Abandon Read online

  I swallow hard and try not to breathe too loudly as I let her rub my hands with the slippery soap. I close my eyes, trying not to let what I think is happening inside my pants actually happen. Not now. Please not now.

  “Does that feel good?” she whispers and I shake my head fiercely. “It’s okay if it feels good.”

  She wraps her fingers around my thumb and moves her fist slowly up and down. I want to scream for her to stop, but there are people sitting in tables outside the door. What will Elaine do if I make a scene? I’m not at home where Grandma will keep me safe.

  “Do you have to use the potty?” the blonde asks as she reaches for the button on my jeans.

  “No,” I say firmly as I push her hand away. I can’t let her feel that thing growing in my pants. “Stop. Please stop. I just want to go home. Please.”

  “Tristan, your mommy said you have to do this or she won’t take you home.” She reaches for my button again, but this time she waits until I finally move my hand away. “That’s a good boy. You’ll like this. I promise.”

  Chapter Three

  “Get up.” The redhead in my bed – I think her name is Beth – rolls over and reaches for me. I slide out of bed and yank the comforter off in one swift motion. “I said, Get up. You have to leave. I have plans.”

  “What the fuck?” she squeals as she reaches for the sheet to cover up her naked body. I grab the sheet first and yank it off the bed. “You’re an asshole!”

  I chuckle. “Like you didn’t already know that.”

  She scrambles out of bed and quickly gets dressed. “One of these days your dick is gonna fall off or somebody’s gonna break your black heart. I’m just sorry I won’t be there to see it.”

  “Yeah, I’m really sorry for your loss.”

  I follow her downstairs, smiling as she continues to lob insults at me. I open the front door for her to leave and she looks as if she’s going to spit in my face. It wouldn’t be the first time a girl has done that. But she doesn’t spit; she just stares at me for a moment before she delivers her final blow. “You were talking in your sleep,” she says with a grin.

  I suppress the urge to stop her as she steps over the threshold and sets off down the gravel path to the roundabout where her Toyota is parked next to my Lightning. Despite the fact that she just pissed me off, I still stare at her ass until she’s inside her car, but I don’t bother watching her car drive away.

  So she heard me talking in my sleep? Big fucking deal. I’ve heard that same line from other chicks a dozen times. Not a single one of those girls sold her story. Chris Knight’s bassist isn’t a juicy enough target for the tabloids, even though I’ve given them plenty of material over the years. And what’s the worst thing she could have heard?

  My stomach churns with the thought of the worst thing I could have said.

  The shame morphs into anger and I punch the inside of the door. “Fuck!” The pain shoots through my knuckles and the burn of broken skin is instantaneous.

  I am not broken.

  I close my eyes and repeat this mantra in my head a few times before I make my way into the kitchen. My cell phone buzzes on the granite countertop and I glance at the screen before I pick it up.

  “What?”

  “Xander said we have to be at Reverb in an hour.”

  Chris’s voice has an edge to it, like he’s in pain but he’s trying not to let it show. Typical Chris, putting Claire’s and the band’s needs before his own. Chris broke his leg a couple of months ago – a grotesque compound fracture – and since they cut off the cast a couple of weeks ago, the guy hasn’t stopped running around like a crazy person. He’s desperately trying to find a studio in the Triangle where we can record the new album. He even got the producer to agree to let us make this second album totally acoustic. All so he won’t have to go to Los Angeles to record and leave Claire behind for the second time.

  There are only two persons’ needs that come before mine and I promised Molly and Grandma Flo I’d be there this morning. So I’ll be there at the studio in an hour, but I’m going to see them first. If Chris and Jake have to wait a while then that’s Chris’s problem for calling me at the last minute.

  “I’ll be there,” I reply, then I end the call before Chris can ask me about my plans.

  He knows I visit Molly and Grandma on Sundays, but he doesn’t know that I’m visiting them today on a Monday. And I don’t want him to know. Chris isn’t the type to ask questions, but if he finds out why I’m visiting my grandmother today, he’ll give me that look – the I’m-not-going-to-say-anything-but-I’m-secretly-pitying-you look. And I really don’t want him to talk to Jake or Claire about this. I don’t need anyone’s sympathy.

  I take a five-minute shower and speed over to my grandmother’s house in Raleigh. It’s thirty minutes from my house in Cary. As soon as I had enough money, I moved the fuck out of Raleigh. That city and that house are ripe with bitter memories. Plus, being out here means I don’t have to get weekly visits from Elaine asking for money.

