Breaking Giants, page 17
She clucks her tongue. “That’s not true.”
I groan. “Three songs unassisted.”
She smiles blithely. “Are you sure you’ve never sung with Julian before? Even with your voice at half-strength, your duets were enthralling.”
“You’re killing me,” I grumble, tossing onto my side so that I face the back of the couch.
She’s right, though. When my voice started failing, all it had taken was one glance for Julian to come onstage. While the crowd went berserker at the sight of him, he set up a second mike and retrieved two stools, unceremoniously plopping me onto one of them. He left me with my guitar, merely settling next to me like it was the most natural thing in the world, and nodding at me that he was ready.
He wasn’t lying, either. He knew every word to every song, and exactly how to support my struggling vocal chords. In between songs, he chatted with the audience while I sipped water, summoning the full magnitude of his charisma for my benefit.
And my utter bafflement.
Greta enters the living room, trailing mouthwatering scents. “Do you want your soup in here or in the kitchen, Rose?”
I roll over and sit up, dragging a blanket with me. “Kitchen.” I look at Aunt K. “You coming?”
She bundles her knitting into the bag at her feet. “Actually, I think I might head home. If that’s alright?”
Taken a little aback, I say, “Sure, of course.”
She gives me another smile, gathers her things, and leaves the room. When I wander into the kitchen, Greta’s brows are raised.
“Why did Katherine just tell me I need to leave?”
“What? I don’t know. You definitely don’t have to leave.”
The doorbell rings.
Greta and I stare at each other. “Are you expecting someone?” she asks.
“Uh, no.”
Frowning, I head into the foyer, hoping it’s not Aiden. I don’t know where we stand after last night, and frankly, I’m not sure I want to stand anywhere with him. The notion that he might have only wanted in my pants because of some old grudge makes me queasy.
The peephole shows me the back of a tall man’s raincoat, a raised hood obscuring his head. Sighing, because I figure it must be Aiden after all, I open the door a few inches. The man turns to face me and my heart gives a rusty thud.
“Can I come in?” asks Julian.
Clutching my blanket around my shoulders, I step outside and pull the door closed at my back. “Why are you here, Julian?”
He licks his lips; under the porch light, I see a flush bloom on his cheekbones. “It probably feels like déjà vu, but I need to make amends to you.”
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I know it’s been six months, but I don’t think I can handle rehashing everything right now. I’m good—I mean, I’m pretty much over it. You. But… I don’t feel that great. Bad cold, obviously…”
I trail off as the door behind me opens. At first I’m relieved to be saved from my downward spiral of awkward, but then Greta slips past me like a fairy in flight, bounding down the stairs into the rain.
“Call me later, Rose. Love you! Give Julian some soup!”
Watching her retreating back, I mind-yell, Traitor!
“I know you don’t feel good,” says Julian gently. “I won’t stay long.”
I finally move my gaze back to his face. His lovely, earnest face. “Fine,” I snap. “But only because it’s cold as tits out here and I want soup.”
His smile lights up his eyes.
Damnit.
24
revelations
After hanging his coat on the peg I point out, Julian follows me into the kitchen and sits at the table. In that chair. Grimacing internally, I head to the stove. Beside the big pot of chicken soupy goodness are two empty bowls, two spoons, and two napkins.
“She’s turning into Katherine,” I mutter.
“What’s that?” asks Julian, but I shake my head. His chair scrapes back. “I’m so sorry, do you want some help? Sit down, I’ll get your soup for you.”
I shoot him a glance that freezes him in his tracks. “Sit.” He bites his lips on a smile and does as I say. “Are you hungry?”
There’s that stupid sexy flush again. “Kind of, but—”
“There’s already two bowls out,” I interject, “it’s not a problem.”
The problem is carrying two full bowls of soup with a blanket draped around me. I ponder the problem a minute too long, then decide screw it. He’s seen it all, anyway, and I’m feeling sick and punchy and the idea of making him uncomfortable is very appealing.
