The Final Piece (17 page)

In the last ten years, I have found that some plans are nothing more than an invitation to disaster. While Ryan and I were planning our day at the Iowa State Fair, my parents were on a plane to come take me home. The rest is history, as they say. I clung to the idea of Ryan, and the feelings he awakened in me for a long time, but as life went on without him, I resigned myself to the fact that he wasn’t meant to be more than the precious memory of first love.

Aunt Melissa still offers updates when I ask for them, but it’s too tempting to fall back into that fantasy. Funny, for all the lamenting I used to do about my parents’ addictive behavior, it never occurred to me that I would have an addictive personality. It got easier to understand their struggle when I was faced with kicking my own addiction—Ryan. In fact, it still amazes me that they never relapsed and forged ahead without looking back at all. They say they did it for me and I believe them. We’ve come a long way and I’m grateful every day for our relationship. Nothing is perfect, though; too much time in their proximity peaks my bitterness. It’s hard to be parented by people who opted out during your formative years. Nothing is ever going to erase the mistakes they made, but forgiveness has gone a long way toward learning to love them, warts and all.

Les, Cyn and I moved into a renovated bungalow in Charlotte after graduation. While our focus is now on building our careers and not pranking Trent the Tool, we are still the same girls. After a crappy day, you’ll still find us commiserating over frozen Reese’s and Frodkas.

I have the world at my feet—my dream job, great friends and even a hot date for the show. Then why am I daydreaming about a boy I haven’t seen since I was fifteen? I blow out a long breath and grab the Brutal Strength playlist out of the printer. I need to focus on getting this set list to our sound engineer, maybe a walk backstage will help clear my head.

“Elizabeth,” my boss interrupts. “There’s an agent on line two looking to book an unknown.” Gesturing towards my office, she tosses her long black hair over her shoulder. She is the embodiment of indie style; her crimson streaked hair falls to the middle of her vintage Cure t-shirt. When she turns back toward her office, her plaid skirt swishes against her purple tights. Her motorcycle boots eat up the hallway when she saunters away.

“Thanks, Andrea,” I holler after her, “I’m on it.” She raises her arm, giving me the peace sign and keeps walking. Hopefully, a nice distraction can shake me out of my funk.

Chapter 28

The opening act is halfway through their set when I finally make my way out front. Between the camera crew and the patrons, we have a full house tonight. Andrea flags me down from the box seat above the main floor; I nod in acknowledgment and head toward the staircase that will lead me there. A brooding giant of a man guards the velvet rope sectioning off the staircase from the concertgoers. Standing at six-foot-four with hulking muscles, he takes up the entire doorway and scans the crowd with menacing eyes. If I didn’t already know that he had a cat named Phoenix and a penchant for Gershwin, I’d be scared to death.

“S’up Fred!” I yell over the music.

“Hey! How’s my best girl?” Fred’s booming voice floats effortlessly over the noise. He pulls the rope back for me and bows in a grand gesture as I pass.

“Such a charmer.” I giggle, “Is everyone up there?”

“Yep. Andrea, Cyn, Les and some dude named Steve.” When he mentions my date’s name, Fred lifts a cynical eyebrow.

“Calm down, big daddy. I am sufficiently buffered by the rest of our group. No need to bust any balls tonight,” I tease.

“That’s all you, sister.” Fred snickers.

“Hey!” I shove his arm, but the steely rope of muscle beneath my hand doesn’t budge an inch. “That was harsh,” I complain.

“Just tellin’ it like it is. You love ‘em and leave ‘em brokenhearted,” Fred pins me with his eyes, daring me to challenge him. “Never been a boy around here long enough to stick. How can you play ‘em that way, girl?” He shakes his head and holds his hand over his heart. The way he is giving me a hard time reminds me of the way Ryan used to tease me.

There he is again! I blame Brutal Strength. 

“Maybe I just haven’t found one worth keeping around,” I shrug at Fred.
             
