Chapter 13 Carissa #3
The hair on my arms stands up. My neck too. And places I didn’t even know I had hair.
By now, he’s covered in a slick sheen of sweat.
The drumming worked it up, but he was well on his way there from hammering out notes on the piano and moving around with the guitar and bass.
He can’t be still when he sings. He’s fresh off his tour, doing high-energy three-hour shows two to three times a week.
Sweat glistens off his carved abs, his biceps, and his pecs and shoulders. It also runs down his forehead and temples in clear rivulets.
I officially haven’t made it to the point where I stop finding sweat attractive. On Wilder, I’m not sure it won’t ever be a thing. I’m never going to reach that proper benchmark. I could be geriatric, and I’ll still find it attractive on him.
Nothing takes me out of this perfect moment of watching Wilder create a masterpiece from something I first put into the world than thinking about my age and then thinking about his.
My thoughts quickly avalanche straight into a craptastic storm.
I’m over here, melting into a giant puddle of womanly goop, and that makes me different from anyone else, how?
How many women has Wilder seen charmed over the years?
How many women has he watched fall in love with him when he’s up on stage?
How many women have run at him, screaming his name?
How many would die for just a few minutes of his undivided attention?
Well, that’s extreme. But like sell their souls to any and all devils? Also extreme, but probably true.
The point is, what makes me special? Why is Wilder here with me right now instead of any one of those women?
There are intelligent women out there. He meets talented, rich, gorgeous, and successful women just about every day.
If I hadn’t written those songs, would he even be here?
Would I? Would any of this have happened, or would we just have gone our separate ways at the end of the tour?
“What’s wrong?” he asks with a frown.
I’m so up in my head that I failed to notice that Wilder stopped belting out lyrics. How long has he been observing me while I’m having my little inner meltdown slash pity party over here?
I blink, shaking myself and wishing that was enough to clear my head. “Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You look like someone just gave you the most insanely delicious box of chocolates, but they’re all the gross kinds you don’t like, and you’re disappointed beyond measure.”
Okay, what? How does he know I love chocolate, but that I’m also a chocolate snob, and anything beyond milk chocolate or anything with any sort of fruit filling is enough to make me gag?
Throwback to my childhood when my mom thought dark chocolate could cure a number of woes, and forced it on me when I was already feeling not so great.
“It would be far more tragic to get the world’s most perfect coffee and then spill it before you can even take a sip,” I reason, à la distraction.
He leaves the mic alone and walks across the studio to me. I suddenly don’t know what to do with my body. “Coffee or chocolate, something’s wrong. What’s going on?” He stops himself just shy of hugging me, checking himself when he notes that he’s ridiculously sweaty.
“I…”
“I’m sorry that this is a lot.”
Shit. That’s the last thing I want him to say. And not hugging me is the last thing I want.
“I know I had to wear another disguise, and we haven’t been able to see each other in so long, or do anything more than text.
I’ve been slowly dying, and most of it was from not seeing you.
I know it’s not ideal, but I’m so honored you chose to be here with me.
That you waited all these weeks and all this time.
I know it’s not easy. I’m not easy. I’m sort of like that box of poopy chocolates and the spilled coffee. ”
“No, you’re not.” My throat gets impossibly thick in a nanosecond.
“Not at all. It’s hard, but hard things are just things that are worth fighting for.
” Great. My attempt to use my mom’s wisdom just comes off clichéd and idiotic.
“I wasn’t for a second thinking that I’m not glad I’m here.
I’m not having regrets. The only doubts are just me being me and my brain braining in all the wrong ways. ”
“My brain does that too.”
“I know.” I bite down on my bottom lip. That’s a rude thing to say, isn’t it?
But I don’t just know because I’m Wilder’s friend or because I’ve been there in his life.
I know from his songs and all the interviews he’s given.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t say that. It’s not fair that I get to know you like that. I have an unfair advantage.”
“I want to know you too. Will you let me in? Will you tell me what you were thinking that was making you unhappy so I can fix it?” His face is so damn open and earnest. He’s sincere in all the right ways.
How many people would kill to be looked at this way, no matter what?
