Authors: Julie Johnson
I
strummed the opening chords easily. I’d been playing this song for so many years it was ingrained in my soul, a melody my fingers had memorized long ago. And though I had the upmost respect for The Beatles, I couldn’t help putting my own spin on the song.
I’d slowed it down to fit the acoustic atmosphere,
raised it up an octave, and tried my damnedest to infuse my voice with all the emotions that the lyrics conveyed. Hope, sadness, love, rebirth: this song embodied them all.
The crowd faded away as I sang
about learning to fly with broken wings, losing myself to the music. Of all the songs in the world, I’d always felt that this one fit me best. The lyrics gave me hope that maybe I wasn’t the only one who’d been shattered by death and loss and sorrow. That maybe everyone’s a little bit broken inside.
As a little girl, I remember watching
Peter Pan
one night with all the other foster kids in the group home. The other children, most of whom were to old to be entertained by Disney, were making fun of the movie or ignoring it altogether. I alone sat quietly, transfixed by the scene where Peter chases his shadow around the room and tries to wrestle it back into compliance before Wendy finally sews the damned thing to his shoe. That scene had always resonated strangely with me, and after a time, I’d come to see my grief as a sort of disobedient shadow. I’d dragged a wraith of misery around for fourteen years and damned if it didn’t kick and scream the whole time, refusing to be ignored.
I was tired, so tired, of fighting my shadow
every minute of the day. My grief had become a living entity, personified by years of self-blame and incarnated by my refusal to confront it. Like Peter, I’d chased my specter for years and repeatedly forced it into submission in a never-ending battle of wills. Too often, though, the grief broke free – and I broke down.
Singing on that stage, I wouldn’t say I felt my mother’s presence, or saw her spirit or anything ridiculous like that. It was more like a surge of warmth filled my veins and made my heart expand – like a moment of clarity as I realized she’d be proud to hear me carrying on her legacy.
It was closure.
I felt like I’
d been drowning in my grief for years and hadn’t even realized it. Like I’d been gasping for breath for so long I’d become accustomed to barely breathing at all. And now, I’d been thrown a life-ring and hauled ashore and given a chance to live again. I imagined my grief, that phantom of perpetual misery, finally settling inside my heart. It no longer tugged at its tether, or rattled the bars of its cage – it simply took a deep breath of acceptance as it dissipated into me and finally, finally gave up the fight.
I smiled as I gave myself over to the feeling, completely surrendering to the music as it flowed from my lips and fingertips.
I heard my mother’s voice in my head.
There’s a song for every feeling
, Bee. Every tear, every smile, every heartbreak and every victory. Music ignites the soul and strips us bare. It’s our very essence. Even if you have no one else to turn to and you feel all alone, remember that you can always find comfort in ballads and melodies, serenades and love songs.
I
knew my shadow would never fully leave me – that’s not how grief worked. What had happened to me as a little girl had changed me, altered me on a chemical level, forged me into the woman I was becoming. But maybe it wouldn’t fight me so damn hard from now on. Maybe it would take up residence inside my soul – a scarred, clouded part of my essence – and let me breathe unhindered.
Strumming the last note, I
opened my eyes, growing nervous as I took in the utterly silent crowd.
Was I that bad?
Jeeze, I didn’t even get a sympathy clap.
Then, to my utter surprise, I saw people getting to their feet and
applauding wildly. Catcalls sounded from the bar area and I thought I heard Lexi screaming from somewhere in the back, but it was hard to tell over the rest of the cheers. Grinning, I hopped down from my perch on the stool, slung my guitar over one shoulder and waved to my new fans.
“Thanks, guys!” I called, walking off the stage to make way for the next performer. As I stepped back into the crowd to head for my table, I was im
mediately engulfed by a swarm of people eager to congratulate me on my performance. I laughed when several asked me where I performed locally, as they were eager to catch my next show.
I eventually made my way back to Lexi, who was jumping up and down in excitement. Squeezing me so tight I could barely breathe, she screamed in my ear.
“You were freaking amazing! Oh my god, Brooklyn. You could’ve heard a pin drop in here during your performance and I swear I saw a few people crying. You’re a rock star!” she exclaimed. Releasing me, she turned to face the people seated in the audience around us. “MY BEST FRIEND IS A FREAKING ROCK STAR!” She screamed at the top of her lungs, entirely too loudly for such a relaxed venue. I smacked her on the arm.
“Quit it, Lex! You’re embarrassing me. Not to mention yourself,” I laughed.
“I’m declaring myself your official musical agent,” she said, eyes distant with thoughts of our future fame and glory.
“Lexi,
don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself? You do realize that I’m still going to become a lawyer, right?”
Lexi snorted, grumbling under her breath about wasted talent and missed opportunities
. Oh well. Singing had always been just a hobby and though it recently may have become a therapeutic outlet, I doubted it would ever transition into a path to stardom. As exhilarating and enlightening as my performance had been, I didn’t see it going anywhere professionally.
A familiar, deep voice rasped into the microphone, immediately catching my attention. Butterflies erupted in my stomach as
my eyes drank in the sight of the beautiful dark haired man sitting on the stool I’d just vacated. His eyes scanned the room restlessly, as if seeking someone particular in the dark crowd.
“Well, I don’t think I’m going to be able to top that last performance—”
Did he mean mine?
“—but I’ll do my best. This song is dedicated to a friend I worried I’d lost for good. For a long time I thought it was impossible that this person might still exist out there,” he paused, clearing his throat and running a hand through his hair – a sure sign he was nervous. “But I’m happy to say that sometimes we get second chances in this crazy life. Sometimes the things we lose are returned to us. Sometimes, we’re lucky. So, yeah, enough of my bullshit ramblings. This is
The Scientist
by Coldplay.”