As I’m carrying the bowls to the table, Julian clears his throat. “Uh, Rose…”
“Deal with it. It’s pajamas.” Kind of. If a black silk camisole and buttery soft leggings qualify.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asks with strain.
Pleased to have elicited a response, I set a bowl in front of him and drop the napkins and spoons to the table. Claiming my own seat, I say mildly, “The thermostat is set to seventy-five degrees as per my aunt’s insistence. Unless you’re a robot, you know very well it’s hot as Hades in here.”
“Okay, sorry.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes.
“This is really good soup,” he offers.
“Mmm,” I reply.
Another few minutes of silence.
“How’s your throat?”
“I sound like a jackhammer. What do you think?”
“I think you sound adorable when you’re sick.”
Ignoring the flutter in my abdomen, I put my spoon down and cross my arms over my chest. Julian takes a final bite of soup, then does the same. We stare at each other, me with barely contained resentment, him with solemn acceptance.
I break first, lowering my gaze to the table. “You look good. Healthy. How’s your leg?”
“Aches sometimes, but thanks, I feel good. Scarred and weird and different, but good.” He gives a soft laugh. “I’m probably in better shape now than I’ve been in years. I’ve been working every day with a trainer and physical therapist—”
“I know. I heard the interview.”
“Oh.” He scratches the stubble on his jaw. “You did, huh?”
“She really pissed you off, didn’t she?”
He nods. “She completely blindsided me with the personal stuff. It was firmly in the ‘do not ask’ demands we gave her.”
I make a noncommittal noise, fiddling with my napkin.
“How was the tour?” he asks.
Fed up, I say sharply, “Are we going to chitchat all night? Because I’d rather stab myself in the eyeballs. And there’s no way I’m having sex with you. So if that’s what you’re after, you can kick rocks.”
His eyes flare with amusement, though his expression stays somber. “Rose, I’m not here for that. I want to make amends.”
“So, go ahead.”
He stands up and walks out of the kitchen. I stare after him, frowning, but he returns a few seconds later with a thin, folded newspaper. Instead of bringing it to the table, he tucks it under an arm and clears the soup bowls and utensils to the sink. Then he places the newspaper directly in front of me.
It takes a few moments to make sense of what I’m seeing—not that it makes any sense at all.
Before me is the front page of The Seattle Times from February 19th, 2002. Exactly one week after my parents’ deaths.
A huge color photograph stretches beneath the title The Price of Fame and The Legacy of Addiction. The photo is of thirteen-year-old me throwing dirt into the gaping hole where my parents’ coffins rest. I’m all wild curly hair, pale skin, and huge eyes. It’s hard to read the expression on my face. If anything, I look desensitized.
Jerking my gaze up from my image, I whisper roughly, “What is this? Why do you have this?”
“I was eighteen when they died,” he says softly. “Living on the streets and singing with a borrowed guitar for money to eat. I passed a newspaper stand and saw the photo. I stole the paper.”
I touch the crease, worn almost flat by time. The paper itself looks delicate, faded. I shake my head in confusion.
“I don’t understand. Why?”
Julian shrugs. “Why did I take it? I don’t know. Maybe some part of me knew I was going down a dark road and the article felt like a warning. Something I needed to remember. What I do know is that when I got sober and had a place to live, I kept it pinned to the wall over my bed. It stayed there for years. Every time I wavered in my sobriety, doubting my alcoholism because of my age, or because I couldn’t relate to people, or was rejected by a woman, or embarrassed myself, or wrote a crappy song…” He takes a breath. “That photograph reminded me of who I was, where I came from. And what could happen to my daughter someday.”
A drop of wetness hits the corner of the newspaper; I blink at it, belatedly realizing it’s a tear. Sitting back quickly, I grab a napkin and wipe my eyes.
Finally, I manage, “This is a lot to take in, Julian. I’m not sure what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything, just listen. You’ve always been this figment in my life, a symbol of something I was equally drawn to and wanted to avoid. The promise of a happy life and the threat of an alcoholic death. But for as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to protect the girl in that photograph. And instead, I hurt her. Repeatedly. I made her hate me.”
