All Strung Out (6 page)

Fuck Mark Dillon. As far as I'm concerned, our deal is off. This house is his albatross now. I'm free. I dare him to stop me.

Before I even get out of bed, I start making plans. The first thing I need to do is sell my piano. I never thought I would consider selling it, but it's time for me to let go. I'm going to keep one keyboard and sell the rest of those, too. That should give me enough cash to set myself up in an apartment.

As I walk into my closet, I see the mysterious envelope tacked to the door. I touch it for a second, as if I can sense who it's from and what it says that way. I don't know why I don't just take it down and rip it open. It couldn't be that bad. I can't make my hands do it, though. I once again leave it in place.

In the closet, I sit on the chaise and call Lisa, trying not to start crying.

When she answers the phone, I say, "Hey." So far so good.

"Sophie Lyn Winter, where the hell have you been? Hondo told us to stay away, and then none of us heard from you again."

"I'm sorry, Lisa. Things have been a little crazy." That is pure truth.

"So, how is it living with Mark Dillon? Is he crazy yummy to look at every day?"

"I don't know," I say, trying to sound upbeat but failing miserably. "He's fine."

Lisa perks up. "Something's wrong. Sophie, what is it? You better tell me right now. I'm waiting. Five, four, three, two—"

"Mark's in the hospital," I blurt out. "And Hondo moved out."

"You stay put," Lisa says. "I will be there in ten minutes. Don't move."

She ends the call before I can say anything else. I don't feel like putting on clothes, but I force myself to do it. I can't sit here helpless. I have to take care of myself. And that means putting on real clothes instead of wandering around in my kimono. In fact, I'm sick of the thing. After I change, I stuff it in the trash can in the bathroom. I grab the antique perfume bottle that Lang gave me and dump it in the trash, too. Once I start throwing things out, I can't stop. I sweep everything on the counter into the trashcan. When that is full, I run to the kitchen for a big garbage bag.

Drawer after drawer, I dump shit into the bag. I kneel down and pull the junk out from under the sinks. The contents of the medicine cabinet go next.

Lisa calls from the gate because she's locked out. I give her the new code Mark set. Then, I unlock the front door and sit on one of the couches until she comes in, like I'm in a waiting room.

"Honey," she yells as she comes through the door. She grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet, practically dragging me to the closet by my wrist.

"Lisa, stop."

She turns to look at me, and her frown shows her deep concern. "Sit down and tell me what happened. All of it."

I sink down onto the chaise. And I talk. And talk. And talk, until I'm almost hoarse. I tell her about Mark and Hondo. I tell her about my music. I tell her about my father. I tell her about my mother. I tell her that I want to be a music teacher. I tell her that I have a mystery letter that I can't bring myself to open.

Through it all, she sits next to me and rubs my back. When my words finally run out, she stands up.

"You're moving in with me. Today. Now," she says. "Suitcases?"

I'm so relieved to hear that I won't have to stay in the house alone again tonight, I don't argue. Lisa heads to the bathroom while I pull out the suitcases and start packing clothes.

"Um, honey," she says. "Why is there a gargantuan trash bag in your bathroom?"

"I had a lot of trash."

"Okay, then," she says, as if that explains it.

She comes back from the bathroom empty-handed.

"You can use my stuff until we can go shopping," she says.

I nod. She works on packing the rest of the clothes while I run upstairs to get my laptop. I go into Lang's studio first. Even though Hondo and Mark fought hard, it looks like all the guitars made it through without damage. I don't know what to do about them. If I leave, is it as good as giving the guitars to Mark? I could take them, but I have no idea where to store more than fifty collector-quality guitars. I can't deal with it, now, anyway. As I leave the room, I pick up the blue acoustic guitar to take with me. At least I can rescue the one that means the most to me.

When I bring the computer and guitar downstairs, Lisa doesn't say anything about ol' blue. We load some of my stuff in her car and cram the rest in mine. I sit down in the driver seat, feeling like I forgot something. I signal to Lisa to wait while I go back in. I walk around all of my spaces until I come to the closet door. The envelope is still tacked there. I carefully pull out the thumbtack and take the letter.

