Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the song "Keystone," and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).

CHAPTER 23
NOT YOU

September 29, 1994

San Mateo, California

Central Park
...

Jackie had driven Deborah to Central Park for a morning of tennis. The tennis court's garage was located on El Camino Real, and the street name catalyzed Jackie's anxiety. Steven's first car was an El Camino. He was in Florida, the last stop on Degenerate Matter's East Coast tour. He'd said O. MacNeil might be there, meaning O. MacNeil would get her letter.

The thought had consumed her while watching the band during Saturday Night Live. She'd tried to focus on the music, on Ro's voice, Sherry's bassline, Lee's guitar work, and Nate's drum solos. But her gaze drifted from the stage as often as her mind did from Degenerate Matter. The thought of O. MacNeil reading her letter consumed her still, ruining her performance on the tennis court. Deborah beat her in almost every set, and after two hours of playing, Deborah said, "You could have at least tried to win."

"And if I had beaten you?" Jackie said. Because she always let Deborah win, only she usually succeeded disguising it.

Deborah chuckled, like Jackie winning was an impossibility. They entered the underground garage with their rackets and over-shoulder bags full of tennis balls. Deborah was still laughing, the sound of it echoing in the cavernous garage. She really didn't believe Jackie could win, and Jackie snatched a ball from her bag. She slammed it with her covered tennis racket, with a force she'd never showed off on the court, and the ball shot across the garage.

"Wow!" Deborah said. "Where was that energy today?"

"Don't you mean ever?"

Deborah stopped feet away from Jackie's Miata. "You've been holding back."

"Maybe I have."

"Well, there's nothing wrong with a little restraint," Deborah said, but she didn't elaborate during the drive back to Foster City. She complained about the PTA at her daughter's school. It had asked her to donate not just money but time. "They want me at Family Math Night. Math. I leave all the numbers to Robert. I just spend them."

"Mm-hmm," Jackie said, and that was all she continued to say as Deborah ranted. Robert was more than a stock analyzer. He was an investor, and he probably had insider-trading information he shared with his inner circle of friends.

Jackie's dad had been part of such a circle. She'd spent the last week calling his contact list, but she hit all dead ends. Many of the phone numbers were no longer valid or belonged to other people. Secretaries took messages for Dad's more influential colleagues, but she didn't expect to hear back.

Whatever his illicit dealings were during his life, his former associates seemed afraid of being linked to them. She would likely have to honor Dad's passing alone. Again.

Hyde turned Jackie's unopened letter in his hands. He was inside what used to be the Fort Lauderdale Yankees' clubhouse, a space currently serving as Degenerate Matter's greenroom. But the band was enjoying the beach before its gig tonight, so he had the clubhouse all to himself.

Lockers lined the wall. A persimmon rug ran the length of the floor, and Hyde sat on a bench at the center. Jackie's handwriting on the envelope was less loopy than he remembered. More restrained, matching her general demeanor. But the words inside could be as explosive as bombs.

He laid the letter on his knee. It was both his and not his to read. But without giving her access to his own truths, he had no right to hers. If he'd stayed with her fifteen years ago, if he hadn't bashed Kelso's skull in … but he had. And this letter was written. And he put it back into his jeans pocket for now.

Outside, he joined the road crew. The band had played Fort Lauderdale Stadium last night, but the stage rigging needed to be double-checked. It was standard procedure, and he strapped on his safety harness. He also pulled on his climbing gloves. The Florida sun had made the lighting truss hot to the touch, too dangerous to climb without protection. .

He ascended the truss ladder, sweating in the eighty-five-degree heat, but his mind burned fifteen minutes later when Ro called his name from below.

"What's up?" he said after descending the rigging. He hopped off the truss ladder but kept his distance. Too many roadies were working nearby.

"Greenroom," she said and left the stage.

He wiped sweat off his forehead. The other side of the lighting truss needed to be checked, but he spoke to Gary, head of the road crew, who said he'd cover it.

Inside the clubhouse, Ro locked the doors as soon as Hyde entered. If she wanted a screw, it would have to wait. "Soundcheck isn't for a few hours," he said and opened the mini fridge. Inside was Dr. Pepper for Nate, a few beers for Lee. They were leftover from last night. The items listed on Degenerate Matter's rider haven't yet been restocked.

