Disclaimer: That '70s Show copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. The fictional band Degenerate Matter, their albums Vagabondage, Ultrarelativistic, WIMPs and MACHOs, Frozen Stars, the song "Spark," and all the lyrics contained therein copyright to the author of this story (username: MistyMountainHop, maker of Those '70s Comics).
CHAPTER 33
OUT OF LOVE
December 21, 1994
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Hyde and Ro's House
…
"Come with me," Hyde said in the bedroom. "Let's face it, get this shit over with."
Ro had a cigarette, half-smoked, between her lips, and she pulled another from the carton. She was pacing, away from where he stood by their bed. Nighttime conversations like this rarely ended well. He'd be lucky if she stuck around for sleep.
"They're all going to be there," she said.
"Exactly, man. We'll rip the hairs out at once." He lit his own cigarette with his Zippo, his first of the day. He was trying to cut back, but Ro's resistance to their future made him edgy. "Once my family knows, we can get hitched. We can freakin' elope, but they've got to know."
"One more album. One more year of freedom, love."
Smoke rose over his face as he spoke, obscuring his vision. "Not being with you in public ain't freedom. Sneaking around lost its novelty."
"And how free will we be with those assholes and their cameras following us?" She stubbed out her cigarette on the window sill and left an unsmoked one there, too. An unexpected move, but she returned to him. "It's not just about us." Her fingertips slid down his cheek. They plucked his cigarette from his lips, and she puffed on it. "Thought you were quitting."
"Reducing."
"You give me this year, and I'll reduce, too."
"Is that a promise I should hold you to?"
She half-smiled, with his cigarette pushed to the corner of her mouth, and yanked down his sweatpants. "If you give me an alternative to suck on."
She'd exposed his black underwear, but sex wouldn't swerve him into the wrong lane. He pulled his sweatpants back up. "No one in that house will say crap to the paparazzi."
"Not intentionally. But unless you put them through media training, to teach them how to anticipate the paparazzi's tactics, or make them sign confidentiality contracts this Christmas..." She sighed out a cloud of smoke and returned the cigarette to his lips. "Lee, Sherry, Nate. The band. Whatever you and I do, it'll affect them. I won't have that on my conscious."
"They'll have to deal with the fallout eventually."
"After this album." She climbed onto the bed and knelt in front of him. His eyes were level with her breasts, the shape of them visible through her thin nightshirt. "Can't have that stress while writing. If something interferes with my process, I'll go off my head."
She bounced on her knees, and in a moment she was jumping on the bed. When he didn't join her, instead smoking his cigarette to an ashy nub, she said, "Am I going to lose you over this?"
"No," but he wasn't thrilled. She'd miss another year of family gatherings, depriving him the chance to integrate the disparate parts of his life.
She leapt off the bed and landed hard on the wood floor. One of her socked feet slipped sideways, but he grabbed hold of her arm before she crashed. "Hell," she muttered as her body twisted and fell into him. "Good thing I have better balance on stage, right?"
"Yeah."
He steadied her on her feet, and her arms glided around his neck. Her breath heated his ear, and he waited for her teeth to sink in. At the end of these talks, sex was the standard alternative to separation. But her hands buried themselves in his hair. Her face nuzzled his cheek, and she whispered, "Thank you."
December 23, 1994
Point Place, Wisconsin
The Formans' House
...
Jackie stood on the Formans' front stoop, arms stiff at her sides. A festive wreathe decorated the front door. Unlit Christmas lights adorned the outside of the house, and holiday music resounded faintly through the siding. Either a warm welcome awaited her inside or cold pity.
On the drive from Milwaukee, she'd imagined various scenarios for this weekend. The car she'd rented was parked close by. She could drive away, avoiding the what ifs altogether. Catch the next available flight back to California. But her last conversation with Steven kept her in place, rooted to the Formans' front stoop. He'd called her twice this month, once to extend an offer from Mrs. Forman: she could stay in Eric's old room.
"Why?" Jackie had said, and Steven answered that Mrs. Forman considered her family.
Family. She hadn't felt part of one since her dad died, but she'd accepted the offer, if only to pretend for a few days.
One of her hands squeezed the handle of her suitcase, and her other pressed the doorbell. Eric opened the door shortly afterward, wearing an emerald-green sweater and a smile that appeared genuine.
