Chapter Fifteen
As far as Christmas mornings went, this one was somber as hell.
Following tradition, Jasmine had shown up at River’s house to watch Marcy open presents before spending the rest of the holiday with her parents. She hadn’t had a chance to speak with her best friend since Sarge’s departure last night, but it was obvious they were both making a Herculean effort to stay positive for Marcy’s sake. Currently, the three-year-old was tearing through wrapping paper with glee as River followed with a black trash bag.
Jasmine felt like she’d been covered in cement. Her movements felt sluggish, and no number of commands sent to her brain could hasten them. She’d managed to wait five full minutes after Sarge blew out of the church hall before leaving herself—and it had been a rapid downhill shot from there. Her eyes felt like they’d been rubbed raw with sand she’d cried so much. Huge, racking sobs that reminded her of a devastated child, which wasn’t so far off. Years seemed to have been stripped away, leaving her bare, with no experience to pull from.
How did she go about getting over this? How did anyone? If she ever found the wherewithal to speak to anyone about the loss that was caving in her stomach, what would they say? Probably that it would get easier in degrees. Well, the next degree over from her current state was still bereft. So was the degree after that. And the one beside that. So Jasmine was pretty sure she’d be living inside this swamp of pummeling pain a good, long while.
River handed her a cup of eggnog with nutmeg sprinkled on top, but she only stared down into it without drinking. “Thanks.”
“Are you all right?” River asked.
“Are you?”
They stared at each other until Marcy bounced over, flushed from excitement. “Who are these ones from, Mom?” She handed two silver-wrapped presents to River and brushed her loose curls back. “Can I open it?”
River checked the tag. “They’re from Uncle Sarge…they were delivered yesterday. One for you and one for me.” She turned the packages over in her hands. “And these are extra presents, Marcy. Uncle Sarge already bought you the guitar.”
Marcy whooped. “Thank you, Uncle Sarge.”
A line formed between River’s brows, reminding Jasmine so much of Sarge she felt pricks behind her eyelids. With more eagerness than she had the right to feel, Jasmine watched mother and daughter open the packages from Sarge, watched them smile at what they found. Matching bomber jackets with the Old News logo on the back, their names stitched over the pocket. River stared down at hers while Marcy worked her arms into the sleeves. “We’ll have to send him a thank-you card when he gets back to L.A. If he’s not already there.”
Needing to move, Jasmine stood and walked to the closest window, looking out over the side yard. He could be an entire country away at that very moment. All she’d had to do was throw her arms around him instead of making him leave. It would have been so easy. But there had been a reason for her decision. She needed to remember that. Even if in the light of day, nothing seemed a good enough excuse for his absence. Even if the business card James had slipped into her hand on his way out burned in her pocket, tempting her to find out at least where he’d gone.
“Jasmine, there’s one for you, too.”
She turned to find River holding out a silver box. Perhaps it was the worst idea possible, but she grabbed on to the gift like a lifeline. Something—anything—that would remind her of Sarge. Conscious of River watching, Jasmine ran her index finger beneath the folded edge so as not to rip it. She slid the medium-sized box out of one end and tipped the lid back. Inside white tissue paper was a bomber jacket, just like the ones he’d sent River and Marcy.
Except when she turned her jacket over, it didn’t say Old News on the back. Bright neon-green beading spelled out the name Bon Jovi. A cross between a laugh and a sob broke free of her mouth as she picked up the card and opened it.
Never get into an ugly clothing war with a Jersey man, when bragging rights are on the line. I love you, Sarge.
“Oh God.” Jasmine dropped the box along with the jacket, pressing both hands over her heart. “I can’t do this.”
River stooped down to pick up the jacket, watching Jasmine with concern as she went. “You can’t do what?”
“Pretend everything is fine. Like he didn’t come here and make me”—Jasmine’s eyelids fluttered shut, the organ pounding beneath her palms with increased force—“make me fall in love with him.”
“Oh, Jas…”
She took back the jacket from River, running her fingers over the collar. “How am I supposed to go back to being without him? Nothing feels or looks or sounds the same.” At once, her breathing grew labored, like she’d sprinted a mile. “I miss him. And I know its wrong and selfish to want him, but I do. It doesn’t even have to be here. Just anywhere.”
