Breaking Giants, page 14
♫
The ceremony goes off without a hitch. After, there’s pictures, more pictures, and so much smiling my face starts to hurt. But it’s a good hurt—the happiness I feel for my two favorite people is poignant and nigh overwhelming. It helps offset the knowledge that in just a few minutes, I’ll see Julian for the first time in more than three weeks. Since punching and I’m sorrys and incredible sex and goodbyes.
When it’s time for the bridal party to enter the reception, my skin starts humming in anticipation as we line up before the couple. Attendants open the doors, and the first chords of Breaking Giants’ The Next Day float to our ears.
It takes four seconds before Greta screeches and grabs my shoulder. Biting my lips, I look over my shoulder with wide, innocent eyes.
“You bitch!” she squeals, and starts jumping up and down, tugging on a laughing Owen’s arm. She whacks his shoulder. “You knew!”
He gives her the biggest grin and kisses her soundly. “Only because I overheard Rose talking about it in her office one day.”
“Surprise!” I say, which is all I have time for before the best man and I make our entrance, and there on the stage of the whimsically decorated ballroom sits Julian on a stool with a guitar and a microphone stand, singing about forever-love and tomorrows.
It’s a hard call who’s getting more attention, Julian or the entering bride, but I don’t think Greta cares. Instead of heading to the bridal table or greeting any of the cheering guests, she leads the way to the stage. Front and center with Owen, she happily sways in time to Julian’s liquid-velvet voice. Because she’s the bride and gets whatever she wants today, we all follow, and soon enough most of the guests have abandoned their tables for the dance floor.
Just before the second chorus, the rest of the band walks smoothly onstage, taking up their instruments without fanfare. And with the perfect timing of a group who’s played together live for years, the song lifts from acoustic to a rousing electric symphony.
Julian stands, his voice coming stronger, harder for the final third of the ballad. He smiles at Owen, winks at Greta, and then his gaze roams until it finds me. And the final chorus is mine.
From last night till forever
I’ll follow you blind
because no matter when
you’ll always be mine
To the place we begin
where in the end we’ll stay
to the back of tomorrow
and every day, always.
The crowd cheers. Greta starts crying, prompting bridesmaids to whip out tissues, and I stare at Julian. Julian stares at me, then snaps out of it and turns his attention to the microphone.
“We are Breaking Giants,” he says with a smile for Greta. “On behalf of Matt, Nick, Jackson, and myself, I want to wish Greta and Owen the happiest of forevers. Enjoy your dinners. We’ll be back for the first dance.”
He blows Greta a kiss and disappears offstage amidst another resounding cheer.
I mingle for a few minutes, feeling out of sync and fuzzy, before Owen passes me and says, “We won’t be mad if you disappear for a few.”
I grimace. “Thanks. I, um, want to say thank you to the guys in person.”
He grins knowingly. “Uh huh.”
A security guard lets me through the side door. I wander down a short hallway, then see a sign taped to a door. Wedding Band. Trying not to laugh at their demotion from superstardom, I knock.
Matt opens the door, which swings closed as he steps into the hallway. “Rosie!” he cries, lifting me into a hug.
“Mind the gown, jackass,” I laugh, and he puts me down carefully. “You guys are getting food, right? I told them—”
“Yep, yep,” he says, and when I glance at the closed door, he takes an unsubtle sidestep to block it. “So, any changes to the set list? Or, uh…” When I just stare at him, he deflates. “Shit, I can’t lie to you. Your eyes are like freaking lasers.”
I palm my stomach, which is suddenly fluttering. “He doesn’t want to see me? It’s okay, I’ll just—”
The door opens, and before Matt can reach back and slam it shut, I hear laughter. A woman’s laughter. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.
Then it clicks.
My stomach drops. Matt’s expression probably mirrors mine—wide-eyed and pale.
I stammer, “W-what’s she doing here?”