"Hey, Jackie. Want me to take that?" He indicated her suitcase. "I can carry it upstairs for you."
"Maybe you could let me inside the house first?" The mid-morning air was crisp, and her throat was already beginning to freeze.
"Oh, of course." He stepped back from the door, allowing her to enter. "I'm glad you made it," he said and grabbed her suitcase. His helpful, cheery attitude was unnerving, but he gave no explanation for the change.
"Holly, Jolly Christmas" played from the living room stereo. A partially trimmed Christmas tree stood near the kitchen door, and ornaments were piled high in a cardboard box. Izzy had one in her hands, but she gave it to Mrs. Forman and ran straight for Jackie.
"Izzy," Eric said and headed for the carpeted staircase, "look who's here!"
"Jackie, Jackie!" she shouted over "Holly, Jolly Christmas". Twin orange braids flew out behind her, and she crashed into Jackie's legs in an embrace. That was a first. "Pick me up?"
"Looks like Izzy's chosen," Mrs. Forman said, filling the room with her laugh.
Eric cast Jackie an apologetic glance, another first. "Izzy, give Jackie a minute to settle in."
"What is settle in?" Izzy said.
"It means—" Jackie bent down and lifted Izzy up—"I need to get comfortable."
Izzy's legs wrapped around Jackie's middle, and her warm arms slid around Jackie's neck. She smelled like gingerbread, a treat no doubt baked by Laurie. "Are you comfy?" Izzy said.
"I sure am." Jackie bounced Izzy on her hip, and Izzy giggled. "How about you?"
"Yeah. Did you—did you bring me a present?"
"A few." Four, in fact. One for each year of Izzy's life. "It's Christmas, after all."
Izzy grinned, showing off her baby teeth. "Can I have one now?" she whispered.
"They're in my suitcase—"
"Which Daddy has to bring upstairs," Eric said.
"Ooh!" Izzy wriggled in Jackie's arms, a signal she wanted to be put down. Jackie did so gently, and Izzy followed Eric up the staircase. "Don't leave, Jackie!"
"I have no plans." Jackie pressed her arms to her sides. She was trying to make herself smaller, hard to do with her winter coat on. The Formans' living room used to seem enormous, but the fifteen years she'd spent away from Point Place had shrunk it.
"Oh, let me take your coat," Mrs. Forman said. She strode toward Jackie with a purpose, and Jackie worked frantically to get the coat off in time. She didn't want Mrs. Forman touching her in an attempt to help. Two months after her second night with Rod, and the effect still hadn't worn off. Her body remained radioactive
Izzy's impromptu hug, though, had felt homey. Jackie neither understood why or how. It was a sensation wholly alien to her, had been since July 29, 1983. Even her dad's embraces, as pure as they were, couldn't bypass the damage Dale Fischer had done.
"Well, that was some greeting, wasn't it?" Mrs. Forman said, accepting Jackie's coat from her. "It's so wonderful to see you."
"You, too, Mrs. Forman." She meant it. The lines around Mrs. Forman's eyes indicated lots of smiling, and she'd apparently found a master hair stylist. No hint of gray peeked from her hair. It was a golden blond that fell below her chin, feathered so it framed her face. "Thank you for inviting me."
"Thank you for accepting! I'm just so happy you and Steven have reconciled." Mrs. Forman draped Jackie's coat over the sofa. It wasn't the marigold one from Jackie's memory but a chocolate-brown sectional. Mr. Forman's old chair hadn't been replaced, just reupholstered. Its fabric was no longer pea-soup green but persimmon, well-suited to the room's autumn color scheme.
"Would you like something to eat, to drink?" Mrs. Forman said. "The gingerbread cookies Laurie and I baked yesterday taste incredible with tea."
Jackie pulled her cardigan sleeves over her hands, not caring if she stretched its cotton permanently. "Maybe later. Is Steven here?"
"Not yet, sweetie. He should arrive around lunch."
Jackie nodded and crossed her arms over her chest. She must've appeared standoffish, but she was fighting a powerful urge. If she let her emotions take control, she'd fling herself at Mrs. Forman and give her fifteen years' worth of hugs. The risk was too great. If Mrs. Forman's embrace felt wrong, it would infect Jackie's memories of her.
"Jackie!" Izzy dashed down the stairs with Eric behind her. "Can we play Chase?"
