Chapter 48
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Gabriel
I’d gone from feeling absolutely nothing in the months following my surgery to feeling too much of everything.
Now I was constantly overwhelmed with an onslaught of emotions. I was fucking marinating in them.
I strummed my guitar.
Those damn red lips of hers. So kissable. So tempting.
Why did I say I didn’t care what she’d been doing or who she was doing it with? I fucking cared.
I strummed my guitar again.
Last night, it took everything in me to walk away instead of pleading with her to ditch the asshole (one of her someones , I assumed) and have dinner with me instead.
I strummed louder, cursing myself for waiting so long.
Was it too late? Had she already fallen in love with someone else, someone who treated her right and was exactly the kind of man she deserved?
Was that why she wanted a divorce?
My left hand strangled the neck of the guitar and my other hand crashed against the strings.
“What the hell are you doing, man? It’s eight o’clock in the morning.”
Since Eddie was awake now, I played the tune I’d been working on. The one that had been running through my head for weeks now.
Eddie crossed the living room in his underwear with his long, curly hair wild, rubbing his middle finger over the soul patch on his chin.
“All right, you win, asshole.” Yawning, he got behind his drums, tossed his sticks in the air and caught them, ready to go. “Let’s hear it,” he said, striking the cymbals. “Nice and loud so the neighbors won’t get any beauty rest either.”
I stood in front of the open window and played the opening chords while he tapped out a beat.
“Anger. Depression. Love. Hope.” I played around with the tunings and dropped the D.
“Your usual vibe. Got it,” Eddie said. “Nothing like a dose of melancholy to start the day.”
I played a slow, gentle ballad that evolved and finished in a powerful anthem. He joined in and we jammed for a while without vocals, trying to find the right sound.
When it finally started coming together, I sang the lyrics I’d been working on since five o’clock this morning, hitting notes that could probably shatter the windows.
When I finished, I was surprised to find myself standing in an apartment on Eldridge with the morning sun streaming through the dirty windows.
Someone was banging against the wall next door, and down below, a woman yelled, “Shut the fuck up!”
Eddie had stopped playing and was staring at me.
I packed up my guitar and propped it in the corner next to a neglected houseplant. Dead leaves littered the parquet floor.
“That sounded like shit, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, man, your voice is total shit.” Eddie shook his head. “No one sings like you do. I’m glad you’re back. Fuck, I’m glad you’re here .”
I knew what he meant. Here, in this world, and not the next.
I tugged a T-shirt over my head and stuffed the rest of my things in a backpack. I had to be back in Montauk by five o’clock to pick up Otis.
Unfortunately, my dog didn’t enjoy city life. Or, rather, he didn’t appreciate being cooped up in Eddie’s apartment. Last time we left him alone, he destroyed Eddie’s sofa and chewed up his boots. Couldn’t blame him. He just needed a little love and attention. Didn’t we all?
“I miss touring with you. Can’t wait to get back on the road.”
I looked over to him. “You’re always on the road.”
“Yeah, but it’s different. I’m just some guy who plays drums in a touring band. There’s no real connection there. We were more like a family. We had some great times. Except when you hit the Cuervo too hard and forgot half the lyrics.”
He chuckled under his breath. “There was this one time at Lollapalooza when you were feeling all the love and decided to crowd surf. You took a swan dive right off the stage. You looked like Jesus on the cross.” He spread his legs and held out his arms, throwing his head back.
“You passed through so many hands and so many lips that by the time you made it back to the stage you’d lost your shirt, and your skin was covered in lipstick and love bites.
But you kept right on singing. It was fucking epic, man. ”
I was never entirely sure if these things had really happened or if Eddie made up stories just for fun, knowing I had no memory of it. “You’re just making shit up.”
He held up his hands, laughing. “I swear on my life, it happened. I’m sure there’s videos of it,” he said. “You know your music’s all on Napster, right? I checked it out the other day.” He pointed to his computer in the corner. “All the teenagers are discovering your music now. It’s pretty dope.”
I wouldn’t know. My lawyer had urged me to sue for copyright infringement, but what did I care? I didn’t have a computer, had never been on Napster, and never listened to my old music.
“I’ll see you in a few weeks.” I shouldered my bag and grabbed my helmet from the breakfast counter. “With any luck, no one will show up.”
