Page 59 of Bleeding Heart
When Daveigh goes back to her clinic, I take over helping Cris clean. Then we go back outside and Cris suggests driving a utility vehicle to the edge of the property where he needs to inspect some vines. Since my oversized limbs have been tucked into a car, I prefer to stretch my legs and propose walking.
“Do you ever regret giving up your dreams?” I ask him about halfway there.
Cris pauses in his steel toe work boots. “I didn’t give up my dreams when my wife died. Sure, I put some on hold. But I wanted to raise my son and have someone to share my life with. I wanted a family. I wanted to write songs.”
“You stopped performing.”
“My ass I did. Whenever I could get a sitter, I played at the local bar.”
He leans against a wood post. I do the same.
“That’s not exactly the Hollywood Bowl.” Where the night before Liz’s accident the record exec’s promised the band was headed once we’d signed the contracts. After her funeral, Cris refused. That’s when I told him to go fuck himself.
“Does the venue make a difference?” he asks.
“Hell, yeah.”
Cris knows the vibe is different playing for a bigger crowd. Why is he arguing with me?
“Okay, so to you it makes a difference. It isn’t like I’ve forgotten the beat in my chest and the pulsing of a crowd. But I also remember Liz’s reaction when she heard us, and the first time I played for Daveigh. For me, it was the intimacy and the connection. Sharing my soul. My heart bleeding out through my voice. Could I have had an amazing run on a big stage along with you and the rest of the band? Hell, yeah. Except, when it comes down to brass tacks, I’ve still created an amazing life that fulfilled the dreams I had. It’s not the same as what any of us envisioned in our twenties. But that’s part of the journey, right? Figuring out what drives you to make fulfilling that dream important. I hate to break this to you, Jake, but the person who gave up on music when Liz died was you.”
I hate the level of truth my former bandmate is laying on me. At first, our bassist grumbled that his only option was giving guitar lessons while he searched for another band. However, he later opened a vintage guitar shop that enabled him to jam with some of our idols.
Me?
Less than a month after Cris departed for Kingsbrier, I trudged back to Brighton. My father had just brought my mother to her knees. After witnessing two strong couples implode, passion for anything was lost on me. Fidelity, too, as I saw both Cris and Caroline crumbling under the weight of their failed relationships.
Unless I was going to let everything my mother fought for to be for naught, taking over the club seemed like the only option I had left.
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“Jake, I can explain.” Paisley yanks the bodice of her gown over her front. I don’t want to look at her, but I do.
“I threw the rock.” My stomach tumbles and my anxiety heightens.
Don’t tell her that!My subconscious screams.You fool. You’ll lose her!
I try to snap out of it. But filled with repressed memories, my mind isn’t finished with what it has to say.I don’t wanther. I don’t loveheranymore.
I expect a thousand lashes from the pain in Paisley’s eyes. Nothing but her blank stare greets me. It’s as if my girlfriend accepted that I’d hurt her and had already put defenses in place. She’s not crying when I clearly remember seeing her cry. When I made her cry again. Because I betrayed her trust.
Why isn’t Paisley fighting me? Why isn’t she asking me what I’m telling her with shrill incredulity? The inflections in her voice, her exclamations of surprise and excitement, make Paisley… Paisley. I need her to scream for the truth of why I’d be an asshole who pitched a stone through her boutique’s window and then cover it up.
But she doesn’t because she knows I conned her into our relationship. Finding out I’ve duped her into believing there was the slightest chance I could be a good guy is the other shoe dropping.
I wake up on all fours as if I’m ready to scramble off the mattress at Paisley’s place. I’m in the same position I’d been in right as I was about to snatch my clothes off the floor. All it took for me to turn back into the asshole that I am was seeing her scar from a heart surgery.
I fucking ran out on the runaway bride who ran away from her wedding to a cardiac surgeon. There’s some irony.
I lean back on my haunches, patting from my bare chest down, slapping the salutation under my boxers that my dick is giving to the wee morning hours. My fists return to my other head and press into my temples.
Get a grip!
This isn’t the first time since landing at Kingsbrier almost a week ago that I’ve dreamed about that night. Once before, Paisley did cry in my dream. My thumb ached to brush away the tears, but the awful things I’ve done were paralyzing. I was unworthy when we met and my actions prove I am still.