Lindsey

 

With the goal in mind to spend the rest of the evening editing, I enter my room and see Anika’s still home. She’s in her bed with her laptop on her legs, but the expectant look she gives me says she isn’t paying any attention to whatever she’s working on. Predictably, she sets aside her laptop the moment I drop my bag on my bed.

“What was that?” she asks, her voice insinuating.

I hide my face behind my hair, pretending to take a closer look into my bag. “I just got home. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yeah, is that what our friendship is now? I see. Does Jenson freaking King ring a bell?” There’s a nudge in my back, and I look over my shoulder to see her leg outstretched, poking me with a toe. That’s how small our room is. We’re practically within arm’s reach.

“I photographed him,” I supply lamely.

“You were with him the other day, weren’t you? Yeah, you were! Spill it. Is he still in love with his ex? Did he take his shirt off? Is he the one you ditched us for that one night?”

“Can we not?” I ask, but it’s a halfhearted attempt. She’s picked at a loose thread and now she’s intent on unraveling my secrets.

“Step into my office,” she says. I slide my arms out of her jacket and toss it to her over my shoulder. “No. I don’t have time for you and your performance evaluations.”

“But we haven’t had one in sooo long. I miss girl time. I’ve been working so much I’m beginning to think that all normal human interaction begins with ‘Hey, sugar tits, can you get me a Corona?’ ”

I bite my lip, staunching a smile. Silence. Resist her.

“Last time I had any fun was Crazy Town, and you didn’t even stick around long enough to see Lara’s dancing. You know how she gets—like one of those wind puppet things outside of the car lots.”

I sigh. She isn’t wrong. Both employed in the hospitality industry, our schedules rarely line up for a night out. She’s the only friend I have here, including Lara and her wind-puppet dancing. As bad as it sounds, the extent of Lara’s usefulness is providing great stories that get us through our day-after hangovers.

Anika must recognize my crumbling resolve, because she crawls onto the floor and slides her torso beneath her bed. All I can see are hips and legs coming from beneath the bed skirt. I drop to my hands and knees, lifting the fabric to join her.

You’d never guess that beneath the ball-busting exterior, Anika is basically a ten-year-old. She lives in a constant state of ’90s nostalgia, watching cartoons like Recess late at night, listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers—which I can get behind—and eating macaroni shaped like cartoon characters. And beneath her bed is a whole solar system of green, glowy stars, moons, and planets stuck to the underside of her box spring. We used to come under here to discuss life and bitch about our roommates because we assumed the mattress would make it soundproof. Turns out Sebastian and Isaac could hear every word, but we haven’t stopped doing it.

“Out with it,” she says from beside me.

I roll over on my back, paging through the memories of the past few weeks. I’m not sure when exactly it happened, but I’m no longer surprised when he shows up at random moments anymore. In fact, I get a little thrill in my belly that I have someone to pick on. It’s instinctual to guard that vulnerability, the tiny chink in my armor, but this is Anika. I can say anything to her and it will make sense.

“I like him.” The words rush out like they’ve been eager to escape.

“Well, that’s obvious. He is fucking hot, and kind of famous.”

“That’s what I hate. It’s so predictable. Move to Nashville, meet a musician, almost instantaneously fall for said musician despite all reason and sense, introduce musician to family, yadda yadda yadda.”

She turns her head to look at me. “Literally none of that is predictable.”

“Whatever.”

“Wait, you said fall for him. Are you falling for him, Miss ‘I Don’t Have a Heart’?

I grit my teeth. “That’s not what I said. I said it’d be predictable.”

“It’s what you kind of said.”

“He has issues.”

“Don’t we all?”

“He has married issues. And rich musician issues.”

“And you have intimacy issues.”

I peg her with a glare. “I do not. My intimacy is all lubed up and ready to go, thank you very much. Intimacy issues,” I snort.

“I don’t mean fucking, Lindsey. We share a bedroom. I’m well-aware of your physical capabilities. Remember Alex?”

“You were supposed to be asleep that night.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“What were we talking about again?”

“Your issues. You won’t let anyone in. It’s your schtick.” She says this decidedly, as if it’s a fact.

“My what? And anyway, it would be pointless. We’re on two separate paths, we have different trajectories.”

Her sigh is dramatic. “You like music, he likes music. And it’s obvious he likes you if he was ambushed by your family and didn’t freak. He keeps coming around. He wrote you a song—”

“How do you know about the song?” I snap.

“There’s a note on your bookshelf. I thought you saw it. Anyway, they’re lyrics.”

