Goodbye to You (36 page)

The patrons raise their glasses, shouting out a round of “good” and “awesome” and “drunk.” I laugh, playing the crowd. One of my older brothers, Liam, taught me a few things about working people. He was the star high school quarterback, one of the most popular guys in school, and he knows a thing or two about charming people.

“Happy everyone’s having a fun night. A friend in the audience is having kind of a crappy week.” At the bar, Trini nurses another Coke and smiles weakly. “Okay, a
seriously
crappy week. This one’s for her.”

I close my eyes and strum the opening chords of “Gives You Hell,” letting the music suck me into a place of confidence. My heart races a little when the crowd starts singing along. They’re having fun, which means I’m doing something right.

My music, combined with the alcohol my uncle’s pouring, is helping them enjoy their night. What a powerful feeling. Music is the one thing that feels right, the one place I’ve never been lost. When my brain is unreliable, and my lack of social skills bumps me down another rung on the social ladder, my music has always given me confidence because I have some talent.

I wind down the song and the audience cheers. I play a few more requests from the bar customers. A guy drops a twenty dollar tip in my jar when I play the sappy song he requests for the girl climbing all over his skinny-jeans-clad lap. I tip my head at him. “Thanks, man.”

He shakes my hand, and I grit my teeth against the unwelcome touch.

Playing the crowd.

I shift in my stool, preparing for the next song, one I wrote. I don’t like sharing my songs in public, or with anyone.

But then I ask myself, “What would James Taylor do?” He’d tell the girl he loved her, at least in a song, I think. He’s one of my favorite musicians, and I wonder how he’d react in certain situations in real life. Not that I could know for sure, but I like to think I understand him. He suffered from depression and started writing songs when he was in a mental institution. In addition to my autism, depression hit me at a young age. I began writing songs in my early teens while under the care of a new psychiatrist who recommended the practice as part of my therapy. Now I’m going to sing one of those songs in public for the first time.

“This one … ” I clear my throat to break up the lump of nerves forming and wipe sweaty palms on my shorts. “This is one my originals. It’s a slow song, so don’t any of you fall asleep.”

I chuckle, but mentally chastise myself. Rule number one of playing a crowd: never talk negatively about yourself. How will the audience like you when you’re down on yourself?

I close my eyes again, positioning my fingers on the fret board by touch. The words flow off my tongue—hours of practice coming to magical fruition. I’d never needed to sing a song more than this one tonight:

Open up

I see your heart

No one else appreciates the part

of you that makes you fall so quickly

So deeply

A long way up

A spiral down

My heart thuds, threatening to crack my sternum. Is she watching me? I open my eyes and sneak a peek.

Yes!

She’s not smiling though. I’m not sure how to interpret her expression. My fingers slip on the strings, striking a sour note. I slide my fingers back into position and pray no one notices.

But all the time

No matter which way

you fall—

At me

Away from me

For someone else

I can read you

like a book

You need me

to look

Your way

You think you can live without me

Give that a try, and we’ll see

Now she’s frowning. This may not be the best choice of original song. I finish, despite the doubts eating away at the fringes of my confidence.

I’m closed

Frightened

Won’t let anyone near

But you open the cover

See the demons, dark and swirling within

I hope she recognizes my appreciation here. She’s the one person outside my family who has stuck by me. Even when the demons pulled me down into the ocean, when I tried to commit suicide at ten years old. When the demons of my disorder drove me to self-injurious behaviors, she was there. I loved no one in the world more than Trini. My family, they had to stick with me. Trini? She
chose
to stay by me, the way I stuck by her when she got help for her eating disorder. For years, I’d hoped she’d weathered the rough times with me because she reciprocates my love. I close my eyes tight again at the end of the song.

Still

You turn the pages, and you see

The light hiding in the shadows

in the deepest part of me

You read me like a book

I need you to look

My way

See me

See the way I need

You

Need you to read me

See me

Love me

See me

Love you

I whisper the last four words and open my eyes. The crowd applauds politely as I hop off the stage, but I don’t care about them right now. I’m staring into a tunnel, and Trini is the bright light at the end of the dark shaft.

My stomach sinks to the beer-stained, peanut-shell-covered floor. She’s crying. I stride over to her, apologies hanging on my tongue. I didn’t mean to hurt her any more than she’d already been hurt today.

She throws her arms around me and squeezes, pushing the air out of my lungs in a whoosh.

She inhales deeply, releases me and bounces up and down a bit, clapping her hands together. “Oh Goon, how lovely.”

She calls me “Goon.” It’s a name my brothers gave me because I was obsessed with
The Goonies
movie years ago. I think they meant it to be an insult, but as soon as Trini started calling me that, I thought it was cool.

