I didn’t know what I had agreed to with Dex, but I left Miami knowing it entailed more than just words. Actions and support would be included. In what way, I would soon discover.

Burnout is a big problem for bands on the road. Fortunately, they had a four day break in New Orleans, which I’m sure they needed. The headlines didn’t thrill me. Gossip blogs had posted photos of them playing an impromptu concert at Preservation Hall. A few drunken pics on Bourbon Street bothered me. They didn’t say Dex hooked up with anyone, but how would they know really.

A knot forms in my stomach just thinking about it. It’s a grounded fear since we haven’t dealt with the Firenza issue. Something is off with that situation. When I replay that morning back in my head, the whole thing just doesn’t sit right with me. Naturally, Dex having sex with her doesn’t sit right, but something about how he acted toward me in front of her still makes me doubt what I saw with my own eyes.

The way she nudged his back… and how he had his back to her in the first place.

The look in his eyes, the fear, wasn’t one of fear of losing me, but more of shame.

He makes me feel weak when I need to be strong because I know he cared about me. But emotionally, I’m in no position to ask the questions that need to be asked, not strong enough to hear the answers. So I need to stop guessing at what his motives were because that’s the one thing that was clear. I punch my pillow to fluff it, wishing I could stop thinking about why he hasn’t called me either. I’m weak.

Resting my head down on the couch, I try to block out my thoughts by listening to the boys playing in Neil’s room, hoping to sneak in a quick nap.

But as soon as I close my eyes, I hear, “Mom.”

Gradually opening one eye, then the other, I find myself face to face with Neil and CJ. Neil flashes four postcards in front of me. “Dex is home. I want to go to his house and play.”

“How do you know?” Sitting up slowly, I take one of the postcards. “What is this?”

“We got letters from him.”

“What? You did? When?” I flip Chicago’s postcard over and read: Hey Buddies, I’m in the Windy City today. Looking forward to hanging with you guys again. Take care of your mom, Dex.

Stunned by what I’m seeing, I anxiously pull the next postcard from his hands—Atlanta—and read: Neil, the crowd at Chastain Park was so cool. One day I’m gonna bring you to a concert so you can play drums with me on stage. CJ, hope you’re keeping up with your alphabet. We’ll practice hitting rhythms to the alphabet song when I return. Take care of your mom, Dex.

The handwriting is messy, but legible—a lot like Dex these days. Grabbing postcard three, I read: Nashville: Hey Buddies, miss you guys. I’ve bought you each a surprise, but you have to be good for your mom to get it. I’m gonna check with her too, so no fibbing. Hope you’re practicing your paradiddles and rhythms. Take care of your mom, Dex.

Neil snatches them away from me. “Mom, these are mine. Dex sent’em to me.”

Somewhere while reading postcards two and three, I started holding my breath. My chest now aches as a consequence when I exhale. “When did he send them?” I ask.

“I dunno.” CJ grabs Atlanta from Neil and runs around the couch singing his alphabet. Even he knows what they say. Beth or Neil must have read them to him. Neil sits on the coffee table in front of me. “Beth gave them to us.”

She leaves my mail in the basket in the kitchen, but I forgot to check it over the last few weeks. Too much other stuff on my mind. “Why didn’t you tell me about them sooner?”

“Am I in trouble?”

“No,” I reply, shaking my head. “Why would you be in trouble?”

“I dunno. Just asking cuz you’re using that voice you use when I’m in trouble.”

I relax a little. “Sorry. I’m just kind of blown away that he sent you guys these. What does the last one say?”

Neil turns it over in his hands and my heartbeats pick up when I see the city name on the front—Miami. He reads, “Dear Neil and CJ, almost home for a short break in the tour. One more city to go. Keep practicing. If you have the single paradiddle down, I’ll show you something called a fill. See you soon and take care of your mom, Dex.” He looks up at me and adds, “See? He should be home.”

The only city left is New Orleans. “Did Beth check the mail yesterday?” I ask, standing up.

“I don’t think so. Can I?”

“C’mon, let’s walk down and get it.”

With both boys in tow, we walk down to the other street where the neighborhood mailboxes are situated. I let Neil open it with the key. He feels very important given the task. I reach for all the mail and pull it out, a letter slipping to the ground. CJ picks it up and says, “For you, Mama.”

“Thank you, kind Sir.”

I flip through the mail and as soon as I see New Orleans on the front of a postcard, Neil grabs it. We start back for the house and I ask Neil to read it to me.

“Hi Buddies, almost home. Can’t wait. I’m super tired from traveling. Forget everything I taught you. Go to law school instead.”

Neil looks up at me and asks, “What’s law school?”

“It’s where you learn to become a lawyer.” Pointing at the postcard, I say, “I think he’s being sarcastic, just joking with you.” I wrap my arm around his shoulders and give him a squeeze.

“Oh.” Neil looks at the card confused, but then continues reading. “I’m home for four days and then off again. Looking forward to hearing your progress. Take care of your mom, Dex.”

