Jenson

 

Hollow relief, that’s what I feel. Respite from knowing someone is always there to look over my shoulder, casting judgment. Hollow because I know how lonely it will get.

Regarding the perspiring bottle in my hand, I take another long chug. So maybe it’s not a completely new start, but you don’t just change your entire life overnight and expect instant success. Everyone knows that.

After the impromptu intervention with the band, this studio loft was all I could get on short notice. Exposed brick walls ensconce an open living and kitchen area near the front door, which doglegs into the bedroom. I paid a horrific amount for a six-month lease, determined to find a house by the time it’s up. I’m giving myself half a year to get sober and sort my life out. Six months to break a decade of bad habits. It sounds impossible when I put it like that.

Then again, the Shiner Bock in my hand isn’t helping anything. But I finish it anyways, because I’m not someone who’s going to quit anything cold-turkey and be successful at it. Besides, this is an occasion to celebrate—the movers may have done most of the work, but this is my first place living solo. Being thirty-three, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I’ve always had a roommate, be it a friend or my ex-wife. It’s a little freeing knowing nobody knows my address and I won’t ever have to come home to a room full of interventionists again.

My belongings are all still packed in boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner, my few pieces of furniture bare of any of the usual mementos. And still, my thoughts wander to her and the bold way she called me out. The conversation the other night felt like rusty nails scraping over raw skin. Painfully intrusive. I had to get out of there.

But today, for once, the craving for another beer wrestles with the draw of something else. Her and her brazen truth. It’s been a long time since anyone aside from my band or the gossip columnists has freely given me their opinion on something.

Abandoning the bottle on the counter, I grab my keys and lock up, taking the elevator to the ground floor. One reason this place works for me is the concierge in the lobby who won’t let anyone past without a visitor’s badge. I tip my head toward her on the way out, barely missing the answering grin that overtakes her face.

The loft is a mile or so from the heart of the city, and being October, the walk is more pleasant than it would’ve been a month ago. The leaves are changing, and there’s a hint of crispness in the air that reminds me of those holiday-edition beers everyone comes out with. I’m not big on the pumpkin-spice bullshit, but everything else is fine by me.

I dodge traffic to reach Rhythm on the opposite side of the street and duck inside. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, and until then I browse the aisles of records. I’d enjoy this place more if it wasn’t for the merch area, where bright letters scream the name of the shop across every available surface. T-shirts, koozies, mugs, you name it. If not for that, the chipped walls, signed band posters, and polished concrete floors would have a more authentic feel to them.

I scan the hard rock section without really seeing anything, my gaze drifting past all the vinyl to the dining area on the opposite side of the space. Two baristas behind the counter are doing more chatting than working, a few customers thumb their magazines or scroll through their phones. Then Lindsey emerges from the back, carrying a box on one shoulder. To anyone else, she might be just another beat in the background noise. A beautiful one, but there’s no shortage of beautiful women in this town. But when I see her walk out, my world seems to sway on its feet. I spin my thumb ring, giving myself a reality check.

Get your shit together, Jenson. She’s just a girl.

I don’t need to follow the stirrings of feelings down a rabbit hole of hurt to shock my heart from its tragedy-induced coma. I should walk out, find someone who’s less likely to be a loose cannon to expend my wound-up energy with. But that messy hair and defiant glare have me snagged, and I know I don’t have a hope of walking away until I’ve figured her out. 

Feeling the weight of my gaze, her eyes meet mine. She’s quick to correct herself, looking back at the box she’s propped on the edge of the counter, where she’s unloading various supplies. I make my way over and am greeted by only her back until one of the baristas slides into place behind the register.

“What can I get for you?”

If I wasn’t so focused on the woman behind her, maybe I’d pay more attention to the way one unruly corner of her mouth turns up like she’s fending off a grin. There are those, and there are the ones who scream bloody murder when they realize you’re the face behind the songs they hear on the radio.

“I’ll take a regular coffee, please. Black.” I flip open my wallet to grab a few bucks, then add, “Make that two.”

“Sure! Do you want those in mugs or to-go cups?”

