Breaking Giants, page 5
Aunt Katherine is an extremely kind, gentle, and generous woman. But I can’t lie—there’s a part of her that scares me. A few of her premonitions have been a little too close to the mark for outright dismissal. While alive, my father had called her his witch-in-law. It hadn’t been a joke.
On the night of my parents’ deaths, Katherine’s incessant phone calls to the house had woken me. I still remember her screaming ‘Find your mother!’ But both of them had been gone by then.
Later, I found out that she’d started calling minutes before my mother’s time of death. Why my father hadn’t answered the phone, I’ll never know.
“A message came for you in the cards last night.”
My stomach sinks. “Oh?” I ask noncommittally.
“Would you like to hear it?”
“No thanks.”
We’ve had this exact conversation more times than I can count. My responses are always the same. Still, she keeps asking.
“Has she been speaking to you?”
Every goddamn year.
Careful to maintain a bland tone, I reply, “Mom is dead, Aunt K. She can’t speak to me.”
Several years ago, I’d made the mistake of telling her that around the anniversary I had vivid memories of my mother’s voice.
Katherine stubs out her cigarette in an ashtray. I don’t turn, but I can feel her stare on the side of my face.
“Whatever Grace is telling you, you shouldn’t listen. Her messages are being distorted by the circumstances of her death.”
I roll my eyes up to the white slats of the porch’s roof. Though she knows the truth, Katherine has never been able to come out and say it. My mother, her twin sister, OD’d on heroin. An accidental overdose according to the coroner’s report, which only means there was no way to determine whether or not she’d committed suicide. There hadn’t been anything as closure-related as a note.
Undisturbed by my recalcitrance, Katherine continues, “Did you visit their graves?”
I silently pray for Owen to come save me. “Not since the funeral, as you know.”
Katherine reaches over to cover my hand with hers. “Maybe next year.”
I nod, my throat clogged with too much emotion to speak. I should have stayed home. It’s an empty thought, without force of motivation. I need to be here. I need to be reminded that my family loves me.
For all her eccentricities, Katherine is the closest to a mother I’ve ever known. After my parents’ deaths, she adopted me and raised me alongside Owen.
When nightmares woke me screaming in the night, she stroked my damp forehead until I could sleep again. She came to every softball game, read every paper and book report, taught me how to pluck my eyebrows, and gave me my first beer. When Frankie Jensen broke my heart sophomore year of college, she’d been the one to hold me as I sobbed.
I love her. More, perhaps, than I ever did my own mother.
“Oh, honey, come here. I love you, too.”
I sigh as her arms enfold me. Ducking my face into her neck, I breathe in her familiar soft musk.
“Owen tells me you’ve met someone.” When I stiffen, she holds me tighter. “Be careful, Rosie. The Prince of Swords is volatile right now. The timing is inopportune.”
Chills rush over my skin and I jerk upright. Katherine watches me calmly, dark eyes fathomless.
“I haven’t met anyone. Stop it. You are not talking to me about tarot. You know I don’t believe in that stuff.”
Katherine shrugs a narrow shoulder. “Truth isn’t dependent on belief, honey. Any way you look at it, the truth is just the truth.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or yell.
The Prince of Swords, really?
I’m more disturbed than I’ll admit. A memory of Julian rises, his amber eyes warm and laughing as he reads the description of the card in his hand. I wonder if Katherine knows she contradicted herself—if she’s telling me to stay away from Julian, listening to my mother is exactly what I should do.
Heaving air into my lungs, I stare at the rapidly darkening sky. I consider texting Julian and calling everything off.
The front door creaks open, spilling light and warmth. I wilt with relief at the sight of Owen. “Dinner’s ready—oh, hey Rose.” He sees the strained expression on my face and immediately frowns at Katherine. “Mom, I thought I told you to go easy on her.”
“I did!” she protests.
I stand quickly, squeezing her shoulder as I pass. “She did. Everything’s fine.”
