Lindsey

 

I don’t need to involve myself in what could become a media shitstorm. I shouldn’t be spending my valuable time on someone who I’m certain is listed beneath the word “wildcard” in the dictionary. But here I am. I tell myself it’s for the photos, all the while dreaming of putting my feet up and being somewhere I don’t have to be constantly on all the time. Maybe it’s a backwards way of thinking when it comes to women my age, but in my opinion, there is no pressure to impress someone who is so completely wrong for me.

I lay my head against the threadbare headrest, inhaling the scent of the open road. I wouldn’t have matched this old Bronco to Jenson, even given his grungy, hipster/mountain-man wardrobe, but it suits him. He’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, one hand resting on the wheel and one making waves in the wind out the open window. In between every cigarette, his hands stay busy, either playing his “instruments” or clutching the pack like he wishes he could resist the little sticks of temptation. His fidgeting keeps me on edge.

“So, where are we going?” I ask, propping my white Chucks on the dash. They’re more of a dishwater-gray now, but they’re broken in and have traveled more miles with me than anyone. To me, that means something.

“I wasn’t sure what your stance on camping was, so I played it safe and got a cabin. Hopefully it’ll be decent, despite the short notice. We might have to share a communal bathroom.”

I shrug a shoulder and run my finger along the inside of my bracelets. “All right. Whatever.”

The silence makes me look over at him, only to discover he’s inspecting me over the top of his sunglasses. “Really? You’d be cool with that?”

“Have you seen where I live?”

“True, but that’s out of necessity. Why is that, by the way? Reminds me of a hostel.”

“It’s not so bad. I need to live close to the city because I don’t have a car, and with five other roommates it’s cheap. I can dedicate my paychecks to the things that matter.”

His eyebrows lift over his Wayfarers. “I haven’t heard that kind of dedication from someone your age in a long time.”

“We aren’t all brainless idiots, my generation,” I say, angling my head toward him.

“Uh-huh. So besides the whole music scene, what pushed you to just pick up and leave home?” He taps the top of his cigarette carton in sync with the beat. “That had to have been a tough decision to make.”

I bob my toe to the music, something folksy I can’t place, meanwhile trying not to think too hard about who I left behind. “I had to make my dreams happen. It was either New York, L.A., or here, and I liked the vibe here most. It’s less in-your-face, more understated. And I’m not really attached to one place.”

“Denver’s a pretty place to be attached to.”   

I trace the tops of the pines out the window with my eyes. “Landscapes don’t move me. People do.”

“No shortage of those in Nash, but you said you didn’t know anyone here. You get homesick for your family?”

I nod vaguely, then change the subject. It’s a little early in the weekend to delve into the topic of my home life. “So, you lost your job,” I say, because that’s not the kind of thing you just decide, especially when it involves a total lifestyle change and millions of dollars.

“I did.” I see him chewing his lip out of the corner of my eye. “Well, I was basically given an ultimatum, and I told them I was done.”

The prospect of it makes me sweat. I remember the conversations we’ve had, the tough love I’ve given him, and suddenly I feel a little queasy. Have I played some part in setting this in motion? “Done with music? Forever?”

“No. I could never be done with music. I’m just sick of the business.” Nearly a minute ticks by with nothing to occupy it but a guitar riff emanating from the speakers. He flexes his hands on the steering wheel. “I’m sick of being a business. This all started because I loved to write music. I was lucky enough to have some success with it, but the focus shifted from the music to . . . everything else.”

“You need to get back to your roots,” I conclude.

He looks at me sidelong for a long time—longer than what’s considered safe in a moving vehicle—like I’ve just said something profound. But he doesn’t speak. Slowly, our worries drift to the pavement behind us like leaves crisped by the changing seasons.

Away from the city and deeper into the back country, it’s more apparent that fall is tightening her grip on Tennessee—the leaves on the broadleaf trees are stained yellow and crimson, a promise of winter. I burrow back into my seat, taking in the growing ruggedness of the terrain. Whatever kind of photos Jenson has in mind, the scenery will be an asset.

Partway to Center Hill Lake, we stop off for barbecue at a place that looks like a shed and smells like heaven. Jenson makes fun of the way I eat my ribs with one hand and drink a beer with the other, all while sporting a red smear of barbecue sauce on his cheek. I don’t point it out until we’re on our way back to the truck and he’s already been seen by all the other diners. Our antics come so easily I don’t realize I haven’t thought about who he is, who he really is, since I asked the one question about his career over an hour ago.

God, what are we doing? I haven’t yet gotten to the bottom of that. All I know is Jenson’s career is over, and he wanted to leave town, and he chose me. I told myself it wouldn’t go to my head, but I feel the significance. If I think too much about it and what it means, I’ll freak myself out.