I brush aside my irritation that she read something of mine—we are roommates, after all, and nothing in this place is sacred—and scoot out from under the bed. Sure enough, there’s a lined sheet of paper on top of my bookshelves, creased as if it’s been folded and unfolded a hundred times. Inked across most of it is slanted, half-cursive handwriting—an artist’s scrawl. It suits him.

The words, though, are entirely new. It’s not the song he sang by the fire the other night. It’s something about a black heart coming to life. Just reading the words sparks something, a melody that dances across my skin. I can envision the beginning being slow and enchanting, before picking up and packing a punch during the final verse—the one where the heart finds a rhythm, a heartbeat. The symbolism is clear; he thinks of me as his revivor, in a way. The one who breathed life back into his dreams. I can’t imagine possessing that kind of power.

Anika reads it over my shoulder, though I’m sure she knows the words by heart at this point. “It’s kind of intense.”

“It is,” I agree.

“It also kind of makes you sound like a complete badass.” She chuckles as if the thought is ridiculous, and I hear her bed creak when she plops down onto it again. “If only he knew that his fiery little temptress had a marshmallow heart.”

I grab my pillow and chuck it at her, satisfied when it thumps against her head and sends her hair flying.

“You know it’s true,” she chides, tossing it back.

I don’t correct her. I know it’s true. And though I try to ignore it as much as I can, I can feel it softening every day.

Jenson fucking King.

 

“Mom, hi, what’s up?” I say breathlessly. The ringtone I set especially for her had me dropping everything to rush into the supply closet at work to answer. Four ceramic mugs came very close to being casualties.

“Hi, honey. What are you doing, running?”

“You know me, I don’t run. What’s up?”

She sighs, and I hear a smile in it. Is that possible? “I try not to bother you too much, but I wanted to check in. How are things going?”

I’m tackled by a wave of guilt when I think back to the last time we had a conversation that wasn’t over text. “Fine. Good. What about you? Any more news from your doctor?”

“Oh, I’m not calling to talk about that. I want to hear what you’re up to.”

I roll my eyes in exasperation. She’s living with an incurable illness, I don’t want to tell her about my struggles. “Just working. You know. Trying to get my stuff in front of more people.”

“What about your work for the paper, how are you liking that?”

I slump back against the shelves, bumping a box of flavored syrups. “It’s fine. Semi-regular work, which I guess is better than nothing. Nothing’s come of it, though.”

I started freelancing for the local paper to get my name in front of as many eyes as possible. People like what’s familiar, and I want to stay relevant in their minds. This place is a cache of opportunity, if only I knew where to find it. I’d take almost anything outside of Craig’s influence.

“But that’s a great start. Take advantage of those connections. Get your name in people’s mouths. I know you know these things.”

“Yeah.” My tone is heavy with reluctance, and she catches on.

“Aren’t you enjoying Nashville?”

I tuck an unruly strand of hair behind my ear and drop my head back against the shelving. “Nashville, yes. What I’m doing is just very . . . domestic. I don’t want to get too comfortable. I came out here with a purpose, you know?”

“I know. You’ll make it count, I have all the faith in the world in you. Just take every chance you’re given and make the most of it, okay?”

“I know. I promised you that.”

“You did. Well, I’ll let you go, darling. I just wanted to make sure my favorite girl was doing okay. I could come visit, you know. Have Aunt Cathy come with me.”

I swallow hard, craving her company but knowing the trouble it would be. “It’s okay. I’ll be home as soon as I can. You’ll let me know if anything changes?”

“Of course. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I emerge from the storage closet feeling wearier than I did before my phone rang. I should’ve guessed she’d have no desire to talk about her difficulties with multiple sclerosis, and I’m disappointed I don’t have any victories to celebrate with her. My mom is a doer, and she won’t let something like an autoimmune disease hold her back. But despite all her determination, she’s had to relinquish some control of her event-planning business, putting most of her focus on marketing and coordinating, and hiring help for some of the execution. Instead, episodes of numbness, falling, pain, bouts of fatigue, mild memory loss, and appointments with neurologists have all done their best to infringe on her active and vivacious life.

I would worry less if she had someone looking out for her, namely my dad. But he left her. Six months after the diagnosis that would alter our lives, he abandoned her in her greatest time of need. Mom tries to defend him to me, but I won’t hear it. I’ve never seen failure like that. He’s the reason my example of unconditional love fell to pieces before my eyes. I haven’t seen him in five years.

