“Memories are best left for the living.” ~Johnny Outlaw
Five days feels like a lifetime since Paris. What I tried so desperately to hold onto disappeared without me knowing and everything has changed. There’s a growing distance between me and Dalton that I feel deep inside. I hate it. It makes me angry, but I don’t push for emotional chats about us. Not right now. I’m trying to be whatever he needs. I’m just not sure what that is, but I’m choosing patience. He’s choosing to be numb. I don’t like it, but I understand.
The public is mourning Cory’s death. The gate at the end of Dalton’s driveway is covered in flowers and mementos, cards, and little personal effects that people made to celebrate Cory and the band.
Kneeling next to the tub, I test the water around Dalton’s chest. The heat has turned lukewarm, but I decide to leave him be, hoping he soaks some feeling back into his body. I stop in the doorway when he says, “I’m not dead, but I’m being honored like I am.”
“They’re mourning Cory,” I reply, keeping my voice soft, not wanting to upset him any more than he already is.
“Have you seen my house? Seen the memorial fans made outside, the campout, the vigils? I’m already dead.” He yells, “The Resistance is dead. Cory’s gone and a thousand fans lighting a candle in his honor in front of my house won’t bring him fucking back.” His crystal glass goes flying across the room and breaks. The outburst doesn’t surprise me. It’s good to see him finally react, but I still walk out, shutting the door behind me. Anger surges—his anger over Cory’s death and my anger over the feeling that I’m losing him, our relationship strained under the pressure.
When I go back to the living room, Tommy is sitting there. He’s been coming by every day, telling me he’s just checking in and wants some company. But I’ve come to realize that it’s not what he’s telling me that worries me, it’s what he’s not.
“We need to get the gate cleaned up,” I say, sitting down on the couch across from him.
“It’s too soon,” he replies. “It’s a shrine. How do we remove a shrine without causing an uproar? It will seem like he’s ungrateful. I haven’t figured out what to do yet, so it stays until I do.”
“It’s a shrine to Cor—”
“No,” he raises his voice, but catches himself and calms down. “It’s a shrine to one of the greatest bands that ever lived, that will never be again.”
“His career isn’t over.”
“The Resistance is.”
Silence fills the room as reality takes over—what once was will never be again.
I finally stand up, walking around to the back of the couch. I grip the edge while searching for a solution. “If the shrine can’t go, then Dalton has to. We need to get him out of here. He’s suffocating in memories and the constant reminders aren’t good for him. We can hear the fans out there at night.”
“Moving him somewhere else doesn’t change the facts.”
“But it might give him the reprieve he needs. I’m moving him. Today.” I leave Tommy sitting there and go back upstairs to the bedroom.
Dalton’s suitcase is still packed from the tour. I move it to the front door then return to get another from the top of his closet. When I turn around, he’s there, a towel wrapped around his waist. The man I met—confident and sexy—is not the man standing in front of me now. His shoulders are slumped and the week’s emotional damage has sunk into his face, darkened his eyes, and created a frown where none used to be.
I climb down from the step stool, setting the suitcase down and go to him, wrapping my arms around him so tightly that he can’t deny me any longer. I need this as much as he does. His arms wrap around me and tighten. I sigh as tears fill my eyes. When sharing the burden, all that felt heavy before feels lighter. For the few minutes we stand there, inside the large closet, the devastation of the last week lifts and momentarily, I feel our bubble form around us again.
After lunch, I drive him to my place. It was mayhem getting him off his property. The police were called to move fans, paparazzi, media, and gawkers from the premises and escort our vehicle from the street. I had to drive twenty minutes out of the way to make sure we weren’t being followed. I’m worried about security here at my townhouse. I’m able to work, which is good because I’m falling behind, but if the paparazzi or fans start showing up, we’ll have to go somewhere else.
I spend a few hours working in my office with the door closed, not wanting to disturb him with my music. I need the distraction to keep my mind focused on my project and not on him.
Wanting fresh air, I walk out onto my patio and sit on a lounger. Being home again, I realize how strangely normal sitting here is, like nothing bad has happened, like Cory is still alive and Dalton and I are still fine. I try to relish the moment because it feels precious.
Danny’s patio door opens and he walks out. I watch him as he moves around not noticing me when he clears some glasses, taking them inside then comes back out.
Feeling a little like I’m spying, I say, “Hi.”
He looks up and smiles. Coming to the patio wall that faces me, he says, “Hey there. How’s it going?”
“Okay.”Not wanting to talk about me, I turn the conversation around. “How are you? Cleaning up after another party?”
“It was small, I promise. And you were invited. Well, I came over to invite you, but you never answered.”
“I’ve been in… and out.”
“And shaking it all about.”
“Yeah, my life sort of feels like an ongoing hokey pokey these days.”
“You’ve been working a lot,” he says.
“Other stuff too, but yeah, I work a lot. Helps to keep my mind off of—”
“The other stuff?” he asks, using my words against me.
I know he’s being friendly and I’m just overly sensitive, but I stand anyway, suddenly feeling a little awkward, maybe guilty like me talking to him will upset Dalton. “Speaking of work, I should get back to it.”
“Good to see you’re alive.”
