"Um, honey," she says. "Why is there a gargantuan trash bag in your bathroom?"

  "I had a lot of trash."

  "Okay, then," she says, as if that explains it.

  She comes back from the bathroom empty-handed.

  "You can use my stuff until we can go shopping," she says.

  I nod. She works on packing the rest of the clothes while I run upstairs to get my laptop. I go into Lang's studio first. Even though Hondo and Mark fought hard, it looks like all the guitars made it through without damage. I don't know what to do about them. If I leave, is it as good as giving the guitars to Mark? I could take them, but I have no idea where to store more than fifty collector-quality guitars. I can't deal with it, now, anyway. As I leave the room, I pick up the blue acoustic guitar to take with me. At least I can rescue the one that means the most to me.

  When I bring the computer and guitar downstairs, Lisa doesn't say anything about ol' blue. We load some of my stuff in her car and cram the rest in mine. I sit down in the driver seat, feeling like I forgot something. I signal to Lisa to wait while I go back in. I walk around all of my spaces until I come to the closet door. The envelope is still tacked there. I carefully pull out the thumbtack and take the letter.

  With that done, we take off to Lisa's house with the guitar strapped in the passenger seat next to me and the envelope woven through its strings.

  Scene 16 ~ Mark

  I asked several times if Sophie called before I gave up. Obviously, she didn't call.

  When Dr. Taylor comes in my room, I ask her when I can go home. She peers at me.

  "Do you have any support at home?" she says. "You'll need help around the house for another few weeks, and someone to drive you to your cardiac rehabilitation appointments."

  I sigh. What a fucking nightmare. I broke out of one rehab only to end up in one more restrictive than the first. How did this happen?

  "I'll be fine," I say. "I'll take it easy for a couple of days, I promise."

  "Mr. Dillon, you do understand that you suffered an actual heart attack, right? This was not a warning or close call. You stopped breathing. Your heart had to be shocked back into sinus rhythm."

  "Yeah, I got it, doc," I say. "I'm not as strong as I think I am. It's time to reflect on my life. Blah, blah, blah."

  She blinks at me with disapproval for a few seconds. Suddenly, I want to slap the pity off her face. I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me. My life is so much bigger than this tiny incident.

  "Do you even know who I am?" I say.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm a celebrity, a household name. People recognize me on the street. I play guitar so fucking loud, my ears ring constantly, and the fans love it," I say. "I'm someone. I was someone. I was someone."

  I choke on the words and realize I'm crying in front of this woman, this doctor who does more meaningful work in one day than I've done in my whole life. She looks at me like I'm a curiosity, her expression mostly blank. As I lose control, she gives my shoulder a few taps, and then leaves the room, presumably to give me privacy to get my shit back together. It's too bad I don't have any idea how to do that.

  "Uh, oh. Somebody's having a crappy day." Shirlene comes in and puts a hand on her hip. "We don't do crappy here, baby."

  I try to look away, but even through the tears, I can't help smiling at her. "Dammit, I'm trying to have a meltdown here. You're ruining it for me."

  "Hon, this happens to everybody here. I see it every single day."

  "So, you're saying I'm just like everyone else."

  "Now, I didn't say that." She checks all my wires and tubing to make sure nothing's tangled. "Just don't go off thinking you're the only human being to ever cry in a hospital."

  She straightens the blue blanket over me and tucks it under my feet. I feel like I'm five years old, but somehow, it doesn't bother me.

  "Dinner will be here in an hour," Shirlene says as she's leaving the room. "You'd better be awake when I come back."

  As I watch her go, I wonder how she found her niche in life and has stayed with it for years, dispensing the wisdom she picks up along the way.

  Scene 17 ~ Sophie

  When I can't stand feeling like a callous bitch any longer, I go to visit Mark in the hospital. I thought I would have a hard time getting in to see him because I'm not family. As soon as I said my name, though, they gave me his room number. Apparently, he was waiting for me to show up.