“She’s in town for the weekend and wouldn’t take no for an answer,” he says with strain. “I’m sorry, Rose. But she’s…”
“Six months pregnant and engaged to Julian,” I whisper, then slap a palm to my face to stifle a burst of inappropriate but totally irrepressible laughter. “And hanging out with him at my best friend’s wedding because the universe fucking hates me.”
There’s more hilarity than rancor in the words, and Matt offers a wavering smile. “Yeah, that damned universe…” he trails off, wincing.
I wave a hand dismissively. “It’s all good. Tell them I stopped by. Or, on second thought, maybe you shouldn’t.” I rise up on my toes to kiss his cheek. “Thanks again for doing this.”
Then I head back to the party.
I’m not super proud of how the rest of the night goes. I allow the best man to refill my champagne too many times. I laugh too loudly at his jokes and flirt too brazenly. And during Breaking Giants’ last song of the evening before the DJ takes over, I even let him kiss me. It’s sloppy and regrettable, but when I hear Julian’s voice go momentarily harsh, I feel perverse satisfaction.
I don’t drink any more after that, and really, I can’t blame the champagne. Or Julian, even. I’m the one hanging on. Unwilling or unable to move on despite repeated, overwhelming evidence that I’m wasting my time waiting for him. Waiting for the tides to change. For the spirits to have a new message: Now, he’s yours.
They don’t. They won’t.
But I still can’t let go.
Aside from kissing Owen’s best man, I don’t embarrass myself or anyone else. I celebrate, I dance, and even give the most amazing toast ever to the happy couple. At eleven o’clock, all hundred and fifty of us make a tunnel and throw confetti onto the newlyweds’ heads as they run out of the ballroom toward the waiting limo.
It’s absolute magic.
Twenty minutes later, as Aunt Katherine and I are packing up the bridal suite, I find my phone where I left it on the bathroom counter. And five minutes after that, Katherine finds me sitting on the floor with my legs splayed, crying like I just lost all hope in the world.
And I have.
Because his text message reads:
The baby’s mine.
19
whiplash
In November, local radio stations start playing Excess, which is so punchy and satirical it’s an instant hit. By the end of the month, I’ve performed in venues throughout Washington and as far south as Eugene, Oregon. I’m interviewed on UW’s independent radio and the mainstream alt-rock station, and because of the generated buzz, by early December I’m being courted by several indie record labels. For now, Greg is handling my management, as it became clear early on that I suck at self-promotion.
By necessity, I’ve had to cut back on my hours at Tullamore, which has been both a blessing and a curse. Despite the whirlwind of performing multiple times a week, of write-ups and praise from local magazines and critics, I’m in an emotional limbo.
The life of a musician is being offered to me, and what should be a no-brainer isn’t. Because I’m not, in fact, my mother, to crave the spotlight and attention. And I really do love my life, running Tullamore and satisfying my need to perform once a week at open mic.
The alternative is nonstop touring. Seedy hotels and cramped vans. Slinging merch to make enough money for said hotels and cramped vans. I vacillate day to day. Greta thinks I should stay. Owen and Greg think I should go all-in.
Aunt Katherine is resoundingly silent.
One lonely night in the second week of December, I make the mistake of calling Melody for advice. We’ve struck up a friendship and meet a few times a month for dinner or cocktails. She and Matt have made it past the honeymoon phase of their relationship and are firmly in the shit just got real portion. It makes for some interesting, laughter-filled ladies’ nights.
When I call her, I’m twenty bites into a pint of ice cream, sitting in my dark living room and staring at my blazing fireplace. What should be a cozy winter’s night is turning into a pretty depressing one. Beginning with the horrible error of playing the infamous B-Side, and ending with Melody’s efforts to help.
“I was talking to Matt about where you’re at with the touring thing,” she says in her rapid-fire way, “and he thinks you should just come out with them. They have openers for most legs of the tour but are still auditioning for the first leg.”
I whistle softly. “Aren’t they cutting it a little close?”
