I throw on black leggings and a t-shirt and yank my curls into a bun. There’s nothing to be done about my puffy eyes, and putting on makeup beyond moisturizer is simply not happening.
The streets are clogged even at five a.m., but the new dawn is stunning, streaks of brilliant white piercing the clouds and granting the world below rare clarity.
When I pull into the parking lot, Allison is waiting outside the back door. Unlike me, she’s used to the hour. Behind retro tortoiseshell glasses, her brown eyes are clear, and her normally curly auburn hair is straight and shiny.
“Seriously?” I grumble at her. “You had enough time to flatiron your hair?”
“Yep.” Watching me walk toward her, she struggles not to laugh. “Did you dress in the dark?”
“Huh?” I look down at my sneakers and black leggings—nothing wrong there—then realize my shirt is on backwards. It’s also white, mostly see-through, and I’m wearing a lacy black bra. “Good God.”
Allison laughs. “That’s what aprons are for. Come on, we’ve got a lot to do in an hour.”
The next fifty minutes fly by. At ten till six, Gerard and a newer part-timer named Ritchie knock on the front door. Several customers linger outside, jonesing for their morning caffeine fix. Since we’re ready to go, I leave the door propped open and flip the sign.
Then I take my last deep breath for the next three hours.
When the rush finally ebbs after nine o’clock, I sag against a back counter and guzzle water. Allison finishes ringing up her current customer and joins me.
“Feeling any better?” she asks, a thread of concern in her voice that hasn’t left since I took off my sunglasses and she saw my red-rimmed eyes.
“Yes, thanks,” I say, smiling and fanning myself with a menu. “Besides feeling like I just showered. Without the actual showering bit.”
She laughs. “It’s definitely nuts in the morning. A whole different ballgame than evening traffic.”
“I’ll say. And I plan on leaving the insanity to you and Owen for all time.”
Laughing, Allison wanders away to wipe down tables. I finish my water, then move to the bakery case to take stock of what needs replenishing.
Gerard, coming back from the kitchen, stops beside me with his phone in his hand. I frown. “You know better than that. No phones while on the clock.”
“I know, I know,” he says, and his tone narrows my eyes. He looks nervous, his complexion more pasty than usual.
“What’s going on, Gerard?”
He scrubs fingers through wispy blonde hair, then shows me his phone. “I think you’ll want to see this.”
Focusing on the screen, I see it’s an entertainment news article with the title, Are Things Over for Breaking Giants Frontman Julian Ashburn and Country Darling Missy McKenzie?
I snatch the phone out of his hand and scan the article.
Are the men of Breaking Giants unlucky in love? A source close to the band has confirmed today that guitarist Matt Sullivan has split from Seattle songwriter Rose Cunningham. The parting was apparently amicable…
Blah blah blah. I skip down a bit.
…A close friend of the couple tells us that trouble has been brewing ever since their reconciliation. A large part of the problem is Missy’s desire to take the relationship to the next level, and Julian’s refusal to relocate to Los Angeles. This dynamic likely played a starring role in their initial breakup and might be rearing its head again.
The article continues, full of flagrant conjecture, then closes with a paragraph that makes my ears burn.
While there’s been no whispers of infidelity in the relationship, the B-Side of Breaking Giant’s newest single is causing a stir. Namely, it’s the reference to a certain flower that has fans on both sides of the fence churning. That’s right, it’s a Rose. Coincidence? Or has a certain flower sunk her thorns into not one, but two members of the rock group?
“Motherfuckingfucker,” I hiss. “This is a huge pop culture website.”
Gerard squeezes my shoulder. “Sorry, boss. Anything I can do?”
I rub the space between my eyebrows. “No,” I sigh. “At least this explains all the weird looks this morning.” And the women clucking in sympathy at my makeup-free, puffy face.
“You want to take a break?”
I glance around Tullamore, noting curious looks from customers, most of whom avoid eye contact.
“Yeah,” I concede. “I’ll be back in ten.”
Once in my office—Owen’s office, technically—I find three missed calls on my phone. Two from Greta and one from Aunt Katherine. And two text messages, both from Matt.
What did Julian say to you yesterday?
Do I need to beat him up?
Improbably, the last message makes me laugh. Despite the shitshow of the last few months, I’m glad I met Matt. I really hope things work out between him and Melody.
Slumping into Owen’s chair, I text him back. Nah, don’t ruin his pretty face. Did you see the trashy article?
I don’t read that crap. You shouldn’t either.
At the casual dismissal, a weight lifts from my shoulders. And thank God, because I desperately needed the reminder that nothing good comes from emotional investment in what strangers think of me—a lesson I learned the hard way in high school. The rumor mill is inescapable, and for the orphaned daughter of parents suspected of committing suicide, it’s also vicious.
