Breaking Giants, page 20
I grimace. “So that’s what creative differences means.”
Julian sighs. “It was a long time ago. We all made our fair share of mistakes. We were young and stupid and there’s a lot of feminine attention that comes with being in a touring band. It can be overwhelming, especially for a bunch of horny twenty-five-year-olds.”
“You don’t have to make excuses for him, Julian.”
“I’m not, but eventually I had to deal with the anger and let it go.” His gaze flows over my face. “You okay? About the breakup?”
I snort. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Pretending you care,” I say flatly. “If we hadn’t already parted ways, that stunt at the restaurant today would have ensured it.”
He hesitates. “Should I apologize even if I’m not sorry?”
I can’t help laughing; Julian grins back at me, and I groan. “Will you stop being so damned nice? It’s driving me nuts.”
“You’d prefer I was mean to you?”
“Maybe,” I say soberly. “It would certainly make it easier to keep hating you.”
His eyes twinkle. “You don’t hate me. Resent me, yes. But you should probably just forgive me, because resentments are like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies.”
My brows lift. “Some recovery wisdom for me, eh?”
He doesn’t smile, and the sparkle in his eyes darkens to something different. Something that makes my body come alive, and divorces my mouth from my brain.
“Do you want to come in?”
He watches me a moment. “More than anything in the world. But I’m not going to.”
An ache spreads through my chest and burns in my cheeks. “Oh, okay,” I say lamely, then unlatch my seatbelt, grab my purse, and open the door. “Thanks again. Um, bye.”
He gently grabs my arm, freezing me in place as his eyes scan mine. “Don’t think for one second that I don’t want you. But I’m not messing this up again—this time, we’re doing things the right way.”
His gaze drops to my mouth and his jaw clenches; when his eyes come back to mine, there’s no doubt what he was just thinking about.
He finishes, “But I’m also not going to be deterred. So unless you do something stupid like fall in love with some other guy, this,” he waves a finger between us, “is inevitable. You know me, better than most. You know how I am when I want something.”
“Determined,” I whisper, struggling to catch my breath, to not launch over the seat.
Nodding, he releases my arm with a tender stroke. “Enjoy the rest of your day. Can I call you tomorrow?”
Swallowing hard, I realize this is the moment that changes things. Everything. And it all hinges on my answer to his simple question.
“Yes.”
I don’t linger to bask in his wide smile, but exit the car and walk up my front steps. Julian waits until I’ve unlocked and opened the door before waving and backing down the driveway. I watch him go, then sag against the doorframe.
While the still healing half of my heart whispers, What have you done? the other half of me pulses with an emotion I haven’t felt in months.
Hope.
♫
Greta, curled up on one end of my couch the following evening, chews thoughtfully on a roasted almond before asking, “Did he call you today?”
My cheeks heat. “Yes.”
“Aaaaand?”
I shrug. “We talked about finding a new drummer for the tour. He has a couple of people in mind. And, um, possibly writing a song together.”
Greta sighs happily. “You’re going to marry him. It’s destined.”
I throw one of my almonds at her. “Not helping.”
She laughs. “I know, but it’s like a fairytale.”
I grunt. “I don’t know any fairytales that are quite as dark and twisted as this one.”
She unwinds a leg to poke me with a pink toenail. “You say dark and twisted, I say fraught with challenge and triumph.”
“Oh God,” I groan. “You have to stop hanging out with your mother-in-law.”
She giggles, sitting forward to put down her cup of almonds. “Owen and I looked over the rescheduled tour dates. I think we’re going to fly down to see you play in San Diego.”
I instantly perk up. “That’s awesome! Late September, yeah? I can check to see if we have a free day following. I’d love to hang out with you guys.”
She nods, looking down and picking at the hem of her sweater. “We’re kind of torn, actually. We’ve always wanted to go to Austin City Limits, too. But, um, I’m not sure about timing, and with my work schedule, and Tullamore…” She trails off, and I see her chin quiver.
