Maybe once maybe twice, p.21
Maybe Once, Maybe Twice, page 21
“I’m not who she thought I was, Maggie. And I’m not who I thought I would become. This is my fault, not hers. And it’s going to break both our hearts. This is the first time—Mags, the first time in my marriage—that I haven’t been able to say exactly what’s in here,” Summer said, gripping the cotton shirt around her chest, tears effortlessly falling down her neck.
Summer was blunt. Her offhand candor was often mistaken for cruelty, even though she was not cruel. Through the years, she’d learned to soften her delivery—but she rarely had enough forethought to bite her tongue completely. It crushed me that Summer couldn’t uncage this truth—one that her partner deserved to know. For the first time, Summer’s entire heart was wrapped up in one of her beliefs. No matter the delivery, the truth would leave her heartbroken.
She stared at me, words falling out of her with tears. “No one tells women this when they get married in their twenties, you know? What we think we want at twenty-eight, it’s not always what we want at thirty-five. The things that make you feel safe and the things that set your heart on fire aren’t set in stone. I love my wife more than the day I married her, but, our ideal futures look very different.”
Maybe if I had spent more time planted on my own two feet and less time chasing a dream, I would have had ever-changing opinions about how I wanted my future to look. Instead, at thirty-five, I still wanted so many of the things I wanted at thirty, at twenty-three, at fourteen. I even wanted the same men. I was as afraid to die alone at thirty-five as I was at seventeen. I was as emphatic about my career today as I had been at fourteen.
Suddenly, there were waves of heat slapping my sunken chest, and I was bathed in compassion for the man who was breaking my heart. I wanted the pain to go down easier—for me to place the blame on his broad shoulders—but it wasn’t all Garrett’s fault. Garrett hadn’t betrayed me, he had simply grown out of the dreams I was still clinging to. I finally understood how Blink-182 could speak to someone’s heart
Well I guess this is growing up.
“Love is hard,” I whispered.
“It fucking blows,” Summer said, doubling down as she pulled her hand from my grip and angrily wiped tears away from her eyes.
I sat back down next to Summer, and I felt her hand grip mine. I squeezed back harder as we sat side by side, the whisky warm in our bellies, watching the fire burn the logs down to ashes. I studied my best friend—wet, puffy, red eyes atop her strong oval face. She was that beautiful Bob Seger song. Summer was always my rock. She didn’t have the patience or emotional capacity to crumple and overanalyze every little thing. She could pull back from my tornado of confusion and boil it down to one or two truths—a straight shooter. I sent my arrow on an emotional roller-coaster—twisting into dark woods, busting through a couple wrong targets, until finally finding the bull’s-eye—and even then, I questioned the bull’s-eye. Summer’s jaw was clenched with her chin pointed to the sky—a rock among her own personal rubble. I appreciated how intense I was about my feelings, but I envied what it must be like on the other side—the ability to close one’s eyes at night and not hear sirens running through your head.
I glanced down to my brightening phone, my heart jumping as Asher’s name flashed upon the lock screen. Apparently, amid all the breaking, there was still room for butterflies to come alive inside my chest—flutters for another man. If only I were a simpler person.
Summer watched the corner of my mouth turn upward. She let out a slow smirk and snatched the phone from my fingers before I could read the text.
“Sure. Take my phone,” I said flatly, with my empty palm open in the air.
“Thanks so much, I will.”
I glared at Summer as she entered in my passcode, shaking my head, thankful that at the very least, my complicated life could cheer hers up.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Mister Jawline?” Summer asked, before reading out Asher’s text message aloud.
Hope the engagement party is a blast. So, it turns out I’m the only person left in Manhattan this weekend, and I’m getting restless over here.
“I bet you are…restless to put your dick inside my best friend.”
“Summer, gross.”
“What?” She shrugged with a smirk, then continued reading Asher’s text.
I’m going to be That Person and helicopter it over to EH tomorrow—my friend Mike is in Ibiza, so I’ll be staying at his place on Lily Pond. If you have a free afternoon, any chance you want to drink on lawn chairs and listen to nineties music?
