The Redemption (4 page)

It was the harder decision to make, but Tommy and I made it while driving back to LA. Dex had passed out again and we refused to second guess ourselves. It will leak to the press by tomorrow, but we can’t worry about that. Dex needs help. If he had died… we’re not equipped to give him what he needs right now.

He’s not talking to us anymore. Sitting in the backseat, he’s staring blankly out the window, quiet for the last hour. Before that, he was talking a mile a minute trying to convince us that what we were about to do was wrong. Empty promises he can’t guarantee were being made. Anything he could think of saying to change our minds, he tried. We’re holding strong.

My heart starts racing after entering through the large wrought iron gates of the rehab in Santa Barbara. The cobblestone driveway is lined with short pristine grass and flowering bushes. It winds around a large fountain and there’s a bench off to the right that overlooks a large ocean vista. With doubts and the possibility of regret seeping in, I glance back to Dex. When he finally turns and looks at me—his own pain and regrets are showing. I’m betraying him, but I can’t help but think this is seated in the best of reasoning. I apologize anyway. “I’m sorry.”

He looks away from me again and as soon as the car comes to a stop he gets out without hesitation, then slams the car door shut. Tommy sighs, glancing at me before he reluctantly gets out.

When I get out, I overhear Tommy say, “It’s only two weeks, man. You need to clean up, clean out. You know the deal with the band. If you’re using, you’re out.”

Dex pushes past him and spits, “Fuck off, Tommy.”

He treats me worse. The glare he gives me comes without any words at all.

A woman walks out with a clipboard and a fake smile to greet him. He doesn’t look back before the door is slammed shut. From this point on it’s up to him.

One and a half years later…

The curtains puff like sails of a ship as the wind slips in through the small crack of the open door. The weather is turning from cool to warm as spring settles in, reminding me that the grass needs to be mowed again. I should call the lawn service in the morning and get them back on a regular schedule.

My mind can’t rest despite how much I wish to sleep, so I roll over and grab the journal I’ve come to rely too much on and begin writing.

Dear Cory,

The night is always the hardest—nightmares plague my sleep. I go to bed hoping for the best, but the best has become the worst.

Closing my eyes, I squeeze my lids tight, hoping to stop the inevitable. But when I release them, the tears I’ve become too acquainted with are there for their encore—night after night the memories come back.

I see you in my dreams. I’m transported back to when we were seventeen and I taught you how to play guitar. The way you looked at me, the way you learned the notes by studying my fingers, and when I caught you stealing glances… this perfect moment in our lives has become a nightly haunting for me. In the last two years, my memories have stilted my ability to play guitar without you. My loneliness is most exposed at this dark hour.

I miss you so much. All the time.

XO

Sitting up, I grab for his pillow beside me and hold it to my nose, inhaling. His scent is gone. It used to be strong and comforted me when he traveled. His smell has left me, just like he did. So I throw the pillow across the room.

The curtains blow again, so I get up and slam the door shut before stepping over the pillow and crawling back in bed. The tightening in my chest starts to ease; the heartache of losing my soulmate lessens as I begin to drift off.

“I’m tired, Neil. Can you please have some cereal this morning instead?” I look over at my seven-year-old and my heart momentarily stops altogether. At least once a day this happens. Neil has my eye coloring and olive skin, but his hair and the way he smiles is just like Cory. I turn back to the counter quickly before I get lost, staring at him ‘again’ as he puts it. He doesn’t even have to beg, these kids own me. “Fine, I’ll make you scrambled eggs.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he replies, a drumstick beating against the top of his thigh.

A sleepy little guy leans his head against my leg, one of Cory’s T-shirts in hand. It’s become a security blanket for him. With my free hand, I rub the top of his light brown hair, and say, “Good morning, buddy.”

My three-year-old looks up and says, “Morning.” His blue eyes flash with an inner happiness.

“Are you hungry, CJ? I’m making eggs.”

He nods as he makes his way to the table. I finish the morning routine and take them to their schools. After drop-off, I head back home and shower. Working for the band allows me flexibility in time management and attire, so I pull on jeans, a cream colored blouse, and flats before heading out with the contracts I printed off last night.

Twenty-minutes later, I knock on the door. Dex answers, no greeting. He just sways his arm in front of him allowing me entrance. With little eye contact, I walk past him, and say, “I see the month on the road hasn’t sullied your sparkling personality.”

“It’s before noon,” he replies with an annoyed sigh. “It better be fucking good.”

We’ve never quite recovered from that night. He has no patience for me, but I deserve that. Looking back, I wish I could change things, so many things.

I walk to the kitchen and sit down on a barstool. This is what we do—we can be around each other, but we tend to pretend the other isn’t there—parallel universes. When it’s just the two of us, like it is now, that’s impossible to do. The coffee machine is started and he stares at the mug. I’m sure to keep from looking at me. “What brings you by, Rochelle?” He glances my way briefly before returning his gaze to the brewing coffee again.