Alarmed, I lean across the couch to touch her knee. “What’s wrong?”
She bursts into tears and wails, “Nothing’s wrong! Everything’s wrong!”
Grabbing her by the shoulders, I pull her into a hug. My mind is racing between What did Owen do? and Holyshit Greta never cries—what do I do?
Stroking her back, I say, “Whatever it is, just tell me. We can get through it together.”
“I’m pregnant!” she bursts out, then sobs into my shoulder like the world is ending.
My first reaction is swift joy, followed by equally potent confusion. In the pause between bouts of wailing, I says, “Um, Greta? I thought you guys wanted kids…”
“We do,” she says, hiccuping and wiping her face on my shoulder. “Just not now. My birth control failed. Freaking Katherine knew before I did. The other day she asked me if I wanted pickles—I hate pickles—and I suddenly wanted a stupid fucking pickle! And then when I got home, I threw up the pickles, and took a test. And two pink lines!”
Meltdown round two commences.
By the time she quiets, I’m trying my best not to laugh. Because I know she’s happy, but also scared and overwhelmed and annoyed that Katherine spilled the mystic beans.
“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?” she grumbles, finally quieting.
Leaning back, I can’t stop a grin from overtaking my mouth. “I’m going to be an Auntie!”
Eyes red-rimmed and still leaking, she laughs weakly and nods. “Sorry. I’m really happy. Overjoyed. Probably already hormonal.”
“Nooooo,” I say dryly, then palm her flat stomach. “How many weeks? Can I come to your doctor’s appointments? Can I name it?”
She laughs, smacking my hand. “Seven weeks or thereabouts. I have my first appointment next week. But I think Owen wants it to just be us. If you come, then Katherine—”
“I totally understand,” I say quickly.
“Thanks, Rosie.”
“Aww, come here,” I gush, grabbing her again. “I’m so freaking happy! What do you want for dinner? Pickles?”
“Ha Ha,” she says, then pauses. “Pizza. With lots of meat.”
“You got it, preggers.”
Giving her a kiss on the head, I jump off the couch and head for my phone to place an order at our favorite pizzeria. When I return to the living room, Greta’s on a phone call.
“Sure, I’ll ask her. Okay, love you. Talk to you soon.”
I wait for her to hang up. “Was that Owen?”
“Yes, he said he tried to call you but you didn’t pick up.”
Glancing down at my phone, I do indeed see two missed calls, but no voicemails.
“Everything okay?”
She winces. “Tullamore is slammed and two people called out sick. Allison can’t come back in because she’s already maxed out on overtime, and it’s Friday, and there’s no else—”
“It’s okay,” I say, laughing. “I’ll get dressed. Pizza should be here in a half hour.” I point a menacing finger at her. “Don’t you dare eat the whole thing.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll save you some crust.”
I show her a certain finger, and leave her giggling in the living room to change my clothes.
As good as celebratory pizza and movies with Greta sounds, I’m actually pretty excited to put on an apron. I miss the energy of the café, the feeling of usefulness and purpose. I dress quickly, throw my hair into a ponytail, and with a final goodbye to Greta, jump in my car and head to Tullamore.
Before leaving on tour, I’d handed my café keys off to a newly promoted Allison, so although I park in the back lot, I jog quickly around to the front door.
The café is glowing with activity in the evening light, the usual open mic crowd in full effect. As I approach, I see Kelly on stage, laughing and strumming her guitar. I spot Greg’s short blonde dreadlocks in the front row, as well as Juliet’s hair—formerly blue, now purple. Christy darts back and forth from the espresso station to the bakery case, and Owen is hustling like a madman behind both registers.
Watching my cousin, I think of my tiny tadpole niece or nephew, and happiness surges in my chest.
Sound and warmth flow over me as I open the door. Faces glance my way, familiar ones waving in welcome. Moving quickly past the line of customers waiting to order, I veer around the counter and take up position beside Owen.