I almost don’t want to know the answer.

 

 

Jenson

 

After checking in and procuring our keys, I drive us down to the end of a row of nearly identical cabins—cedar logs with green metal roofs. I don’t know what I was hoping for, but the place looks as cheerful and quaint as a damn Christmas card. It’s a place my grandma would’ve called precious. But the knot in my chest eases when we park out front of number fourteen and unload our bags and what few groceries we bought. That’s all it takes—a few minutes of fresh, piney air, nothing but the sound of gravel beneath our feet and birds twittering overhead, and not another human in sight.

Lindsey dumps her armload on the kitchen island and jogs up the stairs to the loft, and I hear a muffled flump as she drops onto the bed. “This is heavenly,” she calls down. I smile to myself. Maybe I won’t be setting up camp on the couch tonight. I shrug out of my leather jacket and hang it over one of the wooden chair-backs, putting some of the groceries away to the sound of her sneakers squeaking as she explores the rest of the cabin. It doesn’t take long, and she ends up back downstairs before I’ve even put the steaks in the refrigerator.

“I was wondering when you’d ditch that,” she says, hopping onto the island and swinging her legs. Already, she’s claimed it as hers.

“What?”

“The rock star jacket. People don’t wear that sort of stuff when they go camping.”

“People who camp don’t stay in cabins, either. Maybe I should’ve brought the tent. Or, better yet, just a couple of hammocks. Nothing between us and the elements but thin air.”

She scrunches her nose while she thinks about it. I thought I liked her hair better when it was down and wild, but I haven’t stopped thinking about how that messy ponytail would look wrapped around my hand since I first picked her up. I shake my head to clear away those thoughts. Think about knitting instead. I don’t know a damn thing about knitting, so it doesn’t work completely, but it helps. When my eyes find her again, hers are scrutinizing.

“Do you have something else to say about my wardrobe?” I ask, tossing the tomatoes into the veggie drawer. My smile broadens as her eyes rake down my body. Her eye makeup is a little smudged and worn from the day, and I can’t get enough of her sleepy-eyed smiles and the jabs she’s sent my way this entire trip.

She shakes her head. “Everything else, I can deal with.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

 

When the sun begins to set, we carry armfuls of logs just beyond the back deck, and Lindsey arranges them in the fire pit while I start up the grill. I turn my back on her for just a couple minutes, and when I turn around, all I see is a ball of orange flames.

“I have made fire,” she sings, doing a little shimmy. But I’m too distracted by the writhing, sanguine tongues of heat behind her. Their dance is violent and enchanting and destructive.

“Hey,” she says, appearing right in front of me. “How are the steaks coming along?”

“Good.” I wipe my hands on my jeans and look down at the bare grill. “Let me go get them.” Turning, I hop up onto the deck and slide through the door to get the meat. If I want to get myself together, I need to keep my head out of the past. One of the shrinks told me that, and it’s the one thing I struggle most with. How do you forget the things you’ve seen with your own eyes, the feelings that seemed to soak and stain your conscience? How do you just disregard the mistakes that sent your life into a tailspin, when the proof of one of them is living and breathing and loving someone else?

I brace my hands on the counter, staring unseeingly at the tile floor. How the hell did I wind up here? I only have a partial answer to that. My life is a revolving door of mistakes that I can’t get out of, and it’s hard to trace the wayward path from my somewhat innocent beginnings to now. The memories are hazy, obliterated completely by either time or alcohol. I first started writing music simply because I loved it, because I wanted to create the kind of music I admired. I had no clue where it would lead.

With fame came attention, and with that, the incessant need to please everyone by being who they wanted me to be. My mind was full of razor-sharp doubts that cut determination and what little self-confidence I had to ribbons. The party environment wasn’t much help. I quickly found out it was much easier to deal with everything once it was dull, muffled—hence the alcohol. Nobody looks as intimidating when they’re blurry, not even fifty thousand fans. I wasn’t built for that life, and I felt it every day. Putting on the Jenson King my PR team created was like squeezing into a scuba suit that was a size too small. No matter what I did, that suit rubbed me the wrong way, grating on my psyche until there was nothing left but raw nerves. I couldn’t take it, hence the alcoholism. And in the middle of all that was Raven.

We both made mistakes, though I shoulder the blame. I promised her time and time again I would get the help I needed and never did, and she stashed every complaint inside like she was stowing ammo for war. But I put the final nail in the coffin with the fire. To say I messed up is putting it lightly. I got fucked up one day, a normal Thursday, and accidentally lit the kitchen on fire trying to cook myself something. I don’t even remember what it was, only that it involved grease. And because of that, we lost our home, our life.