“You too.” Right before I step inside, I look back and add, “Bye.”
He waves. “See you around.”
Inside, I put my headset on and call Tracy to go over the marketing schedule for next month. She sounds good, happy, and I crave that feeling again too. I’ve been sad since Cory’s death, which is to be expected, but I want to feel good again. After we hang up, I send a few emails then my mind starts to wander, so I call it a day. Anyway, I miss Dalton, so I go and check on him. He’s napping in the bedroom. The room is dark, the blinds and drapes closed. I climb into bed next to him and curl up, resting my forehead to his back.
He rolls over and brings me closer, holding me to him. “I’m trying,” he whispers.
“I know you are,” I say, but I don’t know if I believe my own words.
“Too many memories. I want them gone. I don’t want to remember anything.”
I lean back, looking at his face, and say, “You’ll never forget and you shouldn’t try to. Cory deserves better than to be forgotten just because it eases our pain.”
“I can’t face Rochelle or the baby. I won’t be able to look Neil in the eyes. His father is fucking dead and the kid is only four. Is he coping? Does he even understand? He’ll see me and want to know where I dragged his dad off to. It was a joke we used to play. Cory blamed me for taking him away, so Neil wouldn’t get mad at him directly. I fucking love that kid and he loves me. I can’t look him in the eyes. I’m not ready to destroy him like that.”
“You didn’t kill Cory. No one is blaming you. Neil won’t blame you either. But right now, his father is dead, and you’re the next closest to him other than Rochelle, and she’s struggling with everything else, including a newborn.”
“He was my best friend.”
Running my hand over his cheek, I whisper, “I know… I know.”
Rolling onto his back, he closes his eyes, and says, “This world wasn’t fucking good enough for him. He lives with legends now. It’s where he was always destined to be.”
“Rochelle needs you, Dalton. Neil and CJ need you.”
His eyes meet mine. “CJ?”
“The baby,” I say, my voice sounding more somber than I want. “CJ. Cory Jr.” Both of us sit up, resting our backs against the headboard. “You may not be ready, Dalton, no one ever is, but you need to go over there. Rochelle understands what you’re going through and hasn’t said anything, but she still needs you.”
Nodding, he knows I’m right. When he looks over at me, he asks, “Will you come with me?”
Leaning my head on his shoulder, I reply, “Of course.”
We both get up without any more discussion on the matter. It will be one of the hardest things we’ll ever do, but it’s the right thing.
When I park in front of Rochelle’s house, there are no shrines or memorials set up, and nobody is hanging around. I realize that’s why Rochelle chose such a low profile home to raise her family. They’re normal people to their neighbors and treated as such, the outside world hasn’t discovered their accessibility yet. They’re very lucky.
An older woman, with bloodshot eyes, answers the door. She smiles at me, but steps forward to hug Dalton. He whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
She pats his back. “Thank you, Jack.” When they part, she looks at him with her own sympathy. I have a feeling he’ll be getting that a lot from now on. Cory’s death affects more than just family and friends. A band, a brand, a business is gone that employees relied on for their paycheck. I know he feels the weight of responsibility as well as the devastation of his friend’s death.
The inside of the home is serene like I’ve walked into the home of any young family with hopes and dreams pinned on their walls with the family portraits and the kid art. I see Neil playing on the back deck with a car, the sliding glass door wide open letting in fresh air. His tiny vroom sounds fill the otherwise quiet living room.
Rochelle is sitting in a chair with her legs curled under her, holding the baby, and watching Neil. Our presence isn’t noticed, her mind on other things. When I sit, she looks at me with tear-stained cheeks and watering eyes. She just had a baby a week ago but looks gaunt, too skinny for that to have happened. The roots of her naturally brown hair show, the longer strands still full of the chestnut color she prefers. Her gaze leaves the backyard and land on Dalton, who’s standing behind me. Tears escape her eyes and she quickly looks down at her baby.
I go to her, trying to stay strong, and say, “I’m sorry. So sorry, Rochelle.” Leaning down, I hug her and she wraps one arm around me, returning the hug.
When I stand back up, she lifts the baby up enough to show me. “I had my baby.”
I want to burst into tears, but restrain them. “He’s beautiful. Can I hold him?”
She nods, then stands up. Setting him carefully in my arms, she says, “His name is Cory Junior. We call him CJ.”
“I love that.” Looking down into his little face, I can see both Rochelle and Cory in his features, maybe a little more Cory, or maybe for Rochelle’s sake, I’m just hoping there’s more Cory. I take over her seat and she walks to Dalton.
They hug, no words, just an embrace that shows they’ve gone through something tragic, something life changing together. Then I hear her say, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asks, looking at her.
Although I feel I’m invading their private moment, I’m glad I hear what she says next, “For your loss.”
I stifle a sniffle and glance down at the sweet baby in my arms.
Dalton says, “He was my best friend.”
“You were his,” she replies with ease and a small lift of her mouth, but not quite a smile.
Rochelle just gave him a gift, she released the burden Dalton was carrying and now he gets to grieve. Peeking at them again, I see the dark lift from his face and a small grin appears. It’s been too long since I’ve seen it, and my heart warms.