26: BLOODY HEARTS
To say I’m a mess over the next few weeks is inaccurate. I’m too numb to be anything. I’m an answer to interview questions. A signature on contracts. I’m a physical therapy patient and Holland’s guide through our rehearsal, but I’m not Wes. Thanks to the pre-release hype, “Swan Song” kills it on the charts, and their tour gets off to a hot start. Critics rave it’s our best yet. The Label freaks, the band celebrates, and I… crack a smile.
“Have you heard from her?” I ask Holland when we take five after several run-throughs of “Viper Rising” in my condo. She has a three-day break from the road and is devoting one of them to this song.
I get the sister-look I’ve come to dread and focus an intense stare on my water bottle.
“She planned to unplug while she was away. Take a break, you know?”
“Yeah, of course,” I force out. “I get it.”
She’s not buying it. I see it in the way her gaze locks on me. “She just needs to figure things out. She cares about you.”
“Cares, yeah. Great,” I mutter. My fucking dentist cares. “When do you want to rehearse with the other guys?” No way I’m getting a pity talk from Holland about her sister.
“I’ll check with them. We’ll have to wait until Hannah is back.”
Right. Our lead vocalist who I shoved away. “You should be prepared to sing her part.”
Holland crosses her arms and shoots me another look. “Hannah won’t back out. She has a problem with too much commitment to things, not the other way around.”
“Yeah? Well, you didn’t see her face when she stormed off.”
“What did you say to her?”
“Something stupid I didn’t mean. She won’t respond to my messages now.”
“Like I said, she—”
“Yeah, she unplugged. Have you heard from her in the last three weeks?”
She’s suddenly very interested in her own water bottle.
“Holland, come on.”
“I don’t want to get involved. I can’t, okay?”
I clench my jaw and struggle not to send a foot into the guitar stand. Then my heart collapses in my chest. “Wait, you know something,” I say. “What has she said?”
“Wes, I can’t. Don’t put me in this position.”
“Please!” God, I hate begging, but for all I’ve lost throughout my life, I’ve never suffered the black hole I’m in now. “What is it?”
She runs a hand over her flushed face, and I’m finding the air in this room less breathable by the second. “The cruise,” she says finally.
“With the ex?”
She nods and huffs a breath that ruffles her bangs. “Geoffrey, yes.”
“He wanted to work things out with her,” I say. I don’t like the way her lips thin into pale strips.
Her eyes suddenly search for everything in the vicinity except me. “Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?” Is she trying to torture me?
After a long pause, she levels the most empathetic sister look I’ve ever seen. She hasn’t said a word and already I’m spiraling.
“Holland, please. What’s going on?”
She groans and rests her hands on her head. “Okay, fine, but please remember I didn’t want to tell you this.” I wait when she pauses. I wouldn’t have been able to speak at this point anyway.
“Before Geoffrey talked to Hannah about the cruise, he had a long conversation with my parents.”
I feel the blood draining from my face, probably pooling in my feet since suddenly I can’t move.
Holland reaches for my arm, squeezing lightly as she says, “He asked for permission to propose to Hannah. That’s what this cruise is about. That’s probably why you haven’t heard from her. I’m sure she wants to tell you in person.”
The room is spinning. I drop to the couch as the walls crash down around me. “You think that’s why she hasn’t responded or you know?” I say finally. Tears. Yeah, that didn’t sound like me because Wes Alton doesn’t cry. But fuck if learning you’ve lost a woman like Hannah Drake doesn’t make your eyes malfunction.
Holland wraps her arms around me, and it’s everything I can do not to break down. I won’t. I’ve lived almost thirty years without Hannah. So what if I have to live the next thirty? We’ll still have our new band. We’ll be friends. We’ll be fucking coworkers. My shoulders shake from some foreign emotion as Holland holds tighter.
“I think,” she says. “I don’t know.”
“God, I love her, Hol. I love her so much.”
She nods against my chest, and I bury my face in her hair. I don’t want to see right now. I just know I’ll be staring into a rainbow of gray.
“I fucked up.”
“You didn’t.”
“You don’t understand.”
She pulls back and forces me to look at her. “No, you don’t. I’m not sure what you said to her, but that’s not what changed her mind. I love my sister more than anything, but she doesn’t choose with her heart. She chooses with her head and Geoffrey makes sense. They’ve been talking about marriage for a while.”
“But she won’t be happy!”
“You don’t know that,” she says, eyes full with my pain. “And even if she’s not, it’s her choice. She does what she’s supposed to do. The easy, safe road. It’s who she is.”
