Pieces of You Page 2

  With her drink in hand, her eyes scan the crowded bar. “Eddie said this pub was on the corner of Drunk and Loser. I’d say it’s on the corner of Getting Over and Your Ex.”

  “I think your jokes are becoming as bad as Adam’s.”

  “That’s impossible. Adam’s cheese-level is off the charts.” She grimaces as if she’s in pain. “You have such a cool boyfriend. Why did I get the cheating douche-nozzle? Do I deserve this?”

  Oh, no. She hasn’t even taken her first sip and I already sense a drunken meltdown coming.

  “Don’t even think something like that. You always said there was something a little off about Eddie. Remember the time he asked you to do that thing in the shower?”

  I can’t even say it aloud. It’s too gross.

  “All guys have at least one weird fetish,” she says, looking a bit hurt that I’ve insulted Eddie.

  I want to tell her that Adam doesn’t have any weird fetishes, that I know of, but it seems I’m going to be standing on the corner of Eddie is a Douche-nozzle and Eddie is a God tonight. I lean my back against the bar and consider ordering a water, when a hand waving in the distance catches my attention. It’s Tristan, Chris’s bass player, best friend, and an even bigger douche-nozzle than Eddie. He’s sitting at a booth with his arm around a blonde that looks somewhat familiar, like I’ve had her in a class or something.

  “Is that Tristan?” Senia asks.

  Tristan tried to hook up with Senia at a Memorial Day barbecue last year. Tristan, who can drink more than anyone I know without getting drunk, didn’t hesitate to challenge Senia to a game of Quarters. And they almost had sloppy sex on the bathroom counter until Senia threw up on his shoulder.

  “Let’s go say hi,” Senia says as she grabs my arm and hauls me through the crowd.

  As we approach, Tristan’s gray eyes are locked on my face. Tristan has always made me uncomfortable. When Chris and I were together, I would often catch him staring at me when Chris wasn’t around. The problem with Tristan is that he doesn’t stare at girls when he wants to fuck them. He’s only been in one serious relationship since I’ve known him. When we were seventeen, Ashley and Tristan were together for over a year until she crushed his heart. I used to catch him staring at her the way I’ve often caught him staring at me. Chris once noticed it and nearly beat the shit out of him. I guess Chris isn’t around tonight.

  “Hello, Claire,” Tristan says in a smooth voice that’s just barely tinged with a New England accent from the first twelve years of his life spent in Maine. He removes his arm from around the blonde’s shoulders and runs his hand through his light-brown shoulder-length hair before he turns to Senia. “I remember you. How many of those have you had tonight?” he asks, glancing at the drink in Senia’s hand.

  “First one, but I’m willing to let you buy me another,” Senia responds.

  The blonde glares at Senia and the bad feeling I had about this bar just keeps growing.

  “Hey, Tristan, why don’t you introduce us to your friends,” I say.

  Tristan cocks an eyebrow as he stares at me and I try not to make a rude comment. As hot as Tristan is, I’ve never seen him as anything more than Chris’s friend, someone that I have to put up with.

  “Claire, this is Julie,” he says, nodding at the blonde on his left. “And these two sexy beasts are Ben and Abby.”

  My eyes widen at the mention of the name Abby. It’s a common name, but just hearing it makes me long for Abigail even more.

  Ben is sweet looking but sort of scrawny with messy brown bedhead hair and Abby is beautiful with her understated makeup and glossy brown curls pulled up into a perfectly tousled ponytail. They both smile and nod their heads.

  Tristan asks Julie to scoot over so I can sit next to him, but I quickly take the seat next to Ben and Abby so Senia can sit next to Tristan. Tristan casts a knowing glare in my direction and I roll my eyes so he knows I’m not impressed. Chris and I may not be together, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to jump on Tristan’s bandwagon.

  “Chris didn’t want to come out with us tonight,” Tristan says, a slightly bitter tone in his voice as if I’m responsible. “He had other plans.”

  I know Chris is in London, but I’ll play along. He’s trying to make me jealous, like I care if Chris is out with another girl.

  “That’s too bad. Sounds as if he went solo tonight,” I reply. I’m not sure if Tristan has gotten over Chris going solo last year, but judging by the unimpressed look on his face, I hit a nerve.