I set a new piece of firewood into the flames, my brows crossed.
“For such a popular guy, he seems really lonely—right?” I asked. “You’d think he’d have a million friends in New York City.”
“Babe, Asher Reyes isn’t lonely, he just wants to spend all his free time with you.”
I paused, oddly delighted by the thought. My delight found my stomach as I saw Summer typing on my phone. Before I could snatch my cell out of her speedy hands, she hurled it back into my lap like a hot potato. I looked down daringly, terrified to see what kind of damage she had done.
Me: Hell yes.
I swatted at her elbow. “SUMMER,” I yelled.
“Yeah?”
“Was the ‘hell’ necessary?”
“Hell yes.”
“I don’t think heartbreak, alcohol, hot sun, and Asher Reyes are a safe combo.”
“I really do. I think you should be half-naked, tipsy, and sweaty all over his body.”
“My manager said—”
“Apologize later. Look, I know what she’s trying to do, and I get it. But it’s overkill. If you were starring in the movie, that would be one thing—but you’re not. You’re the brains behind the music. People are going to form an opinion about you no matter what, and the music is going to be incredible, so by that point, it won’t matter. Plus, I have an itty-bitty Marysia bikini that’s going to look killer on you.”
“Stop trying to persuade me with fashion.”
“Stop pretending you’re not that easy.”
“What color?” I asked, through gritted teeth.
“Indigo.”
Fuck. That was my color. It made me feel less pale—and brought out the best in my cool skin tone, light eyes, and dark brown hair.
I screeched my chair back and stood up, grabbing my guitar and holding my whisky tight to my chest.
“Goddamnit, show it to me.”
Summer grinned and snatched her drink, walking tall toward her glowing, modern ranch home yards away. I followed Summer toward the back door, glancing over my shoulder to take in the dying fire. The smoke bloomed upward, dulling the crisp stars in my eyes. One dream was a pile of ashes at my feet. But here I stood, still eager to play with fire.
34
THIRTY-FIVE
I HAD SEEN IT ALL as a cater waiter working summers in the Hamptons, but I had never made it past the gates of a Lily Pond mansion. Lily Pond Lane was one of the most exclusive streets in the Hamptons, and I gawked behind the wheel of Summer’s car, a classic diesel Mercedes, taking in the sun pouring down on Martha Stewart’s quiet street. I soared past the towering beech trees, with oceanfront estates on one side of the street and a variety of privacy hedges along the other.
Mike Emblem was a beloved action movie star who happened to be Asher’s best friend, and who also happened to own a home on Lily Pond. I squinted at the address on a mailbox in front of two thick rows of perfect green hedges sandwiching a stark-white privacy gate. A moment later, the gates opened, and I had access to a three-story, classic shingle-style cottage.
I hopped out of the car and adjusted my high-waisted jean shorts, feeling smaller than usual against the towering oceanfront home. It was one thing to work inside a home like this, it was another thing to pretend like I belonged here. I squinted to read a note taped to the doorbell, written with Asher’s horrible handwriting, which was still barely legible all these years later.
“Come straight on through to the pool,” the Post-it read.
I creaked open the front door, and fresh ocean air hit my face as I took in the coastal foyer—studying the high ceilings, which were made of thick, white beadboard. The white-on-white home was sprinkled with vibrant blue accents, and straight ahead through open French doors, a turquoise pool glittered back at me. Behind the pool, there was a stretch of dunes, where an ocean casually hung out in the backyard.
I walked past the wraparound deck, and I felt my heart thump wildly as Asher came into view—glued to a thick novel by the pool, looking every bit like the movie star that he was: damp hair brushed to the side of his face; chiseled, olive torso; lime-colored board shorts wet against his thighs.
I swallowed hard to keep from tugging his body onto mine, and then I cleared my throat, making my presence known. Asher met my eyes and took off his sunglasses as I waved and walked toward him. He set his book down and stood up so that I could fold right into his open arms.