When the silence stretched, Jasmine lifted her head to find River giving her a sad, sweet smile. “There’s your answer.”
“I don’t understand.”
River picked up Marcy and settled the little girl on her hip. “You said you want to be with him anywhere.” She shrugged one shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be Hook. Go find him, Jas. And then go with him.”
A hysterical laugh bubbled from her throat. “I can’t leave here.” She’d stopped believing she ever could. Shoved those hopes and dreams way too deep to unearth them ever again. Hadn’t she? “My job…my family. You and Marcy. Everything is here.”
“Yeah. We’re not going anywhere, either.” River tugged on the hem of Jasmine’s shirt. “We’ll talk all the time. You’ll come for visits. Maybe someday you’ll want to come back and settle. And we’ll pick up right where we’re leaving off.”
Jasmine could barely see through her tears. “You sound so sure.”
River kissed her daughter’s head. “Jasmine, are you sure about Sarge?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“That’s all I need to hear. Go.”
Sarge sat on the floor of his hotel room, back pressed against the bed. His oversize headphones hugged his ears, delivering Morrissey at top volume. Crumpled notebook paper was strewn over every inch of the floor, mocking him. Little balls of failure. Around his sixty-third attempt to write a song about Jasmine, Sarge thought he was onto something. He’d titled it “Gold.” That single word was the only accurate way to describe how she smelled, but he couldn’t get the feeling to translate onto paper. It was all garbage compared to the real thing. All his songs were now. He’d written them before. And he was living in an after world.
There was a tray of room service food on the desk across the room, but he had no recollection of how it came to be there. Or when it appeared. The smell of grease was making him sick, though. Sick on top of sick on top of sick. God, why didn’t the fucking volume go any higher on his headphones? He couldn’t drown out the…gold. Jasmine’s tongue sliding along his belly. Holding her hand in the mall. That unrestrained laugh she’d let loose when he tickled her.
Sarge shot forward to his knees and snagged the almost-empty notebook off the floor, whipping the pen from his pocket.
Golden laughter. Never after—
Garbage.
He tore the piece of paper in half with a satisfying rip, crumpling both sides and throwing them in opposite directions. Songwriting had always been his way of coping with the solitude. Being in a sea of thousands but feeling completely alone. It wasn’t working now. Nothing compared to the days he’d spent in Hook with Jasmine. They’d written the perfect song just by being together, and he would never come close to matching it.
The curtains of his hotel room were drawn, casting the room in darkness except for one dim lamp in the corner. At some point he’d even found that minimal light offensive and covered it with his T-shirt, leaving him unclothed save a pair of black sweatpants. Outside he could hear bells ringing for donations. Could hear snowplows scraping down the city streets of Manhattan, clearing away the snow that continued to fall. Christmas Day. He wanted nothing to do with it. Wanted nothing to do with the new recording deal. Another few years on the road, knowing where he really wanted to be was with a woman he couldn’t have?
I don’t have it in me. I have nothing left in me.
It was unclear when or how he would leave this hotel room. Eventually he would either be thrown out or walk through the exit of his own accord. But it wouldn’t be happening today. Or tomorrow. Not until he wrote a fucking song to adequately describe the woman he was in love with. At least then he would have something to show for the misery.
Sarge shoved back his unbrushed hair, scrubbing at his bleary eyes until the notebook once again came into focus. His pen had just touched paper when light appeared to his left. Someone else bringing him french fries or wanting to clean the room. They were probably speaking to him, but answering would require him to remove the noise over his ears, and then thoughts would rush in. No thank you. He was just about capable of fielding the sneaky memories trickling in through the deafening lyrics.
When warm skin brushed against Sarge’s face, he recoiled, as though a bullet had struck him in the chest. It forced him to suck in air. And with that air came gold. Jasmine’s gold. She was there. Standing in the hotel room, framed by the still-open door. Sarge glanced behind Jasmine long enough to determine she’d been let in by James before consuming the sight of her again. So goddamn beautiful. But the door closed, and she went too dark. No. No, no, no. Sarge lunged to his feet, feeling along the wall for a decent source of light. There. He found a standing floor lamp and turned it on, illuminating Jasmine where she stood at the foot of his bed.
