32
Declan
I knew I was awake because my luck was so fucked up that my head wouldn't feel this close to exploding until I was conscious. My mouth tasted like dirt, and I was in a bed that wasn’t mine. Mine was bigger and didn’t smell like some kind of plastic flower spray.
One eye...open. The other pressed into the pillow because I was facedown and practically being smothered by it.
“Too old for this shit.” I sat up slowly to avoid any further damage to my body.
Oh fuck. I was one hundred percent nude. No girl, though. No guy either, thank the heavens.
So, why was I naked in someone else’s bed? Too much alcohol, too fast, and with too little food, that’s why.
When I looked at the nightstand and saw a picture of Carissa hugging another woman who looked like her clone, I kind of wanted to die. What was worse than waking up with a raging hangover in a stranger’s bed? Waking up with a raging hangover in the bed of Sara’s slightly odd friend who I’d met back whenever I met her. A couple of months ago, maybe? Shit, for all I knew, I’d been passed out for a few years, and this was a parallel universe. One in which women slept with the guy their friend was, or had pretended to be, interested in. And guys who were interested in one girl woke up in another one’s bed with no memory of how he got there.
Fuck.
I found my clothes in a pile on the floor and then navigated to the living room, where I found other naked people, including Trevor. Making very sure to keep my eyes away from certain areas of my friend that I never wanted to see, I shook him awake.
“Trev, let’s get out of here.”
Trevor groaned and turned over to shove me away and mumble, “Three more hours, Mom.”
After a few more tries, I left him to sleep it off, remembering just enough of the previous night to know that neither one of us had been really happy after our talk with Moguli Music guys.
But Trevor recovered a lot faster than I did. In a couple more hours, he’d have completely forgotten his disappointment and would have already moved on to bigger and even more implausible fantasies.
While, in a couple more hours, and for the rest of the foreseeable future, I’d still be thinking about Sara and trying to figure out why the fantasy I’d actually been living had to end.
I stepped over the intertwined feet of a couple who might still be physically stuck together under a small fussy blanket and headed toward the scent of fresh brew.
Carissa was sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee from one side of her mouth so she could rest her head in her other hand. Her eye makeup had smeared, making her look as if she’d been crying. Even though she looked like hell, I didn’t comment because I felt like hell and probably looked even worse.
I nodded to her steaming mug. “Any more of that?”
“Help yourself.” She nodded slowly as if moving any faster were impossible. “I thought you would’ve left already.”
“Why’s that?” I filled a mug to the very rim and took a careful sip before joining her at the table. The coffee was lava hot—exactly what I deserved. Maybe a third-degree burn on my tongue would remind me how stupid I was the next time I decided getting wasted was a good idea.
“Because you and Sara are”—she shrugged with only one shoulder—“doing something that’s more complicated than it needs to be.”
I took a deep breath, not sure if I should answer because my brain couldn’t possibly be working at full capacity yet.
“You know I’m right. You’re into her, and she’s into you.”
Sure, she was into me. Enough to fuck, but not enough to let down her guard or keep her promises. But even worse, having a big blank instead of any memories of last night didn’t let me off the hook either. If I’d been able to sleep with someone, I’d been coherent enough to know it was wrong.
“Ta-da!” Carissa barely lifted her hands, but I knew she’d meant to. “I’ve figured it out for you. You’re both welcome.”
“Thanks,” I said unappreciatively. “You’re her friend, right?” After she agreed, I continued, “So, why’d you sleep with me?”
“Because it’s my bed?” Her painted brows came together. “Wait, you think we had sex?”
“We didn’t?” When she shook her head, the sense of relief almost sobered me up. That was the best news I’d heard all year.
“Believe me, hon, if we’d fucked you’d remember. Although, you’re a hell of a cuddler.” She chuckled to herself. “Last night, Trevor talked you into going skinny-dipping in the community pool, and ten minutes later, you got all depressed and wandered off. I brought you back here before another tenant found you and called the cops. I tucked you into bed, put on my jammies, and slept on top of the covers next to you. I thought about putting your clothes back on, but I was drunk. If you’d turned or I’d slipped and touched something I wasn’t supposed to, I wouldn’t be able to look Sara in the eyes again. So, I swear—nothing dirty happened.”
I remembered snippets of all that. Swimming, not the naked part. Getting depressed, not being put to bed like a toddler. But I was definitely happy that we hadn’t had sex because I wouldn’t have been able to look Sara in the eyes again either.
Even though Sara was very possibly waking up naked in some guy’s bed right now. Actually, no. It was already eight o’clock—she’d be long gone by now.
“Thanks, Carissa, for…” How did you thank someone for babysitting your drunk ass?
“Not fucking my friend’s man?”
“Am I her man?” Even I heard the frustration in my voice.
“You’re more her man than anyone else has ever been, at least that she’s ever told me about.”
That was nice to hear. It also peaked my curiosity. Sara and I had never discussed our relationship history beyond my failed affair with Señora Martinez and Sara being a late bloomer.
“Has she always been like this?” I asked.
“Like what?”
“Partying…not wanting to care about anyone…”
She stared into her coffee for a minute. “Sara has a lot of family shit that she tries to stay away from. And forget about. At first it was just going out a lot. The guys started later, and it wasn’t like there was a new one every night or anything. Then, obviously, as soon as you came along, that all stopped.”