Finn
’s voice was hauntingly beautiful as he sang along with his acoustic guitar. He’d never looked more attractive, but I could tell by just a glance that something was wrong. There were circles under his eyes dark enough to rival mine before my daily Sephora-intervention; it was clear he hadn’t been sleeping. He looked utterly worn out and it set me on edge immediately.
As the lyrics washed over me, I wondered about his strange song dedication. Who was he talking about? It was probably irrational for me to feel jealous, considering there was nothing remotely romantic between
Finn and I. He’d made it clear on more that one occasion that he was strictly my friend and, with the exception of a drunken near-kiss in the bathroom at Styx, he’d never even implied that he found me attractive.
The man-
whore doesn’t even want you. Talk about an ego-bruiser.
I wasn’t too proud to admit that his lack of attention over the past week had stung. I hadn’t heard from him at all, and I couldn’t help but be reminded of the way I’d avoided him at the beginning of the semester.
Oh, how the tables had turned. How the mighty had fallen.
How many more clichés can I use in a row?
I was getting a
taste of my own medicine –
okay, that was the last one, I promise
– and, unfortunately for me, it was the disgusting store-brand, grape flavored liquid cough syrup my foster mom used to shove down our throats when we couldn’t sleep at night.
It was obvious that
Finn had chosen this song, one that cried out for redemption and second chances, purposefully. It was equally unobvious
why
he’d chosen it. The lyrics were clearly an apology, a plea for someone’s forgiveness – and I was near-desperate to figure out whose. Somewhere along the line, he’d started to matter to me.
Evidently, the feeling was not mutual.
But he’d been there for me last week after my breakdown. Granted, his jokes were so pathetic they could barely be considered consolatory. Still, if he needed someone to talk to, I would try not to be a coldhearted bitch for at least five minutes and offer him some comfort. I would be his friend.
As soon as he stepped off the stage, women
with too much makeup and too few clothes surrounded him. They reminded me of the seagulls that would swarm any flyaway scrap of food on the California beaches my mother had so often taken me to as a child. She’d called them
rats-with-wings
, laughing as she’d tossed yet another potato chip into the sky to increase their rabid fervor. Come to think of it, Finn could probably throw a dirty sock into this swarm of girls and they’d kill each other in the animalistic race to win it.
He was laughing, in his element as he soaked
up their attention. The sadness that had been etched onto his face as he performed had retreated back behind his eyes and that trademark panty-dropping smile. Or maybe I’d been seeing things.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to Lexi, who was watching me closely.
“You like him,” she said, surprise written across her face.
“No I don’t,” I snapped, forcing a laugh as if she was ridiculous to think such a thing. “And we’ve already discussed this, haven’t we?”
“No. We talked about you sleeping with him and tossing him aside, like you do all the others. Not that there have even
been
any others lately – but we’ll get back to that later.” She stared at me, as if trying to decode my brain with just the power of her eyes. “You
like
him. As in, you care about him. I never thought I’d see the day.” Her voice was laced with something like awe as she continued to look at me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lex. You know better than anyone that I don’t do relationships or commitments or even emotions.”
“Then why haven’t you been with anyone else since you met him? Explain that!” She stared at me, triumphant.
“You know, you’re right. It ha
s been too long,” I said, pushing back my seat and standing up. “I think I’ll go find someone to go home with right now.”
S
adness and regret instantly flashed in Lexi’s eyes. “I’m sorry I mentioned anything, Brookie. Stay with me,” she pleaded. “Don’t do this again.”
“Take my guitar home for me, ‘
kay?” I tossed over my shoulder, ignoring her as I turned to head for the bar. A quick glance toward the stage assured me that Finn was still busy with his adorning fans. With one blonde on each arm, he certainly wouldn’t be in need of my friendship tonight. I mentally scoffed at my earlier thoughts of comforting him; clearly, I’d been mistaken.
When I reached the bar, I singled out the guy who’d be taking me home within thirty seconds. It was a talent I’d possessed for years: one glance told me everything I needed to know about a person.
My bedmate for the night was an easy mark. He was at the bar laughing with two male friends, which told me he was laid-back and likely single. He was drinking a beer, so he was probably straight and wouldn’t be so hammered that he’d have any problems performing in the bedroom. His light green plaid button down was casual, but showed off the muscles in his broad back and mirrored the color of his irises.
I could have him back at his apartment, naked, within the hour if I played this right.
Approaching slowly, I made sure to ignore him as I walked up to the empty barstool next to his and leaned over the bar. I waved in the bartender’s direction to signal that I was ready to order, then pushed my dark curls over my shoulder in a gesture designed to appear impatient. If my approach alone hadn’t caught plaid-shirt boy’s attention, the fragrance of my shampoo would do the trick. I bought it on special order and it smelled like apples and cinnamon – something that, apparently, attracted boys like crack. I think its male-enticement abilities would be surpassed only by bacon-scented shampoo, and I was pretty sure John Frieda didn’t make that.
When the bartender reached me, I ordered a bottle of Sam Adams and paid him quickly. Turning around, I faced the stage and leaned back against the bar, taking a deep pull on my beer. I could feel the weight of plaid-shirt boy’s gaze on my profile as the cool bottle rested against my lips
and I swallowed slowly. The tip of my tongue lightly traced the glass rim, and I hid a smile as I heard him clear his throat roughly and shuffle his feet.
“Hey, I’m Landon,” he said, moving in front of me. “You were pretty amazing up there earlier.” He held out a hand for me to shake, smiling in a friendly,
I’d-like-to-see-what-color-your-panties-are
kind of way. His blond hair was lightly tousled and his eyes were gorgeous up close – green with flecks of hazel throughout.