"Chase?" Jackie mouthed to Eric.
"It's this game where you and Izzy chase each other around the house," Eric said.
Mrs. Forman laughed again. "She's chosen you, all right. The safest route is through the den, across, the dining room to the kitchen, and back through the living room."
Chosen you. Jackie had no idea what that meant, but she wouldn't ask in front of Izzy.
"Red's with Donna, Laurie, and Tim at the Pinciottis'," Mrs. Forman continued, "so you have no risk of knocking them over." She knelt down and cupped Izzy's chin. "But make it a quick game, 'kay? Farmor has to finish cooking lunch in ten minutes."
"Okay." Izzy grasped Jackie's hand and tugged her toward the den. The contact should've slithered up Jackie's arm like mud-coated worms, but it didn't. And when Izzy let her go, the loss shocked her system. She'd been affection-deprived for years. Starved of a clean kind of touch, one without a price to pay.
"I'll start!" Izzy said and darted into the den.
Jackie waited a few seconds before pursuing. Someone had turned down the stereo. Eric and Mrs. Forman's hushed voices floated toward her, with Mrs. Forman saying, "You sure she can handle it?"
"So far so good," Eric said. "I'll put her coat in my closet."
"Thanks, honey."
"Jackie, come on!" Izzy was waving at her from behind an armchair.
"Sorry." Jackie chased after her, and Izzy's giggles echoed back.
Mrs. Forman's cooking was unbeatable. She'd prepared a lunch of fig-glazed hens with cornbread stuffing, and Jackie ignored what had to be a too-high sugar content. Her dietary rules were suspended for this long weekend.
The hens' honeyed scent permeated the dining room, along with everyone's conversations. Mr. Forman discussed sports with Bob and Joanne. Laurie and her husband, Tim, tried to deconstruct the hen recipe while Mrs. Forman talked about Izzy's latest dance recital with Donna and Eric.
But Steven hadn't arrived yet. They'd held off eating lunch as long as they could, fifteen minutes after he'd called from Milwaukee. Grooves's car service had mixed up his reservation, so he'd be a half-hour late. Without him, Izzy was Jackie's main companion.
She'd insisted on Jackie sitting next to her. Her stranger-danger anxiety had passed for now, according to Donna, replaced by a need to latch onto someone new. It would last only for a certain period of time, Donna reassured her. But Jackie was glad for the company. She and Izzy surreptitiously pulled faces at each other; and they made strange, secretive hooting noises, as if they'd formed an exclusive club, membership: two.
"I framed your article on the wall," Mrs. Forman said, drawing Jackie's attention. Mrs. Forman was talking to Donna, about what had to be her concert review in The Milwaukee Journal. Jackie had saved the article, too. "It was beautifully written," Mrs. Forman went on, "but Alice in Chains is a silly name for a musical group. Couldn't they have named it something like Alice in Flowers?"
Eric glided his hand over Donna's back. "That's just the beginning, Mom. Tell her, Donna."
"Okay," Donna said and put down her fork. "So the paper got a ton of letters responding positively to my review. And I've been invited to write an editorial about the current state of the music scene. If that goes well, I might get a monthly gig with the Journal—freelance, so I can write for other publications, too."
"Oh, my goodness, that's terrific news!" Mrs. Forman gripped Mr. Forman's wrist. "Did you hear that, Red? Donna's working again!"
"I heard, Kitty," Mr. Forman said. "I'm right here." He sounded annoyed, but a smile crept over his lips.
Laurie reached across the table and patted Donna's hand. "Congratulations!. I loved your review. Tim and I were at that show, too—"
Donna's face brightened. "Really?"
"Mm-hmm. You really captured the energy of the band. You describe music really well."
"Thank you! My career does appear to be picking up again—" Donna looked at Jackie—"and it wouldn't have happened without you."
Bob speared a fig onto his fork but didn't eat it. "You've done good by my little girl, Jackie. She told me how you connected her with that fashion magazine ... Closet?"
"Cosette," Donna said.
Blood heated the back of Jackie's neck. She wasn't used to this kind of acknowledgment, and it created an ache for her mom to hear it.