Maybe it was the smile on Neil’s face and watching CJ gallop down the sidewalk, or maybe it was that Dex was keeping his word to my kids and they were smiling. I’m thinking it’s both, but no matter where this warm feeling inside derived from, I love it. Seeing my kids happy makes me happy. As we enter the house, Neil takes off running and says, “Gotta practice. I want to learn what fills are.”

“Teach me. Teach me. Fills.” CJ runs after him.

I dump the mail on the island in the kitchen and start sorting it. When I come across the letter with my name on it, I glance to the return address. There isn’t one.

CJ comes in singing, but stops and says, “That’s like the other letters.”

“What other letters?”

He points to the basket in the corner that holds the mail that I still need to go through. “Those.”

I walk over and look inside the basket, then pull out two other letters that match the one on the island. I see the similarities in handwriting when they’re together like this and I smile, knowing they’re from Dex. Each is postmarked to correspond with the tour and cities listed—Chicago, Nashville, and Miami.

I need time to process the fact that he’s been writing us for weeks and I’m just now finding out. As much as I want to rip them open and read each and every word, I don’t. I won’t be able to give them the attention I want with hungry kids begging for food at my feet. My heart is beating out of control, but dinner needs to be made, so I set the letters aside and ask, “CJ, you want to be Mommy’s helper with dinner?”

“Yes,” he says excitedly.

“Okay, you grab the lettuce and I’ll get the carrots and tomatoes from the fridge. You can help with the salad.”

* * *

The letters call to me throughout dinner, a cartoon, and book time in CJ’s room. I kiss him on the head and turn out his light before making my way into Neil’s room. Snuggling with him, he reads aloud to me from his adventure book. I help on the tough names and big words, but he’s a really good reader. When it’s time for lights out, he asks, “Will I get to see Dex again?”

His tone makes my heart sting and not knowing how to answer, I go with my gut. Looking up at the stars on his ceiling, I ask, “Do you want to see Dex again?”

“Yes. I like his gameroom. He has cool video games and the drums are awesome.”

I slip out of bed and tuck him in. “What else do you like about him?”

“I like that he’s a grownup, but cooler. Some grownups talk to me like I’m dumb. He doesn’t.”

Smiling, I reply, “That is cool. Get some rest and I’ll message him.” I kiss him on the head, then turn out his lamp. Shutting the door behind me after several I love yous, I leave and head back to the kitchen.

I pour a glass of wine while keeping an eye on the letters that look so harmless sitting there, but taunt me relentlessly. The hotel envelopes only add to the intrigue. After taking a few sips, I grab them and go into my bathroom and start the water. As the tub fills, I set them down on the vanity and undress. I’m shocked by my own willpower. Once the water is high enough to cover me, I take the letters and climb into the tub. I open them in order. The first is from two weeks ago, which makes me realize I should go through my mail more often.

Chicago. The paper is crumpled a bit and the inks slightly smeared near the hotel logo at the top.

Dear Rochelle,

I don’t know what I’m doing, but still feel the urge to do it. What does that say about me? Maybe I can’t change. Maybe at thirty, I am who I am.

The thing is, I’m not sure who I am anymore. I’ve lost interest in my own life. But your life—I can’t stop thinking about you. You undoubtedly have my complete attention. Sometimes I damn you for it.

I never told you much about me. I don’t know why I’m feeling the need to do it now. It’s probably the bourbon talking.

Did you know that I didn’t learn to ride my bike until I was eight? I borrowed a neighbor kids’ bike and taught myself on the driveway since there was no one else to do it. My brother was too busy with his friends to teach me.

I’ve got more money than I can blow through. I was never meant to be rich. Besides my money, I’m the son to a mother who inherited more than she could spend in a lifetime and a father who built an empire on the backs of using cheap labor with low expenditures. I never fit into their world. I never belonged.

But I belong in The Resistance.

Sincerely,

Dex

I exhale with sigh. Reaching for my wine, I take an unsteady sip to calm the torrential emotions brewing. My heart and head hurt for him. He’s exposed himself to me in the short letter and I’m left here in shock and hurting for him.

Nashville. I open the second letter, not knowing what to expect from this one. It’s neater—the handwriting and the hotel stationary. Quality paper.

Dear Rochelle,

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live somewhere else, somewhere other than LA. Is thirty too young to have a life crisis?

I might be having one.

Nothing seems to stick or gel, or anything else with me these days. Except one.

And Johnny knows.

I didn’t tell him. I hope you believe me. He mentioned you in passing, but I know he was really letting on that he knows. I didn’t confirm his suspicions. But I didn’t deny them either. It felt wrong to do either.

Did you know at fourteen, I found out my mother was raped by her uncle when she was fourteen. I don’t even think I knew what rape was at that age, but I found out. I also lost my grandfather later that year. He had a heart attack. My mother refused to attend his funeral, so I went alone. Later, I wished I hadn’t gone at all. I got drunk for the first time at fourteen right after his service.

