Lindsey

 

I believed I could schedule life, like it would bend to my will and follow my wishes. It’s taken long enough, but I’m learning that things involving hearts, and soul mates, and free-will don’t adjust themselves to fit the windows you try to force them through. No. They blow up the whole damn house.

It’s clearer now as I sit at what’s become my new favorite outdoor café, surrounded by beautiful, foreign architecture and people, that I’ve spent years running from things in life that would challenge my perspective—my mom’s disease, my parents’ divorce, love. I didn’t look back long enough to realize how many loose strings I’d left, I just pushed forward before I had a chance to feel anything. But here’s the thing: it’s almost impossible to move on when you’ve left patches of your history frayed and weak.

Without fully realizing it, the mending process began months ago by forgiving my dad. I’ve got a long way to go, but I’m determined to keep mending and adapting. To keep feeling.

But no amount of determination could prepare me for what I felt when I realized my head and my heart were finally in agreement. I am lovesick, and I am heartbroken, and I didn’t know it was possible to be so overwhelmed by both.

We’re leaving France today, flying to Glasgow for a music festival, but I just needed to sit with myself for awhile. Just be still while the world spins around me and the consequences of choices made exist in tandem with those who regret making them.

 My beliefs are in ruins, and for once, I’m not determined to keep my eyes down, focusing on the pieces. I’m just content to be.

Someone plops down in the wrought iron chair across from me. “Moping again?” Kingston asks. He is unapologetically brash and shameless about his awful timing.

I blink hard to clear the haze of my thoughts. “Moping?” I scoff, as if that is unheard of.

He shrugs, olive skin showing through his sleeveless, ripped-up shirt. He dresses like he took the clothes off a homeless person’s back, but it somehow works for him. “Mooning, pouting, wallowing. Moping. Your boyfriend at home dump you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nate and I were taking bets on whether your moping was due to your boyfriend breaking up with you or an unplanned pregnancy. I said boyfriend, he said pregnancy.”

At least now I know I can trust Bryant, to a certain extent. If he’d told them about Jenson, Kingston wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut about it. “Gee, that’s all I’m reduced to? Dumped or with child? Can’t a girl just mope in peace?”

“So you are moping,” he points out, plucking the last of my croissant off my plate. Bastard. “Now, which is the reason?”

“It looks like you owe me money, then, because it’s neither. So sorry to disappoint.”

Though he’s incognito in dark glasses and a fedora, I see a hint of his gaze while he scrutinizes me. “What’s going on with you, spitfire?”

I stew wordlessly. After months of correcting them, I haven’t been able to shake the nicknames. When Kingston throws his arms in the air, drawing attention, I give it up. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because you’re Dare and Fall—you’re not a cautious person. You’re act first, think later. Reckless with your feelings. You’re traveling with a world-renowned band and you won’t even namedrop in the slightest to reap the benefits. You’ve turned down every one of Bryant’s attempts to sleep with you, for no apparent reason. You’ve never left the country before, yet every city we visit fails to impress you.

“So because I’m not selfish and opportunistic, there’s something wrong with me? And I wasn’t aware you knew me so well.”

“You’ve closed the shutters on your soul, and I’m not the dick you think I am.”

“Closed the shutters on my soul? You band kids are all the same. So dramatic.”

“I doubt that. Now tell me about your experiences with band kids. Is it Jenson you’re so torn up over?”

Just like that, my chest tightens. Fucking Bryant. “What do you know about Jenson?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he teases, mouthing his lip ring. I have flashbacks once again to my conversation with Bryant, and that basically confirms they’ve been talking about me.

“I’m not in the mood to play games with you.”

“Now that’s something I don’t hear often.” At my poisonous glare, he juts his pouty lower lip. “How do you think we found out about you? Jenson passed along your portfolio to our PR team when he heard we were looking for a videographer. It was good enough that they decided we needed you. And there’s no chance that a pretty girl like you would come highly recommended by someone like Jenson King for no reason.”