“Thank God!” he says, wiping a forearm across his sweaty brow. I give him a conspiratorial wink. His grin is immediate. “She told you?”
I nod as I wave the next customer up. “She said I can pick the name.”
“What?” he barks.
Pointedly ignoring him, I focus on my customer. “Hi, what can I get you?”
Ten minutes later the line is manageable. I escape before Owen can grill me and move to assist Christy in making drinks. She squeals at the sight of me and throws her arms around my neck.
“I’m so excited you’re here!”
“Me too,” I say, smiling and nodding at the espresso machine in front of her. “Been partaking of the goods?”
She nods her head spastically. “I couldn’t help it. It’s the most perfect night!”
I laugh. “Okay champ, you’re cut off.”
Applause fills the café as Kelly wraps up her set. “Thanks so much,” she says, “and now, the moment you’ve been waiting for…”
A cheer erupts. More than half the crowd stands, yelling and whistling. Feet begin pounding on the floor. Startled, I glance up at the still-empty stage, then at Christy.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask over the noise, musing idly that if her smile gets any bigger her face is going to crack.
“Surprise!”
My head turns towards the stage so fast a muscle in my neck tweaks. A man sits down on the solitary stool. His finger taps the microphone.
“Hey guys, my name is John Doe.”
29
excess
Julian either doesn’t know I’m here or is purposefully ignoring me. He settles onto the stool, adjusting the strap of his guitar. Incognito doesn’t work for him anymore but he’s trying: black hoodie, beanie, and glasses.
“Okay, okay, pipe down,” he admonishes, and the excitement of the crowd falls from a boil to a simmer. “Thanks for having me tonight.” Another cheer rises, then falls. “As some of you know, a little over a year and a half ago, I asked one of the owners if I could perform here at open mic. You were such a great crowd, I had to come back. I wrote a song. Wanna hear it?”
Screaming.
Julian laughs. “All right, here you go.”
And then he begins to play, brokenhealed hands moving confidently, swiftly as the complex melody unfolds. It’s painful, and hopeful, and arrestingly beautiful.
Then his voice comes, strong and sure, and I sag against the counter, espresso orders forgotten.
There’s a space, in the dark, a shadow of a spark
Where the wind blows, so it goes, so I know
This time—this time I fought.
And your face, it can erase, the pain in my heart
Where I stopped, and I lost, and forgot how to start.
This time, it’s ours, to begin again
Please hold my hand—
Will you please hold my hand?
It’s a crime, all mine, to deny that I know,
How the wind blows, where it goes—
Past someday, to never, to so long ago.
So I’m here, and I wonder, how the world didn’t end
When your tears fell, and I lost you…
But I guess that depends
On if we can start again,
If you’ll hold my hand—
Let me hold your hand.
Julian, focused on the music, doesn’t know that the café is resoundingly silent as he performs a final verse and chorus—lyrics I don’t hear over the roaring in my ears. When the last chords fade away, he looks up with a hesitant smile.
The crowd explodes.
Rocking backward on the stool, his smile grows. “Wow, thanks,” he says, laughing a little. “Not too sappy?”
“No!” yells Juliet, and many voices echo hers.
Julian chuckles. “Okay, great. I’m hoping she doesn’t think so either. Should we ask her?”
The humming in my ears increases.
Julian looks straight at me. “What do you think, Rose?” Whatever expression I’m wearing makes him laugh. “She’s so cute when she blushes. Uh oh, now she’s glaring. I think I’m in trouble, guys. By the way, have you all heard that Rose just signed a contract with Indigo Records? Don’t read the tabloids—I swear I had nothing to do with it.” Over escalating cheers, he adds, “And did you also hear she’s opening for Breaking Giants on tour this fall?”
My knees lock to combat sudden weakness.
“I’m pretty happy about that,” Julian continues conversationally. “Rose isn’t looking too happy right now, though. Think I should go talk to her?”
Tullamore gives him an affirmative answer.