I grab the wine, not meeting Owen’s gaze as I slip past him, down the hall, and into the kitchen.
“Oh my God!” screeches Greta when she sees me. “How freaking excited are we!”
She bounds across the room, throwing her whopping, five-feet-three-inch body into my arms. I carefully deposit the wine on the kitchen island and hug her back.
“Sooo excited,” I drawl.
She finally releases me, pretty features scrunched. “I know today’s a tough one, Rosie. I’ll try to tone it down.”
I smile, feeling a loosening in my gut. It’s hard to be sad with a blonde, green-eyed pixy around.
“Please don’t.”
She squeals and bounces. “Okay, I won’t! Breaking Giants! Holy shit we’re going to hang out with Breaking Giants! Are you seriously wearing jeans and a t-shirt? What’s wrong with you?”
I glance down, frowning. “They’re new jeans.”
Owen strolls into the kitchen followed by Katherine. He veers around me to give Grace a peck on the cheek.
“Don’t dump me for a rockstar, love.”
Greta giggles and swats at his roaming hands. “That all depends on Matt Sullivan.” Owen groans and staggers backward. Greta just laughs.
I watch them as they banter—Greta fussing with something on the stove, Owen pouring wine—and my heart is heavy and full at once. We all grew up together, the two of them dancing around what was obvious to everyone else until after college. To me, their love is magic. Unconditional, sometimes messy, but always full of warmth and respect.
From beside me, Aunt Katherine murmurs, “Yours will come, Rose.”
I roll my eyes and snag a glass of wine.
♫
Julian lives in Edmonds, about a forty-minute drive north of Seattle. I can’t say I’m surprised by his choice in real estate. The area is mostly residential, and his property backs right onto the Puget Sound. Private. Secure. And possessing what are sure to be breathtaking views of the water and mountains. A perfect musician’s retreat.
As we pull up behind a row of cars stacked in the driveway, Greta whistles. “I think it just hit me. What we’re doing.” She turns wide eyes to me. “Why are we doing this?”
I laugh, only partially forced. “Come on, cupcake, you hung out at my parents’ house all the time when we were kids.”
Greta gives a sober nod. “It’s not the mansion,” she says, pointing at the lit-up, rustic giant in front of us. “It’s what’s inside it.”
I throw my trusty Subaru into park and turn off the engine. Glancing at my cellphone, I assure her, “It’s already close to ten. We’ll stay for an hour, then split.”
“I think I just peed my pants.”
Laughing for real this time, I step out of the car and wait for her to join me.
“If I can do this, so can you.”
She snort-laughs and grabs my arm. “Deal.”
We walk up the driveway to the front door. It opens as we near it, emitting music and laughter. In our direct line of sight are at least fifteen people. Men with tattoos and tight pants. Women in miniskirts or slinky dresses.
Greta, in leggings, boots, and a short dress, skates the line of fitting in. I’m completely underdressed.
“So much for a small get together,” I mumble, and plaster a smile on my face.
Jackson Everett, Breaking Giants’ bassist, stands near the front door with a cellphone to his ear. He waves at me, quickly finishes his call, then lowers the phone and grins in welcome. He’s blonde, stocky and handsome in an All American Boy way, and has killer dimples.
“Hi, I’m Jackson. You must be Rose.”
We shake hands. “Yep. This is my friend Greta.”
“Hi Greta.” He shakes her hand before turning back to me. “I’ve been ordered to bring you outside.”
He doesn’t wait for a response, turning and waving over his shoulder for us to follow. Radiohead croons through the house from discreet speakers. The lighting is recessed and mellow. That’s about all I take in of my surroundings, as I’m mostly focused on not tripping, and ignoring the odd looks cast in our direction.
Jackson leads us through the back of the house and onto a huge, two-story deck. Beyond the shadowed backyard, a stretch of inky black signifies the Sound. Cool air bathes my face and I breathe deeply, consciously, as we descend the stairs to ground level.
