She Has Your Eyes (28 page)

“Did you like seeing him?”

“Yes, I did. But not the way you think. It was nice to see him and not feel the hurt and rejection that used to consume me. And I suppose it was equally nice to see him look at me in a way he never has before. Like he noticed me for the first time.”

“You have that effect on people,” he said. “Men in particular,” he ended with a soft chuckle.

“He’s a better person, Dev. If nothing else, it was nice to see and share that.”

“I’m glad. For your sake, anyway. So what’s got you so troubled? I can see it on your face.”

I took in a breath. “He’s playing a gig in Amherst this Saturday and invited both of us to go.”

I faced David so I could gauge his emotional reaction. He shook his head in disgust. “You still think this guy just wants to be your friend?”

“Look, if he had ulterior motives, then why would he invite you to come along? In fact, he
insisted
you come. And I told him that this would be the last time, and we’re not going to see or communicate with each other anymore. A friendship with Andrew Clark isn’t worth very much if it tears you and me apart. He was OK with that. Understanding, even. He just asked for this one last favor. And I believe him when he says this is the last one.”

David guffawed and muttered, “Well that’s very nice of him.” He paused for a beat. “You wanna go.”

“Not without you, I don’t.”

“Why do you want to go with me?”

“Because I want to prove to you that there’s nothing beyond a friendship.” Was it possible I wanted to prove it to myself too?

“I don’t believe you, Andi. What’s more, I don’t believe
him
.”

“David, if you can’t trust me…,” I started, but didn’t finish my sentence. Too many ultimatums had been handed out already. “So you’re not coming with me?”

“I’ll pass, thanks. But you do what you want.” He stood up and left the room. I followed him down the hall to the bedroom.

“Dev,” I started. “Please. Let’s talk about this. We don’t talk anymore.”

He whipped around. “Talk about what? You made your choice.”

I gave him a cold stare. “And you made yours.”

chapter thirty-six

I went to Jeff Baxter’s office, poked my head in without knocking first, and announced, “I hate you for being right,” before walking back down the hall to my own office. Moments later, Jeff found me, my head down on my desk, exhausted.

“Go ahead and say it,” I said, my voice muffled by my face buried in my hands.

“I don’t have to say it, kid,” said Jeff. He took the seat next to my desk.

I picked my head up. “OK, then I’ll say it. I was a fool to think I could handle this.”

“Handle what?”

“My mother’s chemo treatments are no picnic. And every day is a reminder of how much time we wasted and how little time we have left. Then there’s Wylie, David’s daughter. Her mother won’t let me see her; says that if I do she’ll make David’s life hell. Meanwhile, David’s getting to know her without me. Between that, my mother, classes, the holidays—” I stopped short of mentioning Andrew. I was so worn out just listing everything that I put my head down again.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Tea? Time machine?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle as I picked up my head again and slouched in my seat. “I don’t know, Jeff. When Sam was killed, it felt as if my entire world blew into smithereens. Now it feels like it’s being chipped away piece by piece.”

“You think one is better than the other?”

“I suppose there are pros and cons to both, although I can’t believe they’re on equal footing.”

“Can I put something out there, as a friend?” asked Jeff.

“Shoot,” I commanded.

“You really hate change, don’t you.”

I chuckled again. “My therapist pointed that out to me a couple of years ago, yes,” I said. “I thought I had learned to adjust to it, even like it. But there’s just so much of it happening all at once.”

“When you hit a patch of ice and you start to skid, the instinct is to resist the skid, right? But the best thing to do is to turn
into
the skid. Doesn’t mean you’ll avoid slamming into something else, or someone slamming into you, but you’ll likely do a lot less damage.”

“You’re telling me to turn into the skid?” I said.

“All the way, baby.”

“Baby? Are you regressing?”

“It sounded more macho. For what it’s worth, kid, I think you’ve got to give yourself more credit. As far as coping goes, you’ve come a long way since losing Sam. Don’t forget that.”

“Then why do I still feel so inept?”

“Because let’s face it: You’re the A-Rod of stress. You get everyone around you to believe that you’re a pillar of strength, but then you choke in the clutch.”

A boisterous belly laugh escaped me. One of those maniacal, feels-so-good-to-let-it-out laughs, the kind that has you in tears, until you realize that the tears aren’t from the funny. My
head wound up on Jeff’s shoulder as he took me in his arms and patted my back. “Geezus, I had no idea you were such an A-Rod fan,” he quipped. I laughed and cried again.

“You suck,” I said. “And I love you for it.”

I let go of Jeff and tried to dry off his shoulder by blotting it with my hand. He picked up the box of tissues on my desk—nearly empty—and handed it to me. I yanked one out and dabbed my eyes dry, looking at the dark rings of mascara imprints. “You know, Michael J. Fox called his Parkinson’s diagnosis ‘the gift that keeps on taking.’ That’s ironically optimistic, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “And sadly accurate.”

“Seriously? You want
me
to go with you?” asked Maggie when I approached her about Andrew’s gig.

“Well, I can’t go by myself, can I? And David refuses to go.”

“That should tell you something.”

“It tells me he’s being a stubborn jerk.”

“Right,” she said. “
He
’s being a stubborn jerk. And you’re just going because it’s Support a Starving Musician Day or whatever you’re rationalizing.”

“Mags,” I protested.

“Tell me why you insist on going if David doesn’t want to.”

“Because I’m mad at him, OK? Because I’ve stayed out of the way where Wylie is concerned just so he can have a relationship with her, and he doesn’t even seem to care. And fine, I’ll admit it—because Andrew’s been a friend to me these last couple of months.”

