Jenson

 

My career is all I’ve got left. It’s the thing I’m best at. If I can’t even find it in myself to save that, what else am I good for? My father left, Raven left, and now my music—my life—is about to do the same. What do I have without it? Nothing.

I’ve been granted countless chances, tried the rehab programs—both faith and psychology-based—and still, alcohol is the only thing that softens the sharp edges of reality and blurs the harshness of this cutthroat industry. It’s the constant in my life, the bridge linking the past and present. The only bridge I’ve yet to burn. Sometimes I mix the whiskey with women, sometimes I replace it entirely. But people leave and whiskey doesn’t, women are cold and bourbon is warm, and sometimes a man just needs something warm to hold onto.

One session with the shrink at Smoky Heights Rehabilitation and they’d already slapped me with the label “abandonment issues.” Apparently I was not only using alcohol as a crutch to elevate me above my insecurities, but also to fill the chasm my absentee father left in my life.

Raised mostly by a single mom—and partly by the other waitresses at the diner she worked at, where I spent most of my after-school hours—I learned to value what little we had. When my music began to take off, after years of writing my ass off and playing for incoherent crowds at armpit bars, things began to spin out of control. I had this new life, all these great opportunities, and all I could think about was how it would all get ripped away the second I fucked up.

It was a lot for me. It’s a lot for anyone. Drinking helped quiet all the bullshit and then it was only me and my music, the way the notes and the alcohol interwove and filled me up, subdued the demons and doubts that chased me. I’d doubted Raven’s strength, that she could handle all the worries that crushed me day by day. And it ruined us. I ruined us. And even though I should’ve learned from my mistakes, should know better than to drink my weight in whiskey at bars where I could be identified at any moment, the torrid affair between alcohol and me continues.

Disgusted with myself, I soap up, wash my hair, and get out. I avoid the mirror because I’m disgusted with my reflection even on my best days. Inked into my skin is a depiction of most of my failures, the people I’ve let down, the things I’ve lost belief in. Tattoos dominate most of the right side of my body, ranging from the giant oak tree on my chest, with roots that extend to my waistline, to the black rose on the inside of my forearm. That one represents Raven, lonely and dark, and I feel both of those things when I look at it. I don’t have to see all of them to be reminded of my shortcomings.

Pulling a pair of shorts from my dresser, I drop my towel to pull them on, but a small gasp from the direction of the stairs makes me straighten in alarm. I look slowly over my shoulder, like dragging out my discovery of who it is will somehow change the fact that I’m butt-ass naked and vulnerable. And there she is. The girl from the bar. My memory of her is hazy, but I’d recognize those long legs and that wild hair anywhere. The sight of her in my T-shirt, however, nudges me off balance.

Her hands are wrapped around a coffee mug, and she’s standing with one foot on the top landing and one a step below, as if she’s literally frozen in horror. But she hasn’t looked away, and her expression is one I definitely wouldn’t classify as horrified. I take that as a compliment.

I’m no stranger to being naked in front of people, least of all women. So I drag my shorts and T-shirt on, not once taking my eyes off hers. It’s hard to see if she’s blushing, but by her abashed expression, I’d guess she is.

“What are you doing here?” I finally ask, tossing the towel in the direction of the bathroom.

“I spent the night.” She narrows her eyes. “You don’t remember?”

“Hardly. No offense.” I glance in the direction of my bed, taking in the rumpled sheets, the bottle of liquor and pair of glasses on the nightstand. No condom wrapper in sight. “Did we. . .?”

Her eyebrows nearly disappear into her hairline. “No! You passed out right after we got here. Mumbled something about . . . something, I don’t know. It wasn’t much of a conversation.”

Heat spreads up my neck. Goddammit. I didn’t bring her up, did I? The worst thing I could do when I’m drowning my sorrows in Maker’s is dredge up what sorrows I’m trying to drown in the first place. Fuck me.

“Probably something to do with a new song,” I lie smoothly. She’s still rooted to the spot, standing on the steps like she’s afraid to approach me. No, not afraid. Something else. I kind of want a reaction out of her, so I begin up the steps, and she backs into the banister as I approach, letting me pass. I stop right beside her, take her in like I couldn’t last night. Her almond-shaped eyes, steely in the dimness of the basement. That straight nose. A thin face that tapers down to a pointed chin.

“You’re blushing,” I comment, before pushing through the door at the top of the stairs. I don’t know why it makes me pleased to see.

“Wha— No, I’m not.”

Her bare feet whisper across the tiles close behind me as I make my way to the kitchen. I’m greeted by the sudden aroma of coffee beans, and I almost growl in pleasure seeing a nearly full pot. I assume it’s not spiked with Bailey’s, but it’s better than nothing. “You made coffee?”