With that done, we take off to Lisa's house with the guitar strapped in the passenger seat next to me and the envelope woven through its strings.

Scene 16 ~ Mark

I asked several times if Sophie called before I gave up. Obviously, she didn't call.

When Dr. Taylor comes in my room, I ask her when I can go home. She peers at me.

"Do you have any support at home?" she says. "You'll need help around the house for another few weeks, and someone to drive you to your cardiac rehabilitation appointments."

I sigh. What a fucking nightmare. I broke out of one rehab only to end up in one more restrictive than the first. How did this happen?

"I'll be fine," I say. "I'll take it easy for a couple of days, I promise."

"Mr. Dillon, you do understand that you suffered an actual heart attack, right? This was not a warning or close call. You stopped breathing. Your heart had to be shocked back into sinus rhythm."

"Yeah, I got it, doc," I say. "I'm not as strong as I think I am. It's time to reflect on my life. Blah, blah, blah."

She blinks at me with disapproval for a few seconds. Suddenly, I want to slap the pity off her face. I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me. My life is so much bigger than this tiny incident.

"Do you even know who I am?" I say.

"What do you mean?"

"I'm a celebrity, a household name. People recognize me on the street. I play guitar so fucking loud, my ears ring constantly, and the fans love it," I say. "I'm someone. I was someone. I was someone."

I choke on the words and realize I'm crying in front of this woman, this doctor who does more meaningful work in one day than I've done in my whole life. She looks at me like I'm a curiosity, her expression mostly blank. As I lose control, she gives my shoulder a few taps, and then leaves the room, presumably to give me privacy to get my shit back together. It's too bad I don't have any idea how to do that.

"Uh, oh. Somebody's having a crappy day." Shirlene comes in and puts a hand on her hip. "We don't do crappy here, baby."

I try to look away, but even through the tears, I can't help smiling at her. "Dammit, I'm trying to have a meltdown here. You're ruining it for me."

"Hon, this happens to everybody here. I see it every single day."

"So, you're saying I'm just like everyone else."

"Now, I didn't say that." She checks all my wires and tubing to make sure nothing's tangled. "Just don't go off thinking you're the only human being to ever cry in a hospital."

She straightens the blue blanket over me and tucks it under my feet. I feel like I'm five years old, but somehow, it doesn't bother me.

"Dinner will be here in an hour," Shirlene says as she's leaving the room. "You'd better be awake when I come back."

As I watch her go, I wonder how she found her niche in life and has stayed with it for years, dispensing the wisdom she picks up along the way.

Scene 17 ~ Sophie

When I can't stand feeling like a callous bitch any longer, I go to visit Mark in the hospital. I thought I would have a hard time getting in to see him because I'm not family. As soon as I said my name, though, they gave me his room number. Apparently, he was waiting for me to show up.

I stand outside his door for a minute, reading the room number over and over. Maybe I shouldn't be here. It might upset him and cause something else to happen.

Finally, I suck it up and gently push on the door to his room. The lights are dim, and at first, it looks like he's sleeping. Then, he turns his head toward me. His eyes are bloodshot, and his nose is raw. I see dried trails of tears that he didn't bother to wipe away. The skin of his left jaw is still mostly purple from Hondo's blows.

My brain goes in several directions at once. I'm still pissed off at Mark, but seeing him look so fragile makes me feel guilty about that. He has so many wires and tubes going from his body to different machines, it looks like he's in serious shape. He almost died. It's this thought that pushes me farther into the room.

At Mark's bedside, I automatically grasp his hand. He looks up at me, tears lining his eyelids. I squeeze his hand until I can find my words.

"I moved out," I say. "I didn't want that to be the first thing I said to you today, but there it is."

He nods and then looks down at our joined hands. "I figured that out when you didn't call or come by."

The silent pause stretches over minutes. We each stare at our hands. I wonder if he feels as uncomfortable as I do. When I was in the hospital after my seizure, it didn't seem like a big deal. This seems different.

"What happened to you?" I say. "I mean, I know what happened. But why did it happen?"

"Me plus coke equalled heart attack," he says. He gives me a tired smile, but I can't share the humor.