She laughs. “Yeah, well, the boys are as picky as teenagers with pimples.”
I grimace. “Nice, Mel.”
“It’s true! Julian’s a hormonal mess and can’t make a decision to save his life. Jackson and Nick say they don’t care, then throw in opinions at the last possible second to derail everything. Matt’s eyeball-deep in his Mother Hen routine trying to make everyone happy. And of course, he’s failing.” The last is said with a bite.
“That sounds ominous,” I say, hoping to steer the conversation toward her.
“Nice try,” she quips. “You and Breaking Giants are a match made in music heaven. You know it. I know it. At the very least, it will give you huge exposure. You’ll be signed in an instant! Sure, you’ll have to headline tours eventually—that’s the life, after all. But you'll have way more freedom and way fewer roach-infested hotel beds.”
I shudder. “I appreciate what you’re saying, Mel, but it’s not a good idea. It’s actually the worst idea. I haven’t spoken to Julian in months. And isn’t Missy due pretty soon? What if she goes into labor?” I make a gagging noise. “I mean, time heals some wounds, but I’m not a fucking robot.”
“Are you still in love with him?”
Ah, Melody, straight for the gut shot.
I haven’t actually said the L-word in reference to Julian, but Melody throws it around like it’s a given. Maybe it is. Maybe I do love him. What I know for certain is that I’m still addicted, still in withdrawals, and despite being on a few relatively nice dates with nice men, I fall asleep at night with a head full of Julian Ashburn.
“It doesn’t matter,” I answer her question. “What matters is that there’s static between us. The kind that doesn’t just fade with time.”
Melody explodes, “This is fucking bullshit!” Her vehemence is so off the charts that I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it. With barely a pause, she yells, “I have told that asshole a thousand times what a horrible mistake he’s making. Missy is a lying, cheating, conniving, superficial twat! That baby is not Julian’s. It’s probably her skeevy trainer’s spawn. He didn’t even ask for proof of paternity. He just took her word for it. For an alcoholic who spent his childhood hustling, he’s the most gullible sonofabitch I’ve ever met!”
Heaving for air, she falls silent. I tentatively lift the phone, my hand shaking so hard it takes a few tries to get the device to my ear. I have no words—too many words—and my tongue is sealed to the roof of my mouth.
“Rose?” asks Melody softly. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. Matt and I had a fight today and I’m PMSing. God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I croak. “I can’t—there’s no way I can go on tour with Julian.”
She sighs. “I know. And I completely understand. I’m sorry, I just really hate thinking about Julian throwing his life away for some warped sense of nobility linked to his childhood trauma. I wish I could get through to him. That someone could get through to him. He just needs the right push.”
Melody, I discovered early in our friendship, has a Masters in Psychology.
“Yeah,” I say noncommittally, then with relief, see Aunt Katherine on my Call Waiting. “Mel, I gotta run. Try not to castrate Matt tonight. He loves you.”
“I won’t,” she says. “Talk to you later?”
“Yep. Bye.” I switch calls. “Aunt K?”
She doesn’t say hello, opening with, “The spirits told me to tell you: Say yes.”
My stomach sinks like a ball of lead. “Huh? What are you talking about?”
“Not sure,” she says lightly. “It’s just been repeating for the last twenty minutes. Driving me bonkers, actually. Rose—yes—say yes. On and on. Tell me that means something to you.”
I stare at the shadows on the ceiling. Then I stare into my melting pint of ice cream. Finally, I yell at the spirits I don’t even believe in: “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Aunt Katherine says, “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Why am I even considering this?” I ask redundantly. “On the word of rainbow garden fairies, no less?”
“That’s rather insulting,” she replies with affront.
I sigh. “Sorry. I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud, but I think your Psychic Friends Network wants me yank my own heart out of my chest and go on tour with Breaking Giants.”
“Oh! That sounds transformative, Rosie!”
