A Mother Would Know (72)

Memories of our relationship flew through my mind, all the familiar feelings flooding back as I bent down to set the notebook on the porch. I hated that this was the way things were ending. When I broke things off, I’d known it was the right thing to do, but I never took into consideration all I’d be giving up. Namely, the band.

Mac had said that it would be too painful to still tour and perform together. The other guys weren’t returning my calls. And Suzanne had heard that they were searching for a new lead singer. I’d been shocked at how fast they were moving on.

The original plan was that I’d participate in one last gig, and we’d tell them about my exit together. But then, in the middle of our rehearsal—while we were working on one of the love songs we’d written together—Mac stormed out.

“What’s going on?” I trailed after him, finding him out in the parking lot already lighting up a cigarette.

“I can’t do this.” He stuck the tip of the cigarette in his mouth, inhaled.

As he blew smoke up into the air, I said, “I know it’s hard.”

“Is it hard for you?” he snapped, flicking ash onto the ground. He bobbed his head toward me. “Look at you. At what you’re wearing.”

Stunned, I looked down at my tight jeans, low-cut leopard-print top and high-heeled boots. “I wear this all the time.” I always liked to rehearse in something similar to what I might wear on stage, especially high heels. I found that it helped me get a feel for movement and space.

“Exactly. You’re acting like nothing’s changed.”

I paused, bit my lip. “I don’t know what you want from me, Mac.”

“Clearly, you never did,” he said. Angrily, he tossed his cigarette on the ground, stomped it with his foot. “Right now, I want you gone.”

I recoiled as if slapped. “What?”

“I’ll cancel the gig. Tell the guys. Don’t worry about it.”

“But that’s not what we agreed on,” I said.

“Shit, Val, I can’t stand on a stage and sing love songs with you, okay? Not anymore.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You wanna go play house with your little family, then go. Do that.”

“Come on, Mac,” I pled. “Just one more gig.”

But he shook his head with a finality I could feel like a physical attack. “No, you made your choice. I’m done.”

I have no idea what he told the guys about me. About us.

When I’d gone inside to retrieve my stuff, I wanted to say something to get ahead of what he would tell them. But I was too shattered to come up with anything. So I mumbled something about not feeling well and left before they could catch me crying.

Looking back, I wish I’d been stronger.

It seemed unfair that I was the one losing everything. The least he could do was hear me out, let me plead my case. It’s not like the affair was one-sided. He was to blame as well. Surely, if I could deal with our breakup and be a professional, envision a future where we’d keep singing together, he could man up and deal with it, too.

With each thought, my anger mounted.

Scooping the notebook up, I stood and rapped on the front door a few times. Then I drew my hand back. Glanced around. Listened for the familiar sounds of Mac inside, stomping, singing, strumming. His house was small. Less than a thousand square feet. And usually, he had a couple of windows open. When a minute of silence passed, I knocked again.

His car sat idly in the driveway, so I knew he was home.

“Mac!” I called out. “It’s me. I brought your notebook.”

Still nothing.

“C’mon, Mac.” The front curtain was still drawn. Annoyed, I made my way over to the side window. “We need to talk.” I was getting more upset with each passing second.

But it was quiet. No movement or sound at all. I peeked in, since the window was open a hair, the blinds kinked on one side. His covers lay in a ball at the foot of the bed, his sheets wrinkled. A few clothes hung over a chair. Maybe he was in the shower or something. I listened for the sound of water running but didn’t hear it.

“Mac!” I called again. “C’mon, I know you’re in there.”

Still, no response.

I returned to the front door, pounded on it again. At that point I was so irritated I almost tore his notebook into pieces and stormed off in a huff. But then I’d lose any chance of ever getting back into the band.

Mac had been our unofficial leader from the beginning. Not because we’d appointed him or because he was the most talented musically. It was because the band had initially been his idea. He was the one who pulled it all together. The guys would never even consider letting me back in if Mac didn’t sanction it.

But even with our history, I figured I might be able to talk him into letting me back in. Flight of Hearts was Mac’s life, and together we were good. We’d come so far. I couldn’t imagine him letting all that go.

I banged on his door a few more times. Harder than I probably should have, but I was mad. I knew what he was doing, and why he was doing it. And I wasn’t amused.

“I get it.” I finally dropped my arm and shouted through the closed door. “You’re trying to punish me, and maybe I deserve it. But the guys don’t. The band doesn’t.” Sighing, I stooped down, thinking I should just leave the notebook. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t answering. He wanted the notebook. Not me.