A Mother Would Know (28)

There is a beat of silence before Suzanne says, “Well, I just wanted to check on you. Make sure you were okay.”

“I’ll survive,” I say with a shrug. “Not like it’s the first time I’ve been hungover, and it probably won’t be the last.”

“Yeah, right.” Another chuckle, only this time it’s lukewarm.

My muscles tighten.

“But...um...are you sure that’s all that’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” I chew on the end of one of my nails.

“It’s just you were acting kinda strange...” The sentence trails off as if she had planned to say more and then changed her mind.

“Oh, really?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Well, like I said, I had a little too much to drink.”

“No, it wasn’t that...um... I feel like...” She pauses. “Did you think you saw Mac?”

Heat rushes to the surface of my skin. “Oh, yeah, no, I just saw someone who looked a lot like him. Brought me back for a minute, I guess.”

“Seemed like it was more than that,” she says.

This is exactly the reason I’ve been avoiding Suzanne lately. She knows me too well.

“Have you thought about maybe talking to someone?” Suzanne adds before I can say anything to defend myself.

“Like a therapist?”

“There’s nothing wrong with seeing one.”

“I know,” I say. “I have seen one.”

“And you’ve talked about Mac’s death?”

“I mean, maybe not specifically.”

“I think it might be good for you to talk to someone about it.”

“I don’t know, Suzanne. It’s been ten years.”

“Exactly,” she says, and that simple word shoots through me.

But she doesn’t get it. No one does.

“I’m fine, Suzanne,” I say.

There’s no way I can sit in a therapist’s office and relive that awful night. Recount what I saw. What he did. What I did. Even all these years later, it feels like a fresh wound, gaping and oozing.

I see it at night when I lie in bed, playing out like a movie behind my eyelids. The memory so crisp and clear, it’s like it happened yesterday.

Our whole relationship feels that way. Sometimes I think that what I had with Mac was more real than anything else I’ve experienced. I had a life—a marriage and a family—with Darren, and yet my memories with him often pale in comparison to the ones involving Mac.

I’d had a crush on Mac from the minute I’d met him. I knew it was wrong. But I couldn’t help it. I was drawn to him like a catchy song. One that you don’t want to admit you like, but every time it comes on the radio, your body betrays you—dancing and singing along.

Mac was good-looking in an edgy, dangerous, almost confusing way. His features weren’t the kind usually associated with good-looking men. His jaw was too severe, his eyebrows bushy, his nose crooked, his eyes dark with a tiny scar above the left brow. But for some reason, all those things together worked. And not just for me. Girls fawned all over him at every show.

It was rare to meet a woman who didn’t think he was hot.

When we first started playing together, Mac and I did nothing but flirt. I told myself it was natural and innocent, not hurting anyone. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. It was leading to something. And if I’d been honest with myself back then, I would’ve admitted that I wanted it to.

We crossed the line about two years in. It was after a show. We were riding the high of the applause and compliments of the bar owner when he paid us. In the parking lot, I’d said goodbye to the guys and headed for my car. I’d almost gotten inside my vehicle when Mac ran after me.

“Val, you dropped this.” He was holding a glittery bracelet.

I glanced down at my wrist and then at the bracelet. “That’s not mine.”

“Oh. Sorry. It looked like something of yours.”

I laughed. “No, it doesn’t. I wouldn’t be caught dead in something like that. Too much glitter.”

“But you love glitter.”

“Correction: I love sparkle. Jewels. Diamonds, that kind of thing. Not cheap glitter.”

A bemused smile spread slowly across his face. “Got it. You have standards for your sparkle. No cheap glitter for this girl.” The smile vanished, replaced by Mac’s deep-thinking expression. He reached up to touch his chin. “That’s it. The missing lyrics for the song I’ve been working on.”

I laughed, knowing what song he was talking about. One we’d been struggling with about a girl ditching her ex to find true love.

“She’s got standards for her sparkle. Diamonds and jewels. Cheap glitter will never do,” he sang out.

“I like that,” I said slowly, repeating the last line, “Cheap glitter will never do.” And then I added, “That’s all she’s been offered by you.”

He was quiet a moment. “I feel like we had a line like that already, though.”

I bit my lip. “Maybe. I can’t remember all of the lyrics right now.”

“I’ve got them back at my place. Why don’t you come over, and we can hammer this out?” The words were right, professional even. Mac and I spent a lot of time writing songs together in a professional capacity. But never late at night after a gig.