We’d been crumbling before then, but that was when the last piece of us joined the growing pile of rubble. Raven was the first to mention divorce, and I dismissed it instantly, citing it as a weird side effect of the trauma we’d experienced. When it settled in that she was truly leaving me, I fought her tooth and nail. I was afraid of being alone, of shouldering everything we’d created by myself, when I’d never trusted her to carry some of the burden in the first place. Throughout my fight, I never considered what was best for her. I’d become blind to the shell she’d become following the miscarriage, and the fire, and during the dissolution of our marriage.

For years, she’d played the role of supportive wife, and I was foolish enough to think a life on the road, following the band around, was enough for her. I simply watched as she tolerated the meet-and-greets full of girls with wandering hands, spent holidays alone, and cooked dinners for one while I was too busy writing, rehearsing, or recording. How messed up is that? I was supposed to protect her from the ugly side of the industry, and all I was worried about was saving myself.

The smoke around my memories is disturbed when Lindsey steps around me and roots through the refrigerator for the pan of marinating meat. Then her eyes settle on me and she comes closer, enough so our toes bump, and physically removes my hands from where they’re both planted on the counter.

“Popcorn for your thoughts?” Her tone is playful, but I hear the underlying concern.

“If you wanna make that deal, you’d owe me a whole damn movie theater of popcorn.” I am endlessly tired, weary from inadequate sleep and slogging through my thoughts every time something reminds me of the year I’ve had. I’m ready to cut my demons lose, I just don’t know how. It’s too much to process, and all I really want is a drink.

“I found some folding chairs in the little storage box outside. Want to come sit by the fire? It’s pretty freakin’ awesome, if I do say so myself.”

“I believe you.” I drag in an inhale and rub my hand over my face. Like everything else, I’d abandoned the girl I just dragged out here to the woods. I blink once, twice, decide I’m ready to face the flames. Almost. “You go ahead. I forgot something in the truck. I think the salt rolled out of the bag or something.”

Her mouth opens, then slowly shuts, as if she’s deciding whether she wants to call me out on my lie, knowing damn well we didn’t bother to get salt at the store. Then she takes the meat and goes outside without a word. I don’t feel good about it, but I need something to reroute my mind from the road it’s traveling down. I jog out to my truck, feeling around inside the console for the bottle of Coke I stashed there earlier. Or at least, that’s what it’d look like to anyone else—only I know it’s mostly whiskey. I chug half the bottle, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then use the travel-size mouthwash I keep there to rinse my mouth and erase any evidence of my slip-up. I hinted to Lindsey I had trouble with drinking, but as far as she knows, that was in the past. I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible.

Maybe forever.

 

 

Lindsey

 

He spent the time it took to eat dinner with that faraway look on his face—present, but not. I’m not sure what it would take to get him back.

I’m wiping my hands on a towel when I spot the guitar case resting at the bottom of the stairs. Armed with a bottle of wine and two cups to serve it in, I grab the guitar case and wrestle it out the crack in the sliding glass door. These past couple weeks have taught me that Jenson loves music more than just about anything. I’m surprised his heart doesn’t beat to the rhythm of his songs. If there’s any way to get his mind back here, in the woods, it’s this guitar.

Jenson gives me a long look when I stop in front of him, holding his case. One ankle is resting across his opposite knee, black leather boots on display, and he rubs a hand across his hairy jaw as he considers my silent proposition. Then he leans over and takes the case from me, popping the clasps open and removing the guitar. I don’t know much about instruments, but her curves are beautiful, and Jenson’s slender fingers wrapped around the neck are probably more sensual than they should be.

“What are you up to, silver lining?” He says, looking at me while he runs a thumb across the strings and adjusts the knobs.

“I want to hear something.”

“Something old or new?”

I drag my chair closer and curl up in it. “I didn’t know you’d finished anything new.”

“I’m sure I can think of something.” He plays a few chords, something swift and contagious, drawing me in. Then my eyes narrow as he starts to sing. The song is one he’s clearly making up as he goes, about a silver-haired temptress who sneaks her way into the beds of unsuspecting men and forces them to drink enchanted wine and eat shitty popcorn. It’s clear he’s not taking this seriously.

“You should add that she’s a great dancer,” I say, loud enough to be heard over his voice.

He effortlessly adds something in about her hypnotizing dance moves. And then he goes on about how she tastes good enough to make a man forget his own name. I blush and focus on my lap, pulling my hoodie down over my knees. It certainly feels like October, and summer has fully surrendered to fall. It’s the kind of weather that’s meant for company, and that thought warms me from the inside.