I watch Lindsey stiffen when I say, “Mugs. I’ll be here awhile.” Her hands pause for a split second, then she resumes her task as if she didn’t even hear me.

“If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll bring them to you in a sec.”

I nod, handing her a ten and waving off the change. Lindsey can’t ignore the dining area forever. Along with the preexisting customers, a couple’s just walked in the door.

But she does her best to do just that. For half an hour, she avoids my eyes and skirts my table, pouring water here, exchanging a mug for a to-go cup there, delivering crepes and sandwiches in between. But I can tell she’s aware of me. Maybe she thinks she’s being subtle, but she adjusts her clothing a little too often to be casual, pulling down her shorts or tugging at her apron. She plays with the tendril that always seems to be pulled out from whatever she’s done to her hair—It’s in some sort of weird braid today.

When most of the customers have left and she’s done all she can to avoid me—everything short of putting the chairs up and mopping the damn floors—she plants a hand on her hip and gives me an expectant look.

“What?” I ask.

“We don’t have omelets.”

“I learned that lesson last time. Still disappointed about it.”

“So you settled for black coffee instead?”

I peer into my mug. “I don’t know how you stand it. This shit is terrible.” My tone is teasing, but her unimpressed expression is steadfast.

“Mhmm. And to think you ordered two.”

“That one is for you. Are you taking a break anytime soon?”

“Why?”

“Well, to be completely honest with you, I’d like to take you out sometime. But if that’s moving too fast for you, I’ll settle for buying you coffee.”

She looks away from me and, seeing nothing that needs her immediate attention, sighs and leans against the chair across from me. “Are you a glutton for punishment or something? I know I’m not the most pleasant of company.”

“That’s exactly why I’m here—that attitude. Because when I first saw you at Tripp’s, even when you were worrying over something, you seemed so self-assured. It was strange to see that in someone so . . . wait, how old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Right. That’s what I mean, I know nothing about you.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking.”

I mess with my thumb ring, narrowing my eyes at her. She’s forthcoming and honest, yet impossible to read. Like an open book in an iron safe. “Let me take you out.”

“No.”

There’s no doubting her firmness, but I won’t take no for an answer. “Okay, let’s try this again. Can I take you out?”

“No.”

“Why not? It’s a free meal for you. What do you have to lose?”

Fire flickers in her eyes. I’ve struck a nerve. “Because I don’t have time for bullshit, Jenson, and right now it seems like you’re peddling a lot of it. Not that I pay much attention to egotistical rock stars, but it’s impossible to ignore them completely when they’re all anyone talks about in this town.”

“I’m not a rock star. I’m just a guy who stumbled on opportunity. I liked to write songs, and I couldn’t get anyone else to sing them. So I sang them, and now I’m here. Now will you sit down and have coffee with me?”

“I already took my break.” She tilts her head at me, ready to return my next serve. She’s game. “But thank you for the gesture.”

“You’re welcome. How about a walk?”

“A walk where?”

Bingo. I smirk. “Fine, Lindsey, I’ll take you for a walk. You didn’t have to beg me for it.” She rolls her eyes, and I know that although the war is far from over, I’ve at least won this battle.

 

Lindsey’s silent for the span of two blocks as we head east, toward the river. Clearly she’s setting the tone for the evening, or baiting me into spilling my guts so she can stomp all over them and blow me off. When her phone rings, she silences that, too.

“Thanks for walking with me,” I say, mostly to break the silence.

She shrugs, her hands buried in the pockets of her hoodie. “I felt bad for being mean to you the other night.”

I nudge her with my elbow, my own hands in my pockets for lack of something better do. “I needed that.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you spend years surrounded by bullshit, sometimes you need a dose of truth, straight to the vein. Quick and dirty.”

She sends a sidelong glance my way. “It was inappropriate. We’re basically strangers.”

“Exactly. You can give me your unbiased opinion before I start to grow on you.”

Her brows knit together, a V forming between them. “You want me to tell you what I think of you?”

“That’s exactly what I want.”

“Don’t you pay people for that?”

My shoulders lift in a half shrug. “Somewhat. But, as you can imagine, money has a way of tainting things.”

