Always and Forever (27 page)

God, it feels good to be home after a delayed flight. The familiar smell of cinnamon
from the air freshener hits me, and I begin to feel warm and cozy all over. I drop
my keys in the bowl on the side table by the door and pry my feet out of my shoes.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my job. I can’t imagine doing anything else. Besides, what’s
not to love? I get to travel around the country, sometimes even the world, taste wines,
visit vineyards, and occasionally interview a famous or rising chef. However, I love
getting back home even more—there’s just something about knowing you’re going to be
sleeping in your own bed. I drop my bag on the floor and head right for the kitchen,
desperately needing water. Then, I’ll take a nice hot bath and wash the plane and
airport filth off.
God, a long, hot bath sounds perfect.

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and while I’m drinking like I’ve just left
the Sahara, I instinctively pick on the house phone to see if I have any pressing
messages. Of course I do; that’s not surprising. What’s surprising is who a few of
them are from—one from Val and then a couple from Tracy, my closest and best girlfriends
who both knew I was on assignment.
Why didn’t they just call my cell?
It’s then I remember I turned my phone off after boarding the plane and never turned
it back on. I’m sure when I do, there will be a gazillion messages and texts from
them.

First, a message from Val— “Hey, Jules, it’s me. Why aren’t you answering your cell?
Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you got home safe and to remind you about tonight
because I’m sure you forgot. We’ll pick you up around seven.”

Pick me up? What am I forgetting?

Next is a message from Tracy— “Oh my God, you better be home soon. You’re so not skipping
out on us just because your flight got delayed. We’ll be picking you up in… about
two hours… God help me, Jules, you better be home soon, and you better be ready to
go.”

Second message from Tracy— “I’m literally jumping out of my skin. First, if you aren’t
there by the time we get there, and second, I’m going to see my man in the flesh.
I swear, Jules, you won’t regret going to this concert—Redemption
is
the hottest band around. You better be ready, or I’ll drag you out by your pretty
little ponytail. Love ya and see ya soon!”

I can’t help but laugh at Tracy’s enthusiasm and dramatic ramblings. Then my laughter
dies. It hits me like a Mack truck—I had reluctantly agreed to go to that damn concert.
And it’s tonight. I rummage through my suitcase of a purse in search of my cell. When
I turn it back on, there are a few text messages from Val warning Tracy is out of
her mind about tonight, and then a shit-ton from Tracy warning me I better be ready
to go by the time they get there.

I note the time on the phone; they’ll be here soon. “Damn it, I just want to stay
home.”

I desperately tried to get out of going. I even tried to use the veto power we three
agreed upon way back when, but no matter what, I’m going anyway. I’ve been extremely
busy at work, which encroaches on my social life, and tonight’s concert is not my
idea of a good time. Going to the symphony—good time. Piano bar—good time. Sipping
wine with friends—good time. Banging my head to ear-pounding, mind-numbing music like
they have planned—not a good time.
Stupid veto
.

Tracy’s a persuasive, persistent little shit—that’s probably why I’m going. I have
a habit of not being able to say no to her over-the-top tactics—ever. Although I have
been successful a few times, but just by the skin of my teeth. It’s never a winning
situation for me when she pulls that shit.
“Please, Jules it will be so much fun, and you never have fun. You work way too much.
Besides, I just know you’ll have a great time. The band is phenomenal and not to mention
hotter than hot. Also, you need to see a concert at least once from the Skybox. Val
was fortunate enough to get us these amazing tickets. Please, pretty please, with
a cherry on top.”
And that’s when she gave me “the look.” The look of a lost puppy dog, eyes as big
as saucers with a glint of moisture rising up in them, plus a full, pouty lip that
protruded farther than a lip possibly could, knowing I wouldn’t be able to say no.

So, here I am going to a concert and listening to a band I haven’t a clue about. Popular
music isn’t my thing. My musical tastes are usually the classics, and no, not The
Beatles or something like that. I mean Beethoven, Debussy, Mozart or Yo Yo Ma. Oh,
and the crooning of Michael Buble or Harry Connick Jr. My girls don’t get it at all;
they wish I would listen to anything but, saying I am too young to be listening to
grandma music. I always defend myself by letting them know that what they listen to
will probably cause them brain damage. Besides, music’s been my go-to thing when I
need to escape and relax, especially when I was with Blake.

Blake. The music… it’s something I never told them because if I had, they both would
throw out and delete every song and burn every CD. While I have opened up a lot about
my time with Blake, I’ve never given them all the details. Val knows more than Tracy
since she was there toward the end. I hate reliving and rehashing that time in my
life; it feels like it happened a long time ago, although other times it feels like
it was yesterday, and I survived. I’m still surviving. It’s hard to do more than survive
when you’re constantly second-guessing yourself and looking over your shoulder. I
should be beyond this at this point. I should have put all that behind me and moved
completely on. He lingers in the shadows, stuck in a cobweb in the back of my mind.
I tamper it down as much as I can, but at times its tendrils float free and creep
and slither into the forefront of my mind. Tracy and Val think tonight is my chance
to finally live after all this time. Maybe they’re right. I think they’re right. I
hope they’re right.

