Chasing Kane (17 page)

I winced. “You did?”

He looked down, shaking his head. “I wasn’t fucking her. We barely hung out. I made out with her a few times, but that didn’t last long.”

I shrugged. “So what was it?”

“I just … kept her in my contacts, you know? We’d text once in a while …”

A heavy sigh was the only response I could muster.

“It almost broke me and Frankie up before we had a chance to get off the ground. We were looking at pictures on my phone one day from a show I’d done, and a text came in from that girl. Only the first line came up but, like I said, Frankie’s no fool.”

“But you said that’s when you first got together?”

CJ leaned forward pressing his elbows into his knees. “I didn’t go out of my way to be a good guy to her.”

“What do you mean?” I was uncomfortable hearing the strain in his voice. Not quite on the edge of tears, but certainly circling regret.

He shrugged. “I never sent her flowers at work. I only offered to make dinner once in a while, but we went out a lot …” He lifted his head, looking into the vacant space a few feet in front of his face. “I didn’t search old bookstores for her favorite authors or take her to poetry readings. I just kind of said, ‘This is my life, come along if you want in.’ I didn’t try to make a life
with
her.”

“Because your dad did all those things with your mom and it was a lie.” It was harsh, but factual.

He only stared.

“You know your parents loved each other in high school, right? And even after? When they had you—”

“I know,” he cut in sharply. “But he just fucking romanced my mom nonstop so she wouldn’t see that he was starting a whole new life outside her peripheral vision. She had no reason to think he was doing anything wrong. He showed up everywhere he was supposed to, showered her with attention and gifts, was hands on with me …”

“I remember,” I admitted, feeling a lump in the back of my throat.

I knew this story all too well. I’d loved my uncle almost as much as my dad. CJ and I had the best early childhood. Our parents lived on the same street in a picturesque seaside town. A model American childhood for both of us. Loving families, involved dads, everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t. Almost overnight. It would be years before we realized the extent of CJ’s dad’s damage, and the second family that technically gave CJ step siblings and half siblings that he’s never met. Knowing the manipulation his dad laid on, I doubt if those kids even know CJ exists.

My dad dove right in, sweeping up his brother’s mess and never treated CJ like anything less than a son. When we told people how we were related, we always just said
our mom’s are sisters
, because that was true. In law, sure, but also in heart, and then we didn’t ever have to talk about CJ’s dad unless he wanted to. Which was basically never. Until now, it seemed.

“Frankie knows about Clara.”

I leaned forward and buried my face in my hands. “That’s … bad.”

“Georgia’s not gonna help me. She says she’s tired of my shit and it’s time I grow up.”

“You talked to her already?” I was relieved and curious that she hadn’t roped me into the conversation already.

“A lot of good it did,” CJ answered. “She’s staying out of it.”

I nodded approvingly. “Seems appropriate.”

“Maybe it’ll be good for me to be alone for a while.”

“Have you talked to anyone besides Georgia about this?”

CJ cracked a laugh. “No. Except you, but you’re not much help.”

I huffed through my nose. “I don’t really know what you want from me, Ceej. I … I think you’ve gotta kind of cut the shit about your dad.”

His head whipped toward me, rage in his eyes. “What the fuck did you just say?”

I sighed, grinding my back teeth together. “My dad did a hell of a job taking care of you and your mom after your dad left, CJ. I was there, remember? Jesus Christ, just … focus on the positive examples you
do
have and stop wallowing in what you lost.”

I stood, his ungrateful, victim attitude really started getting under my skin.

“Oh it’s just so easy for you, isn’t it, Regan. From your perfect little family—”

“You’re part of that family!” I snapped holding my hands out as he stood. “
Jesus
, you were so worried about
pulling the wool
over girls’ eyes that you just became a wandering dick and a womanizer. Honestly, I fail to see how that’s any better than what your dad did.”

“Fuck you, Regan.” He had murder written across his face, but apparently decided not to get into it with me right there. Instead, he pushed past me and stormed toward the bus.

“Hey!” I shouted, jogging after him.

