More Than Anything (23 page)

Derek’s been as good as anyone could be under the circumstances, but it’s a lousy deal for both of us, and I can tell he’s as tortured as I am by our situation. If this is some cosmic test of will, I want to scream at the sky to just stop it already – I’ve had more than enough.

I’m still not interested in going anywhere, and probably won’t leave the apartment except to go to the hospital until my face doesn’t look like a punching bag. The horrified glances as we make our way to and from the taxi to the doctor’s office are bad enough – the women glare at Derek like he’s a total wife beater. He pretends not to notice, but I know he registers it all, and he doesn’t deserve the condemnation. At the hospital, one matronly woman in the elevator is burning holes through Derek with her stare, and I feel the need to defend him with a murmured, “Car accident.”

She looks away, but I can feel the tension radiating off her, and I know she doesn’t believe me.

Whatever. It’s only a short ride to the fourth floor.

Now we’re back at the apartment surrounded by half-empty Pei Wei cartons. My tendency to over-order is in fine form, ensuring I’ll have plenty of leftovers for the duration. We’re both stuffed, and I feel a moment of panic when Derek looks at his watch. He called a taxi twenty minutes earlier, and they told him they’d be downstairs in half an hour.

This is it. Our time together’s over, and there’s nothing I can say or do to prolong it. When he pushes back from the table and stands, searching for the right words, I want to throw my lunch across the room in a temper tantrum. But I resist the urge and instead take a sip of my soda.

“Do I have food dribbled down my front again?” I ask. One of the many negatives of the collar is that you can’t really see anything from your toes to your chin.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

My eyes widen. “Do I really?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Relax. You’re fine.”

“Are you just saying that?”

“No. Really. Don’t get all paranoid.”

“I’m going to check the minute you’re gone, and if you lied to me…”

“I admit I’m a liar.” He grins. “Which, if I’m a liar, would be a lie. Which would mean I’m not. But I’d have then lied, which would make me a liar. Confusing, isn’t it?”

“Have you been sneaking my pills?”

He approaches me and kneels in front of me. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

I swore I wouldn’t cry. Which means nothing, because the second he says the words, I’m tearing like a baby. “Oh…Derek,” I manage, and my tough street-chick composure disintegrates into sobs.

His hands cradle my face gently, and he lowers his head into my lap and closes his eyes. I run my hands through his unruly hair and struggle for composure.

My fingers trace along his lips, and I feel him kissing them. He’s so good. So tender and right and perfect.

And he’s leaving.

After what seems like an eternity, he stands and gazes down at me. He leans into me and his lips brush my cheek, his breath warm on my skin.

“Not much longer before you’re back in New York, is it?” he asks as he pulls away, his voice thick.

“Too long. Forever.”

“Three or four weeks?”

“Might as well be a year. Every day’s going to feel like one.”

“You’ll be all healed up by then,” he says, his voice hopeful.

I manage a smile. “I should be.”

“I’ll be counting the minutes, Sage.” I love hearing him say my name. Like nothing in the world.

“I wish you could stay. Why can’t they cut the damned record here?”

He shakes his head and gives me a sad look. “They can’t.”

I know that, but it doesn’t help. “Why do you have to go back?”

“Vocals and the mix. Just like the reason you need to stay here.”

“I hate everything about this. It isn’t worth it.”

“You’re going to be bigger than Rhianna, Sage. Bigger than Shakira. It’s totally worth it.”

“You’re just trying to distract me.”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

He looks at his watch again. “I need to go.”

“I hope the cab breaks down and you miss your flight.”

He gives me his smirk, and I turn into a bowl of quivering Jell-O. “Wouldn’t that be something?” He shoulders his bag and approaches me a final time. “I’ll be waiting for you, Sage. You’re mine. Nothing can change that. I knew it when I first saw you.”

“You did not.”

“I did. I swear.”

“Liar.”

“Didn’t we cover that already?”

I laugh in spite of my misery. “I want you so bad, Derek. This sucks.”

“I know. I want you, too.”

There’s nothing left to say. We both know it. He takes a deep breath and walks to the entry. After a long smoldering look back at me, he twists the handle and steps into the hall, and then he’s gone, the sound of the door closing behind him.

I sleepwalk through the next week, my body healing but my mind absent, in a mild narcotic haze from the meds. When I’m not feeling sorry for myself or for June, all I can think about is Derek, about our time together, and how messed up it all turned out. The pills blunt the worst of the physical pain, but the frustration I’m feeling runs deeper, and there’s only one thing that will put an end to it. Unfortunately, that’s as impossible right now as levitation, so I hide away in the apartment, living off delivery food, feeling sorry for myself, and watching marathons of mindless TV.

When the phone rings on the evening of day six post-Derek, I glare at it like it’s an unwelcome intruder. I will it to die, but it keeps clamoring, and I eventually go to where it’s vibrating against the dining room table and hold it to my ear.

“What?” I answer, sounding almost as annoyed as I feel.

“Sage?” It’s my dad.

“Hey, Dad. What’s going on?” He calls every couple of days to ensure I haven’t died, I guess. I realize how much bitterness I’m feeling and take measured breaths. He’s got nothing to do with my predicament.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. The doc says I’ll have this stupid collar on for another couple of weeks, but overall, I’m good.”

“And the wrist?”

“That might take longer.”

“Any luck finding a band to tour with?”

Last conversation I told him I’d be auditioning players. But I’ve been putting it off. I’ve got zero motivation to do anything but lie around the house and mope. Saul hasn’t pushed it, and neither has Terry, but I need to get with the program soon, I know.

