Breaking Giants, page 3
Greg whoops as my fingers pluck the opening chords. Noise from the crowd dims as the tempo increases, notes spilling over, twinkling and light. The song rises, filling me to the brim.
Everything fades… the people, the lights. Even Julian is gone. It’s just me, overflowing.
Take what you want,
Steal what you need;
I don’t have your answers
But I happen to believe
I can feed on your sorrows
Until we’re both freed.
Just catch me—
I’ll wait till you’re mine.
I’m here on your time.
Every time.
And when the tide takes us back,
We’ll be spared all regret,
Cause we walked on the waters
And we laughed at Death.
We swam in the skies and
Caught storms with our breath.
Because you’ve got me.
You caught me.
Every time.
Another chorus, then the bridge and two more choruses. And finally, the melody lifts from darkness back to light. The last chords fade. Applause erupts, shattering the soft world of my creation.
I smile and duck my head. “Thanks, guys. How about we lighten it up?”
I transition smoothly into a silly number, the already requested Excess. I wrote it in college after witnessing the ridiculous and often humorous behavior of co-eds. As I sing, I let my gaze wander over the crowd, smirking when I see Barbie on Julian’s lap.
She’s got lust in her eyes,
The manufactured kind.
As false as her eyelashes
And as deep as her mind.
There’s a boy on her hook but
He doesn’t know what’s coming.
He can’t see it coming.
Poor boy, he’s blind…
I try not to look at Julian’s face but can’t resist. As soon as our gazes connect, I’m sucked in, as helpless as the boy in my song. And I know, suddenly and with unnerving clarity, that I could pull an entire catalogue of songs from him. From his eyes, his voice, the overwhelming sense of depth he exudes, the gears turning in his brilliant mind.
He’s forbidden fruit. A dark dream. And the look in his eyes strips me bare. I can’t take it—I wrench my gaze away, staring instead out the dark windows.
By the end of the song, my spine is so stiff it’s aching. When the applause dies down, I say, “I’m going to cut it short tonight. One more and then we’ll be moving on.”
Before they can complain, I launch into a cover of Another Sunny Day by Belle and Sebastian. It’s a house favorite, a bluesy version of the original. The crowd isn’t disappointed. I’m off the stage before the applause dies.
Owen squeezes my shoulder as he passes, heading for the mic. After consulting the clipboard he clears his throat.
“Next up… uh… John Doe?”
Laughter sounds from the back, where the men of Breaking Giants sit. They, at least, get the joke. Julian stands and make his way around the clusters of tables and people. His path leads him directly to me, which I realize too late to escape.
He stops before me, head cocked, gaze roaming my face. After a pregnant silence—wherein I feel the weight of fifty set of eyes on us—he asks, “Can I borrow your guitar?”
My ears ring. There go more brain cells. But I shake my head. “Sorry, it belonged to my mother. There are three other guitars up there.”
“I’ll be good to her, I promise.”
Owen says lightly, “John Doe, any day…”
I look down at the guitar in my hand, then up at Julian’s face. “Who am I kidding, you’re Julian Ashburn,” I mutter, and hand him the instrument.
He dimples. “You have an incredible voice, Ms. Cunningham.”
Then he’s gone, striding toward the stage with a guitar I never let anyone touch. And I stand frozen, a mannequin with a painted face of surprise, red-cheeked as a virgin.
I’ve barely relearned to breathe properly when Owen joins me. Julian makes himself comfortable on the stool, completely at ease in the spotlight. The hat and glasses stay on, and his sleeves are pulled down to cover his tattoos. I study the crowd for signs of recognition. There are a few speculative ripples, but nothing overt.
I lean toward Owen. “How is no one recognizing him? Or the other band members? Are we really that clueless in Fremont?”
Owen chuckles and shrugs. “Not everyone is as obsessed as you are. They look like regular people, especially with the hats and long sleeves.”
The first notes drift from the guitar, pulling my attention to the stage. To Julian’s fingers on the strings. My strings.
I can barely hear the melody over the blood rushing in my ears. All I know is that it’s distinctively Julian Ashburn. There’s no one who writes like he does.
Then he opens his mouth.
Your face is a sea a thousand miles deep.
If I knew how to swim,
I’d let go, I’d dive in.
Fuck safety.
Fuck life rafts.
I’ll do it—I’ll drown in you.
Laughing and spinning,
I’ll drown in you…
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
“This is… different,” whispers Owen.
Remember that time I got lost in a library?
I tried calling—No answer.
So I ran through the rain
and collapsed on your doorstep.
You answered—
You didn’t answer.
He answered…
As I listen, I know it’s not an acoustic song. Or rather, it won’t be. I can almost hear the drum line, the bass guitar, the two electrics. It’s different than anything I’ve heard from him before. His voice is rougher. Harder.
I watch his profile, his moving lips, and wonder what happened to him in the year and a half since the band's last album. Something happened. Someone hurt him.
Now I’m back in that library,
And I’m looking for whys,
But every page I find
Is as blank as your eyes.
I’m sick of my voice
But you don’t say a word.