At the mention of his name, my heart sinks and the lump in my throat grows, choking me. Could it be true that Jenson disrespected my wishes not to interfere with my career? That he’s the sole reason I got this job? In a moment of panic, I thrust my chair backward so abruptly it screeches over the stone sidewalk and go to grab my messenger bag. But Kingston plants a foot on the strap and all my pulling won’t jerk it lose.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?”

“Give me my bag,” I grit.

At the sight of my anger-stricken face, Kingston catches my wrist. “Was it something I said?”

“Just that my work wasn’t worth a second glance—I had to sleep with a famous musician to be noticed,” I snap, shaking him off and ignoring all the concerned glances from the other patrons.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Oh really? I guess a ‘pretty girl’ like me might misconstrue the words that literally just came out of your mouth, huh?”

“That’s not. . . Goddammit, that’s not what I meant. Please sit down.”

I almost topple over when my bag suddenly comes loose, then I’m pulling out of his grasp and heading more or less in the direction of our hotel. All this time, I’ve been immeasurably thankful and proud that the sweat, tears, and time I put into my trade has paid off. I made something of myself. I’m doing things most people only dream of. But it wasn’t me who got myself here. It was never me. My eyes sting, and I silently curse the throng of tourists I have to slow down to wind through.

“I honestly didn’t mean that,” Kingston says, appearing beside me. Damn his long legs. “I don’t have much tact, okay? I didn’t think it would come out like that.”

“You have some sort of bet about him too?”

“No.” At a cross street, Kingston drags me to a halt, pulling me aside at the mouth of a narrow alley. “Look, I’m sorry that we’re assholes. Life on the road can be surprisingly boring, and things just come up. Gossip, speculation, and what have you. We’re not used to having a girl that’s not Natalia with us, and I forget how sensitive you all can be.”

At my look of exasperation, he slaps his palm against the wall of a restaurant. “Fuck! See? For a drop-dead gorgeous charmer, I’m surprisingly terrible with words.”

I roll my eyes, but even through my anger and hurt, I can see he’s contrite. And that’s the only thing keeping me from kicking him in the balls and making a swift escape.

“Hear me out for five seconds, because I’ll undoubtedly fuck up again while I try to explain this,” he says sincerely, and when I don’t immediately protest, he continues. “The pretty girl comment was a dick move, I get that. What I meant was that anyone with any sort of influence gets approached by all kinds of people asking for endorsements, recommendations, etcetera just to get their name or their product’s name out there. It becomes so redundant that we just ignore them all, unless the proposal goes through our team first. Being as decent-looking as you are,” he says, eyes glimmering with humor, “I’m sure you caught his attention.”

“Wow. Thank you for the shining compliment,” I drawl, but the fight in me is rapidly subsiding.

“You’re welcome. Anyway, you wouldn’t have been hired to do the job based on that, or if your work was only decent. They created a position for you because your shit is edgy and raw and exactly the message we want to portray to our fans. We’re not so well-liked, but you’re giving us an outlet to redeem ourselves. That’s huge. So whatever you think went down between Jenson and our guys, forget it. He simply drew your name out of all the others and made us take a second look. We were left to judge whether you were worthy or not. And you are. If my gratitude isn’t enough, just look at the evidence—you’ve seen the response we’ve been getting.”

I slump against the wall, at a loss for words. For all my protesting against Jenson doing anything to help me out, I’m overwhelmed by the gratitude I feel that he did. Not only gratitude, but shame—I haven’t even thanked him. I never got the chance to. He did this all behind my back, despite my abrupt exit from his life, without asking for an ounce of recognition.

“What are you thinking?” Kingston asks, bending his head so his willowy frame is almost on my level.

What am I not thinking? I looked for reasoning behind everything, not realizing that some things in life just are what they are. But if I had to come up with a reason for why I feel the way I do about Jenson, it’d have to be his sacrifice, his selflessness. It’s not always easily noticeable, but it’s there when it matters.

Everything Jenson’s ever loved, he was willing to let go—or try to—for others; his marriage, alcohol, his career, me. He did what I wasn’t willing to. His unselfish heart reached out for mine and, when he found it wrapped in thorns, he simply bled. And I stood by and let it happen. He sees his soul as something dirty, tainted, but I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone so pure-hearted. How long has he been allowed to believe he’s worthless? I wanted to reassure him he wasn’t, but I didn’t think I was enough for the job.

