Chapter 7 Wilder
Chapter seven
Wilder
Ididn’t know mortification was a living, breathing thing, but alas, here we are.
Carissa freezes across from me with a look of horror so acute on her face that the roof of the house might as well have just been torn off by six-headed cow aliens flying in a giant spaceship and squirting green alien cow milk that immediately liquifies anything in its path.
To anyone else, this would be a what the fuck moment, but I hear those words hundreds, if not thousands, of times a day. Well, not every single day, but lots of days. I’m used to it.
“That’s fair.” I’m cautious, giving her an out. “I’m glad more people do than don’t, to be honest. Hate is just part of the job, but it’s unpleasant at the best of times. So, thank you. That’s nice.”
“No. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck. I don’t love you.” She clenches and unclenches her hands at her sides, ready to kick space cow ass. Or run. Maybe both.
“That’s okay too.” Why is that a sucker punch straight to the gut? Why are my hands suddenly curling around the ledge of this island? And why the hell do I feel so cold on the inside? “You don’t have to. It was never a job requirement.”
“I don’t love you,” she whisper-screams. “I’m in love with you. I have been for years.”
Bam. There’s an honesty bomb for you.
Carissa has the courage of a lioness. She could easily have backed down and laughed it off, but she didn’t. Instead, she actively clarified what she meant. And now that she’s said it, she can’t unsay it. I can’t unhear it. It can’t unexist.
Panic. Major panic. Meltdown mode. Anxiety.
What the fuck? What the fucking hell? How does one even respond to that? Should I respond?
I might be sort of melting down, but I can’t deny that the cold sensation has fucked off. The block of ice in my gut is all thawed, liquid, and goopy.
“Did you think those songs I wrote came from a place of not loving? They’re all love songs. Every. Single. One. Of. Them.”
How did I not realize that? The tour finished over a week ago.
I’ve spent all that time staring at her journal, working through the songs, putting them to music in my head, and playing them.
Over and over again. Some are obviously written as love songs, but it’s not obvious that they all are. And it wasn’t obvious they were for me.
“God, you hold your cards tight. I didn’t know.”
She groans and facepalms her forehead, wrapping her hands around her temples before dragging them down past her eyes, over her nose, her lips, and her chin, stretching the whole thing out. “You should go. I need to locate a corner and die in it.”
“I don’t even know if I’m capable of loving someone.” Shit. I guess I had to match her truth bomb with one of my own.
She blinks at me. I blink back. She blinks again.
Great. We’re going to have a blink-off. I try not to blink, but it’s a natural reaction, and my eyes get dry fast. I’ve heard that people slow blink when they’re comfortable and fast blink when they’re emotional or upset.
That has to be a lie. We’re both slow blinking, and neither of us is relaxed.
“But you… Alicia Thorton. You dated for years.”
“The whole world thought we were a perfect match. They thought we were in love. It was an arrangement.” I need to shut up. Putting this out there tops the list of terrible ideas. This was something no one was ever supposed to know.
Of course, Carissa gets it. She blinks, but it’s a different kind of blink. It’s the slowest blink of dawning clarity. “She needed a career boost, and you needed a way to keep the hordes of adoring women from throwing themselves at you every night.”
She got it exactly. “Yes,” I say.
“But you never—” An alarming shade of crab red creeps up her throat. Boiled crab red. Lobster red.
“No. We were just friends. It was a good arrangement until we both thought it was time to move on. She wanted something real, and I liked that for her.”
“But not for you.”
My songs are personal. I give my heart to the world and serve it up on a pretty silver platter for them to eat their fill.
I let them consume me in the content I put out.
I’ve always been just me. It’s ironic how many people think that is the character.
On stage, or in my writing and playing, I can give parts of myself that I don’t know how to put into words in a regular way.
I don’t even know how to fathom that part of myself.
“It’s hard to think of sharing my life with someone for real when my life is the way it is.
Doing the family stuff. The regular stuff.
I’m not… I haven’t… my life hasn’t been regular for quite a while.