You won’t say a word—don’t even try.
In the garden we made, the flowers are dying.
Too much water, too much love—
You stopped trying.
Your face is a sea a thousand miles deep.
I did it.
I’m drowning.
I drowned in you…
When the song wraps and the final notes fade away, Julian shakes his head a little to come back to himself. The audience is dead quiet, paused on the precipice of explosion. There’s no mistaking him now. Not with a voice like his, with fingers like his.
I don’t see who claps first but the wave suddenly breaks. Chairs screech as the front rows stand. Owen grunts at a particularly shrill whistle. I glance across the room to the members of Breaking Giants. Matt, Jackson, and Nick wear expressions varying from pride to smugness.
My question is now answered: Julian is experimenting and wanted a pulse check on how fans would respond.
Like there was any doubt.
Julian laughs softly. “Thank you. Okay, settle down. By the way, my name is John Doe.”
He glances at me and winks. But I see through the smile—I see what it cost him to expose his broken heart.
I tell Owen, “I’m going to head home, if that’s all right.”
“Are you serious? Why? Isn’t this your dream come true?”
I scramble for an excuse and decide on my dead parents. They owe me that much.
“The anniversary is coming up. Fourteen years.”
His eyes instantly melt with concern. “On Sunday, right?”
I nod and give him a quick hug. “I’m in at three tomorrow, see you then. Just put my guitar in my office, will you?” He nods.
I allow myself another eyeful of Julian, knowing I’ll probably never see him in person again. And it’s just as well.
My mother always told me that love and art can’t coexist, that eventually you were forced to choose between them. I believe it. I saw the truth for myself, up close and personal, played out in my parents’ relationship.
I don’t love Julian Ashburn. Hell, I don’t even know him. But he’s dangerous. A pool of kerosine to my pyromaniac.
I have a weakness for broken men.
I slip down the hallway, through the silent kitchen, and stop in my office for my coat and purse. The backdoor yields at my touch. I steal into the night as Julian’s fingers begin plucking the strings of my mother’s guitar.
♫
For hours, I sit hunched over the piano in my spare bedroom as rain patters on the roof and mist swirls around the windows. My muse pushes hard, her fingers talon-like on the back of my head.
I play with melodies and lyrics. Build a song, then tear it down. Build it again. Tear it down.
By four o’clock in the morning, I can no longer see straight and my diaphragm hurts from hours of irregular breathing. I stumble into my bedroom and crawl into bed, still wearing clothes from yesterday. The gentle tapping of rain lulls me first into quiet stasis, then finally into sleep.
I dream of drowning in an ocean of whiskey. Of reading blank books with red bindings. And a voice.
Julian’s voice.
The ringing of my phone wakes me, though it takes several groggy moments to separate the sound from a fire alarm in my dream. Opening heavy eyelids, I squint into the strangely bright room.
Oh, that’s what sunshine looks like.
I swipe my phone off the nightstand and answer, knowing the caller from the obnoxious ringtone.
“Owen, what time is it?” I croak, rubbing my eyes. “Am I late for work?”
“No, it’s only ten. Did you write all night again?”
I yawn hugely and shiver under the blankets. “Yeah. What’s up?”
“Don’t hate me.”
My eyes drift closed, sedated by the knowledge I don’t actually have to get up. “Huh? I don’t hate—”
“Julian Ashburn asked me for your phone number.”
“Fuck off,” I murmur.
“I’m serious.”
Between one second and the next, my brain comes fully online. I shoot upright in bed.
“W-what? You’re joking, right?”
“Nope. When his set was over he came straight up and asked me where you were. I was going to tell him it was none of his damned business, but then I remembered… he’s Julian Ashburn.”
To rule out the possibility I’m still dreaming, I pinch my arm hard, then wince.
“Rose, are you still there?”
“You gave him my number, didn’t you?”
“Of course I did. What if he wants to ask you out?”
“I don’t date musicians, Owen!”
“Stupidest rule ever,” he says blithely. “Anyway, I don’t know if that’s why he wanted your number or not. He did mention wanting to thank you for letting him borrow the guitar.”
Relief has me sagging back to the pillows. “He’s just being polite, then. Thank God. My head was two seconds from popping off.”
“You’re the weirdest woman on the planet. You worship this guy. Why don’t you want him to ask you out?”
“You just answered your own question. Maybe I don’t want to ruin the fantasy with reality. What if he’s a total dick and I can never listen to Breaking Giants again?”
I’m not lying, but neither am I being totally honest. The real reason I feel like puking right now is the song he played last night. And his broken heart and crooked smile and piercing, whiskey eyes.
I’m terrified of Julian Ashburn. The kind of terrified that should be reserved for dark alleys and strangers with knives.
“Whatever you say, Rosie. I know I can’t win this one. Oh, Greta wants you to call her. She’s out shopping with her mom right now but she’ll answer.”
I latch onto the shift in topic. “I bet she’s pissed she missed seeing the Breaking Giants boys, huh?”
“Totally. She’d drop me in a hot second for a chance with any one of them.”