“Hi,” he said into the curve of my neck.
I felt every muscle in his body constrict around me as he hugged me tight. He smelled like an intoxicating swirl of nostalgia, bringing me back to summer camp. Wildflowers, sunblock, and young love.
We held each other’s grins for a moment too long, making the tips of my ears burn. I tugged a bottle of cold rosé out of my tote bag and thrust it in front of his mouth to keep from falling onto his lips.
“I want you to do something before we drink,” he said, trying to hold back a grin.
I stared back confusedly as his smile widened—a full smile—one I almost never saw from him.
Before I could say a word, Asher’s hand gripped mine, leading me past the French doors, down a flight of stairs, landing us in the chilly basement. We walked past the home gym and through the doors of an enormous, high-end recording studio.
“This is Fin Bex,” Asher said, his arm stretched out toward the boyishly handsome man sitting behind the audio mixer. “He’s co-producing On the Other Side’s soundtrack.”
“I know who he is,” I said, stunned.
Fin flashed an energetic grin in my direction and reached out to shake my limp fingers.
“Hi,” he said.
I tried to pick my jaw up off the floor as I shook hands with one of the biggest music producers in the business. Fin Bex was a small-town kid from Pennsylvania who was now crushing it in his late twenties. He talked a mile a minute and produced number one hit after hit, also at a mile a minute. I’d known that Fin was producing the soundtrack, but I didn’t know I would actually be coming face-to-face with him. It would have a been a dream, but in my dream, I wasn’t wearing a see-through tank top with a barely-there scalloped bikini underneath, leaving significant side-boob sticking out.
Fin pointed to the other side of the glass where, inside the isolation vocal room, a cool-as-fuck woman with a tattoo sleeve and pink hair adjusted the cord on the microphone.
“And that’s my sound engineer, Lila Corr.”
I knew her name as well. These were my celebrities: the people I dreamed about working beside.
I tried to keep my attention on Fin, but I had no control. My eyes drifted to the empty, little black stool next to Fin, like a moth finding its flame. My heart began to race, and the room was suddenly thick, muffled, and hot. The walls were closing in around me, until I felt a hand on my shoulder. Asher led my body out of the studio, as I blinked back white spots clouding my vision.
Asher crouched in front of me in the basement hallway, with his eyes narrowed on my face.
“Can I get you some water? Are you okay?”
I opened my mouth to say I was fine, but no words escaped. My eyes shifted down to his gentle hand on my arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have asked you beforehand. I thought this would be a cool surprise—but now I’m thinking: not actually a cool surprise.”
I slowly looked up at Asher, as he attempted a weak smile. It was plain as day that he felt horribly responsible for something he was not actually responsible for. He was the most sensitive human that I’d ever encountered, which was saying something, considering I overanalyzed every human interaction.
I was relieved to feel words escaping my throat. “This isn’t your fault,” I cracked. “It’s just—it caught me off guard, is all. I—I don’t have my guitar, or my notebook,” I stammered, searching for an escape route.
“We were just going to lay down your vocals. I printed out the lyrics and notes for ‘Joyride,’” he said. “I actually wanted to surprise you. We decided you would sing it for the end credits on the film.”
I stared at him, blinking rapidly.
“Me? Not to be recorded over?”
“You. Just you,” he said with a warm smile, which faded as he took in my expression. I was swallowing hard, trying to clear the terror boiling up to my throat. He crouched lower to my eye level with his hand still on my arm. “But none of that’s relevant. We don’t have to do this today.”
The AC grate was below my feet, blasting air into my lungs, cooling my insides. I found my mouth moving, letting out an exhale of words as his hand ran up and down my arm, softly.
“I had a bad experience once, in a recording booth.”
I could taste bile in my throat, reliving something horrible just by hinting at it. Asher’s face pinched together, and I watched his chest rise and fall, right in front of me. He placed his other hand gently on my arm and turned his head to both sides of my face, so he could try and understand what I was saying. After a moment, he seemed to understand, because his eyes darkened and his neck tightened.