My phone vibrates with a new message.
I’m taking Melody on a date tomorrow night.
I smile. Awesome. Happy for you.
Thx, Rose.
At a knock, I look up to see Allison in the doorway. “Um, Rose? We have a problem.”
Her anxious expression pulls me to my feet. “What kind of problem?”
She steps inside and closes the door. “I just overheard Gerard talking to a customer about you. Something about a picture of you that he wants to sell.” She winces. “He said you were more interested in Julian Ashburn and his girlfriend than upset over breaking up with Matt Sullivan.”
We stare at each other for a few long moments, our expressions mirroring equal levels of betrayal and disappointment.
She finally says, “I know Gerard is struggling to make ends meet. I think… shit, I’m pissed off, and you’re probably a thousand times more pissed, but I guess I feel kind of bad for him, too.”
I take a deep breath that does nothing to abate my feelings of hurt, anger, and helplessness.
“He could have asked for more hours,” I murmur, scanning Allison’s face as if for an answer. “I didn’t know.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” she says firmly. “We’re paid well. Really well. Why do you think there’s a stack of applications two-hundred deep on the corner of your desk?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know. Can you send him back here, please?”
She nods. “What do you want me to do about the guy he was talking to?”
I shrug. “Just let him go. I don’t want a scene.”
“You got it,” she says, and leaves to fetch Gerard.
The following conversation is brief. He doesn’t defend himself; nor does he exhibit much remorse. I ask him to show me the photos—I look horrible, haggard and sad—and when I ask him to delete them, he does.
Though I manage to stay professional, it’s painful to witness his apathy. He’s worked here close to a year, and Tullamore’s small staff feels like a family. To me, anyway. But if I know anything, it’s that a person’s perspective is their reality. I have no choice but to respect that Gerard’s priorities are obviously different from mine.
The only explanation he gives is that when he realized whoever took those photos of me and Julian months ago had likely hit a big payday, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity of cashing in himself.
And that’s it. He doesn’t threaten to sue for wrongful termination—which he’d lose, as he breached his employment contract—but merely asks when he’ll get his last paycheck in the mail.
We shake hands, I wish him the best, and he leaves. I go back to work, my heart a little heavier and my eyes a little clearer.
15
freefall
After the shit day I’ve had, the Lotus Lounge in Fremont is exactly what I need. Crowded, dark, and loud. The band on stage is one of my favorite local acts, an indie group with enough melody and spunk to keep me moving.
Greta thinks I’m crazy for going to see bands by myself, but for me, sometimes there’s nothing better in the world than being alone and anonymous in a sea of people.
The energy onstage is contagious, and all around me are smiling faces. Feeling a part of something bigger than me, I lose myself in the collective rhythm, cheering and screaming along with everyone else. The vibe is so great that the band does three encores, and even after the last one we all keep screaming for more.
Eventually, the female lead singer laughingly begs us to stop, and with good-natured whining, we cut them some slack. They just rocked the house down for two straight hours. After a final thank you, the house lights come up, and the band starts packing up their gear.
Luxuriating in the afterglow, I linger, chatting with a couple of women about the show. I’m happy and calm, enjoying the camaraderie and my rediscovered peace of mind.
Then one of women whisper-yells, “Betsy! Is that Julian Ashburn onstage?”
“Shut up,” gasps Betsy, turning fast.
And sure enough—because today clearly required a fuckyouRose exclamation point—it’s Julian. He’s sitting on an amp chatting with the band’s drummer, a giant of a man with a bald head and arms the size of tree trunks.
“Oh my God, Sarah, we have to talk to him,” gushes Betsy, and grabs us both, hauling us toward the stage.
I plant my feet, but she has a seriously viselike grip, and seconds later it’s a million years too late to hide.
“Rose?” asks Julian, brows raised in surprise.
My companions stare at me like they’ve never seen me before. Finally, Sarah connects the dots. “Rose Cunningham? No way!”
Feeling the pressure of Julian’s gaze, I force a smile. “Hey, Julian. These ladies would really love to say hello to you.”
His eyes flicker to the women and back to me. I can’t read his expression, which is partially shadowed. At length, he says, “Sure, absolutely,” and walks downstage, hopping to the floor.
As the women babble and stare at him, salivating with glazed eyes, I wonder if I wore a similar expression the first time we met. And if the blind adoration of his fans irritates him because it’s at such odds with how he views himself.
Then I decide I don’t care.
Clutching the remains of my musical afterglow, I say, “Betsy, Sarah, it was great meeting you guys. See you around, Julian.”