I whisper, “I don’t hate you.”
“I hurt you, Rose. I did exactly what you accused me of. I threw you away. Because I was afraid.”
Blinking back a new surge of tears, I have a sudden memory of something Aunt Katherine once said. When I asked—or thought about asking—why Julian kissed me the first time.
Fear. Doubt. Hope.
And it makes sense, now. In a way that’s almost incomprehensible.
He continues, “When we met that day at Tullamore, the second I looked across that counter I knew who you were. And I wanted you. More than I’d wanted anything in my life. Even sobriety, the band, peace, family. Everything. It scared the shit out me. Then Missy called, wanting to get back together, and I… I made a mistake. The first of many.”
“Julian,” I breathe, shaking my head. “I can’t—this is too much.”
“When Missy told me she was pregnant, I was elated. I’ve always wanted to be a father, to be for a child what your parents couldn't be for you. It blinded me to the truth. The truth of her, you, and myself. I started acting out of fear and impulse—”
“Stop. Stop. Stop!”
I throw my chair back and stand, stalking across the room to the sink. Gripping the cool steel rim in my hands, I stare out the window. It’s dark outside, the rain making halos of houselights across the street.
Humorless laughter bubbles in my throat. Bowing my head, I close my eyes and grit my teeth until the urge passes.
“I thought you were going to say ‘sorry I was a dick’ and I could say, ‘okay bye forever’ and that would be it.”
I hear him stand. I tense, but he doesn’t move closer to me.
“Tell me what to say to make this better, Rose. Please.”
“You can’t!” I yell, spinning to face him. “Don’t you get it? I cared about you, you sonofabitch. A lot. And now you tell me all this?” I wave a hand at the newspaper. “I’m a symbol? Of everything you want and everything you lost, or could lose, or whatever. What am I supposed to do with that? Tell me, Julian! How is this fair? Or okay, or right?”
“It’s not,” he breathes. “But it’s the truth. And what I feel for you is real, and perfect—”
“Don’t you fucking say that,” I snarl, striding across the room to jab a finger in his chest. “You don’t get to say shit like that to me. Not now, not ever.”
My voice cracks and fades, my throat on fire from what I just put it through. And Julian… Julian watches me with sympathy, and sadness, and acceptance.
“Rose, let me fix you some warm saltwater. You should take a shower, too. Lots of steam.”
I think I could have handled just about anything but his kindness. The edges of me fold into themselves, crumpling down until I’m made small. So small. The girl in that photograph again, the living legacy of addiction. A survivor, but only because I had no choice.
Sobbing, I reach for him. Not because I want him, but because I need someone. Human contact. Confirmation that I’m still here, still me.
Julian sweeps me off my feet and carries me to my bed, sitting down with me in his arms. I cling to him, shaking with the force of a grief that will never truly fade.
Because of my lost voice, my cries are silent, but their force manifests in other ways. He doesn’t once loosen his hold, though, doesn’t even flinch as my fingers clench deeply into the muscles of his shoulders and arms.
Finally, after minutes that feel like days, my tremors ease and the storm within me passes.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp against his throat, the skin damp from my tears.
“Don’t speak,” he says, and shifts to guide me back onto the pillows. “I’m getting you saltwater.”
He leaves the room. I hear him in the kitchen opening cabinets, running the water. By the time he returns, I’ve managed to prop myself against the headboard. As he approaches the bed I see his slight limp, which only reminds me of that terrible day, those terrible words, and brings a fresh flood of tears to my eyes.
Julian’s been in a motorcycle accident.
Quickly wiping my wet face, I scoot aside so he can sit. When I reach for the glass, he shakes his head and carefully holds it to my lips.
Gargle and spit.” I glance from the glass to him, frowning, and his lips twitch. “It’s your own backwash. Do it.”