He hates my three-date rule. Three dates is enough to have fun but not enough to get attached. By the third date, I give the “we make better friends than lovers” speech and move on. I have a lot of male friends.

”Besides, Fred, who can compare to you?” I blow him a kiss and head up the stairs to meet my friends and my date.

“Whassup, sexy?” Cyn practically tackles me when I come around the corner. She gives me a loud kiss on the cheek and takes a step back to regard my outfit. “That shirt does great things for your rack.” She reaches out to cop a feel, but I swat her hand away.

“Have you been in the sauce, already? Wha
t’s gotten into you?” I laugh.
Cyn rolls her eyes at me and sticks out her tongue. We are nothing if not mature young professional women. Her short black curls bounce with the same energy she exudes as she skips over to the railing to watch the band. She is a dynamo, she’s got Fred-sized energy packed into her tiny frame. Standing barely over five feet, she reminds me of a pixie.

“She’s sober, she’s just wound up for Marcus.” Les laughs as she gives me a fierce hug. All three of us are fan girls when it comes to Brutal Strength. We know every song from every album and own every gossip mag detailing the relationship between the lead singer, Marcus Anthony, and the lead guitarist, Avery Jones. She nods her head toward Andrea and Steve who are elbow to elbow in deep conversation. “Those two have been arguing about what kind of guitars Avery prefers for the whole set,” Les throws her head back, sending her rich velvety laughter into the air. She is the kind of girl that most women love to hate and all men want in their bed. Long limbed and curvy in all the right places, her blond hair and bright smile convey a sense of innocence, but those of us who know her know better.

I look back and forth between my two friends and wonder what people see when they see the three of us together. There is Cyn with her raven hair, blue eyes and petite frame and Les with her light hair, hazel eyes and statuesque frame. I float somewhere in the middle of the two, I am of average height with brown hair and eyes. I have the type of body that went out of style with Rockabilly and Betty Page—all the curves that people say are great but pop out like a sore thumb against the stick thin trendsetters I’m around all day. Voluptuous. Curvaceous. Please, those are just nice ways of saying you’ve got big boobs and breeding hips. Whatever.

“Who am I to interrupt, then? I wouldn’t know a Gibson from a Fender if my life depended on it,” I joke.

It figures Andrea would charm the pants off my date before I even had a chance to say
hello
. I am not too bothered by it, he’s just another guy. Nobody special. As if he can hear me, Steve looks up and gives me a friendly smile. When he starts to stand, I motion for him to stay put.

Despite Fred’s ribbing, I am not the love them and leave them type, I just don’t like to waste my time. I can usually tell by the third date whether or not the relationship is going anywhere, and most times it’s headed straight to the friend zone. This is date one with Steve, and I already know that it’s going nowhere fast. It’s not like I’ve never had a boyfriend before, I’ve had one or two—just nothing that’s lasted longer than six months, except Charlie and that was a disaster. Otherwise, nothing memorable. So I am a serial dater, it works for me. What can I say? When I meet someone who is worth a fourth date, I’ll go on one.

“Why are you letting her bogart your date like that?” Cyn whispers.

“Because she clearly likes him more than I do,” I laugh, “besides he doesn’t seem put out in the least.”

“You’re never going to meet someone if you don’t give anyone a chance. Steve may end up being the love of your life,” Leslie lectures. My heart flutters, not because I think Steve is my soulmate, but because I’m painfully aware that I’ve already met him. I glance at Leslie, and for a moment, I wish I could talk about Ryan. She would think I’m nuts for still being hung up on a relationship that never happened when I was fifteen. Maybe I’m comparing everyone to Ryan because I know that nothing will measure up, self-fulfilling prophecy and all that crap. Someday I’ll fall in love and go through the whole sordid tale of my life but not before then.

“I know, Les.” I give her a tight smile, hoping we can drop it.
             