He steps off the stage, handing his guitar to Owen. I give my cousin a murderous glance—which he returns with a grin—and before Julian can corner me in front of fifty people, I lurch into motion, stalking around the counter and grabbing his arm as I go.
A wave of knowing laughter rises behind us as I haul him down the back hallway and into my office. Once inside, he kicks the door shut and comes straight for me.
Words of reproach fade with a sigh.
His hands flow around my hips, arms locking at my lower back as he lifts me. Heat envelopes me, burns through me. Our open mouths collide.
Papers scatter from my desk as he sits me atop it and presses between my open legs, fingers in my hair, on my back, my neck, their movement unceasing as he claims me. Relearns me.
“I need you, Rose,” he breathes, teeth on my earlobe, tongue flicking beneath, sucking on my neck until my head falls back. “Please. You’re it. Everything.”
YES.
But on the heels of my body’s answer comes one from my heart—an immense, crippling wave of fear. Dark and searching, it sinks claws into my gut. I shudder, my body going cold and rigid.
Memories paint my eyelids in a grisly slideshow.
Julian in the hospital bed, not looking at me as he cut me out of his life. Kissing Missy at the charity benefit, laughing with her at Greta’s wedding right after singing to me.
I can’t leave her.
Newspaper on the table.
I made mistakes.
My fist connecting with his face.
You’re it. Everything.
Empty bed.
I saw you and I wanted you.
Alone.
You’ve always been a symbol.
Open graves.
I wanted to drink.
Confusion. Lust. Dishonest living.
Music alone will never leave you.
Prince of Swords.
Holding a pillow over my head to dampen the sound of my parents screaming.
Love kills art.
My mother locked in the bathroom; my father pounding on the door, yelling at her to take the needle out of her arm and raise her child.
You’re just like me.
Easily overwhelmed by sorrow and conflict.
Justlikeme justlikeme.
Princess of Cups.
“No,” I whisper.
Julian, who stilled when I went rigid, lifts his head. Anguish in his eyes, he takes a swift step back. His chest rises and falls rapidly, hands clenching at his sides.
“I’m moving too fast. I’m sorry. You need more time.”
I’m not sure where my voice comes from, but it’s a freezing, barren place. “I can’t do this. I can’t be with you.”
He jerks, reaching for me. I tense and he lets his arm fall.
“You don’t meant that,” he whispers.
“Right now, I mean it more than anything.”
Fighting to keep the pieces of me together, I sink fingers into my hair, clenching until my scalp burns. My gaze roams the office wildly; my vision brightens around the edges.
“I… I can’t think around you. I can’t—”
“Breathe, Rose.” His voice is calm and steady. “You’re having a panic attack. I’d touch you but I think that might make it worse.”
“Panic attack,” I echo.
Reason filters though me. Gripping the edges of the desk, I drop my chin to my chest and start breathing. Five seconds in, pause, five seconds out.
After the third cycle, the prickling of cold sweat fades, leaving me shaking in the aftermath. Swallowing hard, I look up at Julian.
His eyes scan mine, bright with compassion and no small measure of dismay.
“I did this,” he says, shaking his head. “I did this to you.”
I laugh shortly. “No you didn’t. My mother did.”
I stare at the wall beside his head. I’m burned out. Empty and numb. Memories spill onto my tongue, building until they overflow.
“One time when I was eleven years old, my dad left on a business trip, which was really code for him taking a break from the insanity at home. I was supposed to stay with Aunt Katherine, but she was working and couldn’t pick me up until late that night. Mom invited her drug dealer to the house. I think she forgot I was in the room—she shot up in front of me. When she realized I was there, she started crying and tried to explain why she had to do it.”
Julian sucks in a breath but doesn’t speak.
I shrug. “She told me that love killed her art, and heroin was the only thing that softened that pain.” I take a slow, trembling breath and meet Julian’s eyes. “It took me a long time to understand that she was talking about more than my father. Me, Julian. I killed her music. And she couldn’t live without music more than she couldn’t live without me.”