When he finishes the song, he strums a few times in quick succession and gives me a devastating grin. I close my gaping mouth, feeling myself falling in lust until I remember I wanted to hear something serious. I know the guy is talented, but other than speaking a lot of charming words, I’ve yet to see proof of his songwriting prowess in person.

“I want to hear something real.”

He rests his hand in the dip on the body of the guitar. “That was real. I even mentioned the mole on the inside of your thigh.”

I’m not sure how he remembers that. It was late, and dark. “You know what I mean. If you can sing about bullshit, I’m sure you can come up with something else. Literally anything else.”

He focuses on his guitar, then, feeling the strings like he’s testing the waters. “You’re going to make fun of me, but when I first write a song, I run it past my mom. She gives me the yay or nay, and off I go. I’d be breaking tradition.”

I press my lips together, fighting the smile he put there. I’d laugh if his tone wasn’t so reverent. “And how’s that worked out lately? Has she given her approval on anything?”

There’s a hitch in his movements, a missed beat between chords. “I guess it isn’t working.”

I send him a pointed look and get comfortable, wrapping my cup of wine in both hands. Then Jenson begins to play something slow and alluring. “Tell me about the dead flowers,” he says. I’m not sure I heard him correctly.

“What?”

“Earlier, you came home with a handful of dead flowers. What’s that about?”

I chew my lip, debating my answer. I don’t think he’s expecting to hear something morbid, but I’ve always associated the scent of live flowers with funerals; death and decay. Never mind how backward it is. Forgoing a long explanation, I say, “They don’t smell.”

“I thought that was the point.”

“Forget the flowers,” I say in a way that leaves no room for argument.

“Ahh. Okay.” Jenson’s hands still on the guitar. “Forget the song.”

I tilt my head. So I’m not the only one who can be petty. “What else becomes richer in death? I like the colors better. I like how they become more beautiful, even at the end. Is that emo enough for you?”

His fingers begin to move again, and I tear my eyes from them to see him looking back at me, pleased. Then he shifts forward, hunching over his instrument and giving it his undivided attention. He bobs his head for a while, trying a few different combinations of chords before he settles on one. I like it. Then he starts to sing. This time the temptress has been forgotten, and he sings about a lonely girl in a teal dress who’d rather collect dead flowers than live ones. He might’ve been played on country radio, but his voice has a soulful undertone. Like chocolate and whiskey, smooth and dark, with a smoky rasp on the back end that makes my legs go weak. It’s a poor way to describe the effects of a voice like his, but that’s how it feels.

Sometime in the middle, I let my head fall back so I can watch the smoke from the fire as it disappears among the stars in the inky black sky. I find contentment in this rare moment of still and quiet. Maybe happiness really is as simple as a girl in the woods, the buzz of nocturnal wildlife all around, and a man with a guitar who’s slowly finding his way back to his great big love.

All is silent when he finishes, and a smile I can’t stop spreads over my face. “I’ve heard some of your songs, Jenson, but I’ve never heard anything like that.”

Flames dance in his eyes as he watches me, waiting for . . . what? More validation?

“You should write that down before you forget it.”

“I won’t forget it. There are some things that just don’t leave you.”

I move before I can comprehend my intentions, and I’m standing and walking to him, empowered by the richness of his voice, the assuredness of his words. When I’m as close as I can get without being on top of him, he slides the guitar off his lap and into the case, scooting it aside with his foot just as I slide my legs over him. Straddling his lap and slipping my arms around his neck, I’m struck by the thought that the novelty of looking at him hasn’t yet worn off. I discover a new shade of brown or gold in his leonine eyes every time I see them up close. Combined with the reflection of flames, they’re almost sienna. Fire eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” he breathes against my neck, pressing his lips to my collarbone.

“How surprised I am that I’m not tired of you.”

That makes him laugh, the bursts of air sending a chill down my back. When I go to kiss him, he pulls away like he’s not done with me. “I’ve wondered the same—when you’ll get tired of me, that is.” And then his hands are beneath my hoodie, and he’s running them up my belly and my ribs, peeling it off me. I let him, placing my own freezing palms under his white tee. He inhales sharply and smiles when he kisses me, pulling my lip with his teeth, then he runs his hand up into my hair, sandwiching me between the warmth of his chest and the warmth of the flames at my back.

The combination of sensations, between the nip in the air and the fire that is him and his mouth—warm, warm, cold, hot—intensifies everything, and when we’ve worked each other up long enough, he goes to stand, holding me to him, carrying me across the deck to the sliding glass door. Then he’s inside, and we shed the rest of our clothing in the moonlit living area.

We make it as far as the couch before we have to find somewhere to land.