The Redemption(7)

The curtains puff like sails of a ship as the wind slips in through the small crack of the open door. The weather is turning from cool to warm as spring settles in, reminding me that the grass needs to be mowed again. I should call the lawn service in the morning and get them back on a regular schedule.

My mind can’t rest despite how much I wish to sleep, so I roll over and grab the journal I’ve come to rely too much on and begin writing.



Dear Cory,

The night is always the hardest—nightmares plague my sleep. I go to bed hoping for the best, but the best has become the worst.



Closing my eyes, I squeeze my lids tight, hoping to stop the inevitable. But when I release them, the tears I’ve become too acquainted with are there for their encore—night after night the memories come back.



I see you in my dreams. I’m transported back to when we were seventeen and I taught you how to play guitar. The way you looked at me, the way you learned the notes by studying my fingers, and when I caught you stealing glances… this perfect moment in our lives has become a nightly haunting for me. In the last two years, my memories have stilted my ability to play guitar without you. My loneliness is most exposed at this dark hour.

I miss you so much. All the time.





XO


Sitting up, I grab for his pillow beside me and hold it to my nose, inhaling. His scent is gone. It used to be strong and comforted me when he traveled. His smell has left me, just like he did. So I throw the pillow across the room.

The curtains blow again, so I get up and slam the door shut before stepping over the pillow and crawling back in bed. The tightening in my chest starts to ease; the heartache of losing my soulmate lessens as I begin to drift off.





“I’m tired, Neil. Can you please have some cereal this morning instead?” I look over at my seven-year-old and my heart momentarily stops altogether. At least once a day this happens. Neil has my eye coloring and olive skin, but his hair and the way he smiles is just like Cory. I turn back to the counter quickly before I get lost, staring at him ‘again’ as he puts it. He doesn’t even have to beg, these kids own me. “Fine, I’ll make you scrambled eggs.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he replies, a drumstick beating against the top of his thigh.

A sleepy little guy leans his head against my leg, one of Cory’s T-shirts in hand. It’s become a security blanket for him. With my free hand, I rub the top of his light brown hair, and say, “Good morning, buddy.”

My three-year-old looks up and says, “Morning.” His blue eyes flash with an inner happiness.

“Are you hungry, CJ? I’m making eggs.”

He nods as he makes his way to the table. I finish the morning routine and take them to their schools. After drop-off, I head back home and shower. Working for the band allows me flexibility in time management and attire, so I pull on jeans, a cream colored blouse, and flats before heading out with the contracts I printed off last night.

Twenty-minutes later, I knock on the door. Dex answers, no greeting. He just sways his arm in front of him allowing me entrance. With little eye contact, I walk past him, and say, “I see the month on the road hasn’t sullied your sparkling personality.”

“It’s before noon,” he replies with an annoyed sigh. “It better be f*cking good.”

We’ve never quite recovered from that night. He has no patience for me, but I deserve that. Looking back, I wish I could change things, so many things.

I walk to the kitchen and sit down on a barstool. This is what we do—we can be around each other, but we tend to pretend the other isn’t there—parallel universes. When it’s just the two of us, like it is now, that’s impossible to do. The coffee machine is started and he stares at the mug. I’m sure to keep from looking at me. “What brings you by, Rochelle?” He glances my way briefly before returning his gaze to the brewing coffee again.

“I need you to sign off on these contracts. The other guys all signed them last week when you were in Toronto. Why didn’t you? You don’t like the deal?”

“I don’t understand the deal—”

“Oh. No problem. I can explain. So the video game characters will be modeled—”

He turns suddenly, his glare burning into me. “I understand that part. What I don’t get is when we became that band.”

“What band?”

“The one that sells out. The one that does video games and deodorant ads.”

Tilting my head, with a smirk I say, “You’ve never been offered a deodorant ad.”

“Fuck that! You know what I mean.” He walks to the large window that overlooks the patio and pool. “When did it stop being about the music?”

“It’s still about the music, Dex. The band is changing, growing, evolving. There’s a vision we all have that will set you guys up for life. So if one day you develop carpal tunnel and can’t play or Johnny has throat issues and can’t sing, you’ll not worry about money. This is about The Resistance, the brand.”

“When you walked into that club on Sunset, you didn’t ask me if I was interested in building a brand.” With his back to me, he says, “You asked me if I would play drums for a band you put together that had a gig down on Ventura in some dive pizza parlor.” He turns around with his arms crossed over his chest. “Did I go?”