“Keep dreaming, baby. It’s gonna be a packed house. You should play some of the old stuff. And if you’re trying to come up with new music for the album, I really think some of those songs you recorded are good. You should have another listen.”
“Nope. I listened to it once and that was enough. And I’m not playing the old stuff.”
“Then what the fuck are we gonna play? You’ve got what, one song?”
“Come out a few days early so we can rehearse. I’ll have enough for an album by then.” I was talking out of my ass. I didn’t know if I’d have more songs written by then but I sure as hell needed to.
“Fuck off,” Eddie said, heading to his bedroom as I headed out the door. “I’m going back to bed.”
Cleo was waiting for me on the front steps.
She looked a lot different than last night, more like the girl I remembered, in cutoffs and a white ribbed tank top with CATH ART HIS written across the chest. Clever. Hair in a high ponytail. No makeup. She was even more beautiful without it.
When she joined me on the sidewalk, her green eyes were nearly translucent in the sunlight, until she hid them behind an enormous pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses.
“No motorcycle today?”
I hiked the backpack up on my shoulder. It was bulky with the helmet in it, and I briefly considered asking if I could leave it in the apartment but thought better of it.
The apartment wasn’t mine anymore. My old keys didn’t even fit the locks.
Something I’d discovered upon my return to New York two years ago.
“I parked down the block.”
“But you’re wearing shorts.” She looked down at my faded black cargo shorts.
My gaze roamed down her long, toned legs to the Doc Martens on her feet. Black, painted with orange poppies and silvery green foliage. “So are you.”
Even behind the sunglasses, I could see her rolling her eyes. “I’m not driving a motorcycle.”
We strolled up the street and entered the park. A hive of activity.
“Do you still hate New York?” Cleo asked as a skateboarding crew zipped past.
Wheels grinding on asphalt. Wu-Tang Clan blasting from a boombox held aloft on a skater boy’s thin shoulder.
“No. I never really hated it.” This city had a heartbeat. A frenetic energy that pulsed in your veins and became addictive. On the flip side, it was big and loud and aggressive. Not the ideal place when you’re feeling lost and confused. “I was overwhelmed by it at the time.”
She nodded. “I get that. It can be a lot when you’re not in a good mental space. But I’ve missed the energy of this city. There’s no other place like it.”
I was surprised she’d ever left. I never thought she would. Then again, she probably hadn’t been in a good mental space either.
Every time I thought about that asshole holding a knife to her throat, rage consumed me. I wanted to tear this whole fucking city apart until I found him and brought him to justice. I wanted him to pay for what he did to her.
But I shoved those thoughts aside and focused on the moment. Cleo was right next to me and I didn’t want to miss a single second with her.
“So tell me about your life now. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Tell me everything.”
“ Now you want to know everything,” she said under her breath.
She gave me the side-eye and I got the feeling she didn’t want to tell me a damn thing.
But a few seconds later, she started talking.
“Two years ago, I went to Bali on an artist-in-residence program. I stayed in a house on stilts overlooking the hilly jungle and the river in Ubud. Before the plane touched down, I made an intention. It was almost like I gave myself permission to just dream and create and not dwell on the past or worry about the future, you know? And it was like, the whole world opened up, all my senses were heightened, and I was in that state of flow where time ceases to exist.”
I’d done something similar. Not in Bali, but I don’t think the location mattered so much. It was a mindset shift. A reminder that the power and the peace and the positive energy is within you, and you just have to tap into it. “Sounds like a spiritual journey.”
Cleo nodded. “That’s how it felt. Art was my daily ritual. My meditation. My catharsis. In the end, I had a dozen pieces of art that I barely remembered making but all the uncomfortable emotions that I tried so hard to avoid and shove aside were all right there on the canvasses?—”
She cut herself off when I ushered her into the coffee shop on Loisaida Avenue.
I should have taken her on a more scenic route because I could listen to her talk about her emotional connection to art all day.
“Wow,” she said. “This is a blast from the past. I haven’t been here in years.”
Apparently, I used to frequent this place, something I only found out last year.
“Finally, you brought your lady in!” the man behind the counter said, beaming at us. “You two used to always be together. Now it’s just him alone. Café con leche, hot buttered bread, and a cake for the beautiful lady?”
Cleo grinned. “Sounds perfect.”