Biting hard on my lower lip, I mutter, “You say transformative, I say emotionally fatal. Tomato, tomahto.” My phone beeps against my ear. Glancing at the screen, I see Matt’s number. “Am I in a vortex? Is there a mystical alignment of fuckyouRose stars and planets happening?”
“Um, nooo…” says my Aunt.
“Gotta go, Aunt K, love you,” I say, then answer Matt’s call. Before he can say anything, I blurt, “Fine, I’ll do it!”
“Do what?” he asks, voice loud against chaotic background noise. There’s yelling. Car doors slamming. Is that a siren? “Rose? Are you alone?”
“Yes, why?”
“Can Greta or Owen come get you?”
The world beneath me cracks like unstable ice, shifting and rocking. Before he speaks, I know; the fear, the devastation in his voice. I remember it. I lived it.
“Tell me,” I whisper.
“Julian’s been in a motorcycle accident.”
20
flashbacks
When Owen pulls up outside UW Medical Center’s Emergency entrance there’s already a dense crowd gathered, for the most part contained by hospital security and several police officers. Media and fans and paparazzi, all hoping for glimpses of famous faces or snippets of gossip from inside. It’s an eerily familiar scene.
I feel thirteen years old again, only my father isn’t on failing life support inside, Aunt Katherine doesn’t have her arm around me, and Owen can’t fill the role because he has to park the car.
Before I make it ten feet toward the entrance, I’m spotted. Lights and flashing cameras rush my way. A padded microphone is shoved in my face before a hospital security guard saves my ass, stepping between me and a rabid reporter.
“Are you Rose Cunningham?” he asks. His eyes are kind; I notice that much.
“Y-yes.”
“Okay, come with me.”
I keep my gaze straight ahead, fixed on the guard’s black jacket, as he leads me through the emergency room to the ICU. Outside the signage-heavy automatic doors is a small group of people. Matt looks up and sees me, his face crumpling.
Missy sees me a second later.
“What the hell is she doing here!” she screeches, pointing a finger at me while cradling her rounded belly with the other arm. Her finger swings to the guard. “Get her out of here, right now. She’s not welcome.”
All around us, conversations die sudden deaths.
Matt steps forward, expression thunderous, but Nick clamps a hand on his shoulder and shakes his head. Easygoing, popcorn-eating Nick, who’s known among Breaking Giants’ fans as eternally devoted to his two loves—drums and smoking pot—plants himself in front of Missy.
Big body shaking visibly with the force of his emotion, he snarls, “Shut your mouth. Her name was the first fucking word he said when he regained consciousness. How about you try this on for size, Missy? You’re not welcome. We’re his family. You’re just a soul-sucking parasite standing between our brother and what he wants. So why don’t you and the baby everyone knows isn’t his get the fuck out of here! Now!”
Although Nick isn’t physically threatening her, his words are dangerous enough. Matt and Jackson grab his arms and march him to the nearest empty seat. All around the waiting room, people stare. More than a few are busily typing on their phones.
Strangely, all I can think is, That poor child.
Beside me, the security guard mutters, “Really glad he didn’t get violent,” and from the nurses station, I hear the murmured words, “Cancel the alarm, we’re fine… Yes, I’ll tell you later.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Melody enter the room. Her gaze trips from a visibly shaken Missy, to the men currently kneeling in front of Nick, and finally to me.
“You’re here,” she says, rushing forward. “Thank God. Did you go back yet?”
Matt stands and walks quickly to me. “Come on, Rose. He’s going into surgery any minute.”
My cocoon of shock finally breaks. “What are we waiting for, then?” I ask breathlessly.
My hand firmly in his, Matt leads me through the ICU doors, nodding at several nurses and another security guard. Buffeted on all sides by moving personnel and machinery and hushed voices and brave families, I’m mostly numb again by the time we reach a private bay manned by the head of Breaking Giant’s security team. I don’t know his name, but recognize him from the day at Tullamore when he blocked the crowd from surging inside.
He nods at us. “Good timing. They’re about to take him.”