But I do want it. One day. Until I’m ready, I don’t see the point in complicating things.
It wouldn’t have been fair to anyone. I’ve never…
there’s never been anyone I thought I could…
do that with. Attraction isn’t love, and you can’t have love without trust. But how do I trust someone, truly? ”
“I understand. When you’re constantly in the public eye, how do you know what’s real and what’s not?
And even if it is, how do you make someone else believe it when you’re selling a different narrative?
You just wanted to protect yourself.” She paces away and back.
Away and back. She finally spins around.
“Is that why you don’t write love songs? ”
“Matt doesn’t like them.”
“That’s honestly the truth?” she asks.
“That’s honestly why we don’t.”
Her left eye twitches, but so does the corner of her mouth, hinting at a smile.
It might also just be a nervous twitch. “That arrangement makes sense. I know most of your fans are quite respectful, but the online stuff is wild. My favorite one ever was the poem that someone wrote about licking you front and back, with special focus on your crack.” She lowers her eyes to the butcher block countertop.
The wood grains are lovely in different hues.
“Oh my goddddd. Can we just forget I said what I said? It’s always been in my head that I could never tell you.
I needed to be professional. Even then, there was this barrier, this line that couldn’t be crossed. ”
“You’re beautiful when you’re flustered.
” I suck in a breath. Why did I just say that?
I’m usually quite filtered. When your words can be published the next day, everywhere, and turned into weapons or tools, you learn to choose them carefully.
“You’re beautiful all the time. I’ve noticed, but I just didn’t… notice.”
Kill. Me. Now.
“I didn’t sell my soul for it. I’ve always tried to be me and remain true to who I am,” I add.
“Yeah,” she breathes, her hazel eyes sparkling, the light specks standing out from the brown like sea glass on a storm-tossed beach. “You’re not alone in a room full of people, are you? It’s a world full. Everyone knows you, but no one knows the real you at all.”
She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.
Honey and caramel hair. The sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window highlights the copper in those soft-looking waves.
The little silver stars in her earlobes wink when she turns her head, and that one tiny hole in her upper ear comes into view.
She’s not just pretty. She’s breathtaking.
She’s strong. Not just mentally and emotionally, but physically as well.
She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt tucked in at the waist, accentuating her gentle curves.
Her shorts aren’t that short, and they’re not tight.
I noticed earlier how toned her legs were too.
The oversized T-shirt only defines her sleekly muscled arms and athletic build.
I know she runs, but she must also use the gyms that we have access to on the road.
“I don’t think you’ve lost them,” she adds.
We both know this week wasn’t easy. She didn’t have to be at my side to understand that.
Her hand falls from hovering by her face, down to the countertop, and she smooths her fingers over the woodgrain.
“They just needed a break. Maybe a full break, but they’ll come back.
The band might never be a reality again, but Matt will be. ”
We’re not talking about the band. We’re talking about family.
I want to believe in her wisdom more than anything. She’s watched us all from a distance, but with insider knowledge. She knows each one of us intimately.
How much does she know about me that I don’t even know about myself?
Her throat bobs when she swallows thickly. I notice the way her hand has changed position and is now grasping the island like she needs the support to keep standing.
My throat is all closed up too. When I swallow, it echoes through the kitchen.
I’m used to soul-searching, to digging deep and finding the truth for songs, but what I just said is also true.
There’s a point where I just have to… stop.
To stop reaching down. There’s a limit. A threshold that doesn’t get crossed.
It’s painful there. It’s broken. It’s a place I’ve barely traversed myself.
And I can’t imagine sharing it with another person.
But here I am.
Ripping off those broken boards, tearing out rusty nails, pulling open a door with screaming hinges, and staring that part of me right in the face.
I don’t recognize the sound I make as it’s barely human.
Carissa rounds the island. She edges closer, not because she’s wary, but because she knows I need time, even if it’s just a few more seconds of solitude before I break and admit that I’ve been alone for a long time and yes, I’ve been lonely.
Lonelier than anyone could ever imagine. Lonelier than I could have ever known.