Her stomach lurched in response. Her therapist had said all kinds of thoughts and feelings might be stirred by this weekend. That going to the Formans' Christmas was a big risk—and an even bigger step forward—and Jackie should be proud of herself. But her mom was the last person she wanted to think about, especially in this environment. Fortunately, a tap from Izzy and a, "Hoot! Hoot!" brought her back into their little club.
Footsteps vibrated on the dining room floor several minutes later. Silverware clattered on plates, and everyone but Izzy stood from the table. Steven was finally here, dressed in a plaid wool coat. His thick, wavy hair fell a few inches past his shoulders, and Red said, "You couldn't have gotten a haircut?"
"Hush, Red!" Mrs. Forman embraced Steven first. She cupped his cheeks afterward and looked him over. "Your hair is getting a little long, sweetie."
Steven chuckled and shook Mr. Forman's hand next.
"Good to see you, son," Mr. Forman said, "even if you do look like my daughter."
"Dad, he does not," Laurie said. "Long hair on men is a sign of masculinity now—when it's natural as opposed to glammed up—especially in the business he's in."
Mr. Forman returned to his seat at the table. "So I've been told."
Eric hugged Steven next, and they patted each other on the back. "Did you read...?" Eric said.
"Yesterday," Steven said.
Donna was holding Izzy in her arms, and rather than hugging Steven, she kissed him near his sideburn.
"Alice in Chains at the Marcus Amphitheater," he said to her. "Your review makes me wish I'd gotten to Milwaukee a week earlier."
Whatever Donna replied, Jackie didn't hear. She gripped the sides of her chair until her fingers hurt. The easy affection among friends and family had raised an invisible wall between them and her. She existed in a different universe, somehow privy to events she wasn't part of. How these people connected to one another, expressed their love ... maybe she'd be allowed into a club like that when she was dead.
Laurie stepped up to Steven, and Jackie's palms pushed into the chair harder. Steven embraced Laurie like a beloved sister. Laurie, who'd given Jackie her first taste of hell almost twenty years ago. Who used to despise Steven with the passion of a jilted lover, but her chin nestled on the crook of his shoulder. His fingers splayed over her back, and they didn't let go of each other for what seemed like ages.
Jackie had no reference points for their bond, how it had been forged. But she longed to be held like that, by someone she trusted, as much as she needed not to be touched. It was a paradox she hadn't yet resolved, not in therapy or through her choices.
December 23, 1983
Kenosha, Wisconsin
Pike River Movie Theater
...
Hyde sat beside Forman in the run-down Pike River movie theater. The place stank, thanks to it being fuller than he liked. The scent was mostly cologne mixed with mothballs, and someone must've brought in popcorn because the theater smelled like that, too.
Hyde tried to settle in his seat, but he fidgeted. Watching porn with his best friend, not to mention two-dozen strangers, was weird. It had always been weird, even back when they were teenagers, but seeing hot, dirty sex tended to erase a guy's awareness of who he was with.
And this movie promised to be hot and dirty.
The buzz on its female lead had reached mainstream papers. She went by the name Luscious Sinn, and Hyde needed some sinful diversion. Bud had killed himself a few months ago, by driving drunk into a telephone pole. Uncle Chet had given Hyde the news, and it sent Hyde running from alcohol. He was the most sober he'd been in four years. In a sick sense, Bud's death had allowed him to come back to Point Place for Christmas.
To come home.
A thick and sleazy bassline blasted through the theater's speakers, and the film's title, Luscious Sinn's Baptism, popped onto the screen. It dissolved, replaced by the set of a college dorm room. A woman walked into frame, wearing a lacrosse uniform, protective goggles and all. An interesting setup, but Hyde hoped the action wouldn't take long to start.
"Mixed messages, don't you think?" Forman whispered. "Shouldn't she be wearing a Catholic school uniform? There are Catholic univer—"
Forman's speech stalled, and Hyde's mouth went slack. The woman had removed her goggles, revealing a face they both knew. Hyde had trouble breathing, trouble thinking, but he exploded into laughter. "I knew it, man! I knew she'd end up in porno!"
"Shut up!" Forman shouted, along with the rest of the theater. "This isn't funny! That's—that's—and someone's just knocked on the door. No! Don't open it!"
He was yelling his sister, at Laurie. She was Luscious Sinn, and she'd just let a man dressed as a priest into her dorm room.
