Chapter Thirty-Five …Tragically
Chapter Thirty-Five
…Tragically
Griffin
I’ve been back in LA for a couple of days, and my house is already colder than I remember.
It’s not the type of Elk Grove chill, with gentle snow and small breezes.
My house is empty. Frigid. Instead of wood paneling, the walls are gray.
No framed photos or high school awards. It smells like Pine-Sol from my cleaner—not freshly washed blankets or syrup.
Poe looks out my floor-to-ceiling windows with his arms crossed. Beyond my gate, cars linger as photographers peer into camera lenses.
“Just look at ’em,” he spits out.
“Or maybe we shouldn’t?” Royce asks from the couch, pressing a button on the remote that lowers the blinds and automatically turns on the side table lamps.
I stretch out my legs and grunt, “Thanks,” but the lamps aren’t the warm, dim light in the Larks’ den or in Beverly’s room at night.
Behind me, Jimmy paces in the kitchen with his phone pressed against his ear. We were supposed to leave for the studio ten minutes ago, but he answered a call that seems more caustic than usual. So far, we’ve heard, “Well, I don’t care what he thinks” and “Harassment, my ass.”
Poe smirks. “You tell ’em, Jimbo.”
Jimmy lifts his middle finger.
“Didn’t you miss all this?” Royce asks me with a grin.
Dom snorts. I do the same.
Poe whispers, “Do you think he’s on the phone with Beau’s manager?”
“You look far too excited about that,” Dom grunts out.
Poe gives a Cheshire cat grin. “Because I am.”
Almost to himself, Dom smiles. “Me too.”
After I came back, the entire band sought out Beau’s number to give him a piece of their minds, and all of them were subsequently blocked—though, it was only after Poe saved his call for three in the morning.
I heard talks of an air horn, too, but who’s to say?
Beau demanded—in the most childlike whine, might I add—that we stop harassing him.
It’s hard to feel sympathetic when we weren’t afforded that luxury.
There have been endless interview requests for me and Ava. Countless toddler modeling agencies clogging up Jimmy’s inbox. Never-ending paparazzi outside our window.
In the corner, Ava plays with her wooden bird, bouncing it up and down so the felt wing flaps against the wood.
This is the happiest she’s seemed in days.
Two-year-olds can’t process what a temporary goodbye means, and it took less than twelve hours for her to realize her new friend B wasn’t stopping by.
The first night of sleep was nonexistent, and no amount of guitar playing calmed her down. We ended up on the reliable living room couch with overnight sitcom reruns. Finally, she got some sleep last night, but who knows how long it will last?
Ava stands up and toddles over to me so fast she bumps into my leg. She rests her head on my knee. I run my palm over her bangs. She looks too much like me right now—exhausted and sad—not enough like her mom. So I tickle in her ear with my finger, and she laughs. Albeit reluctantly.
We share a beat of silence. She sighs at the same time I do.
How bad did I mess up, Ava?
I wish I could ask her. I wish she understood.
Did I move us out there, only to break both of our hearts?
When we landed two days ago, I immediately texted Beverly. She responded a few hours later, saying she got caught up working. But I didn’t see that text until a couple of hours after because I was swept up in talks with Jimmy.
With our combined schedules, we’ve texted maybe six times over two days.
I hate this.
“How about some snack time?” Dom asks, slapping his knees and standing from the couch with a grunt.
Ava looks to me. “Go?”
I smile. “Yeah, go on. Uncle Dom will get you something.”
Ava runs to the kitchen as quick as her little legs will take her, with Tom the wooden bird clutched tightly in her fist. When Dom passes by me, he claps my shoulder.
I exhale yet another “Thanks.”
After reaching into my back pocket for my phone, I click the lock screen on and off again. I don’t know why I bother. My chest aches every time I do.
No new texts. No new calls. Just the same ones from yesterday.
Beverly: Bernie won’t shut up about you.
I smiled too much when I responded:
Griffin: Only good things, right?
Hours later:
Beverly: He only repeats what he hears.
And hours after that:
Griffin: Poor guy doesn’t have a mind of his own.
I haven’t heard back since.
She’s busy. I know that. Hell, I’m busy.
We start recording today, we go on tour in a month, and we all have the media mess to deal with too.
And after all the times I distracted her, I’m sure she’s drowning in the blue light of her laptop.
Beverly is simply working.
Just like I am.
Because we’re both married to our jobs.