“I wouldn’t know. But, okay, you asked for it.” She huffs, steeling herself for what she’s about to say. “Look, I don’t know you, or your life, but I know you’re supposed to be recovering, and you aren’t. From what little I’ve seen, you aren’t trying very hard, either.” When she raises her eyebrows, I gesture for her to go on. It’s not like I have the grounds to protest.

“You’re supposed to be on a break, right?” When I nod, she asks, “How long?”

“Indefinitely. I don’t know if I’m ready to go back.”

She watches me for a moment before continuing. “I get that you have personal matters to attend to, but there’s no need to string along your fans, or your band. Take care of yourself, yes, but be up front with the people who are counting on you. From what I’ve heard, it seems like you have one foot out the door already. Even though you know people are relying on you, you act like you’re the only one who has something to lose. If you want to quit, do it. But don’t drag everyone else through your misery.”

Her words are like a tourniquet around my lungs, and each one is another twist in the rope. Tightening. Restricting. I don’t know what she’s heard, but I know I haven’t told her much, and yet, she’s hit the nail on the head. I couldn’t give a shit about the record people and the music execs. They’re all business. It’s all money for them, and I understand that. But my band . . . they’re not just my band. They’re family. Most of them jumped on this ride with me without bothering to fasten a seatbelt, back when I was nothing. They have more to lose than anyone else.

“Too much?” she asks, but she doesn’t look sorry. Her eyes are filled with daring.

“No. I mean, you just crucified me, but no.” I light a cigarette and inhale, holding the smoke in my lungs until it burns, before releasing it. We walk for almost a minute—me smoking, her stewing—before I speak. “This music thing kind of happened on accident. Not many people know that. I’ve written songs since I can remember, and I sang all of them even when they were shit. I had some musician friends who played with me in a garage, just for ourselves and whoever happened to be passing by. Mostly kids our age. We decided to try our hand at playing this grungy little venue so all our friends and family could come watch in one place. One thing led to another, and pretty soon we were playing regularly.

“It wasn’t about the amount of people who heard us, just playing the music we believed in. I guess the right person stumbled in one day and listened long enough, and news traveled through word of mouth. A label got a hold of us and asked to meet, and the rest is history. I didn’t think it’d go anywhere, but our music, our fans, gathered momentum. It was this runaway train that couldn’t be stopped. We started opening for other acts, playing bigger venues. Somewhere in the madness, I lost sight of what I valued most, the reason I even played in the first place, and by that time I’d lost control. I couldn’t stop the train, so I just tried like hell to hang on for the ride.”

I look over at her but her eyes are trained ahead. Just listening. Absorbing. So I do what I haven’t done in ages and spill my guts.

“Drinking helped. My ex-wife, Raven, tried to, but I hid how bad it was. I was supposed to protect her—I didn’t want to admit I was struggling, or that the thing I loved most became a monster I couldn’t handle. I had these crazy fears, anxiety, stress. I couldn’t take it anymore. I fell apart. And now I feel like I owe thousands of people something I can’t pay up on. I know how it sounds—boohoo, woe is me. But I pushed everything down, all my doubts and fears, and in the end, they buried me. Everything I worked for, everything worth anything to me, exploded in my face. I ruined everything good.”

We’ve come out near Riverfront Park, crossing the street to reach the grassy plaza. There are people around, walking or lounging, but my focus is on Lindsey, awaiting her response with breath bated. She just looks across the river toward the hulking stadium, eyes slightly narrowed as if measuring up what I’ve said.

I finish my cigarette and put it out on the concrete, before tossing the butt into the trash. “You ever wish you could go back? Just be a clean slate?”

She chews her lip while she thinks. “I don’t think so. The things we go through—the things you’ve been through—they kind of color a person, don’t you think? Add dimension.”

I scratch my beard, trying to see my regrets the way she does. I’m not sure I want to be colored by my past. I’d make for a disappointing painting.

“It’s like whiskey,” she says, capturing my attention again. “You know—aged in oak, smoky, smooth. Every stage of that batch’s life adds a little something. Sadness, happiness, insane love, and yes, even regret—those are the flavors of life, aren’t they?”