  I stand outside his door for a minute, reading the room number over and over. Maybe I shouldn't be here. It might upset him and cause something else to happen.

  Finally, I suck it up and gently push on the door to his room. The lights are dim, and at first, it looks like he's sleeping. Then, he turns his head toward me. His eyes are bloodshot, and his nose is raw. I see dried trails of tears that he didn't bother to wipe away. The skin of his left jaw is still mostly purple from Hondo's blows.

  My brain goes in several directions at once. I'm still pissed off at Mark, but seeing him look so fragile makes me feel guilty about that. He has so many wires and tubes going from his body to different machines, it looks like he's in serious shape. He almost died. It's this thought that pushes me farther into the room.

  At Mark's bedside, I automatically grasp his hand. He looks up at me, tears lining his eyelids. I squeeze his hand until I can find my words.

  "I moved out," I say. "I didn't want that to be the first thing I said to you today, but there it is."

  He nods and then looks down at our joined hands. "I figured that out when you didn't call or come by."

  The silent pause stretches over minutes. We each stare at our hands. I wonder if he feels as uncomfortable as I do. When I was in the hospital after my seizure, it didn't seem like a big deal. This seems different.

  "What happened to you?" I say. "I mean, I know what happened. But why did it happen?"

  "Me plus coke equalled heart attack," he says. He gives me a tired smile, but I can't share the humor.

  He gambled with his sobriety and lost. He's damn lucky he made it through with his life. I think about Lang and all the chances he took with his life over the years. When it looked like luck was going to be on his side forever, he overdosed and drowned. Just like that. I wonder if he knew his fortune had shifted that day?

  He looks up again and sighs. "Are you moving out for good?"

  "I can't come back," I say. "It's not my home anymore. But I think you know that."

  "We could start over. Erase the mistakes," he says. He rubs one of my fingers between his, and I see tears fill his eyes again. The last thing I want to do is give him hope that I'm coming back. I want to tell him that mistakes are never erased, they're only written over until they don't stand out so clearly.

  "No." No matter how much it hurts now, it would hurt so much more when I didn't return.

  "Sophie, please," he says. "You're not even considering it. Give me a chance."

  I shake my head. "You need to be alone with yourself. I believed you when you said you wanted my help to play guitar like Lang. The truth is you didn't want to be completely on your own, without your band, without your family, without your coke. I was a convenient, built-in companion."

  "It's not like that," he says.

  "It's exactly like that," I say. "Do yourself a favor and accept what I'm saying. It will be so much easier for you that way."

  I squeeze his hand again before leaving the room. By the time I make it to the lobby, I'm crying. Again.

  Scene 18 ~ Hondo

  On Sunday, Jen has to go to a family reunion for a few hours, so I go to the store to buy an air mattress for me and an electric blanket for her. I pick out some basic living supplies, too, and a storage box for them. The shower won't be installed for another week, so I'll have to impose on my friend a little longer to clean myself up at his apartment.

  It takes me two trips up at the office to bring everything from the car. I slide the electric blanket box under Jen's desk. I shove the mattress box to the back wall and put away my "household" things. One of the boxes goes in my locking desk drawer: a small box of large condoms.

  I felt like an overheated teenager buying them. I'm sure I was nine shades of red at the checkout. It feels like it's time. Just in case. I turn the key in the lock, and then turn it back again. I open the drawer, take out the box, and open it, intending to pull out one condom. I didn't know they're attached in long rows. This is sad, a grown man playing with condoms in secret. I rip one off, slip it into my pocket, and stuff the rest back in the box. I check the lock twice on the drawer.

  As I put the rest of the things away, I'm very aware of what's in my pocket. While I work at my computer, my thoughts keep straying to Jen, and how she kissed my forehead so lightly. I keep trying to refocus on my work, but I'm far too distracted. I get up and walk around the office for a minute, looking out the windows at the different views of Deep Ellum and Dallas. I watch a few couples walk down the sidewalks, holding hands and stopping for a quick kiss. They're normal. I'm not. I thought it didn't bother me. It does.