The breathing exercise brings my heart rate down from the danger zone, but my skin still prickles nervously. At least twenty people are standing or sitting on lawn furniture around a massive, sunken fire pit. I try not to scan the crowd for Julian’s dark head. I fail repeatedly.
The second my feet hit flagstone, Matt’s voice lifts above the din. “There she is!”
I don’t see him until he leaps to his feet, jostling the woman sharing his chaise, and jogs through the crowd to me. He abolishes my personal space to give me a bone-cracking hug.
His whisper tickles my earlobe, “Can I chat with you for a minute?”
I step back, nodding and trying not to frown at the peculiar tone in his voice. I can’t place it. Doubt? Disappointment?
“Sure, um…”
I glance uncertainly at Greta, who stares back at me with a Don’t you dare leave me expression.
Jackson says quickly, “Greta, can I show you around? Get you a drink?”
There’s something quintessentially kind about the bassist. A lack of conceit, maybe. Whatever it is, I see Greta’s tension fade and she nods, smiling.
“See you in a few?” she hisses.
I nod firmly. “Definitely.”
When Matt and I stand in relative private, I ask, “What’s going on?”
He clears his throat, gesturing me further away from the fire.
Into the dark and down we go
With frozen lips, on tiptoes.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know that the reflex to write lyrics is a defensive one. I’m disconnecting my feelings from the present. Bracing for impact. Matt isn’t bothering to hide that something’s wrong.
He stops beside a tree and drags a hand through his pale hair. “So, er, I’m not sure how to say this…”
“I’m a smart girl,” I say blandly. “The gig isn’t going to work out. Right?”
He sighs noisily. “Right. I’m so sorry. Something changed today. The the original artist who was going to sing is back in the picture.”
I lift a hand, saving him from what looks like a seriously uncomfortable moment.
“Hey, it’s all good.”
Inside me, disappointment and relief share a slow dance. Then nostalgia butts in, which is weird. How can I long for something that hasn’t happened, and now never will?
For less than a day, I’d been preparing to sing accompaniment to Julian Ashburn. It isn’t the end of the world. It isn’t the end of anything, because nothing started in the first place.
“Julian told me to tell you he’s sorry,” Matt continues. “He wanted to call and explain, but got wrapped up in some… things.”
I nod absently, chewing my lips. “He’s not here?” I finally ask.
Matt stares at the ground. “Nope. Caught a flight this evening to L.A.”
The dots aren’t hard to connect. Of course there’s a woman in L.A. The woman he wrote that song about. I only wrote it because the label was pressuring me, heartbreak being good for business.
Funny, how my first impression was dead on the money. He’s not over her. Not even remotely.
“Good for him,” I say, a little less enthusiastically than I was aiming for.
Coughing to cover an odd sting of hurt in my chest, I glance around the backyard. Everywhere I look are attractive people laughing and chatting. It’s a perfect, clichéd tableau of a rockstar’s party. I spot another famous musician sitting near the fire pit with a bong in his lap. He’s grinning down at a brunette who kneels beside his chair, her cleavage about three inches past modesty’s border.
For a moment, I wonder if I could ever belong in this crowd, in the loud, passionate conversations, the devil-may-care attitudes. Then I let the thought go. It’s an old, tired one.
Stranger in my rearview;
Once, I thought I knew you.
I turn my focus back to Matt. “Well, if you don’t mind I’ll probably just head home.”
“What?” he barks. “No way! You have to stay. Hang out.”
Because he sounds so damn genuine, I smile. “Thanks, and thanks for being a cool person, but this isn’t really my scene.”
Matt grins at me. “I bet you like museums and art galleries and shit like that.”
I laugh. “I do run a coffeehouse, you know.”
He shakes his head, frowning a little. “Man, you’re seriously the female version of Julian.”
Ack.
My laugh this time is forced. “As far as I know my parents only had one kid.”