He grabbed a can of Dr. Pepper and drank down a third of it. A belch followed, but Ro was watching him, not talking. "Why aren't you at the beach?" he said.

"I got my period."

"Oh." He drank more of his Dr. Pepper. He should've dropped to a bench in relief, but ever since Buffalo—before Buffalo, really, on the tour bus—his body felt starched. He was stiff, and emotions didn't stick to him as easily.

"So you can stop worrying about knocking me up," she said, stepping closer to him. "The Pill has us covered, love. I always fucked Lee without a condom." She gestured to her leg. "Do you see any bratties clinging to my ankles?"

"I don't want to hear about you fucking Lee."

"He never affected me the way you do." She cradled his cheek and rubbed her thumb along his skin. Normally, he'd lean into her touch, but he couldn't break free of the numbness. It was stronger than it had been in a long time. "I want to have the same effect on you," she said. "That's one reason I purposely piss you off so much. I need to know you care enough about me to get pissed."

He cared, all right. Acting against himself to make her feel secure had become a habit. But having sex without a condom, that was him giving into her implicit threat. Because … "You freakin' blackmail me," he said, "to show you how I feel."

She withdrew her hand from his face. "Sounds kinky. Mind explaining it?"

"In New York, you expected me to prove who the hell I was loyal to: you or Jackie. That's where all that condom crap came from. You feel threatened by her."

"Not her," she said. "Your stories with her. You're writing another one."

He exhaled through his nose and put the Dr. Pepper can on a bench. His Brewers cap was tight on his head, holding all his sweaty, damp hair, but his thoughts were growing too hot. "Life isn't a story," he said and yanked off the cap. He dropped it beside the pop as his hair fell over his face. "It's life, Spark. My life. Only damn reason I can show you I feel at all is 'cause of her and Forman."

"Then I should thank them." Ro pushed his damp hair behind his shoulders, opening up his vision, revealing the intensity in her eyes. "Is that what you want?"

"I want your trust, without me havin' to perform like a circus animal..." He slid his fingers into his jeans pocket and took out Jackie's rumpled envelope. "But I'm gonna trust you first."

"Is that the same letter from—?"

"Yeah."

"Why haven't you opened it yet?"

"Jackie wrote it."

A smile lifted the corners of Ro's mouth. "Now I understand." She planted her hand on his chest. "I understand, gorm-shùil."

"Buin mo chridhe dhuit," he said as warmth spread through his body. It loosened him up and evaporated the numbness. "Got no rubber on that, even if one goes on my dick."

She pressed her palm into his heartbeat. "Not a bad bargain." She pecked his lips, but he turned it into a full kiss, embracing her with both his arms and all of who he was. They'd be fine, as long as they worked out their crap without labyrinthine manipulations.

When they parted, she pointed at the envelope. "Jackie asked you to ensure no one but O. would read it, and that no one includes you."

"Have no clue what to do about it."

"I do." She plucked the letter from his fingers and tore it into pieces.

"Holy hell—" He watched, motionless, as she grabbed a bottle of Samuel Adams from the mini fridge. She opened it and poured half of the beer into a nearby garbage can. Then she stuffed the remnants of Jackie's letter into the bottle. "This one of your piss-me-off plays?" he said.

She dropped the bottle into the trash. "You are O. If Jackie feels connected to him, means she feels connected to you. Anything she's compelled to tell him, she can tell you in person—if you're ready for that."

He clenched his jaw until his temples hurt. She'd purposely put the letter in booze, knowing he couldn't touch it. But at least she hadn't drunk any of the beer herself. She'd given up alcohol for him early in their relationship, going as far as using non-alcoholic dentist-approved rinses like he did instead of mouthwash.

"Telling Jackie who you really are could change everything," she said. "Then again, it might change nothing. Life's full of uncertainty, love." She flicked the musical notes tattooed on her left arm, as if to remind him of their significance. "All that's certain about life is that it eventually ends."

"'Only way to escape was to put you back together again,'" he mumbled from "Keystone". Ro asked what he'd said, but he waved the question away. Jackie deserved better than the truth. She deserved a chance to put herself together without him interfering. "I'm not going to tell her," he said.