I’d never thought to compare the likenesses between me and my favorite beverage. The mild burn, the hint of smoke . . . that suits me; just about everything I touch turns to ash. “You might be onto something,” I say, tapping out another cigarette. As soon as I light it, she plucks it from between my lips. Her eyes close as she takes a long drag.

“You should quit.” Puffs of smoke punctuate her words.

“I know.”

Regarding the glowing cigarette between her fingers, she asks, “What do you love? I mean most in the entire world. What could you not survive without?”

“Music.” I don’t even have to think about it. It’s buried in me, all the way to my marrow. If you cracked me open, I’m certain you’d find it in my bones.

“Everyone loves music. What about it?”

Now cigarette-less, I tuck my hands back in my pockets and stare at the water. The river is a black snake, dotted by reflections of light, winding through the night. “Creating it. Molding it. Playing it. . . It’s like freeing all the caged parts of myself.” I redirect my gaze toward the ground, not sure I even believe myself anymore. “I haven’t been able to write anything good in ages. All that shit—the heartbreak, the loss—it’s all pent up in there, just wreaking havoc.”

“You love it enough to give up anything for it?”

“Yes.” I’ve already lost my wife. Even before my dependence issues, I was so consumed by music, there was hardly any of me left to give to her. I didn’t know how to separate it from everything else back then. Maybe I still don’t.

Lindsey shrugs. “So do it.”

“What?”

“Give up the bullshit and take your music back.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried that already?”

She raises her chin. “Maybe you didn’t want it bad enough then.”

Taking my cigarette back, I put my lips where hers were on the paper and meet her eyes on the next inhale. “Can we pick on you now? Air out your dirty laundry?”

She starts to smile. “My laundry’s clean as a whistle.”

“Sure. What are you doing at Rhythm?”

No comment has ever erased her smile so fast. “What is that supposed to mean?”

I start walking again. I need to find somewhere comfortable to sit, get her off her feet. Maybe then she’ll be less likely to run off. “You left your family and friends behind and moved all the way here from Colorado. I know you didn’t do all that for a record store.”

“I have other goals, you know.” She watches me while I sink down onto the grass, but she doesn’t budge.

“Yeah? I’m listening.”

Her glare could put darts through a brick wall. Luckily, it’s directed across the river and not at me. “I’m kind of a photographer. It’s what I went to school for, and it’s what I want to do full-time. Music photography.”

“Kind of? If you want to be a photographer, be it. Don’t ‘kind of’ be it.”

Her eyes roll skyward, but she surrenders, joining me in the grass with a huff. “I only say it like that because I’m paying my dues. It’s the entertainment industry, you know? I’m not really getting anywhere.”

“You know anyone in the entertainment industry?”

“No,” she says, but her eyes dance around mine.

“I know people—” I begin, but she cuts me off.

“I don’t need your charity. You don’t owe me anything.”

The cigarette droops between my lips with my frown. “That’s not what I’m saying. I just know how hard it is to get your foot in the door with something like that. You’d have to have the talent, obviously, but I can put you in touch with someone to at least get your name out there.”

“That’s okay. I have some stuff I’m working on.” She says “stuff” with a shrug, playing it off.

“Do you have a website?”

“Sort of. Good ones cost money, and I don’t know anything about HTML.” Flopping onto her back, she spreads her arms wide. “I’m on all social media. A few thousand followers, but nothing to write home about.”

“That’s a start. Show me some of your stuff.”

Her fists clench. “I don’t think so.”

“How are you going to be an artist without showing your art?”

“An artist?” she asks, turning her head toward me.

“Sure. Your camera is your medium, your photos your art. Now show me.”

“Noooooo,” she says, the word full of dread.

“Why?”

“Because you’re . . . you.”

“I’m nobody. I don’t know shit about photography. Now show me.”

Once again, I’m on the receiving end of one of her exasperated looks, but at least she’s drawing her phone out of her pocket, only tearing her eyes away to scroll through it. Then she hands it over. Her account, entitled Smoke & Mirrors, is a documentary of food, nightlife, and music. Even with my untrained eye, I can tell the composition’s good. They all draw the eye. I click on a few to get a closer look, not recognizing any of the musicians she’s captured but admiring her work all the same.