He turned around, his shoulders heaving under angry breaths. “What?”

“Don’t be a dick just because
you
screwed up.” I pressed my index finger into his shoulder, leaning in close and lowering my voice. “Every fucking time I turn around you’re either moping, pissed off, or feeling up some girls ass in a bar. Feeling sorry for yourself?
Change it.
” I pressed harder before dropping my hand, my adrenaline starting to kick in.

CJ ran his tongue across his teeth as he took a deep breath. “Don’t touch me again, Regan.”

I lifted my chin. “Is that a threat?”

“A warning,” he growled as a few members of the tour switched their attention to the scene in front of our bus. “My life is none of your fucking business.”

“Then,” I spoke sharply, “leave me
and
my wife out of it.” I turned away, betting he wasn’t likely to hit me from behind—that wasn’t his style—and headed into the diner to retrieve my food.

Apparently, we’d caused a minor scene, as all eyes were on me when I grabbed the loaded Styrofoam container off the counter and walked back to the bus.

“So …” Nessa stepped in front of me just before I reached the bus door. “Anyone gonna die tonight?”

“Not now, Nessa,” I snapped

“Hey.” She touched my shoulder, her eyebrows pulled in as her look morphed from sarcasm to concern. “Chill, okay? If you need to crash somewhere else, you’re welcome on our bus.”

“I’m not packing up just because he’s an asshole.”

She dropped her hand. “The offer stands. Will you guys be okay to play when we reach Seattle?”

I laughed dismissively. “I did a concert a month after my girlfriend died. I’m pretty sure I can handle my shit.”

She pulled her head back, pursing her lips. “You don’t have to be a dick.”

I sighed, my shoulders sinking. “Shit. I’m sorry. I just …”

Nessa touched my shoulder once more, and this time, it grounded me somehow.

“I know,” she said. “Later.” She shot me a quick, almost reassuring smile before boarding her bus.

Once finally on mine, I tossed my food in the fridge and entered our “bedroom.” The curtain on CJ’s bed was pulled. Just as well. I changed and got under my covers as quickly as possible in order to sleep, but it was in vain. I ended up staring at the ceiling for an hour before rolling over and pulling out my phone.

Me:
He’s just such a thickheaded dick sometimes. It’s enraging.

I stared at the three dots in anticipation of an incoming text.

Nessa:
I know. We all are. Sleep with one eye open ;)

I smiled, switching my phone into airplane mode before putting in my earbuds and falling asleep with the sounds of Chopin’s “Nocturne” playing in the background.

***

Seattle was fantastic and, as I predicted, CJ and I carried out our professional responsibilities as
professionals.
Neither one of us are big on drawn out apologies and make-up scenes, so it seemed for the time being that what happened at that roadside diner was swept under the rug.

The tour was really picking up steam, selling out left and right. Since we had a week before we had to be in Billings, Montana, Yardley added in a fourth Seattle show for us. Moniker was pleased with their new songs, and it seemed to reinvigorate them. Through the Seattle shows, though, they stuck with the guitar over the violin option.

I didn’t really understand why, since when I practiced with them using the violin it
really
brought the sound together, but maybe that was my bias. Despite not being a musician herself, Yardley did have a great ear for the ensemble. Still, the idea of setting the violin aside just didn’t sit right with me.

At an overnight road stop somewhere in the western part of Montana, I pressed Yardley.

“Give the fiddle another shot with Moniker. If I have to take it on for a while, I will. I think it sounded right on.”

She looked up from her iPhone, situated next to her sparse salad, in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

I winced a little, not wanting to sound snobby. “The guitar’s fine. I don’t mean the player—she’s great—I just … the sound …”

“We’re going to put the violin in, Regan. Chill. I’d like it for Minneapolis, but I talked to Nessa, and she says she’ll need longer—maybe till Chicago. She sight-read it just fine, but she hasn’t performed on stage in a while, and wants more time to polish it.”

A wave of relief washed over me. “Oh good. Okay. Well in the meantime, if you want me to step in …”

She grinned as I did, shaking her head. “Workaholic. I’m not in the business of burning out musicians so, for now, stick with CJ. You guys are one hell of a team together. Did you play around like this in high school?”