“No, the house elves did. Yes, I made coffee,” she deadpans. Her humor has a bite to it. Interesting.

Pouring a cup with one hand, I grab the powdered creamer from the cabinet above the brewer, sprinkling some in with practiced efficiency. She makes a gagging noise.

“What?” I sneer, stirring my mug and dropping the spoon on the granite. She hoists herself up on the counter top, feet bumping the cabinets. Like she belongs here.

“Do you know how many chemicals and preservatives are in that shit?”

“More for me,” I crack, leaning back against the cabinets beside her and taking a long swig, welcoming the burn that comes with it. She doesn’t bother to hide the look of disgust on her face. “Mmm. I needed that. Thanks.”

“You look it. No offense,” she mocks. Her name was Lindsey, right? I don’t trust myself to say it out loud.

“None taken.” I saunter around her and peek inside the refrigerator, making note of its meager contents. What we lack in real food we make up for in beer. Carter is the one person from my band that’s given up on trying to convince me there are better ways to handle life’s biggest disappointments, thus, our living situation works. I may be a solo artist, but there’s no shortage of opinions from the peanut gallery. If the others knew he wasn’t trying to beat me over the head with the sober stick, they’d be fucking furious.

I grunt in disappointment, chalking this up to another day the six-pack abs I once had will be buried by more greasy takeout.

I’m interrupted by Lindsey pushing past me, effectively muscling her way into the fridge, and pulling out a few things. Eggs, salsa, lunch meat. I don’t know what she plans on doing with them, but I’m willing to sit back and watch her fail miserably.

“What are you doing?”

Her look of unimpressed disdain is almost enough to shut me up for the rest of the morning. Almost. “I assume you can use your context clues. Although, inviting a stranger into your home? I’m doubting your intelligence.”

I shrug carelessly. “You asked.”

“You said yes.”

Digging a frying pan from one of the cabinets, she fires up the stove. I recline back on the counter top, crossing my arms over my bare chest. I’m a nightmare in the kitchen. Once she’s buttered the pan and cracked a few eggs, she steals a shy glance at me over her shoulder.

“So, why do you do it?” she asks, blowing an escaped tendril of hair out of her face.

“What?”

“You know, hanging out in hole-in-the-wall bars, drinking yourself to sleep. Aren’t you supposed to be ‘changing’ or something?”

My eyes narrow into slits. If she knew who I was last night, she did a damn good job hiding it. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Her answering scoff has me taken aback. “Everyone knows everything about you.”

So she does know me. That’s grand. Living up to people’s expectations and stooping to their disappointment isn’t easy. “Not everything. Maybe if you did, you’d slow down the bus to Guilt City.”

For once, she doesn’t have a spiky look to send my way. She keeps her eyes trained on whatever she’s making, shredding the lunch meat with her fingers and sprinkling it into the eggs. “That’s not what I’m doing. I think the last thing you need from anyone is more shame. I was only wondering what your reasons were.”

“My reasons?”

“Sure. You must have reasons, or else why would you throw it all away?”

My glare is withering, but she ignores it. I’d worry more about getting her out of this house if my stomach wasn’t about to implode in hunger. Unfortunately, the smells emanating from the stove are almost enough to bring me to my knees, and I’m too curious about her to ask her to leave.

I take another gulp of coffee and allow my eyes to meander up her body. “What’s your tattoo?”

Her head snaps around. “How do you know about that?”

“Relax, kid, I noticed it last night. Above your shirt.”

She avoids my gaze, sliding the omelet onto a plate, and she doesn’t answer.

Sipping my coffee, simmering in her evasiveness, I appraise her. Who is this girl? Making attempts to impress me, I’m used to. Resorting to seduction when I lose interest in a conversation totally revolving around them, sure. But making themselves at home in my house, making breakfast and saying next to nothing about themselves, then deflecting my attempts to learn more about them is unheard of.

Trying another tactic, I say, “You could’ve robbed me.” My tone is too casual for the reality of the situation, but I can’t find it in myself to care. At this point, stealing my worldly possessions would only be a toothpick on my tower of issues.

“You should be more careful.” Lindsey sets a plate of food on the bistro table. It’s then I realize she’s only made one. She rests her mug beside the sink, looks down at her phone. “Be right back.”

With nothing else standing between me and the food, I grab a fork and take a seat. Maybe she isn’t a breakfast person. Maybe I’ll ask her about it when she comes back. But damn is this omelet good. It takes only a few minutes to all but lick my plate clean. Then my phone vibrates noisily beside me, shattering my rare moment of peace, and I don’t have to look to know who it is. I silence it and ignore the glare of my manager’s name across the screen. He’s a results man. If you’re out of the game, he wants to know what your plan is to get back in it. He wants answers, and right now, I have none. I’m debatably more lost than I was before rehab.