I just got back from the Food and Wine Classic in Aspen, and I just want to stay home.
But since the two of them have gone to several
Wine Gourmet Magazine
—who I work for as a journalist—events with me, which I must say they thoroughly enjoyed
due to the free food and wine, I’m going. I’ll be paying for it tomorrow for sure.
Stupid non-veto clause. Two against one, they said. They vetoed my veto. Ah, but I
will get them back when they least expect it.

I throw the bottle into the recycle bin, and as I pass the refrigerator, I notice
in bright neon pink the word
Redemption
written in Tracy’s handwriting on today’s date. That’s when I notice the date—June
24
^th
. My heart instinctively clenches in my chest, my body vibrating as the reality of
that date sets in. I’ve been so busy I’ve forgotten the date—occupational hazard.
It’s been exactly a year and half—today. Eighteen months that I found the strength
and walked out, eighteen months that I said enough was enough. Eighteen months I broke
free; at least physically free. Before things can turn dark, I take a deep calming
breath and remember my mantra, “I am strong, powerful, and above all else, beautiful
and worthy. He can no longer hurt me.” Painstakingly slow, my heart untwists within
my chest, and my body calms down. It dawns on me why my two friends were so adamant
about me going to this concert tonight, and I love them for it. They didn’t forget
like I had. I shake away the dark tendrils that are beginning to seep into my mind
and go to the hall and grab my bag. Time to get ready. They’ll be here soon.

I am standing in my ginormous closet, my second favorite room in my house, Harry is
crooning in the background as I try to figure out what to wear. Then it dawns on me—why
do I give a flying fig? It’s not like I’m going to the opera or the symphony, so I
grab my pair of dark skinny jeans, a deep plum tank top with sequins covering the
entire front that’s tight across my chest—the girls look good;
he
would never approve—and my charcoal grey cardigan. My black ballet flats and clutch
complete my outfit. I assume it’s good enough for the concert. I decide to readjust
my simple high ponytail, allowing some tendrils to frame my face, sweep my blush brush
across the apples of my cheeks a couple of times, apply a few strokes of mascara and
“Voila,” I am ready to go.

The two of them are picking me up in a limo. The PR firm Val works for signed on this
band as a new client and wants to send us to the concert in style since they are a
small firm. Landing this band was something Val had been working on for a while, going
against other larger firms. Their manager fell in love with Val—who doesn’t—and signed
right away even before the band met her. , the limo gives me a reprieve from being
the designated driver. Usually I’m doing the driving. But that’s the least of my worries.
I just hope I will be leaving with all of my brain cells and ear drums intact.

Tracy had left the band’s latest CD when she first brought up going to the concert.
I think what the hell, as a good reporter/writer, I always familiarize myself with
my subjects, so listening will just be research. And since I’m ready and waiting for
them to pick me up, I grab the nondescript CD, with just this capital greyish, silver
R splashed like it’s dripping paint on the front of the case against a black background,
and pop it into the stereo. My ears are immediately assaulted with the screeching
and wailing of a guitar, while what I guess is the lead vocalist screeches a blood-curdling
scream, nearly causing my eardrums to rupture.

I can’t hit stop fast enough, eject the CD, and pop in back into the case. I place
it on a high shelf, trying to put it as far away from me as possible, when it decides
it doesn’t like its new home and falls to the carpet. I go to pick it up when I notice
a picture on the back of it, and I am instantly drawn to it by a pair of the most
piercing, steel blue eyes I have ever seen. They seem to have the ability to call
to me, to draw me in even though it’s just a picture. They make me want to get lost
in them and forget about the world. Forget about what today is and everything else
that plagues me. My eyes scan the face the eyes belong to, and the smile that graces
what can only be described as a beyond attractive man seems to be at war with the
intense gaze his eyes are giving off. His eyes say he wants to devour and possess
you, while his smile says his ready to play and make you laugh until your sides hurt.
Devil and angel. I notice he’s standing dead center of the photo with two guys flanking
him. I can’t help but wonder if he’s the lead singer whose screeching just assaulted
me ears. And I can’t help but wonder if he looks that attractive in person or if it’s
just a trick of photography and Photoshop? I put the CD away, afraid if I continue
to look into his eyes I will somehow be sucked in, which is ridiculous. I notice my
hands trembling, as is the rest of my body, and a sheen of sweat covers my skin. What
in the hell have I gotten myself into?

“Knock, knock, anybody home?” a familiar voice calls out to me from down the hall.