I laughed. “No, I was way too much of a prick, then. High and mighty with my classical instrument to slum it with the likes of him while he banged away on steel barrels. That’s what I used to say to tease him.”

Her right eyebrow flicked up. “Did he … kick your ass?”

I winked. “Nah. I could always run faster. Thank God. And, he wasn’t the sweet human he plays now, either. Used to say the violin was
gay
.” I rolled my eyes, thankful that at least we’d moved past those days.

“I really can’t see you as the
prick
type, Regan. I gotta say. You’re one of the most down-to-earth genuine guys I’ve met in the business. I held my breath the whole time Celtic Summer was touring. I was worried you’d get sick of it and leave us all in the dust.”

It wasn’t the first time Yardley had mentioned her apprehension over losing me as an artist.

“Down-to-earth and faithful,” I remind her. “Our business relationship is important to me. I love my job and the life I get to have because of it.”

She nodded, the rosy apples of her cheeks swelling as she smiled. “I know.”

“But, about the prick thing? Yeah. Some of it was general self-centered adolescent stuff, and some of it was environmental. Private performing arts high school, the Boston Conservatory … it was a ripe environment for intellectual and musical superiority to reign.” I chuckled, thinking about the high horse I’d long since retired. “It was the work abroad in Indonesia, Ireland, and South America that helped knock me down a few pegs. Watching kids with ripe, fertile, feral passion but with literally
no
opportunities brought me back to the first time I held a violin. When I got back to the states I was courted by Boston again for their Tanglewood summer program, but I just couldn’t do it. I weaved through the inner-cities and rural towns of Massachusetts, hosting workshops and holding fundraisers … the bitch of it is it’s the public schools that suffer most. Cost-cutting there happens in arts and physical education first. It’s not something you see in private schools that cost as much as some colleges … I’m rambling …” I chuckled, taking the deep breath I so desperately needed.

Yardley blinked a few times as if she’d been in a trance. “No—God, no—it’s fascinating. I mean, I’ve seen your resume, obviously, but
that?
What you just
said?
Not on there. That’s good. Where’d you learn your tricks? I can’t picture you in an orchestra setting, but that’s where you’ve spent more than half your life so far.”

“The guy who became my first teacher held me back from trick-playing for a while. He saw I had the wild streak in me—as he called it—but insisted I learn the rules first. Can’t break ’em right until you understand them, he’d always say.”

She laughed, silencing her phone when it rang once. “I like it.”

“Anyway, he let me loose a bit in high school. Even though I was receiving instruction at that point through my school, I still went to him on weekends. He was my friend, above all else. But it wasn’t really until I was out in the world that I let it fly completely. The kids in Indonesia and South America, especially … they were poor enough that they might never actually
see
the volumes of classical sheet music I’d already played from in their lives. I worked with them on the barest of basics—identifying each note on the staff and corresponding that to the fingers on the instrument. After that it was all free-play. Some of these kids came up with things that I can still hear in my head. It’s two sides of the same coin really—tricks and classical instruction. And I don’t think you
need
one before the other, anymore. Not if you’ve got it in
here.
” I pointed to my chest and took another deep breath.

“We’ve gotta hold workshops,” Yardley said, not blinking for several seconds.

A surge of electric feeling whizzed though my chest. “Yes! Let’s do it! There are some lags on this tour where we have several days between shows. We can set something up in one city, then the next.”

She held out her hand. “I was thinking more at home, in San Diego, but way to take on yet
another
project on the road, Regan.”

“Sorry … I just. Outreach is so important. Music is handed down through generations like language. If no one is around to hand it down because we’re all locked away playing in our ivory towers … we’ve got nothing. We’re hoarding it away from our great-grandchildren.”

Yardley shook her head again, a look of disbelief crossing her face. “You make it hard for me to not parade you around like the amazingness you are. But we’ve all got to keep a vial of humility in our pockets, huh?”

I grinned. “I guess. So, when do we get started?”