“Maybe next week.”

He doesn’t say anything, and I wait for him to tell me why he’s calling. He sounds like there’s something he wants to say. I recognize the signs. By the silence, I can tell I’m not going to like it.

When he speaks, I know instantly I’m right.

“Your mom left a will.”

“What? She didn’t have anything.”

“Maybe not, but an attorney contacted me and said that we need to go out to the house and get whatever of hers we want.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Sage, she’s got family photos. Your old schoolwork. Your whole childhood memorialized.”

“I’m fine without any of that. I don’t want to see it.”

“You’re going to regret that later.”

“I’ll probably have a lot more to regret than some photos, Dad.”

“I need you to fly up here tomorrow. We’ll just go up for the day. Please. Don’t fight me on this.”

“I…I can’t, Dad.”

“Why? You aren’t well enough yet?”

I want to lie and say yes, but I don’t have it in me. “It’s not that. I just don’t see any point. She’s dead. She killed herself as surely as if she put a gun in her mouth. Why dig through her crap?”

“She was your mother, Sage. If you won’t do it because I’m asking you to, then do it to honor her memory.”

“There’s nothing to honor. She was a drunk who chose the bottle over life.”

When he speaks again, his tone is soft. “She was human, Sage. Not perfect by any means. But she raised you, she sacrificed for you, and she deserves at least an hour of your time.”

“She didn’t do squat for me. She let that prick beat on me and threw a party when I finally ran away.” I don’t have to say that she was bad enough so he left, too, which started the whole mess that became my life.

“Your mother wasn’t always like that, Sage. Please. Don’t poison it any more than it already is. Humor your old dad. Hop on a plane, go for a car ride, and then it’ll be over.”

“I have studio stuff to do.”

“You told me the other day you weren’t going back until Monday. Tomorrow’s Friday.”

“I just changed my mind.”

“Sage…”

I want to hang up. I want to pull the covers over my head and cry, not argue with my father.

But you don’t always get what you want.

I sound exasperated when I respond. “Fine, Dad. I’ll drop everything to fly there tomorrow. Happy?”

He pauses. “Thank you, Sage.”

“It’s a complete waste of time, Dad. I’m only doing it to get you off my back. Not to honor mom. She doesn’t deserve it.”

“Fine. Call me back and let me know what flight you’ll be on. I’ll rent a car.”

An idea occurs to me. “I want Melody to come.”

“I was hoping we could have some time with just the two of us.”

“It’ll be the three of us. Come on, Dad. You guilt-tripped me into doing this. Give me something, please?”

“How do you know she’ll want to come? She nearly threw up last time.”

“I know Melody.”

He sighs, defeated. “Okay, Sage. If it’s that important to you. Can she meet us at the airport so I don’t need to drive through town?”

“I’ll check. She can probably take BART to the airport.”

“Call me, Sage.”

“I will.”

When I hang up, I immediately text Melody. Her response comes back thirty seconds later. She’s game.

Ten minutes later I’ve made a reservation that will put me in San Francisco around 10:30. I text her the info and call my father back. He sounds happy, and I try not to hate him for it. Nobody has any right to be happy. Nobody.

I sit fuming after I hang up, and then the realization that I have to get my shit together dawns on me, and I force myself up. I haven’t taken a shower in a couple of days, and I’ve been lounging around in sweats. I need to pack for an overnight stay, get cleaned up, snap out of my funk.

But all I can think of is Derek. When I inhale, I smell him throughout the apartment. I’ve been hugging his pillow for almost a week as I watch the tube. I’m like every bad soap opera ever written, on steroids.

And it’s doing me no good.

I debate crawling back into bed and taking a nice five-hour nap, but decide against it. Instead I draw a bath and lower myself cautiously into it, taking care not to get my collar wet. I’ve risked taking the wrist brace off, since I’m not planning on playing any tennis while bathing.

Forty minutes later, the water’s room temperature, and I feel human for the first time in days. Washing my hair poses more of a problem than a good soaking, and I take the collar off against my better judgment and gently massage my scalp – the first time I’ve washed my hair in a week.

Once I’m done, the collar goes back on, and I drain the tub and towel off, noting in my reflection that most of the discoloration has faded to a sickly yellow, which means it should be completely gone by Monday. My ribs are still tender, but on the whole I don’t feel so bad. Compared to June, who was discharged yesterday, I’m a Russian gymnast.

A stab of guilt greets my thought about June. I’d meant to go see her released, but then when the time came, I couldn’t work up the motivation. Which basically translates into I suck as a friend and a human.

I’m hoping chocolate can help.

My face is healed, my nose none the worse for wear, and the cuts are gone.

“Sage, it’s time to go out into the world,” I say, well aware that talking to yourself naked is probably not a great idea. The naked part just makes it seem more wrong.

I pull on a clean pair of jeans and one of the frilly little peasant blouses Jeremy so despises and forego drying my hair – wet’s an in look, I hope. Armed with a small wad of twenties, I set out for the convenience store a block away, Melody’s baseball cap on, my clandestine shades hiding the better part of my face.

If anyone recognizes me, they do Academy Award performances of pretending not to, and I relax as I buy a couple of Reese’s and a carton of milk, and, since I’m here, a razor to deal with my legs, which I’ve also ignored for too long.

The following day I’m up early and cabbing it to LAX rather than alerting Ruby that I’m feeling well enough to travel by asking for Steve to take me. I’m planning on returning to the studio on Monday, but there will be a lot less tension if Sebastian believes I’m putting in a heroic effort to make it, not stepping off the Jetway to grace him with my presence.