  He quickly recovers and smiles at me, the same smile he uses on stage to make the girls swoon. Chris has his own smile he uses on stage. He calls it his “crowd smile.” Chris’s crowd smile is a warm grin that tugs the left side of his mouth up just a bit further than the right. Tristan’s version is a bit more subtle, but just as sexy.

  I manage to ignore his stares and taunts for the next hour as everyone on his side of the booth gets shitfaced drunk. Ben, Abby, and I watch in a combination of amusement and horror as Tristan alternates between sloppily making out with Julie and whispering in Senia’s ear. Senia smiles in response and slides out of the booth.

  It’s time for me to intervene.

  I grab her wrist as Tristan slides out of the booth after her. “You cannot go anywhere with him.”

  “Chill out. He’s just escorting me to the restroom.”

  “I can do that,” I say as I slide out of the booth.

  Senia throws me a look like I’m being a total buzzkill. I don’t want to let her go anywhere with him. The last thing she needs right now is another heartbreak. But maybe she just needs to get this out of her system. Having meaningless sex after a breakup seems to be a ritual we’ve all come to accept as normal.

  I sit back down and Julie’s head is resting on top of the table. She’s passed out. I would sit next to her so that Abby and Ben aren’t squished together, but I’m afraid of what will happen if she wakes up and finds Tristan gone.

  About fifteen minutes later, Tristan returns without Senia. He slides into the booth as if nothing happened.

  “Where’s Senia?”

  “Is that her name?” Tristan replies, looking completely bored. “She’s still in the restroom.”

  “You’re such an asshole,” I mutter as I leave and barrel through the crowd toward the restroom sign in the corner.

  I make it to the door with the gold handle and shove it open. Four girls are standing in front of the mirror washing their hands and fixing their makeup and all the stalls are occupied.

  “Senia?”

  “What?” she calls back, and I can tell she’s crying.

  I knock on the door of the stall and she fumbles with the latch before it opens. She’s sitting on the toilet, fully-clothed, with a giant wad of toilet paper in her hands. Almost all her makeup is gone and caked on the toilet paper as tears stream continuously down her face.

  I lock the door behind me and kneel down in front of her. “What happened? Did Tristan do something to you?”

  She laughs then blows her nose. “I was so ready to do it,” she slurs, “but I just kept thinking, ‘That’s not how Eddie would kiss me. That’s not how Eddie would touch me.’ Then I started crying and he left. Totally pathetic.”

  “It’s not pathetic,” I say as I grab a clean bunch of toilet paper off the roll and exchange it for the filthy wad in her hands. “You and Eddie loved each other. Even if he did turn out to be a royal asshole, I know he loved you in his own way. It’s okay to feel lost right now, but you’re beautiful and smart and you will find someone else. And not Tristan, who’s an even bigger asshole than Eddie.”

  “Ugh. He is. But I must admit that he has a bigger… bass than Eddie.”

  “See? You’re still cracking jokes. You’re gonna be just fine.”

  She chuckles as she wipes off the rest of her eye makeup then looks up at me. “He said something horrible to me.”

  “Who said something horrible?”

  “Tristan. He said, ‘I
guess you’ll do.’”

  “He said that to you?!” I stand up, ready to storm out of the stall and give that douche a piece of my mind, but Senia grabs my arm.

  “No, you can’t say anything.”

  “Why?”

  She grimaces as she replies, “I think he was talking about you.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Let’s get out of here before I make an even bigger fool of myself.”

  Chapter Three

  Chris

  THIS IS MY SECOND TIME in London, and I never travel with a bodyguard overseas, but I think that policy has officially changed.

  As soon as I step out of the cab in front of the hotel on Warwick, I’m swarmed by five girls who are waiting for me at 7:30 a.m. Tristan and Jake didn’t come with me to play this gig in London. I booked this show for one reason and it has nothing to do with the current tour or my UK fans.

  I sign autographs for them while a girl with teased hair and too much eye shadow gently squeezes my bicep. Why do girls wear so much fucking makeup? I wonder if she put all that shit on her face before she came here thinking it would impress me. Another girl with auburn hair gazes at me with a dazed expression as I sign a picture of me she obviously ripped out of a magazine. I hand the picture back to her and she smiles.

  “I love you so much,” she says in a breathy English accent. “Relentless is my favorite song of all time.”

  This shit gets old. How do you pretend to be excited to hear the same phrase you’ve heard a million times before? I’m a musician, not a fucking actor.