  And now, I have no idea what will happen.

  I go into the bathroom and pull my shorts down. I turn sideways and look at myself in the mirror. I've always known I'm on the larger end compared to other guys. It's a nice boost to the self-esteem, but it's also embarrassing because people can't help but to look at it in the locker room. The guys would get mad at me when I caught them looking. I didn't even have to say anything about it. As soon as they locked eyes with me, I knew I was the target that day.

  School was years ago, though. I don't have to deal with that shit anymore. After I graduated from high school, I lost the self-conscious habit of hiding myself all the time.

  As an experiment, I think of Jen again. I picture her in front of me, kissing me and running her fingers down my chest. Within seconds, I'm hard. I study myself in the mirror. Everything looks normal, I guess. The difference now is that it feels amazing. How could I have gone through my whole life without knowing this was possible? What switch did Jen flip inside me to make this happen?

  I take hold of myself, squeezing gently. Little shocks shoot all around my body. I take a few casual strokes all the way up and down, and it makes my knees feel weak. I've masturbated before, of course, but it's never felt like this.

  I pull the condom out of my pocket and tear open the foil. It's slippery inside the package. I carefully pull it out and then roll it on about an inch. I pinch up the top a little and then continue rolling it down. I stroke myself again, this time going steadily faster until my breath is coming out on moans. It feels like I'm going to fall, so I lean back against the wall for support. Whether I fall or not, I can't stop now. I'm past the point of no return.

  With Jen's image in my mind, I finish, coming violently but neatly into the condom. As I clean up, I think about all the times I could have had sex in the past five or six years but didn't. I have a lot of wasted time to make up for.

  The problem is I don't know if Jen wants to help me catch up.

  Scene 19 ~ Sophie

  Lisa lives in a modern loft apartment in Deep Ellum. She has a catalog shoot on Monday, so the whole empty day stretches out in front of me. I have no commitments. I can do anything. But I also have no money, so I can't really do anything. I grab my laptop and start researching the best way to sell my piano and keyboards. I also look up auction houses for Lang's guitar collection.

  An hour later, the walls of the apartment creep closer and closer toward me. I guess that's a side-effect of living in a huge house my whole life. My sense of scale is majorly skewed. I know it's just a mental thing, but I can't shake the feeling of claustrophobia. My brain is telling me I have to get out—NOW—before I am crushed.

  I close the lid on my laptop and put it on the couch. A walk should make me feel better. I spend the next fifteen minutes searching for a pair of walking shoes in my car. I finally spot them shoved under the passenger seat. I sit on the curb to change my shoes before taking off down the sidewalk, my sunglasses-and-hat disguise in place.

  This place is a huge part of my history with Lang. When he wasn't touring, he played clubs down here. Some of the places have closed down or changed names, but I recognize others that have been open since I was a kid: Flow, The Blind Lime, Echo Echo Bar. When I was young (and no one recognized me), I couldn't go inside the clubs, so I would sit on the curb out front, listening to the music pour out the open front door and watching people walk by. It wasn't the same as the music scene in Austin, but I always liked the feeling of home down here. The history of the blues still hangs in the air, Lang liked to say.

  The weather is perfect today. To stretch out my walk, I go into shops along the way. One is a vintage dress shop called Twice as Nice. I bought a lot of clothes here when I was in high school.

  When I walk in, someone yells, "Sophie!" A second later, she tackles me and squeezes me into a full-body hug. "I missed you!"

  It's Ariana, the owner of the shop. She's a few years older than me, and we used to buy stuff here together. When she was old enough, the original owner sold her the place. Since I last saw her, she's added quite a few tattoos to her arms, giving her an almost-sleeve on each side. Her hair is super long, like mine, but it's dyed dark blue. I try to count her facial piercings, feeling utterly plain next to her. I've grown up trying to deflect attention from myself.

  "I'm so, so sorry about your dad," Ariana says as we walk to the back of the store.