She lets out a heavy sigh and nods. I know she worries about me, and I love her for it, but it’s much more complicated than she knows. When I came out here for college with a clean slate, I decided that the past was best left far behind. I don’t talk about it with anyone except Tommy, and I only see him once or twice a year. My parents, wisely, avoid the issue. We do better if we focus on the future of our relationship and not dwell on the past. Gran and Pops have always been the strong and silent type. They’re my North Star—the ones that remind me that no matter where I am or how much time passes,
they
are home. They’ve never pressed me about Drew, but I know they watched me diligently for a long time to make sure I was dealing with what happened and to make sure that I saw a therapist twice a week until I left Miami.

Hindsight is a remorseful wench. I wish I’d worked out a way to blend my family into my life here. By the time I got a clue and realized my mistake, I was already so engrossed in who I was without them, it was easier to just continue pretending. My friends know my parents from their visits but they only know them to be the sweet, if not slightly misguided, folks who love their daughter and drive her crazy. They know that I have family in Iowa that I visit a couple times a year, but they don’t know who they are individually or how important they wer
e to me when I was growing up.
The stage crew is clearing the opener’s gear off the stage when I feel my pocket vibrate. I ignore my cell; there is no one I need to talk to that badly in the middle of a concert. I take my seat between Cyn and Les to watch as the stage is transformed to accommodate filming. My pocket starts vibrating again, so I take out my phone to turn it off. I have two missed calls from Uncle Rob. I fidget in my seat, wondering if something has happened with Pops. Making a quick excuse, I dart into the hallway to call him back. Pops has been having some issues with his blood pressure, so I hope that everything is okay. I tap my foot impatiently as the phone rings.

Pick up, pick up, pick up!

“
Beth
!” My name shoots out of Uncle Rob’s mouth as a panicked exclamation. His tone sends my stomach plummeting; I sit at the top of the staircase and brace myself for the bad news coming.

“What’s wrong?” My voice shakes against my question. I hold my breath waiting for him to tell me that Pops has had a stroke or heart attack.

“Beth, it’s Tommy.” Uncle Rob’s voice breaks on a sob, turning my blood to ice. ”He’s gone, baby girl, Tommy’s gone.”

My phone slips out of my hand and starts bouncing down the stairs. There is total silence as I block out everything around me to concentrate on what my uncle just said.

Tommy is dead.

Chapter 29

“Why the long face, baby girl?” Tommy asks as he joins me on the dock.

“I don’t want to go back to Miami,” I confess, dragging my toes across the surface of the lake. “I wish my mom and dad would move back here. I miss you so much during the year,” I sniffle. Tommy wraps a strong arm around me, pulling me into his chest. His mustache tickles my brow as he kisses my forehead.

“Don’t waste your time missing me, silly. I am always with you.” He smiles down at me when I lift my head. “There is a saying that goes— ‘Together forever, never apart. Maybe in distance but never in heart.’ You are with me, baby girl and I’m with you. Always.”

***

I watch Fred glance down at the floor where my phone lands against his foot. He looks over his shoulder and when his eyes meet mine, his face drops. Taking the steps three at a time, I watch his mouth form words I don’t hear. His hands grip my shoulders, shaking me gently.

“BETH,” Leslie’s voice floats over my shoulder, breaking through my fog. “What the fuck is going on, Fred?”

Fred looks past me to answer her, “This landed at my feet.” Handing her my cracked phone, he continues, ”When I turned around to pick it up, I found her sitting here like this.”

Les sits down next to me and puts the cracked phone to her ear, “Hello? Who is this?” her tone is defensive if not rude. ”No, this is her friend, Leslie.” She is silent while Uncle Rob speaks on the other line. Her tone is notably kinder when she speaks again, “I will have her call you back or I will.” Her brow furrowed in confusion, she ends the call.

***

             
As I take my diploma from the principal and shake his hand, a shrill whistle overrides the polite golf claps that fill the high school gym. When I turn to face the crowd, I find Tommy waving a UNC pennant enthusiastically. While my parents clap and wave politely on one side of him, the people on the other side cheer him on. I wave my diploma at him and blow him an exaggerated kiss. When I am back in my seat, the girl next to me leans in and whispers, “Is that your Dad?”