I smoked my first cigarette at fourteen. I lost my virginity at fourteen. I smoked pot for the first time at fourteen. I did coke at fifteen. I totaled my first Porsche at sixteen. My second at seventeen. My third at nineteen and then I was kicked out of the house. I got my first job at nineteen playing back up for a cover band down on Sunset for fifty dollars a night.

You walked into my life at nineteen…

Sincerely,

Dex

Dropping the letter to the floor, I sink further down into the water not able to process everything he’s told me, struggling since the tears slipping from my eyes take precedence. Of all the years I have known him, I never knew even a quarter of what he’s shared with me in these two letters. Why is he telling me now?

My hands are pruning and the bath water is cold. I stand up and dry off, draining the tub. Carrying the letters into the other room, I set them down on my bed before getting into my pajamas. Checking on the boys, who have both fallen asleep, I kiss each one of them on the head, then tiptoe out afterwards.

But my stomach is twisted and my heart pounding, worried what the last letter will say, so I wait to read it. While I brush my teeth I think about everything he revealed to me. It makes the stuff with Firenza seem petty in comparison. His past defines who he is now just as mine does. And the one thing I’ve learned is, there is no escaping it.

I climb under the covers and take the letter in hand along with a deep breath. Miami. Stars. Beach. The last kiss ever. Dex has lost his way and I’m not sure if I’ve helped or hurt him in the last couple of months, so I open the letter and hope for the best.

Miami.

Dear Rochelle,

I thought LA was soulless until I came to Miami. I’ve been to Miami many times, but never stayed sober before. Just an observation.

I knew you were coming, but I didn’t know what to expect. I thought I had a grasp on things, but you stir something in me, emotions I have trouble burying. These little confessionals have been freeing for me.

If you ever need to unload some burdens, I’m here for you. I know I’m probably the last person you would trust with such gravity—I should apologize. I worry my apologies hold no value with you anymore.

I’m going to try anyway. Here goes… Wait for it…

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for so much. If we ever get to that stage of trust again, I won’t blow it.

But there was something about Miami. On the beach, you outshined the stars.

Just something else I should have told you then. I was just too distracted by my own ego to say what my heart was feeling.

Something else I should have told you in one of those other letters is I started hanging out with Chad Spears at fourteen. I’m not asking you to stay away from him anymore. I have no right to do that, but know that I’d still like you to.

Sincerely,

Dex

Holy shit! Fourteen. Fourteen. Fourteen. Everything goes back to when he was fourteen. All the bad he’s had happen started at fourteen. With my thoughts and heartbeats running rampant, I can’t deny the urge to call him any longer. A text will not suffice. I grab my phone from the nightstand and do it before I can change my mind. After three rings, he answers and I can hear the hesitancy in his voice, “Hello?”

“Hi.” My own voice shakes a little from the uncertainty that lies between us.

There’s a momentary pause. I hear a TV or music in the background being turned down. “Hi.”

I blurt, “I got your letters.” I anxiously wait to hear his response, but typical Dex it’s not what I expect.

“I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Dex. I just want you to know that I got them all tonight. I didn’t know any of that in Miami. I wish I had.”

Always expect the unexpected with him. “Can I come over?”

“Ummm… I’m in bed already.” I regret it as soon as I say it, so I quickly cover with the truth. “If you want.”

“It’s late,” he says, the moment passed. “How about you bring the boys over tomorrow? I promised Neil another lesson.”

Feeling like we might be able to find our way back to each other, I relax down onto the mattress after turning out the light, and reply, “How’s noon for you? I can bring lunch.”

“Noon is good.”

“I should get some sleep. I have an early morning phone call to the U.K.”

“Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, Dex.”

I hear him take in a breath, then say, “Sweet dreams, Rochelle.”

“Sweet dreams.”

We both remain on the phone, the silence that felt distancing before now feels bonding. Eventually, I crack and giggle. “Are you going to hang up?”

“No, I like hearing you breathe.”

“Funny that. I was listening to you breathe.”

“You’re weird,” he says, “Why would you do that?”

“Why am I the weirdo when you were doing the same thing?”

“Okay,” he adds, “We’re both weirdoes. Now hang up first.”

With a smile on my face, I reply, “Goodnight for real this time.”

“Goodnight for real this time.”

We both hang up, or at least I think he hung up when I did. I call back just to make sure. “Hello?” he answers like he doesn’t know who it is.

“I didn’t hang up on you, did I?”

“Yes, you did. Now do it again because I don’t want to be the one who does it.”

“You’re a dork.”

Right before I disconnect, I hear him say, “You’re beautiful.”

I immediately call him back again. When he answers, he laughs. “Yes, I called you beautiful.”

“Just checking. Thank you.”

“Goodnight, Rochelle.”

“Goodnight, Dex.”

This time I hang up and set my phone down on the bed. The problem with Dex is that no matter how much I should be mad at him for all the shit he’s pulled over the years, I just can’t seem to keep myself in that state. He’s not the bad guy he likes to portray himself to be. Call me sentimental, but I see through the act to the man himself.