“So have I,” she said.

“I don’t remember you having this much animosity toward him.”

“Let’s just say I liked him better when the two of you were far apart.”

I sighed. “Look, I’m pretty sure David knows that when it comes to Andrew, you’re on
David’s
side, not mine. Thus, if you go with me, then he’ll know he won’t have anything to worry about.”

“Or you could not go at all and he’ll have nothing to worry about.”

I dug in my heels. “It’s the principle of the thing now, Mags. It’s a test. If David can’t trust me, then what chance will our marriage have?”

The venue was on Main Street, where NU faculty occasionally mixed with UMass faculty; I’d been there before. The place regularly hosted open-mic nights and jazz nights and acoustic sets, the talent typically college age. Whereas I had put effort into my attire for our lunch meeting, this time I dressed down in Sam’s old Edmund College hoodie, faded blue jeans, and hiking shoes. Maggie, however, towered in dark boot-cut jeans and a peasant blouse. She lightened her hair and swapped out her glasses for contacts.

Andrew was setting up his gear, dressed not much differently from the other day, when he saw us and waved before ambling over to us, looking happy to see us. Excited, even. “Hey, I’m so glad you could make it!” He didn’t hug me this time. “Where’s David?”

“He wanted to come, but couldn’t make it. Wasn’t feeling well,” I lied, as Maggie eyed him coolly.

“That’s too bad,” he said. I couldn’t read his expression, whether he was genuinely disappointed or secretly pleased. “I
was really hoping to meet him.” He finally greeted Maggie. “Hey, Mags.”

She looked as if she was about to deck him. “Hey.”

“Set’s gonna start in a few,” said Andrew. “You want something to drink?”

“We’re fine,” I said. “In fact, we’ll probably watch from the bar.”

He smiled amiably. “Sounds good. The acoustics in here are pretty decent, so you’ll be fine no matter where you sit. Well, I gotta get back to setting up. Hope you enjoy the show.”

“Have a good gig,” I said. It was something I used to say to my brothers all the time, and Andrew when we were dating. He appreciated the nostalgia with an extra-wide smile.

I turned to Maggie. “Did you hear him? He was disappointed David didn’t show. Does that sound like a guy who wants to be more than a friend?”

She gave me a look that said she wasn’t convinced. We claimed a high table near the bar and climbed onto the seats. She ordered some fruit-tini thing, and I ordered a virgin Bloody Mary. About ten minutes later, a guy who could pass for one of my college students introduced Andrew, who was greeted by scattered, polite applause. He took a quick bow of acknowledgment and tuned his guitar more in an act of showmanship than necessity.

He spoke into the mic. “Thank you all for coming. It’s especially nice to see some familiar faces.” His eyes darted in Maggie’s and my direction before returning to the bulk of the crowd sitting front and center. “I’m a storyteller by trade,” he said. “Some of the songs I’m going to play tonight are covers, and some are originals. But each one comes with a story, either
personal to me, or within the song itself. This first one reminds me of a woman I used to know.”

“Don’t they all,” someone in the audience heckled, drawing laughs, including one from Andrew in concession.

He began to play George Harrison’s “Something.” One of my favorites.

Maggie and I exchanged glances again, communicating nonverbally:

Coincidence?

Nuh-uh.

The song sounded beautiful on his twelve-string guitar. And although he sang a little sharp, his voice hadn’t changed much over the years.

The set continued: John Mayer’s “Daughters.” Hall and Oates’s “Wait For Me.” Eric Clapton’s “Change The World.” John Lennon’s “Instant Karma.”

No Cat Stevens? No James Taylor? No Joan Baez? For chrissakes, he even threw in a Huey Lewis song.

“This is folk music?” Maggie asked at one point. I shrugged my shoulders in bafflement. He’d never played this many covers when I knew him; nor had he ever played this much pop. But he’d been right about one thing—he was never as talented as my brothers, and maybe the writing was on the wall. Or maybe he subscribed to the theory that when playing to a new audience, if you give them songs they already know, they’ll always have something to applaud. We sat through the set, watching the sparse audience watch Andrew, and occasionally leaning in and making a comment to each other. Finally he interspersed a couple of original songs, new to me (I liked the second one), and ended with Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle,” which, for some reason, audiences always liked despite its being so depressing, and they sang along with the chorus.
They showed their appreciation with boisterous applause; Andrew thanked them in return, removed his guitar and gently rested it on its stand before heading toward the bar, and was stopped along the way by tipsy patrons wanting to bestow a little more praise on him.

“I guess we can go now,” I said.

“In that case, I’m going to the ladies’ room first,” said Maggie. As soon as she left, Andrew approached the table.

“So what did you think?” he asked.

“It was good,” I said. “Although, I have to admit, it wasn’t what I was expecting. Since when do you do pop songs? You were always a straightforward folk guy when I knew you.”

“I’ve finally surrendered to the fact that pop songs draw a bigger audience. Besides, I confess I was trying to appeal to your tastes as well.”

At least he copped to it
, I thought.

“We’re taking off after Maggie gets back,” I said.

“I thought for sure your fiancé was going to be with you.”

“Yeah, he wasn’t feeling well,” I repeated, averting his gaze as I said it. But when I reconnected, I was met with a hot stare of lust. And then Andrew leaned in so fast to kiss me that I almost fell off the chair trying to dodge him. Maggie’s empty glass got knocked over in the process.