“Go back upstairs and lie by the pool, and I’ll be there to join you in two minutes. And we’ll forget all about this.”
I nodded and took a step back from him, slowly walking toward the steps, my head heavy. I stopped at the base of the curved banister, glancing back at Asher. He smiled quickly at me, a reassuring smile, but I could tell there was a soft pain behind his eyes—and I knew what kept the pain there—even when there was pure bliss, there would always be sadness. All at once, I didn’t know how to walk upstairs with nausea weighing me down. Even more, there was an adrenaline running through my veins, pumping blood and thumping my chest against my ribs—a reminder that I was alive. I couldn’t do it anymore—I couldn’t let my past keep me from opportunities that would open the doors to my future. I needed to rise out of the ashes instead of letting them darken my insides. All of them.
“No,” I blurted, standing taller in my own skin, walking toward Asher. “I’m going to lay that song down. Today.”
He arched his eyebrows up, staring wide-eyed into my face. He waited for a moment, as if halting to make sure that the terror inside me had been replaced with fire.
“Okay.”
“I’m going to need a cup of boiling water, a cup of warm salt water, and about thirty minutes to warm up.”
Asher put his hand behind his back and bowed his head down to me with a silly grin.
“At your service, my lady,” he said in a flawless British accent.
I charged up the staircase.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To grab the Throat Coat tea bag from my purse.”
Thankfully, I was used to singing at the last minute. I had a routine that I refused to break—no matter what. While I had consumed an excessive amount of alcohol yesterday, I made sure to cap off the night with a liter of water, and saltwater spray in my nostrils. Nothing kills high notes like dehydration, and water lubricates the vocal cords. I didn’t have a raspy voice, so I couldn’t have an off-day or hide behind a hoarse howl.
Thirty minutes later, after gargling a mug of warm salt water, I stepped back into the dimly lit studio. I made my way past Asher, who sat reading a script on a navy tufted sofa in the back of the room. In front of him, Fin twisted chords and pressed button after button on the audio mixer, as if he were a pilot about to take flight.
The sound tech, Lila, followed me into the vocal booth as I approached the microphone. For the first time, I really took in the room. I was thankful that it didn’t have a personality—the studio felt unlived in, which meant that I could create my own memories here without old ones tugging me back to another place. There were no platinum or gold records cascading down the wall. The walls were papered in a black Gucci fabric, with wildly expensive guitars hung across them, and that was it.
I adjusted the vocal mic and placed the large headphones on my ears. After a few warm-ups, from behind the sound board, Fin nodded at me. I swallowed hard, my eyes wandering to the stool next to Fin, which thankfully, Lila now occupied. Asher grinned at me from the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“Joyride” left my lips in a hurry. It was as if I needed to get the song off my chest before a terror crept up my lungs and strangled my throat.
The terror never came. In its place was a rush of adrenaline. “Joyride” felt like letting go, like drifting along with the moody bridge as gravity seemed to leave my chest. It usually felt this way when music came out of my mouth, like my soul was skydiving. But today it also felt like my insides were mending, my voice reminding me that it existed to tell stories other people couldn’t tell, in a way other people could never tell them. By the time the song ended, my white knuckles held the microphone shaft and my limitless smile exhaled over the windscreen.
I finished the song and looked up, seeing three wide grins shining back at me. Fin pointed at his ears, indicating that I take off my headphones.
“Fucking beautiful,” Fin said. “Let’s do it again, but this time, sing it like the world is ending, but you have plenty of time before it ends.”
“So, slower and sadder?” I asked.
“Exactly. And can I hear a key change on the bridge? On ‘We’ve got scars we can’t leave behind.’”
“We’ve got scars we can’t leave behind,” I sang, in a minor chord.
“Fuck yeah, but bring down the tempo—painfully slow.”
I sang it back to him slower.
Fin whipped his head behind his back to meet Asher’s eyes, both of them trading wide smiles before Fin’s attention came back to me. He arched his body up from the stool and leaned over the board, beaming in my direction.