“These are good,” I say finally, scrolling all the way to the bottom. Her early photos feature her more often, back when her hair was silver and she was laughing, arms slung around the necks of people I assume are her friends. “I like this one especially.” I angle a bikini picture toward her and she swats my leg. “But really, I like what you’ve done with the live music ones. I like how in this one”—I zoom in on a close-up of a singer, the lights highlighting the sweat on his brow, his mouth open and neck muscles straining—“the intensity and passion are obvious. I can almost hear the strength of his voice by looking at this.” I hand the phone back to her and give her what I hope is an encouraging nod. “It’s good stuff.”

“Buuuut?” she asks slowly, pushing herself up on her elbows.

“Maybe you need a theme. A niche that’s your own, that your followers know they can rely on you for. If it’s music you want to do, get more photos of musicians. Even if you’re just going to a show for fun. Muscle your way up there and get your shots. Most artists appreciate seeing those, reliving the energy.”

She nods along with me. “I guess you’re making some sense.”

“Just some, huh? You’re warming up to me.”

She tucks the wayward lock of hair behind her ear and tilts her head my way. “Why did you show up at the café, Jenson?”

“I already told you, I needed the truth.”

“That’s not why you came by. Maybe the first time, but not tonight. Are you looking for another hookup?”

“No,” I say. Too quickly, by the look on her face. “The other night was great. I mean, I didn’t plan it like that, I didn’t even plan on seeing you. That just happened by chance. It’s just nice.”

“What is?”

She’s relentless, and it would be a little intimidating if I hadn’t been married to a woman by the name of Raven Sutter. “I get the feeling you understand me. That’s been harder to find in life than I thought it’d be.”

Her lip is between her teeth again. “Your wife didn’t understand you?”

“Not like I thought.”

“Ouch.”

“It’s not like that. I loved her. We were in love, obviously, or we wouldn’t have gotten married. But maybe there are people you love and just aren’t meant to be with. She told me I never asked about her dreams. Not once. Before we divorced I felt her slipping away, and the farther she drifted, the harder I tried to hold on. Until I found out that I was hanging onto her for me. I was worried about what would happen to me if she left. How I would deal with being alone, how it would affect my career. That just proved everything she’d said.” There’s more to the story, but that’s the gist of it. I don’t even broach the subject of the child I almost had. This isn’t a therapy session. “I didn’t mean to offload that on you. I just feel like you get it—giving everything up for your art.”

A couple glides past us on bicycles, the guy trying to ride with no hands until the front wheel wobbles and he almost goes off into the grass. I almost can’t remember when life was that simple—when happiness came down to impressing a girl with your bike-riding skills.

Lindsey follows my gaze. “There are a lot of artists in this town, Jenson.”

For unknown reasons, she’s drawing the curtain between us again. I’ve bared parts of my past for her to judge, found out about her hometown and her dreams, and still I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is she’s so protective over. “But you made me breakfast. I didn’t even deserve it.”

“It’s not about deserving it. It was something you needed at the time, and I could give it to you.” She bounces her shoulders in a quick shrug, like no further explanation is needed. “And I felt bad for you. I don’t know how you and Carter survive.”

“On hope, mostly.”

“And that was a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of breakfast. Imagine what I could do with adequate supplies.”

“I look forward to finding that out.”

She returns my smug grin with narrowed eyes, but a corner of her mouth turns up despite herself. “You know, for a guy who’s been through some shit, you sure are confident.”

“I don’t have anything else to be. Now come on, it’s getting late. I’ll walk you back.”

 

 

Lindsey

 

I glance over my shoulder before rounding the corner of the block, catching a last glimpse of Jenson heading up the street toward an old truck. Then I duck around the brick and pull out my phone to read the message. They always come, every day, and though I’ve learned to ignore them, they taunt me from my back pocket, where I’ve stuffed my phone so I don’t have to see that name on the screen. Craig.

Still waiting on that phone call. You’re lucky I haven’t dragged your name through the dirt already, because when that happens, everyone in this town will be done with you. You won’t have a future. All because you’re a deceiving little cunt. A week, that’s all I’m giving you. Don’t test me.