  I paid to have Grandma’s house renovated last January while we were on tour, so Molly wouldn’t have to change schools. I wanted her to come live with me in Cary when I bought this place in August, but she didn’t want to leave her friends behind. She’s thirteen; she doesn’t understand that leaving her friends behind in order to get away from Elaine is in her best interest. Unfortunately, this also means I haven’t had Molly or Grandma over to see my house yet. I can’t risk them giving Elaine my address. Like me, Elaine can be very convincing.

  I pull up in front of the yellow two-bedroom house I grew up in and take a deep breath to prepare myself for this visit. Throwing open the car door, I’m not surprised when I hear the squeak of the front door opening and Molly’s shoes slapping the pavement. As soon as I close my car door, she’s rounding the front of my car.

  “Gah! I missed you!” she squeals as she throws her arms around my waist.

  I chuckle as I wrap my arms around her shoulders and squeeze her tightly. “I missed you too, Moon.”

  I gave Molly the nickname “Moon” when she was three years old. She has a round, moon-like face that shines like moonbeams. And she used to beg me to read Goodnight Moon to her every night, until I turned twelve the next year and everything changed.

  It wasn’t until I met Chris in my seventh-grade math class that I realized I wasn’t doomed to follow in my mother’s footsteps. When he asked me if I wanted to start a band, he didn’t know he was offering me a key out of my self-made prison.

  As soon as I kiss her forehead, she starts to sob. “Why are you crying?” I ask, though I already know.

  Grandma Flo is sick. Since the day she took me away from Elaine when I was nine years old, she’s been stronger than the rock this house was built on. But it turns out she’s only human, after all. Three weeks ago, she was diagnosed with stage-four breast cancer after a routine mammogram showed a small lump the size of a grape. The tumor had nestled in at the base of her breast and attached itself to her chest wall where it began to spread to her left lung and lymph nodes around her neck and under her arm. Once the cancer reaches the lymph nodes, where the lymphatic fluid then carries the cancer cells to other places in the body, there’s not much that can be done. The doctor labeled Grandma as T2 N2 M1 – Stage IV. A bunch of gibberish that basically means she’s going to die.

  “I don’t want to be alone,” Molly whispers against my chest and I grit my teeth against all the anger that naturally follows moments like these.

  “You’re not going to be alone. People with stage-four cancer can live for several years.”

  She lets go of me and walks toward the house without replying.

  I only have ten minutes, so I bound toward the house and open the door for Molly. She walks in with her head down, unimpressed with this gesture. I follow her in and my stomach clenches at the sight of the living room. I had everything renovated to get rid of the memories, but you can’t hide pain that runs this deep under a c
oat of beige paint.

  Molly looks over her shoulder at me as she plods into the kitchen. “She’s in bed.”

  I trudge through the hallway and slowly push open the door to Grandma Flo’s room. She’s asleep, curled up on her side with the blanket clutched tightly beneath her chin. Her short grayish-brown hair falls over her face as her chest rises and falls slowly. I kneel down next to her bed and reach for her.

  Her eyebrows scrunch together as she tries not to cry. “I’m sorry,” she whispers and her face forms an expression of unimaginable anguish.

  I don’t have to ask her why she’s sorry. She’s apologizing because she thinks she’s not going to live long enough to take care of Molly until she’s an adult. That’s bullshit.

  “Don’t you apologize to me,” I reply, brushing her hair away from her soft cheek. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

  “I’m so tired. I couldn’t sleep last night worrying about what’s going to happen.”

  “I’ll go so you can get your rest. I have to be at the studio in a few minutes. I just wanted to check on you.”

  In typical Grandma Flo style, she delivered the news of her diagnosis a couple of weeks ago as if she were merely remembering something she needed me to pick up from the grocery store. Don’t forget the eggs, and, by the way, I’m dying of cancer. I could hear from the weariness in her voice that she wasn’t feeling well when I called her yesterday to cancel my usual Sunday visit. But I had just finished taking five body shots of tequila off of Beth’s creamy white naked skin. I was in no condition to rush over here to check on her last night.

  I stand from Grandma’s bed and hand her the box of tissues from her nightstand. “Don’t worry about Molly.”

  “What about you?”

  I think back to the last time I lived with Elaine nine years ago. I swore I’d never let anyone control me the way she did the summer before seventh grade. I also swore I’d never take my grandmother’s love for granted.

  “You know I’ll be fine.”