“He told me he loved me, and I left him. Then he gave me this—the opportunity of a lifetime. How cruel can I be?”

“That’s love,” Kingston says, nodding confidently.

“How would you know?”

He smirks. “For all my fucking around, I know what love is. More importantly, I know what it isn’t. You’re a wild heart and he set you free. What greater gift could he have given you, forsaking whatever feelings he had for you so you’d find happiness?”

His every question digs the shard of regret deeper into my chest. It’s a gory image, picturing Jenson severing the ties that bound his heart to mine and sending me away, to the opposite side of the world. But then I’m struck by the thought that it’s such a Jenson thing to do, and also not. This wasn’t something he would’ve done a year ago. He always said the old version of him was selfish, fighting his ex-wife for their relationship when there was nothing left to save. In the months that I’ve known him, he was learning to abandon his greed for the one thing he can’t get enough of, the one thing he craves more than any drink—love.

I don’t know how I can ever redeem myself in his eyes, or if it’s even possible. But I do know that I am his. Nothing from our ten-year age gap, to the differences in our upbringings, to the fact that he’s been married before and I’ve hardly had a long-term boyfriend can defile that revelation. And I owe it to him to tell him. Lay my heart on the table, as he has with me, and allow him to examine every glorious and narcissistic angle.

Kingston watches the realization cross my face like it’s a scene on a movie screen, and the corners of his mouth curl up.

“I have to do something,” I say, stricken by the insurmountable task ahead. It is not an easy thing to save something you’ve mangled with your own hands.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I quirk my eyebrow at him in question, and he lets out a low chuckle.

“The Belfast show is in two weeks, then we’ll get to go home. You want to go back with a bang?”

“I don’t think my idea of going back with a bang is even remotely the same as yours. But I’ve been gone for months—I have to think of something that will prove to him I’m serious. That he’s worth it.”

“Sentimental,” he says teasingly.

“What did you expect?”

“To cheer you up.” When at last I smile at him, he gives me a salacious look that wipes the grin off my face.

“Kingston! You were trying to get into my pants.”

“For the sake of your happiness! An unselfish act, coming from me, really.”

I cross my arms, shaking my head incredulously, but I feel it as color filters back into my world. Like Kingston’s shameless flirting has reminded me how it feels to be relentlessly pursued, and not just by a stranger in a bar. But by Jenson, creator of unimaginative nicknames and quite often the biggest source of annoyance in my life.

I push off the wall and gesture for him to join me, albeit with less urgency than before. “Continuing the theme of unselfishness, you could give me some advice. If you were spurned by a woman, how could she earn your forgiveness?”

“On her knees,” he says seriously. I elbow him, and he winks. “What, I’m easy to please.”

“Thanks for nothing. I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction when he said the L word. How do I show him, after months of being on the other side of the world, that I actually feel the same way?”

“You’re making this harder than it is. He got it through your hard head, didn’t he? How did he show you?”

It didn’t dawn on me before he said the words, but after that night of Christmas trees and music, the little things along the way began to stack up. Singing to me at the cabin just because I asked him to; writing with me even though he was used to working alone; dancing with me on a rooftop and beside the Christmas tree we decorated; giving me his soul-baring lyrics when he had nothing left to give. He let me in and allowed me to see him for everything he was. And he let me capture the way he bled for his art and share it with the world when all he wanted to do was shut it out.

“With music,” I say, because everything Jenson did was like his music. Unfiltered, painfully real, mostly unassuming. He was falling in love with me, and instead of demanding my reciprocation, he let me discover it on my own by exploring my own passion, my own potential. So it’s with my passion that I have to show him.

“Ahh,” I say, linking arms with Kingston.

“Have you had a breakthrough?”

“Yes and no. I have no idea what’ll happen, but I know what I have to do.”

“Great. Does that mean I’ll be getting some compensation?” He beams at me.

“Absolutely not.”