In addition to worrying over my mom, I’ve spent every waking minute this week either working at Rhythm or on my photography—editing, updating social media, and submitting photos to the paper. I don’t talk to Jenson for several days. Dinner with Blake and Landon went well, but I don’t know how to process it. It was by default that Jenson met my family. Still, I won’t forget the stolen glance over my shoulder, of Landon shaking Jenson’s hand before they left for the night. A handshake from Landon is like a Medal of Honor. He doesn’t mean to be so guarded, he’s just careful. He’s been taught not to expect people to stick around forever, and because of that, everyone who comes into his life and expects to stay has to earn a spot on his good list. Blake did the impossible. When he was so consumed by grief after the death of his fiancé, she did what no one expected and pulled him from the darkness.

I understand partly why he keeps such a close circle. We live in a society where everything is temporary, disposable. Nothing is permanent these days, not even tattoos. Laser technology has gotten so good I’m surprised it can’t be used to beam away our sins. So, I have no expectations for anyone. People are rarely good without some ulterior motive. They’re like chameleons, adjusting themselves to every situation and person they meet so they can achieve some predetermined goal. It’s all an illusion. And I’m sick of that—the constant need for approval, the backstabbing to get ahead. The only person I can count on is myself, and I damn sure won’t let myself down. I won’t let myself slip up. And I won’t fall for the first man who can read me like a book and practically see down to my soul. Jenson’s got demons, and I don’t have faith in myself to fight them. I don’t have faith in myself to be a Blake.

What seemed significant before now feels drastically inconsequential following that reality check in the storage room. My mom wouldn’t let me stay in Denver to help her out with her business and the things she can no longer do. Not that she could’ve really stopped me, but she practically begged me to come out here and live my own life. And if I’m not there, being the doting daughter she deserves, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure I don’t disappoint her here.

So I keep my eyes forward, always trained on my goal. Or else why would I have risked moving a thousand miles away from a portion of my heart? I can’t fail my mom like her husband did.

 

I laze awake on my only day off for the week and scroll past the usual message from Creeper Craig. Instead, I click on the voicemail notification. It’s from Jenson.

The first word out of his mouth is spoken on a stiff exhale, as if he was smoking a cigarette while waiting for me to pick up.

“Hey, lovely. The band’s meeting up to rehearse today. Just wanted to let you know in case you were interested in getting some photos. It might be good material for your page. Give me a call back. Bye.”

Anika’s already gone to work, but still I hide my smile. I hide any sign of his innate ability to elicit these responses from me. It’s just hormones. They’re to blame for almost everything shitty in life. I open up my social media pages to see if I’ve gotten any recent correspondence. I posted a sneak peek the other day of Jenson’s profile in the dying sun, silhouetted against bare tree branches. It’s raw and stoic and completely awesome, and you can’t tell it’s him. That was the point. I don’t want to get cheap likes because of who the subject is, I want people to notice the artistry. There’s an influx of new notifications, and I trace the activity to a photography page that featured the photo. Every little bit counts. All it takes is one person, the right person, to notice my work and recognize my potential.

Which is partially why I call Jenson. These photos will give people a glimpse of what I see, of what happens without all the outfit changes and performance bravado and clamoring fans. Take all that away and you only have the music and the passion. The layer of need residing beneath the mask they put on for their fans—the smoke and mirrors. That’s what I want to capture.

Jenson greets me warmly, seemingly glad to hear from me. He rattles off the address to the studio and the easiest route to get there. There’s a smile in his voice when I tell him I’ll see him in an hour. I wind my hair into a messy knot atop my head, then pull on some cutoff shorts, my Chucks, and a Nirvana tank top, grabbing my leather jacket at the last minute because it’s fall and everyone who’s sane has already transitioned to wearing pants and long-sleeves.

After tucking my camera, lenses, and extra memory cards into my bag, I bustle out of my bedroom, only remembering a critical detail when I go to grab my keys. I don’t have a car. I sold mine for new equipment before I left Denver, and because I made sure to only apply to jobs I could walk to, I’ve had no need for one. Until now.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Who’s home?

I knock on doors, disgruntled to push them open and see that today, of all days, most of the beds are empty. Until Isaac’s.

“I need your car,” I say, but the statement doesn’t come out as authoritative as it could have while I’m choking on pot smoke.

“I have to work today,” he responds, looking up from his phone. He’s lying across his bed, completely immune to my sense of urgency.

“What time?”

“Two.”

I blow out a sigh. “It’s eleven. Can you give me a ride?” I’ll worry about being stranded at the studio later. I just need to get there. Isaac closes his eyes, pretends to be exasperated. So, I seal the deal. “I can give you gas money.”