I laugh; though she’d never leave Owen, it’s true that Greta’s almost as fanatical about them as I am.
“By the way, have you two figured out how I’m going to pull off being both the best man and the maid of honor?”
“No. Don’t remind me. We still have eight months. Maybe Greta will find a new best friend by then.”
“Not happening,” I quip.
“Whatever, we were family way before you two were bffs.”
“That’s negotiable.”
He snorts. “So rude. Hey, I gotta run. Do you hate me?”
I make him sweat for a few seconds. “Nah. He won’t call.”
“I wouldn’t count on that.”
He hangs up before I can reply. I stare warily at the phone in my hand, like it might rear up and bite me. Then it does, buzzing with a new text message. I almost throw it across the room, but clench my fingers at the last second.
I read the message and the tips of my fingers go numb.
Hi Rose, it’s Julian. Are you working today?
Heart pounding, I type out, Yes. Why?
The pause is so long, I start sweating.
Finally: What time?
Chills break out on my skin. Why?
I want to ask you something.
I blink at the ceiling, looking for guidance on the smooth white landscape. Instead, I hear my mother’s voice, the memory of which is most potent around the anniversary of her death.
You can’t fight it, Rose. It’s inside you. You’re going to be just like me.
Whether in response to her or Julian, I don’t know, but I type, No.
No?
Resolve flows through me. The answer is no.
I wait five long minutes, but a reply doesn’t come. Eventually the screen blurs, and the surprisingly sharp edge of disappointment fades.
4
sun in my eyes
The brilliant, gemlike blue of the sky is a trojan horse, distracting intelligent people from the fact it’s still February and cold. Even born and raised in Seattle, I’m not immune. The desire for spring is primal and overwhelming, suckering me into wearing a tank top and light cardigan in winter.
As I drive the ten minutes to work—with the heater on full blast—I’m relieved to see I’m not the only one to have fallen for the ruse. Passing a street corner crowded with pedestrians, I even see a few sets of bare legs. I’m instantly, immensely grateful that some part of me was sane enough to wear jeans.
I park in the private lot behind Tullamore, bypass our small outdoor patio that stays closed until actual spring, and let myself in the back door. Before it fully shuts I’m flooded with music to my business-owner ears. The café is packed.
Picking up my pace, I follow the sound of Owen's voice to the kitchen. He’s standing over the grill while our day cook, Antonio, is dashing between the industrial fridge and a countertop strewn with vegetables.
“Where’s Henry?” I ask, referring to our weekend busboy and assistant cook.
“Rose!” The relief in Owen’s voice is thick. “Henry’s out sick.” He glances at his watch, then frowns. “It’s one o’clock. Why are you two hours early?”
I smirk and reach for an apron. “Tell Aunt Katherine to alert the authorities. My psychic powers have finally revealed themselves.”
Owen groans at my joke, but snaps a hand out when I move into the kitchen. “They need you more out front. We can handle it back here. Right, Antonio?”
Antonio grins and winks at me. “Piece of pie. Sì, bella?”
I grin, while Owen shakes his head. “Close, Tony. It’s piece of cake.”
A plate breaks in the café. I hurriedly tie on the apron and leave the kitchen as behind me, Owen asks Antonio how to say take off your clothes in Italian. Laughing under my breath, I veer to a closet for a broom and dustpan, then hightail it into the café.
I come to a skidding halt beside the bakery case. Despite being somewhat prepared based on the noise level, I’m still stunned by the chaos before me. Every table, couch, and chair is occupied. Sunlight streams boldly through the windows, highlighting laughing faces that haven’t felt UV in weeks.
There’s an almost frenetic energy to conversations and gestures. Behind the register, two part-timers are ringing orders for a line that reaches almost to the door.
As I stand there grinning like the village idiot, Christy hustles toward me with another broom and full dustpan.
“Rose, thank God! I got the plate. Need your help making drinks, though.” She dumps the trash and washes her hands as I rush past the registers to the espresso station. Catching up with me, she asks, “Is it a holiday or something?”
I recall that she’s a California transplant, a freshman at the nearby UW. Smiling, I answer, “Nope. Random sunny days always bring the circus to town.” I glance down at her impractical, wedged sandals. “See? Spring fever got you, too.”
Two hours later, I’m as grateful for my tank top as Christy is for her sandals. We’re sweating like beasts. She has chopsticks holding her blonde hair up. My curls, unfortunately, eat chopsticks for breakfast. I resort to using an extra thick rubber band to fix a messy knot on the top of my head, but only after Christy promises to cut it out for me later.
The lunch rush finally tapers off around three. As Christy takes a much deserved break, I lean against the counter near our loose tea selection and guzzle raspberry Italian soda like water. When the bell on the door chimes, I glance over quickly. Just like I’ve done every fucking time I hear it.
But it’s not him.
It’s irrational to look for Julian. I know this. But emotional decisions have emotional hangovers and mine makes me wonder, makes me want… something.
A cynical part of me toys with the idea that I rejected him to test him. To push and play hard to get. The thought makes me faintly ill.
You’re just like me, Rose.