Morrissey was still singing in his ears about heaven knowing he was miserable, and it seemed like a huge risk, removing the headphones. What if she was there to apologize for hurting him, but wanted to explain her standpoint? Or some other possibility that didn’t end in them together? And why—why—couldn’t they just be together when his heart was clearly being operated from the palm of her hand? If she rejected him again, right in the center of this agony, he wouldn’t have the strength to come back.
When he didn’t immediately remove his headphones, Jasmine nodded, as if she completely understood the nonsensical fuckery happening in his sleep-deprived brain. Instead of trying to talk to him through the noise, though, she knelt down on the ground and picked up one of his discarded pieces of paper. She read it, her gorgeous lips moving, before lifting wet eyes to him. The sight of her kneeling, her expression pleading, knocked the remaining breath from his lungs.
“Love you, love you…” Sarge murmured, unaware if the words came out the way they sounded in his head. Jasmine ducked her head in response, then set about picking up every balled-up sheet on the floor, reading them, and stacking them in a pile. Sarge watched her, afraid to move, knowing the words were unworthy of her but unable to resist seeing her acknowledgment of them. Look at them. Look. See how I feel? See what you did?
Finally, she was finished clearing the room of trashed lyrics. Nothing left. The Morrissey album had finished, leaving Sarge with only the echo of his deep, shaking inhales. The far-off sounds of Jasmine moving across the floor on her knees to pick up the notebook he’d left lying open. She picked up the pen and started to write, hair falling on the floor as she leaned forward. Somehow he knew the vision of Jasmine biting her lip and moving the pen inside his notebook would be the last thing he thought about before he died. Just knew it, right then and there.
Something like five minutes or five hours had passed when she stood up, hesitating a few beats before handing him the book. Sarge could barely rip his gaze from her to read what she’d written, but managed it through sheer force of will.
Got turned around when you crashed through
Couldn’t stay away from you.
Swept me up and shook me down.
Blindsided. Sunk. Lost you, too.
Forgot how to leap when I looked at you.
But I see clear now. You made me new.
Take me. Keep me. Love me back.
Can I still be your girl in blue?
The notebook slipped free of Sarge’s fingers, falling in a flutter of white to the ground. When it didn’t make a sound, he realized the headphones were still covering his ears and tore them off, flinging them to the side. Unable to regulate the pounding of his heart or rasping of his breath, Sarge framed Jasmine’s face in his hands.
“Love you back, Jasmine?” He searched her face. “Love you back?”
Tears decorated her cheeks as she nodded, but Sarge only had a moment to savor the confirmation that she actually…loved him back, before Jasmine buried her face in his chest. “I’m sorry,” came her muffled voice. “I could feel it when you left Hook. Could feel that you were gone. And nothing felt right anymore.”
Sarge’s feet weren’t even on solid ground yet after hearing that Jasmine loved him. He definitely wasn’t in any shape to hear things like that, much less process them. “Jesus. Just…give me a minute or you’re going to kill me.”
“What?” She pulled back to swipe at her eyes. “I-I just need you to know. Being without you, even for a day…it hurt so bad—”
His mouth stamped over hers with a growl, sealing off her words. He stayed that way, keeping their mouths meshed together—not allowing himself to use his tongue— until he could think somewhat straight. Cautiously, he eased back an inch. “You love me and you hurt without me? Okay. Thank God.” Sarge heaved in a breath. “But that’s all I can handle for one day. My heart went from empty to full too fast.”
Jasmine ran her fingertips up his sides. “But there are more words inside me.”
Inside Sarge’s chest, that pounding organ seized so tight, he had to swallow a gasp. “Save them for tomorrow. And the day after that.” Walking her backward toward the bed, he kissed her with building fervor. “And the day after that. We have time now. We have time, baby.”
“Every day,” Jasmine whispered, just before her back hit the mattress. “I’ll tell you more every day.”
Sarge licked a path over Jasmine’s cleavage as he shoved down his sweatpants with one hand. “Fuck it. Tell me now.”
Jasmine locked her legs around his waist and arched her back. “I love your voice, how it goes a little rough when you say my name. I love the calluses on your hands. I love you for singing ‘Frosty the Snowman’—”
“Enough. I can’t.” Sarge pinned their foreheads together. “Merry Christmas, Jas. God. God, I love you.” He heaved a breath against her mouth. “I have for such a long time.”
She kissed him hard. “Catching up is going to be half the fun.”