He gambled with his sobriety and lost. He's damn lucky he made it through with his life. I think about Lang and all the chances he took with his life over the years. When it looked like luck was going to be on his side forever, he overdosed and drowned. Just like that. I wonder if he knew his fortune had shifted that day?

He looks up again and sighs. "Are you moving out for good?"

"I can't come back," I say. "It's not my home anymore. But I think you know that."

"We could start over. Erase the mistakes," he says. He rubs one of my fingers between his, and I see tears fill his eyes again. The last thing I want to do is give him hope that I'm coming back. I want to tell him that mistakes are never erased, they're only written over until they don't stand out so clearly.

"No." No matter how much it hurts now, it would hurt so much more when I didn't return.

"Sophie, please," he says. "You're not even considering it. Give me a chance."

I shake my head. "You need to be alone with yourself. I believed you when you said you wanted my help to play guitar like Lang. The truth is you didn't want to be completely on your own, without your band, without your family, without your coke. I was a convenient, built-in companion."

"It's not like that," he says.

"It's exactly like that," I say. "Do yourself a favor and accept what I'm saying. It will be so much easier for you that way."

I squeeze his hand again before leaving the room. By the time I make it to the lobby, I'm crying. Again.

Scene 18 ~ Hondo

On Sunday, Jen has to go to a family reunion for a few hours, so I go to the store to buy an air mattress for me and an electric blanket for her. I pick out some basic living supplies, too, and a storage box for them. The shower won't be installed for another week, so I'll have to impose on my friend a little longer to clean myself up at his apartment.

It takes me two trips up at the office to bring everything from the car. I slide the electric blanket box under Jen's desk. I shove the mattress box to the back wall and put away my "household" things. One of the boxes goes in my locking desk drawer: a small box of large condoms.

I felt like an overheated teenager buying them. I'm sure I was nine shades of red at the checkout. It feels like it's time. Just in case. I turn the key in the lock, and then turn it back again. I open the drawer, take out the box, and open it, intending to pull out one condom. I didn't know they're attached in long rows. This is sad, a grown man playing with condoms in secret. I rip one off, slip it into my pocket, and stuff the rest back in the box. I check the lock twice on the drawer.

As I put the rest of the things away, I'm very aware of what's in my pocket. While I work at my computer, my thoughts keep straying to Jen, and how she kissed my forehead so lightly. I keep trying to refocus on my work, but I'm far too distracted. I get up and walk around the office for a minute, looking out the windows at the different views of Deep Ellum and Dallas. I watch a few couples walk down the sidewalks, holding hands and stopping for a quick kiss. They're normal. I'm not. I thought it didn't bother me. It does.

And now, I have no idea what will happen.

I go into the bathroom and pull my shorts down. I turn sideways and look at myself in the mirror. I've always known I'm on the larger end compared to other guys. It's a nice boost to the self-esteem, but it's also embarrassing because people can't help but to look at it in the locker room. The guys would get mad at me when I caught them looking. I didn't even have to say anything about it. As soon as they locked eyes with me, I knew I was the target that day.

School was years ago, though. I don't have to deal with that shit anymore. After I graduated from high school, I lost the self-conscious habit of hiding myself all the time.

As an experiment, I think of Jen again. I picture her in front of me, kissing me and running her fingers down my chest. Within seconds, I'm hard. I study myself in the mirror. Everything looks normal, I guess. The difference now is that it feels amazing. How could I have gone through my whole life without knowing this was possible? What switch did Jen flip inside me to make this happen?

I take hold of myself, squeezing gently. Little shocks shoot all around my body. I take a few casual strokes all the way up and down, and it makes my knees feel weak. I've masturbated before, of course, but it's never felt like this.

I pull the condom out of my pocket and tear open the foil. It's slippery inside the package. I carefully pull it out and then roll it on about an inch. I pinch up the top a little and then continue rolling it down. I stroke myself again, this time going steadily faster until my breath is coming out on moans. It feels like I'm going to fall, so I lean back against the wall for support. Whether I fall or not, I can't stop now. I'm past the point of no return.