“Thanks. I’m glad you liked the song.”
Because it’s about you.

“Did you play the song for Jodie? Did she love it?”

My balloon of optimism deflates.

“We, um … Jodie and I split up a few days ago.”

Honestly, I’m not heartbroken at all. Jodie didn’t get my passion for music, and her dream of leaving Key West for New York to work at her brother’s brokerage firm once she graduated from the community college did not mesh well with my goals.

Which are unmapped, but do not include a place like New York City. Talk about sensory overload.

“Oh, Mac. No. Why?”

I fidget with the guitar picks I keep in my pocket. “We aren’t the same, you know? Best to end things now before anyone gets hurt.”

That’s all true. The real catalyst behind the break-up? I wouldn’t have sex with her. Because I’m a virgin. As stupid as this sounds, I’ve been saving myself all along for Trini, who is clueless. Sometimes I think I might die a virgin, and then Trini will touch me and I think she’s falling for me, and all of my waiting will pay off.

“Mac, I’m such a selfish dolt. You’ve been listening to me go on about Dean while hiding your pain.”

She links her arm in mine and leans over the bar to signal my uncle.

“Paddy, could we trouble you for an order of potato skins? We’ll take them over there.” She points to the booth in a dark, quiet corner of the pub, where I almost kissed her in the summer.

Geesh. This is not going as planned when I decided to sing “Like a Book.”

Paddy reaches out and pinches Trini’s full, bronze cheek. “Anything for ye, me wee lassie.”

We walk to the booth, and she continues her monolog about my break-up with Jodie. “How terrible Mac. You guys were so cute together. You never played the song for her?”

I shake my head. My tongue is paralyzed.

Trini chatters away. “So sad she never got to hear the song you wrote about her. It’s good, Mac. No, excellent. So suited to your voice. I love your voice.”

She’s missed the point of the song, but I’m at least happy the song—and my break-up with Jodie—distracted her from Dean. Paddy arrives with the skins before she can formulate more questions I can’t answer. Like the question that’s burned in my mind for a dozen years.

How do I make Trini love me?

A writer’s journey can feel like a lonely one, spent in the white glow of a monitor, sometimes in a darkened office late into the night. However, no book ever comes to be without assistance from many people. To my earliest readers, and those who’ve been with me over the long haul through the years, I owe you an enormous debt of gratitude.

Amy: Thank you for reading my rough, rough first draft, and for all of your encouragement since. You may seriously be the sweetest person I know.

Holly: Thank you for being an amazing editor, and for totally getting
me and my misfit band of characters. I think we all love you!

Barb: Your honest and thoughtful critique helped me cut the fluff, make my girls better friends, and write a love scene that still touches my heart, even on the hundredth reading. You changed this book for the better.

Brenda: Dude. How many times have you read this book now? I don’t think we can count that high. In addition to your tireless proofreading efforts, thank you for wallowing with me through the rejection and celebrating the triumphs loudly with me, albeit long-distance. I can’t wait to see you again and celebrate in person with a giant frozen drink. While we wear our princess tiaras at Magic Kingdom.

Mom: Your encouragement has always meant the world to me. Also, thanks for taking the tiny terrors, I mean darling children, whenever I needed a few hours to write or revise. You’ll never know how valuable that time is, and how much I love you for helping.

Aunt Peggy: Since I was a teenager scribbling angst-ridden poetry in journals, you’ve had pom-poms with my name on them and shake them harder every time I write something new. Even if no one else ever read a word of my stories, I would still write just for you.

To my Heathers: Together we laugh, vent, drool, and cry. Well, two of us might cry because one of us has a cold, cold heart… but without you guys, this crazy publishing ride would be much less fun. #FineManFriday FOREVER!

For all of the people who’ve already read and loved
Goodbye to You
and have written reviews and spread the word: You are awesome and appreciated more than you will ever know. I was thrilled to receive my first five-star reviews from someone not named “Mom,” and now am proud to call some of you dear readers my friends (Candice, Elizabeth, Amber, and LJ, I’m looking at you!)

I’d also like to give a shout-out to my foxy friends on Facebook, the New Adult Authors Unite! Whenever I think I might crack from the stress, you make me laugh. So. Hard. As cliché as it may be, that laughter truly is the best medicine for this weary writer’s soul. Extra-special shout-out to Rhonda, Stina, Suzan, and Diana, my fellow fantabulous mods who provide the safest place in all of the Internet for me to hide. At one point all I wanted to do was crawl into a fetal position under my desk and drink tequila from a sippy cup, but knowing you fab babes had my back gave me the courage to pull up my big girl panties and get it going. Here’s to many more years of NAAU admin awesomeness!