Afraid of hurting my vocal chords further by speaking, I take the easy road and gargle, spit, gargle, spit, until he’s satisfied.
“Should I leave so you can get in the shower?” My head shakes before my brain can tell my body to shut up. He must see the panic in my eyes, because he says, “I’ll stay. Are you tired?” I shake my head. “Come on, then.”
He stands up, offering me his hand. His brokenhealed hand. I take it, letting firm, strong fingers grip mine and leverage me up.
“You have to put on a different shirt,” he mutters, leading me down the hall into the living room. With clear relief, he grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around my shoulders. “Sit down and find a movie. I’ll bring you pie. No ice cream though.” I groan and his eyes flash, bright and laughing, to my face. “No dairy until your throat heals.”
Huffing, I sit and turn on the television. I scroll aimlessly through the guide until I spy Arsenic and Old Lace and quickly select the movie. If Julian doesn’t like it, he can suffer.
Returning to the living room, he says, “Oh man, I love this movie. Cary Grant is hysterical.”
Figures.
Handing me a bowl with pie in it, he sits on the other end of the couch. I glance from the bowl to him.
He notices my look. “Bowls are better for pie. Just mash it all together and scoop it up.”
I stare at him another moment, then look down.
“You always eat your pie like this, don’t you?” he asks quietly.
I nod.
Eyes on the television, he says with quiet precision, “Perfect.”
The broken half of my heart tingles, waking up from dormancy. Like an atrophied muscle, it hurts. Tears once more pool in my eyes and leak down my cheeks.
“Say the word, Rose, and I’ll leave.”
I lift my head and look at him.
Just… look.
Clear eyes, full of self-awareness and depth, are whiskey-dark right now as they watch me. Faint lines fan from them, more than were there at this time last year. Sloping eyebrows are currently raised in question, and his long, straight nose has a new bump from being broken. On his jaw, a thin scar interrupts the stubble near his right ear. Lastly, I gaze at his firm, generous mouth, punctuated by the promise of a dimple on the left.
“Do you want me to stay?” he murmurs.
Rose—yes—say yes.
I don’t speak, but I mouth the word. He smiles softly, then settles back to watch the movie and eat his pie.
And I do the same.
25
so it goes
Sunday is spent doing laundry, unpacking from tour, and babying my throat with steam and saltwater. By the time night begins creeping over the city, I’m exhausted and hungry, but there’s nothing in my fridge except pie and soup. Since I ate the former for breakfast and the latter for lunch, I’m craving something different.
My voice is back—barely—but I don’t want to push it, so I text Greta and wait for a response. Ten minutes later, I acknowledge she must be at work, so I text Melody.
Hungry and sick. Feed me.
A few minutes later, she responds. Can’t sry. Dinner with Matt’s parents. Hiding in bathroom.
Snorting, I reply, Can’t wait for the story. Call me tomorrow.
Will do.
Next I try Aunt Katherine, who doesn’t respond, then Allison, who’s on a break at work. Then Greg, who’s no doubt sick of my face, but might feel sorry enough for me to bring me sustenance. No go—he’s with Kelly, which means he’s probably naked. And naked makes me think first of Aiden, whose calls and texts I have yet to respond to, and then of Julian, who kept his clothes on all night and his distance, too.
We watched black and white movies until I fell asleep on the couch sometime after midnight. He tugged me to my room and tucked me into bed, then left with the ominous parting words, “I’m not done making amends to you.”
I couldn’t reply, but I’m pretty sure he got the message my glare was sending.
Fiddling with my phone, I pull up Aiden’s number. Then I hesitate, my thoughts skittish as I walk down the hallway to the living room. I flop onto the couch and stare at the ceiling light, which unfortunately doesn’t yield any insights.
Weird drama with Breaking Giants’ aside, I like Aiden. He’s level-headed, sweet, and he busted his ass for six weeks on tour with me. We have awesome chemistry, mutual respect for each other as artists, and sex with him (all two days of it before I got sick) was great. Easy.