"Are you done with her, then?"

Winter seemed to break through the clubhouse windows, despite the hot sun outside, but he couldn't deny his choice. "Think I am."

Jackie entered her bedroom, happy to be free of Deborah's voice. She'd heard a month's worth of it at lunch and their visit to a local art gallery. Her social obligations were done for the day—unless her answering machine told her differently. Its light was blinking.

She pressed the playback button, hoping to hear from any of her dad's friends. If just one joined her at Dad's gravesite, that would be a gift. But Betsy's voice came through the tiny speaker, asking Jackie to call her back.

Jackie sat on her bed and dialed her Betsy's personal number. The last time they'd spoken was two weeks ago, when Jackie invited her to see Saturday Night Live in New York. Brooke's condition that Michael go with them, however, had upended that plan.

"Hello?" Betsy said after two rings.

"It's Aunt Jackie. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Just wanted to tell you Degenerate Matter's show'll be on the radio tonight. It should be on whatever rock station you have. But I'm taping it, so I'll make you a copy in case it isn't."

"Live?" Jackie said. Betsy said yes, but she could've left this information on the answering machine. "How was stargazing with your parents at Willow Springs Woods?"

"Going to Saturday Night Live with you would've been better," Betsy said, and Jackie gripped the material of her comforter. She'd gotten closer to the true reason Betsy had called. "But we saw Saturn, Pegasus, Cassiopeia—and a bunch of stars like Vega and Capella. It was pretty cool, but Dad wasn't being serious about it. He made up dumb constellations, and he and Mom were so gross." Betsy gagged through the phone receiver. "Kissing while I looked through the telescope."

Jackie tried to keep her tone even. "But that's good, right? They're happy?"

"I guess."

"What is it, bunny? You can tell me anything."

"You promise you won't tell my parents?"

Jackie twisted the comforter around her wrist. "As long as you're not in danger—"

"It's nothing like that. So you promise you won't say anything to them?"

"I swear to God."

Betsy hesitated before answering, so long that Jackie thought Betsy might've hung up. But static crackled into Jackie's ear, and Betsy whispered, "I wish Steven were my dad."

"Oh. Well..." Jackie squeezed the phone tightly, waiting for Betsy to elaborate. When no elaboration came, Jackie said, "I used to wish Mrs. Forman was my mom." It wasn't the complete truth, but it was close enough. "I still do."

"So you get it?"

"Parents can be very disappointing," Jackie said, "but they can also change. Michael wasn't the best dad when you were young, but he's really trying … and I know how much he loves you."

"Mm-hmm. Remember those anagrams I made of Degenerate Matter?" Betsy had changed the subject, and Jackie let her.

"How could I forget?"

"Well, I'm so amped for the concert tonight that I anagrammed the band members' names. Some of them are super funny. Wanna hear them?"

"Sure." Whatever Jackie could do to lighten Betsy's mood.

"Okay," Betsy said, and the rustle of paper followed. "Ro's is awesome, actually: roving risk. Sherry's is cherry mesh bras, but I think Ro would wear a mesh bra before Sherry."

More rustling of paper hit Jackie's ear. Betsy must have written quite a list, but she was being selective with it.

"Lee's name wasn't easy, but I got tree nub lull and tub reel null. They're okay, but Nate's is hilarious: ant casket. I think he'd like it. Oh, and cats taken. But O. MacNeil's are the best—and kinda the worst? Listen to these: No Malice, Coal Mine, Lame Icon—which is blasphemy since he's the cool mysterious one."

"That's great, Betsy. Those are creative," Jackie said, but she was ready to hang up the phone and shower off the day. "I need to get going, but—"

"Wait, wait. I have a ton more for him. His was the easiest—"

"One more," Jackie said. "I really do have to go."

Betsy's paper rustled again, or perhaps she sighed. "This is the weirdest: El Camino, like Steven's first car. Can you believe it? He still talks about that car like—"

The phone receiver slipped from Jackie's fingers. El Camino … O. MacNeil. She covered her mouth and bit into her flesh. The truth shrieked inside her brain: O. MacNeil's was Steven Hyde.