I jump up, fingers tangled in my hair. “What can I do? Tell me, Hol. I’ll do it. Just help me. Please!”
“Stop.” She reaches out, but I duck away to keep pacing. My world is moving so fast and yet completely dark at the same time. Nothing makes sense. No, everything makes sense except for me. I’m the one who doesn’t fit anymore.
“When’s she coming back?” I ask, voice raspy.
“Two days.”
I nod.
Her eyes… “It’s too late, hon,” she warns. I shake my head, and she sighs. “What are you going to do?”
I press my fists into my eyes.
“Wes, talk to me.”
I draw in a deep breath and meet her gaze. “I’m going to find a way to give her my heart and force her to give it back.”
∞∞∞
Day One of my mission starts the second Holland leaves my condo. I pick up my guitar and stare at my stiff fingers. The physical therapist said I’m not ready. He’s probably right, but time isn’t the only parameter that matters. Most of the damage to my left hand was to my ring and pinky finger, so tuning the strings doesn’t present much of a challenge. With a little extra effort, I’m able to tighten and release the pegs enough to bring the pitch into an acceptable range.
My right index finger got pretty jacked up, however, so holding a pick is a problem. I drop it on the first two attempts, and the third results in one successful strum before the pick ends up in the body of my acoustic. I curse and jiggle the guitar with a gentle shake upside down until the pick clears the opening. I decide just to strum with my fingers for now. Even that is no easy task since I can’t get my right thumb and index finger to meet. So no fingernail strum either. Oh, wait, the only chord I can form with my left hand is an awkward Em anyway. Shit. I lay the worthless instrument on the couch and set up my keyboard instead.
After a few passes of the keys, I’m more confident. I don’t have the dexterity I’d need to perform, but for writing, this will do. I open a new file on my laptop and set to work.
For three hours, I’m glued to my couch. Eventually, my back and ribs ache to the point of watery eyes. My fingers barely move. Just as Physical Therapist Jeff warned, I wasn’t ready for this, but I push through until the pain and stiffness is so bad I can’t press a key or type a letter no matter how hard I struggle.
I shut my laptop in disgust and fall back to the cushions. Staring at the ceiling, I try to gather the strength to move to the kitchen, but everything has become a lot more difficult without Hannah. Even weeks after the fight, I feel my injuries more now than those first few days when she was my rock. Who knew broken ribs and fingers hurt so much?
My phone buzzes, and I yank it into view. I force a smile to mask the disappointment in my voice when I answer. Holland wants to know if I’ll meet up with her and the guys for dinner. I ask her to tell the rest of the band I’m looking forward to playing with them again, but now’s not a great time because… I’m busy? She pauses long enough to tell me that she gets it. Twenty years with someone make their silences as expressive as their words.
My gaze journeys to the mini-bar when we hang up. I study the beautiful tapestry of glass and color arranged on the marble top. I haven’t touched it in weeks. I knew if I was going to get her back I’d have to put my life together, and I couldn’t waste time on oblivion. But I had hope then. It was an argument I had to overcome, not a fucking marriage.
What’s left of my hope now? A song. A string of notes and words that has to convince a viper that the life she chose is not the life she wants.
I curse and drape my arm over my face.
∞∞∞
Day Two doesn’t go any better. This time I have to start off stiff, sore, and discouraged, and there’s no improvement from there. No lyrics are striking enough. No melody haunts with the passion and desperation I need to convey. Nothing is good enough for my Hannah.
I spend hours deleting what I type, rearranging chords until they start to blend together in a squall of sound. I’ve said “my ears are bleeding” many times in my life. This is the first time I’m actually concerned it’s true. Then again, maybe it’s just my brain exploding after two days straight of this torture. Hours of non-stop effort and what do I have? Six words I hate.
Bloodshot eyes scratch through the veil
I lost track of which revision this is. I must have attempted a hundred opening lines. This is the latest, probably because I’ve reached the point where words are blurring and the physical becomes lyrical.
I’m definitely ready for a break when my phone rings. Not Hannah this time either. I sigh and connect with my sister.
“Hey, big bro!”
“Hey, bridezilla.”
“Whatever. Are you still good for the processional? It’s like two weeks away. How are the hands?”
“All good. Holland and I have run through the song. We’ll do a full rehearsal with the band in a little bit.”
“That’s so great that you’re playing with them after everything.”
“Yeah.”
She seems to want more, but I have nothing.
“Do I get a preview?” she asks finally.
“No way. You need to be surprised along with everyone else.”
“Ooh, so mysterious. This is going to be epic!” I can picture her epic dance on the other end of the line.