“Obviously?”
“Look, Sara doesn’t talk about herself much, especially not when she’s sober. But her dad left when she was tiny, and her stepdad seems like kind of a jackass. So, you know, that can kind of screw with a girl’s head.” She paused, staring into dead space as if there was more she wanted to say. But for some reason I didn’t think it would be about Sara. Should I ask? We barely knew each other and only had the barest of reason to trust one another. But I’d listen if she wanted to talk. Turned out, she didn’t.
She looked at me and squinted. “How interested in her are you? It’s none of my business, but I want to know. I’m hoping you like her enough to last at least a little while. Because she’s basically been no fun whatsoever lately, and although that sucks for me, it’s really good for her. So…?”
I rubbed my eye and leaned forward onto my elbows. “I think I’m good for her, Carissa. And I’m good to her. But I’m way more interested in her than she is in me. And honestly, I’m getting tired of being treated like shit.” Like I didn’t matter or wasn’t there. Like I was a purse she could use one day and toss in the corner the next.
“Give her one more chance, Declan. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
I laughed. “I’ve already given her three. Does everyone deserve a fourth chance?”
When I got home, Kitty eyed me angrily. Great, another couple of X chromosomes hated me.
“I’m sorry, girl. I didn’t expect to be out all night.” I let her out onto the balcony, so she could take care of business, and went into the kitchen. At some point during the night, Kitty had decided to punish me by making herself dinner, which meant I got to clean up after her. I’d need a new bag of dog food since she’d torn through it and scattered kibble throughout the kitchen. There was no place to stand without hearing the snap of food crumbling under my foot.
I crunched my way to the pantry to get the broom and dustpan and started sweeping it into a pile. When I dumped the first load of dog food into the trash, I saw the take-out packages from my last dinner with Sara. Not sure why seeing the remnants of a great evening stung so deeply, but it did. Made me wonder what I was doing with my life. You know, like Japanese food does for everyone. It tasted so great at the time, but the enjoyment didn’t last. And the next day, that enjoyment turned to shit. Literally, in the case of Japanese food, figuratively for everything else.
Nothing lasted. Not even life. And it sure as shit was too short to spend it doing things or people you don’t want to do. These were supposed to be my peak years. I was young, fit, and confident. So, why was I currently cleaning up after the only being on earth who loved me unconditionally?
Sara didn’t love me. She might not even like me. It certainly didn’t feel like she respected me. So, what was I to her?
Trevor loved me like a brother, but even though we’d never spoken it aloud, we both knew his dependence on me wasn’t at a healthy level. I’d stuck with him and the band all this time because it was the only way I’d know he’d be safe from himself. Even if I’d never been able to really stop him from poisoning himself with liquor, drugs, or thoughts, I’d always felt like I’d been helping keep him alive, but had I? Maybe this whole time I’d just been giving him someone to rebel against. Someone he knew would keep him standing so he never had to try doing it for himself.
All I was to them was a prop—something they could count on to be there whenever they screwed up and couldn’t stand alone.
When I took my guitar off the wall and sat down on the couch, Kitty rubbed her head on my knee. Somehow, she knew as soon as the guitar came out, I needed comfort. Companionship. Love. And she was right.
My song-writing process was always the same—start what I saw as doodling with the strings, strumming or plucking them in random order until something clicked. Then I’d play that riff over and over until it naturally led to another stanza and another. As soon as the momentum kicked in, my fingers understood where they were supposed to go before my brain did.
Once I had a basic chorus laid out, I said the first thing that came to my mind. Like a bad rapper trying to fit phrases to the beat. But since I knew the song’s rhythm, phrases came to me automatically. Some were complete shit, but I kept going, kept saying whatever came into my head until something sounded…right.
I didn’t know anyone else who composed like I did—trusting myself enough to put something together on the fly. The other guys made fun of me for it, but they’d also never refused to play a song I wrote for them.
I never set out to write a complete and stage-worthy song. I wrote to figure out what was going on in my head. When I was depressed, when nothing in there made sense, playing music helped me sort it all out. Music was my version of therapy, and aside from a new set of strings every once in a while, it had never cost me a dime.
As soon as I had enough notes put together for the beginnings of a chorus, I closed my eyes and played it over and over, listening to the tone and rhythm until I understood it. The notes were soft, pensive. The rhythm was way slower than anything Self Defense would ever play. The pauses were longer but felt true. If I let myself get all metaphysical and deep, I’d have said they sounded like emptiness. And I’d have said the notes sounded like goodbye. No bitterness or anger, just regret for what could’ve been. Maybe even a little apology.
Then I opened my mouth, not knowing what would come out.
“Who left who?” I kept playing the same few bars of music over and over, saying whatever felt right. I’d worry about getting it to sound right later. Maybe.
One side…to every good story
One line…to end every joke
One chance…to say that you’re sorry
One shot…to make this thing work
One side…gets the blue ribbon
One guy…comes in second place
One time…to catch her not listening
One last moment…to look at her face
She could stare at her own reflection,
And never be able to see what I do.
So, no matter how strong our connection,
This will never work out like I wanted it to.
It needed some work, but then, who didn’t?