He runs a hand through his straw-colored hair. “Fine. May I remind you that you’re really cutting into my pre-work meditation routine, and that you’ll be getting the next pizza for American Horror Story night?”

“Deal,” I say, forgoing the argument that staring at a screen isn’t equivalent to meditation. I grab his keys off his bedside table while Isaac steps into his shoes. He has the grace to only look partially annoyed as I hurry him out the door, then we cram inside his Honda Civic, and I repeat Jenson’s directions as we head east, across the river.

“Where are you in such a hurry to get to so early on your off day?” Isaac fakes being casual, but it doesn’t work on me. I know he’s fishing for information.

“Photographing a rehearsal,” I say, emulating his indifference.

“Ahh. One of your indie bands, or someone else?”

I shrug and look out the window, pretending something’s caught my eye. But he senses my avoidance.

“Your Jenson, eh?”

“He’s not my Jenson, Isaac. For the record. Make a note of it in your spy book.”

Isaac doesn’t say anything else, but he chuckles in a way that lets me know he’s won this round. I was never a good liar.

A few minutes later, we turn into the parking lot of a gray warehouse-style building just on the outskirts of town that matches the description Jenson gave me. Isaac drops me at the door and wastes no time pulling away, and I realize as I’m pushing through the tinted glass door that I don’t really know where to go from here.

The desk in the cavernous reception area is empty, and, glancing around, I see that I’m alone. Noise resounds from the hall straight ahead, but I know better than to go wandering. If I’m paying Isaac to use his car, the last thing I want to do is get kicked out as soon as I arrive.

I bide my time roaming the reception area, scanning the framed photos of artists and music awards displayed on the walls. Then a door bursts open behind the desk, emitting a tattooed girl with violet braids.

“What’s up?” she asks in a clipped tone that makes it clear she’s not here to bullshit.

“Hi. I’m, uh, a guest of Jenson King’s. I’m here to photograph the band.” I shift my bag in front of me before realizing she doesn’t have X-ray vision and can’t see my equipment.

She drums her claw-like nails on the metal desk distractingly while looking at something in front of her. Possibly the list that determines who’s in and who’s out. Just as she raises an eyebrow and opens her mouth to say something, Jenson emerges from another door along the hallway. His hair is mussed, and he’s wearing a holey T-shirt and slim, gray jeans. The look is all him.

“Hey, lovely,” he says with a cocky grin. “Letty, she’s with me.”

“She needs to be on the list,” Letty, my new biggest fan, quips, but she doesn’t argue as I edge around the desk. Jenson puts an arm around me and steers me down the hallway, dismissing Letty’s concerns with a lazy grin.

“Sorry. New policy. They usually aren’t such sticklers for rules. How are you?” he asks, looking down at me. There’s a fondness in his eyes that sends both warmth and worry through me. He feels familiar. Comfortable.

I resist conforming to his body, keeping my hands on my bag. “Good. Excited. This is my first time here.”

“Well, it’s going to be a pretty casual rehearsal, but we have everyone here. It’s a good time to get some shots.” We pass through another door into one of the studios, and I spot a familiar face. Carter is perched on the armrest of a couch along the back wall, and a few other guys I’m not familiar with are standing in various places around the room, fiddling with the knobs on their guitars or speaking amongst themselves. Carter looks over and, seeing me, gives the head nod, confirmation that he recognizes me.

“Guys, this is Lindsey, she’s a photographer. She’ll be taking a few photos today. Lindsey, that’s Carter—as you know—Travis, James, and Nick.” Jenson points to each member in turn, and they answer with small smiles or halfhearted waves.

“Photographer, huh?” Carter japes, giving Jenson a knowing look. My cheeks burn. I’m not sure what the guys in this room know, or think they know, about Jenson and me, but I pull my camera from my bag and wave it at him to convey my purpose.

“Jenson, you set?” At Jenson’s nod, the man seated next to the sound technician waves toward a low stage centered on the back wall. “Let’s start with ‘Rise’,” he says before introducing himself as the producer.

There’s a lot of pressure involved when you don’t know what to expect, but so far, it seems everyone is all business. I guess they have some ground to make up after their hiatus.

Jenson’s already stepping onto the stage when I remember what I’m here for. “Is it okay if I go up there for the close-ups?” I ask, dumping my bag in an empty corner.

The producer shrugs, and I grab my camera, glad to slip into a routine of familiarity. I’d wonder more about the underlying tension in the room if I wasn’t here to do a job. My sole reason for being here.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.