This was something I thought I’d never have. So why am I trying to ruin it?
“It was the why-me game. Why me when you could have anyone?” I admit. I hate the way his face falls like he’s the one who did something wrong. Because he didn’t.
He clenches his hands in front of him, then wipes them on his pants before setting them lightly on my shoulders.
He looks me right in the face when he talks to me, making sure I have nowhere to hide.
This way, he’s certain I have to hear him.
“Because no one else is you. Because you’re brilliant, you’re kind, and you’re beautiful inside and out.
Because you have no expectations of what I can do for you.
You see me. You’ve always seen me. It’s still wild to me that out of all the songs I’ve ever written, these feel the most like me.
When I sing them, I feel like I know who I am. ”
“I’m so honored that you’d say that. I wrote them for you, but I wanted you to be able to take them and make them an echo of your heart and soul,” I say softly.
“When I sing them, I feel like I know who you are too.”
I study him warily. Is it the very definition of insanity to want someone for so long, to love them from a distance, and then, when they’re finally here, to suddenly need to protect myself against hurt that might not even happen?
If that’s instinct, then my gut is telling me all the wrong stuff.
Brain-gut. “That’s… I don’t even know what to say. ”
“You’ve written an entire collection of music that is beyond special.
It’s love. It’s hate. It’s sorrow and celebration.
It’s living, it’s questioning, and it’s dying.
It’s youth and it’s old age, but it’s also right in the here and now.
I have no idea how you did it. You’re a real artist. You’re a songwriter and an astounding poet.
And you know what? You’re awesome. You know you’re awesome. Tell me that you know it.”
“I… most of the time, I’m confident enough.” I gather my hair up just to have some place to put my hands. I twist it into a knot at the back of my head. I wound it so tightly that it stays that way without anything securing it. “I’m sorry about the self-doubt. I’ll stop that.”
“Is it self-doubt? Or is it me-doubt?”
I can respond to that without hesitation. “Self.” Doesn’t everyone get insecure sometimes? “It was momentary insanity.”
“I promise I’ll never use what you told me against you,” he murmurs.
His eyes are so dark. Honey and caramel highlights bursting in their depths.
He’s gone beyond sincere. Wilder is the kind of person who has been kicked over and over again and yet still tries to find the good in the world.
He’s a fighter. And I’m the one he’s fighting for.
“I’ll never use who I am against you either.
I think I know who Jackson Wilder is. I think I know who he would be if he didn’t have all this.
I think I know who I’d like to be in the future.
At the risk of sounding like poor me, I want to make it happen.
A life outside of this life. Dreams outside of living the dream. ”
“It’s not poor you. You’re not wired that way. You deserve to have any kind of life you want. A complicated, loud, out there in the public one, or days that are quiet and simple.”
“You believe me.”
“Of course I believe you,” I tell him.
“But you still look like you’re disappointed with the chocolate selection.”
“The sinister sabotaging part of my brain that’s having real trouble shutting the fuck down keeps telling me that if I hadn’t played you the song or left the journal with you, none of this would have happened.”
The shine in his eyes turns into a sheen, but not a tear sheen, like mine are doing. The way he’s looking at me is the way people look at people whom they want. It’s not just desire but want with every part of their being. I’m not much for Neanderthal claiming, but I want to be Wilder’s.
“It might not have, and that would have been a tragedy. I wouldn’t have ever known you felt the way you did.
I wouldn’t have known what it was like to be close to you if I’d never gotten sick like that.
I wouldn’t have seen your real heart or any of the other parts of yourself that you disguised.
But you’re not just the songs. You’re you.
And there is no one else in the world like you. ”
“That’s true, in the silly sort of way where people make everyone out to be unique and wonderful on their own terms.”
“I want to be here with you.” Yup, that shine in his eyes has spread to the rest of his face. The whole of his face is now telegraphing that he’d like to make me his. “Even if there was no music. If I could never write a song or play or sing one again, I’d still want to be here with you.”
“Don’t say things like that,” I gasp-choke-beg. “We’re still in the infatuation stage. You don’t mean it.”