Matt scrunches his face—a super adorable expression that no press has ever witnessed. “Ew. What if you were his sister? Julian would have to live with wanting to fuc—“ He chokes, flushing bright red.
My eyes almost pop out of their sockets. I blink a few times. Matt doesn’t say anything else, and the awkward moment stretches until we both wince.
“Okay,” I wheeze finally. “Well, I’ll see you around?”
He looks at me a few more seconds, a penetrating stare that makes me glad I’m not on spectrum of women he goes after. Then he gives me another brief hug.
“If it’s any consolation, we all think he’s making a mistake.”
I smile weakly, thinking of Aunt Katherine’s unasked for message about Julian: The timing is inopportune. As usual, she hit the nail on the head with her freaky fairy dust.
Or maybe she just reads the tabloids.
6
don’t blink
four months later
The song is everywhere. Radio. Television. Malls. Bookstores. Social Media. It even sneaks repeatedly onto my music streaming apps, earning an immediate finger swipe. Everyone loves it. It’s edgy, darker than the band’s previous work. A veritable anthem of passionate love. In short, an instant hit.
Entertainment journalists can’t stop writing about the story behind the song—the relationship between Julian Ashburn and Missy McKenzie, bonafide country star. For a few weeks, their faces grace the cover of every gossip rag and trendy magazine.
Oh yeah, it’s that song. The one he said wouldn’t be on the album. The one about how she cheated on him and dumped him, breaking his heart. Only the cheating bit vanished from the lyrics, replaced by something more mild. Less incendiary. More… I wasn’t sure we were meant to be together but now I am.
For the first time in history, I don’t buy the newest Breaking Giants single.
Also for the first time in history, I record songs. Part of the blame, I know, goes to Julian and his assertion that I’m too afraid to put myself out there. He’s right. And I’m annoyed enough—about him bulldozing into my life, then disappearing like smoke—to want to rebel against him, to prove him wrong. Surprisingly, this motivation outweighs the deeply ingrained fear of becoming like my mother.
Greg helps me get the booth time and produces the six tracks for me, which luckily for me happens to be his day job. He owed me the favor, anyway, as he shares blame with Julian for why I broke my vow to never record.
One evening, about a month after the party at Julian’s, Greg and I were fooling around with guitars at my place when I let slip that I’d written something new. After much egging, I finally played it for him on piano, humming lyrics I was too afraid to voice.
Fast forward two and a half months and I now have twenty or so demo CDs that Greg insists on plugging every Friday at open mic. They sit beside his and a few others on a counter at Tullamore. And they’ve been selling, a handful a week.
We started with a hundred of them.
♫
It’s an early Friday evening like any other, clanking dishes and rising excitement. The front door of Tullamore is open, emitting a warm June breeze and lingering daylight, soft and golden. Oversized ceiling fans crank steadily but don’t do much more than churn hot air. As happens occasionally in Seattle, the weather is epic. Sunny and high seventies for the last week. There are more than a few people sporting tan lines and healing sunburns.
I’m relaxed. More relaxed than I’ve been in ages. Something inside me feels different. Looser and free.
On a psychological level that I’m sure a therapist would squee over, I get that recording songs was a huge step of growth. Overcoming the deep, irrational fear implanted in me by my parents’ insane lives and realizing how irrational that fear is? Let’s just say I’m no longer quite as neurotic.
Everyone close to me has noticed. Aunt Katherine says the presence of spirit guides is strong around me. Whatever that means. Owen and Greta don’t have to hide worry when they look at me now. And Greg… Greg shaved his dreadlocks, revealing what the world already knew—he’s pretty hot. We’ve grown closer, and though he’s always respectful of our friendship’s boundaries, he’s been laying on the charm real thick. I’m still not dating him, but I’m not as repelled by the idea as I once was.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go on tonight?”
I glance back at Owen, my arm submerged in the bakery case. Using tongs to retrieve the requested scone, I slap it on a plate and hand it to a cashier.