Poe leans against a wall, kicking one ankle over the other.
“How’s she doing?” he asks.
I sigh, looking over at Ava, who’s currently reaching up toward Dom in hopes of stealing a cheese slice.
“Ava seems good,” I answer.
“No, no. The puppet girl.”
I shift on the couch uncomfortably, flexing my hands over its arms, then letting them fall flat. Poe gives me a toothy grin.
“Beverly’s good,” I answer. I open my mouth to say more, but I’m interrupted by Jimmy pacing down the hallway yelling, “Well, can you tell him he’s a sack of shit, then?!”
In the kitchen, Dom’s eyes widen, reaching down to belatedly cover Ava’s ears.
Poe clicks his tongue. “Y’know…” He perches on the armchair next to me. “I’ve been reading a lot of history lately.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“And there were tons of passionate love affairs that overcame the odds. Antony and Cleopatra. Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Classic.”
“Yeah, and how’d those end?”
“Oh. Well, uh, eventually…tragically.”
“Great.”
Jimmy reappears in the living room, now off the phone. He paces over the hardwood in clacking shoes before halting in front of us.
“He’s an asshole,” he hisses through a snarl.
“Who?” I ask.
“Beau. His manager.” He waves his hand to the closed windows and then the general air. “All of this. Everyone.”
“Been telling you that for years,” Royce adds.
“Was that his manager on the phone?” I ask Jimmy.
“Yeah.”
“Called it,” Poe says.
Jimmy continues, “Says we’ve been harassing him. I said I wanted a public apology for his harassment.”
“Some good ole groveling, eh?” Poe says with a grin.
“And?” Royce asks.
Jimmy sighs. “Fat chance. He wouldn’t apologize to a deer, even if he swerved off the road to hit it.”
Poe cackles. “Damn, Jimmy.”
But I understand the sentiment. Beau knew exactly what he was doing when he outed Ava.
Jimmy claps his palms together. “But we move on! I’ve already put the word out that you will make no comments about Ava from now until the end of time. And that if anyone tries to talk to Beverly or her family, they’ll never get an interview with us again.”
“From now until the end of time?” Royce asks.
“Exactly.”
Jimmy falls onto the recliner as I look at my phone again.
Still nothing. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch, constantly flaring up beneath the surface.
I place my phone on the side table and stand up.
If I sit around any longer, I’ll go crazy.
The sooner I have music flowing from my fingertips, the better.
“Are we ready to go?” I ask.
Jimmy leans his head back and groans, “Please.”
Ava runs back to me. “B?”
That one letter is enough to make my heart sink.
“B?” Jimmy asks.
“She means Beverly.” I squat down, resting my palms on my knees. “B’s gonna be back in town soon,” I say to Ava, but her bottom lip pokes out, and I’ve never felt more attuned to my daughter than I do now.
“B go?” she asks.
“Yes, but we’ll see her again soon.”
Hopefully. Maybe.
I’m scared that those thoughts even cross my mind.
Ava starts to whine. I gather her in my arms and tuck her head under my chin.
“C’mon.” I rub her back. “Let’s go to the studio with Daddy.”
“E?”
“That’s right! We can play the E song too.”
Jimmy shoves a palm through his hair. “We aren’t…” But one look at Ava’s doe eyes has him exhaling sharp air through his nose. “Fine. Yes. We’ll play this E song. Then we record album music.”
Ava smiles, but it doesn’t have the feverish excitement it might have had before Beverly and Elk Grove. Part of me—the tiniest part—wonders if the lack of excitement is evident on my face too.
I love my career. I love recording albums. I love how notes slide from every twitch of my fingers. But…everything seems superfluous now. What’s the point of success if I can’t be near my daughter in public? If I can’t see Beverly when I want?
These past couple of months, I was finally able to take care of Ava without worry—we could visit a farmers’ market, eat at a diner, play outside…I could be that dad for once. A dad Robin wanted me to be.
I could play piano.
I could laugh with a beautiful woman.
I could brew coffee for her as the sun rose over foggy mountains.
I could be someone other than Rock Star Griffin Harvey.
But at the end of the day…I am Rock Star Griffin Harvey.
I’m the guitar guy.
The famous musician with an album to write and a tour to perform.
The guys depend on me. Jimmy depends on me. Ava depends on me.
It doesn’t matter what I want.
I look at my phone again. Not a single response.
Beverly loves her busy life, and it would be selfish to drag her into mine.