Control (Songs of Submission #4)(26)

My skin burst into tingles and my throat closed. I couldn’t feel my fingertips. Then I remembered I was playing that song. Jonathan’s song. I hadn’t shown it to him or told him about it yet. Jessica would hear it. And she would know.

She would know.

I wasn’t ashamed of what I was doing with Jonathan, but letting her hear my fears as if I’d whispered them in her ear was sickeningly intimate. A cold trickle of regret ran down my back. I should never have made the thing, never written it down, never set it to Gabby’s music. Though I wasn’t hiding it from Jonathan, at the very least, I should have shown it to him before playing it publicly. I hadn’t even thought of that.

I sat down at the piano and touched the keys. No, I’d skip it. Play something else. Jerry wasn’t there, so no one would be the wiser. Rhee didn’t really care. I started playing. Yes, I’d hide behind Irving Berlin, then Cole Porter. I’d stay safe. I’d still paint them the colors of Jonathan. I’d still feed them his lust, his touch, his voice. But Jessica would never hear it because I was protected by dead men’s lyrics.

I was coming off “Someone to Watch Over Me,” the middle of my set, when I saw Jerry with two men at the bar. He tipped his glass to me. They weren’t sitting at the table. Stopping by, maybe? Well, shit. I’d have to play it.

With the lights in my face, blinding me to half the room, Jessica didn’t loom as large. After warming up with the standards I knew so well and hiding behind that shiny, black baby grand, I didn’t feel as vulnerable. I could play that song.

I could do it. I could belt it out. Fuck her. Fuck her to Sunday. Fuck her with the lights on. Fuck her f**k her f**k her. It was my room. My song. My audience. My rules.

Rule number one? Fuck her.

I hit the keys, owning them, and I launched into Jonathan’s song as though he was naked and I was jumping him.

We wove words under Popsicle trees,

The ceiling open to the sky,

And you want to own me

With your fatal grace and charmed words.

All I own is a handful of stars

Tethered to a bag of marbles that turns

Oh, her ears would burn off at the mention of Popsicle trees and a ceiling open to the stars but guess what?

Fuck her.

My questions and fears were pregnant with heated longing, a desire for encouraging answers, begging for appeasement. My list of acceptable and unacceptable behaviors became a list of exciting possibilities.

Will you call me whore?

Destroy me,

Make me lick the floor,

Twist me in knots,

Turn me into an animal?

Will I be a vessel for you?

Slice open our lying box

Through a low doorway for our

Shoulds and oughts.

Choose the things I don’t need,

No careless moments, no mystery.

And you need nothing.

My backward bend doesn’t feed.

And just to call to her, just because she’d hurt me, and just because I could, I changed the last chorus on the fly, turning questions into statements.

I will own you.

Tie you.

I will collar you

Hurt you,

Hold you, and take you.

You will be a vessel for me.

For all my inner ferocity, the song had to complement the rest of the set, so I didn’t scream or wail. I didn’t hit the top of my range, but the ragged emotion was there as I hit the last note at low, dinnertime volume. A whisper even. I moved right into “Stormy Weather.” The lights blacked out for half a second. Jerry and his buddies were leaving, blocking the spots. I felt a core of relief. I didn’t think I could deal with managing them and Jessica.

I finished my set, thanked my audience, looked humbled for the applause, and strode back to the dressing room with my chin up. I didn’t start shaking until I got the door closed and locked. My breath became ragged and my eyes filled. Jesus, f**k, what was she doing there? With Deirdre? Who was going for gold in the family Olympics, for f**k’s sake? God damn it. Which lie was incoming? Which bomb would she drop? I would stay in the dressing room. I’d tell Rhee I was too upset about Gabby to do the good-byes, and I’d stay in there until the bar closed.

That actually seemed like a viable plan, but when I scrolled through my contacts so I could text Rhee an apology, I slid past Debbie’s number. Her words came back to me as if whispered in my ear.

Be a woman of grace.

Yeah.

Maybe it was time to grow up. Maybe if I knew I wasn’t doing anything wrong and if I stood by my right to be with any man I liked, I didn’t have a reason to hide in a filthy dressing room.

I texted Rhee.

—I’m a little upset about Gabby—

She got right back with a bloop.

—Can I do anything?—

—If you could bring back two Jameson’s? One shot and one on the rocks for my nerves? And I’ll be out right after—

—Sure sugar—

I straightened my dress, wiped mascara from under my eyes, and reapplied my lipstick. A waitress came. I cracked the door to thank her for the drinks and remove them from her tray.

Once the door closed, I knocked back the shot. The other one was my prop. I looked in the mirror and tried out my customer service smile. Awesome. I was just smashing. And f**k her.

I went out to do my job. I entered the room and said a few hellos, smiling and graciously accepting compliments. Deirdre was at the bar. Jessica was alone at the table, half paying attention to her phone and half pretending she didn’t see me.