“I need you to sign off on these contracts. The other guys all signed them last week when you were in Toronto. Why didn’t you? You don’t like the deal?”

“I don’t understand the deal—”

“Oh. No problem. I can explain. So the video game characters will be modeled—”

He turns suddenly, his glare burning into me. “I understand that part. What I don’t get is when we became
that
band.”

“What band?”

“The one that sells out. The one that does video games and deodorant ads.”

Tilting my head, with a smirk I say, “You’ve never been offered a deodorant ad.”

“Fuck that! You know what I mean.” He walks to the large window that overlooks the patio and pool. “When did it stop being about the music?”

“It’s still about the music, Dex. The band is changing, growing, evolving. There’s a vision we all have that will set you guys up for life. So if one day you develop carpal tunnel and can’t play or Johnny has throat issues and can’t sing, you’ll not worry about money. This is about The Resistance, the brand.”

“When you walked into that club on Sunset, you didn’t ask me if I was interested in building a brand.” With his back to me, he says, “You asked me if I would play drums for a band you put together that had a gig down on Ventura in some dive pizza parlor.” He turns around with his arms crossed over his chest. “Did I go?”

I eye him, wondering where this is going. “You did.”

“You’re damn right I did. I took my sticks at intermission and left a paying gig to go meet your boys. Do you know why I did that?”

“No. Why?”

“Because I was better than a cover band drummer on a Tuesday night in Hollywood, even with the pay.”

I nod. I’m following his train of thought as he drives his point home.

“So stop treating me like I am. We’re The motherfucking Resistance and we’re better than this year’s video game simulation that followed some cheesy, hair-band from the 80’s in last year’s edition.”

I gather my papers and slip off the stool. As I start to leave, he grabs my wrist as I pass, and I stop, my breath caught in my throat just from his touch. His grip loosens, and I try to steady my voice when I say, “I got the message. I’ll talk to the guys, but majority rules. You agreed to that when you left that other band.”

He releases my wrist and my skin is left bare, his touch feeling better than I remember.

I open the door, and step out, but stop. Looking over my shoulder, I add, “I like the shorter hair on you. You look good.” Closing the door behind me, I don’t wait for a response. The boy I convinced to leave a dead-end band on Sunset way back then has turned into a man and a force to be reckoned with—mentally and physically. Memories of our night together before I screwed up come flashing back, but the humiliation of my mistake overtakes the warmth I’m feeling.

I should have gone with my gut. I convinced myself that we were wrong before I even gave the alternative a chance. My instincts told me to stay with him despite my mistake of calling him Cory. My head said to run. My more logical side seems to always get in the way.

“Wait up, Rochelle.” I hear him behind me.

When I look back, he’s leaning against the door opening, his eyes set on me. Even at rest, his muscles are defined. His arms carved from strength and power. Despite being hidden under the cotton of his T-shirt, his abs tease me as I remember how I once licked them. “What’s up?” I turn the focus back on business, trying to sound indifferent.

“It’s been a long time, a couple months since I saw you.” He pauses. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Thanks. It’s good to be seen again,” I joke, trying to cover my nervous excitement.

He nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he stands upright. “You should come to the show in New York. The band always has fun there.”

I open my car door and step up on the running board, looking at him over the top of my SUV. “Yeah, I’ll give it some thought.”

“Yeah, okay.”

With a small smile of my own, I give a little wave. “See ya around.”

I start to step into the vehicle, but I stop when I hear him say, “See ya around. Oh, and Rochelle?”

Popping back up, I answer, “Yes?”

“You look good, too.”

My smile isn’t little anymore. It’s full on ridiculous. “Thanks.”

If I wasn’t so aware of every nerve in my body and beat of my heart when I get inside the Escalade, I might have missed how my heart just leaped.

While pulling out of Dex’s gated community, I call Johnny. It’s only ten-thirty, so I’m not surprised he doesn’t answer. I leave a message, warning him that Dex may not sign and I might just agree with him.

I call my nanny, Beth, and let her know that she’ll need to pick up the boys today. With all the thoughts crowding my head, I need therapy. So I call one of my best friends, Lara, to meet me. I met her in yoga years before it became trendy. We quit after two weeks, preferring to cocktail together rather than work out. We’ve been great friends ever since. “Shopping?” I ask, when she answers.

“Beverly Center, Melrose, or the boutiques down near the beach.”

Today is about shopping for me, so I reply, “Suru on Melrose?”

“Suru. For sure. They just got in their new collection.”

“I’ll see you there in twenty.”

“It will take me thirty.”

“Cool.” We disconnect, and I smile, excited to see her. She’s always up to go out and I like that.

Just over an hour later, I’m standing near the far wall of Suru in front of newly altered frocks, and I say, “I think I like Dex.” I peek over at her.