  She doesn’t look convinced as she dabs a tissue at the corner of her blue eyes. Grandma Flo insists I need to settle down and let someone in. I almost did that with Ashley and I ended up getting my heart stomped on. No, not stomped on. Completely fucking extinguished. I’m not about to settle down any time soon. Besides, the only girls who want to settle down with me are the gold-diggers.

  I kiss her forehead before I head out to my car. I turn the key in the ignition and lower the stereo as I try to compose myself. Maybe I should settle down if it would give my grandmother peace of mind in her final days. Settling down with a girl to please your dying grandmother sounds like something that would happen in some tragic love story that surely ends with death and at least one shattered heart. But I can’t deny the appeal. I could pretend to be someone I’m not for a few months to make Grandma happy. Hell, I’ve been pretending to be someone I’m not for the past nine years. A few months will be a piece of cake.

  It’s settled. I’m going to get myself a girlfriend, maybe even a fiancée. This shouldn’t be too difficult, especially since I already have a prime candidate in mind.

  Chapter Four

  I leave the recording studio with Senia’s phone number, even though Chris refused to give it to me. He has a bad habit of leaving his phone unattended in the control room. It didn’t take long to find Senia’s phone number, and I swiped Claire’s number as insurance, in case Senia tries to ignore my calls.

  I’m not one to chase girls. But I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t been thinking about Senia since our tryst outside the yogurt shop. When I asked her who she had been talking to on the phone, she pushed me off of her then quickly got dressed and left. I drove home licking the taste of her and the yogurt from my lips. I kept thinking back to all the times we’d almost had sex. Then I began to remember all the times I’d tried to have sex with her and she rejected me because she was in a relationship.

  The worst memory I have of Senia has to be the time we almost had sex in the pub restroom in September. It was almost three months ago, but I still cringe when I think of the words I said to her. I actually said, “You’ll do,” as we were tearing at each other’s clothes, as if I were settling for her. That’s the kind of thing I’m used to doing: lashing out at someone who’s rejected or hurt me in the past. I have to be prepared to approach things differently with Senia this time. I have to prepare myself for the inevitable rejection and I have to resist my desire to hurt her when it comes.

  Pursuing Senia will also be complicated by her friendship with Claire and my friendship with Chris. It may also be the one shot I have at a normal, convincing relationship.

  I climb into the driver’s seat of my car and shoot her a text that works with most girls, even though I have a strong suspicion that Senia is not like most girls.

  Me: I was thinking about you while I was in the studio today.

  It’s not a lie. I was thinking about her while I was hurriedly scrolling through the contacts on Chris’s phone searching for her number. I tuck the phone into my pocket then peel out of the Reverb parking lot. By the time I pull into the driveway in front of my house in Cary, I’m certain that I’ll have a response to my text.

  I slide out of the driver’s seat and slam the door before I activate the alarm. Slipping the phone out of my pocket, I see the notification that I have four text messages. I smile as I unlock my phone and navigate to the messaging app.

  Molly: Grandma said you don’t have to come over tomorrow. Her insurance company is sending a van.

  Me: Tell her to cancel the van. I’ll be there at 11 like I said.

  I open the next message and I’m not surprised to see it’s from Jenny.

  Jenny: My roommate is visiting family in Vermont. Want to come over?

  I met Jenny at the show we played in Durham last month. Her roommate hates me, which makes Jenny perfect. This means she has to keep me at a distance. Plus, she can do some pretty amazing things with her mouth. Normally, I’d jump on the chance for an easy fuck like Jenny, but something about waiting for Senia’s text makes me hesitate.

  Me: Maybe some other time.

  The next text is from Chris, threatening to feed me to Rachel’s Aunt Maddie if I text Senia. Rachel is Jake’s girlfriend who became his fiancée last week. Not many people know that Rachel and Jake met in high school band class. Of course, Jake played the snare drum. Though Rachel grew up playing the piano, her mom made her attempt to take up the saxophone that year. Jake told me that he once caught her practicing a Kenny G song in her bedroom. Rachel threatened bodily harm if I ever tell anyone about this.

  I take it, from Chris’s text, he must have found the selfie I left on his phone today. The last text is from Rachel warning me that if I’m late to tomorrow’s recording session she’ll poison me slowly. Considering Chris rolled into the studio later than I did, he probably received an even more colorful version of this text. I don’t know why the fuck Jake lets her be such a bitch to everyone. I would never allow my girl to bust my friends’ balls like that.