“Hope so.”
“And I can’t wait to see Hannah sing!”
“Yeah.” Maybe I’m being rude but I can’t do this right now. “Hey, I’ve gotta get back to work, but you concentrate on being an awesome bride. We got this.”
After we hang up, I use the break to shower and force some food down my throat. Then it’s another longing glance at the bar before I grab a bottle of water instead. Hannah comes home soon, and I’m not giving up without a fight.
∞∞∞
It’s late, too late for a knock. My gaze springs to the door, and I force my stiff legs to straighten. Cops? Building security? Pranksters? Who assaults someone’s residence at this hour?
Hannah Drake.
I stand in shock. Hand gripping the doorframe, I can only stare at the most gorgeous person—thing—I’ve ever seen. Her eyes radiate with the glow of a woman in love, skin golden from the caress of the sun. It’s painful how beautiful she is.
The ache knots in my throat, but I refuse to give in. No, I’m fighting. I will fight until the ring on her finger is a gold band instead of a diamond. My eyes drop in search of the evidence, but she has her hands tucked in her back pockets. On purpose? Probably.
“Sorry, it’s late. Can I come in?”
I nod and shift so she can pass. The fresh and flowery scent I’ve come to crave washes over me as she brushes by. I have to clench my fists to keep from taking her in my arms for a taste. Just one touch. I concentrate on locking the door instead.
“We need to talk,” she says, and my limbs go numb.
“Wait. Before that, can I just…” I scrub at my face. “Can I just play something for you?”
“Wes, I—”
“Please. I’m begging you, just listen?” I am begging. Desperation seeps from my pores, fills the space around us. I move to the keyboard before she can argue and start playing.
The signature rasp in my voice is almost a croak as I make my way through the song, but I fight on. I need her to understand. Even if she walks out of here to become Mrs. Country Club, I need her to do it with my heart in her hands. So I play. The concert of my life, I pour out my soul for this woman.
Bloodshot eyes scratch through the veil and find you, find you
Truth locked beyond my reach
You flood in, addictive fangs, sink deep
So deep I bled
For you,
Fled, for you
Chased the moon, I died and came back for you
Wrapped in you
Trapped trapped, before I knew
How to survive the loss
When you find me too, those hidden parts
I blocked, beyond your reach
Your perfection is
My rejection, burns
Hot through the bloody heart you own
Until the beat, beat, beat
Stops.
I look up at the abrupt ending that I left purposely unresolved. It’s her song to finish, not mine.
Her eyes are glossy when I find them. The emotion has to match mine as I wait in agony, and she reaches up a hand to clear the tears. It’s then that I see it on her left hand: Nothing. Fucking nothing!
“Geoff proposed on the cruise… I said no.”
My empty chest fills with flowers and hope and a soul-crushing love as I constrict her against me before she can utter another word.
“Thank god,” I whisper against her hair, and her own arms tighten around my back. “Thank god.”
∞∞∞
Hannah is settled into me on the couch as we talk. I stroke my fingers over her arms, her neck, her cheek. Anywhere I can reach, I want to touch.
“Frankly, I was shocked by the proposal,” she says. “I don’t know what he was thinking. And how awkward is that? Stuck on a boat with someone for two weeks? I said I’d think about it because, can you imagine sharing a cabin with a guy you rejected? Geez,” she laughs.
I swallow my jealousy at the thought of her sharing a cabin with any guy and rest my lips on the side of her neck.
She squirms against my hold. “That tickles!”
“Yeah?” I go in for another taste. She reaches back to swat me away.
“I’m trying to talk!”
“I’m listening.”
“No, you’re not. You’re horny.”
“I’m always horny for you, babe.”
She bursts out laughing and twists to give me a look. “Lame.” After a sigh, she leans into me again. For someone who finds my horniness lame, she doesn’t seem to have any issues feeding it with her own exploration of my body while she talks. “Anyway, you know what he said after I told him I needed to think?”
“I would have jumped off the boat.”
“I know.” She pulls my hand to her lips, and I feel the tingle spread with irresistible urgency. “But not Geoffrey. No, he smiled—actually smiled—and said that was smart. Not even in a ‘just to be polite’ way. He meant it!”
“Fucking idiot.”
“Don’t be mean. But yeah, that’s when I knew without a doubt.”
She shifts so we’re chest to chest now.
“Knew what?”
“That’s not the kind of love I want. I want a burning, bloody heart I can own.”
And I kiss her. I inhale her. I claim her until she has no choice but to hand over her burning, bloody heart as well.