  "Thanks," I say, hoping that's all she'll say on the subject.

  "How's your music? I haven't seen any new songs from you in forever."

  Ariana picks up a dress that slid off its hanger and puts it back in place on the rack. It's made of light cream-colored lace layered over a silk bodice. It looks like it could have been a wedding dress or a dress for a dance fifty years ago. It's my size. I turn over the tag: $125. Too bad. The dress seems to echo the last year of my life. I was down, getting stepped on by people who didn't care if they damaged me. Now, I'm trying to straighten myself out. It means more people will see me, though, which terrifies me. It was easier to hide in my huge house.

  "Will you hold this one in the back for me?" I ask Ariana.

  "Sure thing. That will look stunning with your hair. I don't know why I didn't think of you when we got it."

  I know exactly why she didn't think of me. As desperate as I was for privacy, I ignored so many of my real friends while opening my house and liquor cabinet to anyone who wandered in. Who knows how much time I spent drinking with virtual strangers, like my house was a club. Out of that crowd, only Hondo, Lisa, and Clara really knew me. It made no sense at all.

  Until I realized I was carrying on my father's screwed-up legacy.

  Scene 20 ~ Mark

  I was not made to be in a hospital. The clanging and beeping, that's fine. I can handle noise. The IVs and monitors are what drive me mad. I can't even get up to take a piss without disconnecting wires and dragging a damned IV pole with me.

  "Is all this really necessary?" I ask Shirlene on her next shift. I hold up my left hand with all the IV shit attached. "The doc said I'm good."

  Shirlene chuckles. "I've seen my share of guys like you here, baby. There ain't nothin' good about you. You're naughty to the core."

  I'm a little stunned when she says it, and I start to feel seriously offended. Then, she smiles and laughs, and I realize she's giving me a hard time.

  "I'll remember you," I say. "And my first solo recording will be named after you."

  Damn, it feels good to laugh with someone. Since going to rehab, I've been cut off from most of the people I know. Moving to Dallas without telling anyone isolated me even more. I haven't spoken to my parents in months.

  I think about what Sophie said to me about accepting that I'm alone. I wish I knew what really happened before I was taken to the hospital. I've tried hard to remember, but only snapshots from the scene come to me. I was furious about something, but I can't remember what. At some point, I pounded on the door and screamed for Sophie. And then, Hondo was above me, apparently saving my sorry ass.

  "OK, troublemaker," Shirlene says. "Time to get your butt out of that bed again."

  It's humiliating when she helps me get out of bed and then fastens a strap around my chest. It's a handle she can grab if I start to go down. It makes me feel like a three-year-old on a toddler leash.

  We circle the cardiac ward one step at a time. I can't walk at a normal pace without losing my breath, so we move in half-time, trudging along at a pace that makes me desperate to run. Frustration builds in my chest with every step. Maybe Dr. Taylor was right. Maybe I'm much weaker than I think.

  This thought settles in my brain, waiting for me to accept it, too. But dammit, this had to be a fluke. I could do coke every day for the rest of my life and never have a problem. It was pure bad luck that my body reacted the way it did that one time.

  For the last ten steps, I pick up the pace. I refuse to succumb to fragility. Fuck that.

  Scene 21 ~ Hondo

  On Monday, Jen and I are heads-down, all business. We're a little behind on our next milestone, and it's way too easy to start blowing through deadlines. But after sitting for hours, the stiffness forces me get up to stretch and walk around. I walk by the windows, looking down on the street below. To me, this is the most beautiful view on earth. I feel free; not even the brick and glass can hold me in.

  One person catches my attention on the sidewalk. She has super long, curly hair and is wearing a racing cap and oversized sunglasses. Sophie. What the hell is she doing down here on a weekday? I want to tell her that her hair gives her away every time, but the truth is, the longer Lang is gone, the more Sophie's star fades. She is finally getting what she's always wanted: a private life.

  If she spends much more time with Mark Dillon, though, she will lose it again.

 

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