  The one time I called Jake out on this, it was Chris who answered for him. “Rachel is only saying exactly what we’re all thinking.” Chris may be like a brother to me and he may be the wisest asshole when it comes to charming the ladies, but he doesn’t know shit about controlling them. Whether they admit it or not, women want to be dominated. They want to be owned.

  Except for Senia, it seems, because she still hasn’t responded to my text.

  When I enter the house, Lily the cleaning lady is just gathering up her cleaning supplies and her vacuum cleaner to leave. I walk past her without acknowledging her presence and head straight for the kitchen. It smells like that lemon-scented cleaner she uses. I walk past the dining area and through the French doors onto the veranda.

  I bought this house in September because I wanted to be far enough from Raleigh that I wouldn’t have to worry about running into Elaine. Also, I wanted to be far enough that Grandma Flo an
d Molly wouldn’t try to track me down and pay me any surprise visits. I’ve been living in this house more than two months and I can’t decide what makes me feel worse: the fact that Molly and Grandma still don’t know where I live or the fact that they haven’t tried to figure it out.

  I head past the outdoor dining table where I’ve made at least a half-dozen girls come until they were practically unconscious. Removing the metal grate from in front of the stone fireplace, I reach my hand inside and feel around over the rough stone. My hand hits the screw jutting out the inner surface of the chimney and my fingers follow the chain that hangs loosely from the screw. I pull the necklace off the screw and ball up my fist around it before I take a seat on one of the cushioned deckchairs.

  My fist closes tightly around the gold chain with the heart pendant as I gaze out across the vast expanse of green grass behind the house that stretches out farther than my eyes can see. It’s been four years since Ashley admitted to cheating on me and threw this necklace at my face. I don’t know why I’ve kept it, other than to hold on to a reminder that relationships aren’t worth the trouble. And the sickening suspicion in the pit of my gut that I’m just as worthless.

  Leaning forward in the chair, I slowly open my fist. The gold is covered in soot, which coats the palm of my hand in dark striations that crisscross my skin. I stand up and chuck the necklace out onto the grass, so far that I’m certain it lands on my neighbor’s property.

  Good. It’s someone else’s trouble now.

  Chapter Five

  Three days later

  “Elaine called this morning,” Grandma says as she drops the thawed turkey carcass into a bucket filled with ice and her special brine; a mixture of water, white wine, honey, salt, and various spices, which she drowns the turkey in the night before Thanksgiving. The tinny sound of Christmas music is playing from a clock radio on the counter as she leans over to pick up the bucket, which must weigh over forty pounds now with the turkey in it.

  I reach down and take the bucket out of her hands. “You shouldn’t be cooking. You should be resting.” I don’t bother acknowledging her comment about Elaine calling. She already knows how I feel about that. I don’t want to know about anything to do with her.

  “I’m not dead yet. I can’t just lie there and feel sorry for myself. Put it on the counter.”

  I heave the bucket onto the quartz countertop and watch as she begins pulling ingredients out of the fridge and the cupboards to make apple pie. She’s wearing one of the many checkered blue and white aprons she makes by hand. Grandma Flo hasn’t worked in twelve years, since Molly and I came to live with her. She used to live modestly off her savings and the life insurance money she received after Grandpa Ivan passed. Now I support her, though she refuses to buy or use more than she needs.

  She grew up with very little in a different time when nothing was wasted and people helped their neighbors. It wasn’t until she got married and Elaine was in school that she decided to get a job and be a bit more independent – less traditional. Grandma insists that the reason Elaine turned to drugs shortly after I was born was because she worked outside the home and Elaine spent a lot of time alone. It’s a decision she has never stopped regretting. She never wanted Molly or me to feel like she was too busy for us. Now, all I can think of as I watch her sifting the salt into the flour is that she’s been too busy for herself.

  I pull a chair out from the kitchen table and move all the ingredients she just placed on the counter onto the table. She shakes her head as I hold the chair out for her, but she reluctantly takes a seat. I grab the bowl of apples and she smiles as I begin peeling them for her.

  “Don’t forget to squeeze some lemon juice on the apples so they don’t brown,” she warns me.

  “I can’t believe I’m making a damn apple pie.”

  “You should put on an apron. I’m sure you’ll catch some girls if you post a photograph of that on the Facebook.”

  I grab a lemon out of the fruit bowl on the counter and cut it in half to squeeze some juice over the peeled apples. “You’d better not tell anyone I did this,” I say as I kiss the top of her head. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Do you need me to bring anything back?”