  “Thanks. It’s really close to my heart, too. Have a great day, ladies.”

  I take off quickly before they can start jabbering. I make it to the room and pull my phone out of my pocket before I collapse onto the bed. The curtains are pulled tight so the room is nice and dark even though the morning sun is shining bright outside. I glance at my screen and scroll through the six new texts I’ve received since I left the airport. Nothing from Claire.

  If she wants me to stop texting her that’s exactly what I’ll do. And not because I know it will drive her nuts. I’ll do it because I’m willing to do pretty much anything to get her back.

  But also because it’ll drive her nuts.

  I text Tasha to let her know that Claire is okay with Tuesday for the meeting then ignore Tasha’s smiley response as I dial the number of a local tattoo artist I met during my last visit to London. Arthur is the only reason I’m here, so I’m super stoked when he picks up on the third ring.

  “Chris ‘Fucking’ Knight. Why the fuck are you calling me at this bloody hour?”

  “Hey, Art. You think you can squeeze me in today? Just a quickie. A name.”

  Claire doesn’t know I covered up the tattoo of her name I got on my shoulder blade three years ago. I can’t do much about that, but I can do something else even better. Not sure how or when I’ll get to show her this new one, but I’ll find a way.

  “It’s Sunday, mate. The shop’s closed. Stop by at eleven.”

  I should take a quick nap, but I’m too wired from the flight and the excitement of some new ink. I open the photo app on my phone and scroll to the bottom of the list of folders. I touch the folder labeled ‘CB.’

  The first photo is of Claire and me sitting on a piano bench. She’s smiling as I kiss her forehead. This was taken at a show in Toronto; one of the last shows she attended with me before we broke up. The next picture is of her sleeping on the sofa at our house. Her mouth is hanging open and she’s clutching the throw pillow in her fist. I close my eyes and lay the phone next to me on the bed because I’m finally starting to feel tired.

  Maybe I’m just exhausted from everything that’s happened the past three weeks. I had resigned myself to a life without Claire. I was certain she wanted nothing more to do with me. But nothing she says to me now can erase that kiss.

  I felt it in the curve of her mouth, the way we fit together, the way she leaned into me, seeking me. She still loves me and, despite the fact that she majorly fucked me over, she’s still the one and only future I’m certain of. Claire and I were made for each other. I’m determined to make her remember that.

  Chapter Four

  Adam

  THE FLIGHT IS UNCOMFORTABLE, BUT I’m sober by the time the plane hits cruising altitude. Just knowing that I’m going to be home soon, and that I had enough sense in me not to book that flight to Raleigh, fills me with relief. By the time I pull my truck out of the lot at Wilmington International, I’m feeling 100% back to normal.

  I always knew Claire would be my downfall.

  The twenty-minute drive home is spent in silence. I realize now why Claire always hated listening to the radio whenever we were together. Now I’m the one avoiding the radio, but I left my iPod in my backpack in the hotel room so I have to suffer in silence.

  It’s ridiculous how much I hate Chris’s music now. Just remembering how I bought his album and watched his videos fills me with shame. It’s alternative with a rock-blues edge, but it’s all washed out by pop vocals. At least, that’s what the article I read about him in Entertainment Weekly said.

  I smile a little as I remember that review in Entertainment Weekly.

  When I enter my apartment I’m hit with the scent of that fucking coconut-scented oil Claire put in a dish on my coffee table. It’s six in the morning. I have just enough time to take an hour-long nap before I check on Cora and head to Shell Island to teach the Sunday session. I take a five-minute shower then lie down in bed with my phone to shoot Claire a text.

  Me: Knock, knock.

  Claire: Who’s there?

  Me: Me… in five days unless I can get this fucking time machine to work.

  Claire: Guess what I’m doing?

  Me: Lying naked in bed?

  Claire: Close. I’m changing into my pajamas. I just got home. Senia broke up with Eddie and made me go out with her. It did not go well.

  I trust Claire, but it seems like the universe is pounding the hundred-mile wedge between us deeper into the earth every day.

  Me: Is she ok? Are you ok?

  Claire: She’s passed out. I didn’t drink, but I’m about to pass out too.

  Me: Sleep tight, babydoll.

  Claire: I’ll call you when I wake up.

