Jonah started up the car, drove ten feet, then jerked it to a stop and threw it into park. He turned to face me, one hand on the steering wheel, the other along the back of my seat.
“When you’re ready, you’ll come back,” he said. “And your father might talk and reconcile, or he might hold on to his stupid anger and turn you away. If he does, then he’s a goddamn idiot. You wanting to be loved by him doesn’t make you broken, Kace. He’s the broken one for letting you go. It’s his loss. I want to hate him for what he’s done to you, but instead I just feel sorry for him.”
He kissed me then, fiercely, as if sealing a pact, his hand tight in my hair.
“Needed to get that off your chest, did you?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said.
“Feel better?”
“Much.” He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb again.
I turned to the window to watch my old house go past. “Me too.”
End of September
I sat on my bed, guitar in my lap and notebook open beside me. I tapped a pen on the lower body of the Taylor acoustic, sighing at the blank pages. No lyrical flow today. Wasn’t happening. Chett was a dead subject to me, and I didn’t want to write about my dad. Basically I was too happy to go digging in the dark pits of my past.
Which, all things considered, was a good problem to have.
For six weeks now, Jonah and I had been together. A couple. Almost every night after work, he’d come to my place, or I to his. He didn’t need much sleep and I was a night owl with nowhere to be in the morning. We spent the deep hours lost in each other, making love—sometimes hard and rough, sometimes slow and gentle—then talking, eating and laughing before falling back into bed.
We had our little routines. Sunday nights at the Fletchers’ house, outdoor dinners beneath Jonah’s glowing lamps. Lots of laughter, good food and better conversation. Tuesdays were our date nights. ATM cupcakes, a fountain show at the Bellagio or just staying in to watch a movie.
He left a stash of his medications in my kitchen, and I bought a blender at a yard sale so I could make smoothies for him. And nearly every day, I brought lunch to the hot shop where Jonah and Tania were hard at work finishing the installation pieces. The gallery show at the Wynn was only two weeks away, but Jonah said he felt confident he was going to make it.
He is going to make it, I thought. And beyond. He’s healthy. His body is strong.
I felt the strength in his body almost every night. My little flame of hope was a torch now, and not even a hurricane could douse it.
My cellphone rang from the nightstand, jarring me from my thoughts.
“Hello?”
“Kacey Dawson?” asked a woman’s voice.
“That’s me.”
“Ms. Dawson, I’m from Sound Addiction magazine. I was wondering if you had any comments about the recent shake-ups in your former band, Rapid Confession?
I frowned. “What recent shake-ups?”
“Word is the tour is in danger of canceling shows due to squabbles between Jeannie Vale and the new guitarist, Elle Michaels. Is this true?”
“I have no idea.”
“There’s also talk of a messy lawsuit with a club owner. Fans are griping that the live shows aren’t as solid as they were when you were on stage.”
“Well, shit, that’s nice to hear.”
“Given the fact that your replacement, Ms. Michaels, is now reportedly on the verge of quitting—or being fired, depending on who you talk to—I wonder if you’ve given any thought to returning?”
I smiled. “Not one second.”
“That’s interesting, Ms. Dawson. No one’s been able to get a comment from you about your own departure from the band. Would you care to now?”
“No, but thanks for the call.”
I hung up and punched Lola’s number. Voicemail.
“Lola, it’s me,” I said. “What the hell is going on? I just got a call from a mag about the band canceling shows? Call me.”
I ended the call and stared at my junky old laptop. I only used it to watch makeup tutorials on YouTube. With a few keystrokes into a Google search bar I could get answers to my questions, but now I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to know. My days as the lead guitarist for Rapid Confession seemed far away now. And I liked it that way.
A text came in from Lola: Can’t talk now. RC is hurting w/out you. Jimmy wants to talk. Just FYI.
Shit, the last thing I wanted was my old life coming to intrude on my new one. Aside from occasional phone calls with Lola, I’d left the band in the rearview. Money was tight, and I wasn’t anywhere close to having even one decent song under my belt, but…
I was happy.
I texted back, Tell him to forget it.
No answer. Lola was either busy or getting on a plane, but hopefully she’d pass on my message. I thought about texting Jimmy myself but that was like taking a ball peen hammer to my little glass bubble of happiness.
“No chance,” I muttered. I checked the time. It was nearing lunch. I put together sandwiches and salads and took them over to the hot shop.
Jonah came outside as I got out of the car. “How are you?” I called across the small parking lot.
“Done,” he said.