I settle back and drain the rest of the coffee, listening for any sign of Lindsey or Carter. I’ve yet to hear a peep out of them since I started eating. For all of his popularity, Carter prefers to keep to himself, so I was surprised when he extended the offer to room with him. His basement was sitting unused, and he gets almost an extra grand a month from me for rent, so it works between us. We stay out of each other’s hair, and we know when to put in the headphones when one of us brings a girl home. One day I’ll have to move on, but for now, I don’t have to be completely alone.

I go to the sink to rinse my plate, noticing the mug Lindsey left behind. It’s half full, the coffee black. Without a glance to check if she’s looking, I taste it. Not even a drop of sugar.

She’s still missing, doing God knows what downstairs—the basement is a treasure trove of stuff someone could make money off if it was associated to me—so I leisurely make my way back down to my cave, thinking of all the ways I risked everything again just this weekend. I’m playing a game of chicken with fate, hoping it doesn’t strike me down while at the same time daring it to. When I make it to the base of the stairs, though, I don’t see her. The bathroom door’s open, my discarded towel now picked up and hanging over the curtain rod, but other than that, there’s no trace she was even here. I peruse the room, noticing nothing out of place, not even a scrap of paper with her number on it. They usually find a way to wedge those in somewhere they know I’ll find it.

But there’s nothing. She’s gone.

I make for my bedside bottle of Maker’s, kicking my clothes from last night out of the way while I’m at it, and my wallet tumbles from the pocket of my jeans. I should keep better track of my shit. When I pick it up, it flops open and something flutters to the ground. Something tattered and worn from age and my fingers, from all the times I’ve unfolded and re-folded and smoothed the edges. That photo lying face down, that fragment of my past life, takes the air out of me quicker than a punch to the gut would.

It’s a sonogram picture. A black-and-white rendering of what my world looked like at sixteen weeks, just a month before we’d find out her heart somehow stopped beating and all the promise in my life seemed to shut off like a light switch.

I pick it up with shaky fingers, forgetting, for once, about the whiskey. I know what I’ll feel when I look at it, but I do it anyway. She deserves recognition, adoration. She deserves my pain.

I can make out her nose; slightly turned up, like Raven’s. Her little hands cradling her face. Her legs tucked in close, safe and sound in Raven’s belly. But it’s what I don’t see in the picture that hurts the most. The future that Raven and I dreamed up for our Emberly. The nursery we painstakingly designed together and had already begun to paint. The family traditions and holidays we planned.

All gone, with just a few solemn words from the doctor.

Everywhere seems to ache. I can remember with painful clarity every aspect of that day: the frigid examination room, the crinkle of the paper on the table as Raven sobbed, the wooden quality of my movements as I cradled her and did what I thought I should do. We had the opportunity to become stronger after that moment. But I failed her, as I always did.

She shrunk into herself, and instead of becoming bigger, stepping up to fill all the cavities grief left, I became smaller, too. I left too much room for all the darkness to creep into our marriage like rot and crack it wide open.

I barely register tucking the photo away in my wallet, and glass clinks against glass as I pour generously, all the while cursing the amber liquid that fills the tumbler and soothes the roar in my head. Anxiety and guilt are crawling beneath my skin, and now a moroseness I only feel when I think of my daughter hollows out a rift in my chest. Whiskey isn’t an end-all be-all, but it helps muffle the cries of my indiscretions.

I grab a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, carrying them out to the pair of lawn chairs outside, where my memories aren’t so stifling. If I’d continued my sessions with the therapist my manager set me up with, maybe I could fight all my demons instead of trying desperately to evade them. But there’s something about a dude who gets paid to spread your thoughts so thinly he can slice and dissect each individual facet until he’s satisfied that creeps me out. They might know brains and how they work, but they don’t know me. They don’t know how it feels to be left by nearly everyone in my life. They paid for their degrees, but money can’t buy the kind of experience it takes to know my kind of pain. No healthy habit in the world can erase what I’ve done.

I finish my cigarette and crush it on the concrete until it’s no more than a smear of ash. I was supposed to quit that too, years ago. But the thing about me and vices is, I usually trade in one for the other. I gave up smoking for Raven. Then I gave up alcohol and picked up cigarettes. When I started drinking again, I lost Raven. Like clockwork. The only thing that’s uncertain is what my next vice will be.

Unbidden, an image of Lindsey comes to mind.