  I wake up from my nap and head over to Cora’s apartment feeling much more relaxed now that I know I’ll be hitting the breaks soon. I knock on her door and it takes her almost ten minutes to answer. Though Claire and I both have keys to Cora’s apartment, we try not to barge in unless it’s obvious Cora can’t make it to the door.

  The door swings open and she’s already walking away toward her recliner. “Tina’s coming over today. She’s rescheduling all her patients this week; something about a birthday party on Tuesday. I think she’s lying.”

  “Tina’s always lying,” I say as I shut the door and make my way into the kitchen to check on the things Tina, Cora’s caregiver, never checks on; the things Claire taught me to check on when we first met. “Do you have anyone coming to look at the apartment this week?”

  The apartment below me has only been empty for three weeks, but I’m going to have to sneak some extra funds into my rent check if Cora doesn’t find a new tenant soon. I can’t let her go broke just because Claire went back to school. After all, even though I’m pretty miserable over it, I am the one who encouraged her to go. I have to accept responsibility for the emptiness of Claire’s old apartment, and the void it’s left in Cora’s bank account as the landlady of this building. Of course, paying double the rent will cut into my savings, but I can do it for a few months—for Cora and Claire.

  Everything is in order in the kitchen, but when I enter the living room Cora is already leaning back in the recliner with her eyes closed. For a moment I fear the worst.

  “Cora?”

  She waves me off. “Go home, honey. I’m not up for any fun and games today. All I can handle right now is a long senior citizen siesta. Tin
a will be here soon. Go do your water tricks.”

  “You sure? I can hang out if you need some company. My class doesn’t start for ninety minutes.”

  “Get out of here before I sick Bigfoot on you.”

  Cora’s been more tired than usual lately. Tina says it’s normal for someone her age to have bouts of lethargy. I don’t like to think of Cora as any age, but I suppose there are certain truths one has to come to terms with when you reach the age of eighty-six. I haven’t told Claire. As far as she knows, Cora’s as spunky as ever. She doesn’t need anything else to worry about.

  I make it to Shell Island an hour before class so I immediately jog out across the sand, surfboard under my arm, to get a feel for the surf. The water is choppy—it’s hurricane season—but I paddle out and chill on my board for a while as I watch the waves break on the shore.

  The water ebbs beneath me and I think of Claire’s crazy meditation habit. It’s not much different from my need to surf. I can’t function if I’ve gone too long without immersing myself in the water, without feeling the power of the water pushing me. Surfing is a healthy addiction, like meditating.

  Today I quit smoking. For good.

  I leave everything in the water today. I should save something for my students, but they’re such beginners I don’t need much energy to teach them how to stand on a board in the sand. I start a new group of students today, even though I won’t be around next week to continue. Jason will pick up where I leave off. The first day is always the easiest.

  I shake the ocean out of my hair as I come out of the water. A couple of girls in bikinis are standing next to Jason, my boss and the lead surf instructor at the academy. The girls smile and the shorter one whispers something in the other one’s ear as they watch me approach.

  “What’s up, bro?” I say to Jason with a nod of my head.

  Jason is thirty and still single so I’m used to the young female students fawning over both of us, but I’m not in the mood for it today.

  “I thought you weren’t coming in today,” Jason says. “I already asked Nayla to take this class. She’s on her way.”

  “I’ll text her to tell her I’m here.”

  “This is Nadia and Brittany. They’re sisters and they’re part of the new class. We’re just waiting for Fred and Priscilla, the couple that came in last week.”

  “Cool,” I reply without looking at the girls.

  A long, awkward fifteen minutes pass before we decide that Fred and Priscilla are too late. We’ll have to start without them.

  The first ten minutes of the lesson are always spent introducing the academy and myself and talking about what we’re going to be doing for our first lesson. When I’m done with my spiel both girls raise their hand like they’re in a fucking classroom. They can’t be much older than eighteen, if they’re even that old.

  “You don’t have to raise your hands.”

  The taller one, Nadia, speaks first. “We already took surf lessons in Carolina Beach last summer. Can we skip the stuff in the sand?”

  Jason has already left us to go teach an intermediate class further down the beach. He doesn’t like me to skip the basics, even when a student insists, but I’m not exactly opposed to skipping the positioning and pop-up section of the lesson. I always have to put my hands on someone’s arms or legs to get them positioned correctly and I don’t feel comfortable touching these girls without Jason around.

  “Yeah, we can skip that. Grab your board and we’ll paddle out.”