"Not laughing out of amusement," Hyde said. "It's shock … and amusement. Holy hell—"
Laurie's lacrosse top was already off, and the priest was fondling her breasts as if he were kneading dough.
"We gotta go." Forman was on his feet and pulling Hyde's arm. "We've got to get out of here!"
"Maybe you do," Hyde said and shook him off.
"Hyde! You can't watch my sister have sex."
"Wouldn't be the first time."
Forman jumped onto his seat and addressed the whole theater. "You should all be ashamed of yourselves! The women in these movies are people's sisters and daughters! Maybe even mothers!"
"Get down!" someone shouted at him.
"Shut the fuck up!" another person said.
But Forman kept at it until security was called. A burly man with more fat than muscle yanked Forman off his seat. He was dragged out of the theater, and Hyde followed—but not before catching a glimpse of Laurie going down on the priest.
"How could she do this?" Forman said once he and Hyde were in the Vista Cruiser. Hyde was driving. Forman was too frazzled to handle the wheel.
"It's who she is, man. It was inevitable."
"It wasn't. She went to college, to beauty school!"
"And dropped out of both."
"I don't get it," Forman said. "I'm not a porn star."
"And you never will be."
Forman looked pleadingly at Hyde while the car was stopped at an intersection. "What I mean is, how could our parents raise two such different kids?"
"Maybe Laurie experienced something you didn't," Hyde said. "Or maybe she gave up on herself … or both."
The traffic cleared, allowing him to drive on. For all the burns he and Forman had made at Laurie's expense, he'd never actually wanted Laurie to end up badly. Just to understand her shit and quit screwing around, especially with men in committed relationships.
"How am I gonna tell my parents?" Forman said.
"You're not. Red can't know." Hyde turned the Vista Cruiser onto Green Bay Road. They were a few minutes from Point Place, from having to bring the hell they'd discovered home. "Man, it'll give him another heart attack."
Forman's voice broke. "You're right, you're right. But I've got to tell Mom. She'll ... she'll do something."
Too soon, Hyde parked the Vista Cruiser in the Formans' driveway. He and Eric stood feet from the patio door, from Mrs. Forman, who was baking brownies or a pie or whatever in the kitchen.
"You don't have to do this," Forman said and clasped Hyde's shoulder. "She's my sister. You can go home."
"Mrs. Forman's as much my mom as she is yours." Hyde scratched the nape of his neck and glanced at the driveway's basketball hoop. The rim was cracked, the netting shredded. "And after everything you've done for me, we'll tell her together."
Hyde gazed at Jackie while he shook hands with Tim. She was seated beside Izzy at the dining table, her own gaze seemingly on him but glassy-eyed. Maybe she was trapped inside her skull, feeling separated from everyone here.
His instinct was to go to her. To show her she wasn't alone, but he couldn't force it. His spot at the table was next to Forman, too many seats away from her. If she'd requested the distance, he had to respect that.
He sat down, with his coat draped over the back of his chair. Mrs. Forman brought him a plate of food, and the hen's fig-and-balsamic glaze pushed his focus to Jackie's plate. Her hen was half-eaten, but her fingers held the silverware without moving. She'd quit eating and stared at the table's glittery, reindeer centerpiece. His arrival could've been the cause. She hadn't even said hello, but neither had he.
"Jackie," he said softly. It had no discernible effect on her. "Jackie," he tried again, louder, and her attention snapped to him. "Hey."
"Hi." Her hand swept through her blond hair, exposing pale cheeks. Her mental-emotional presence appeared shaky at best. He recognized the molasses slathering her brain. He'd slogged through his own more times than he could track.
"Brought my Martin acoustic-electric with me," he said.
"You did?" Her energy picked up. The presence in her eyes strengthened.
"After lunch, what's say you and me head to the basement, and I play you a little somethin'?"
"Yeah..." Color returned to her face, and she cut into her hen. "Yeah, I'd like that."
Jackie hoped to go to the basement with Steven alone, but Izzy insisted on joining them. Donna slipped Jackie a bag of Izzy's toys and said, "Just give her one of the sticker books. She'll forget you're there."
Downstairs, the innards of the basement were unrecognizable. The stone walls had been painted robin's egg blue. The ratty sofa was gone, replaced by a futon couch. It folded out into a bed, so she'd been told, and that was where Steven would be sleeping. His old bedroom had been converted back to a storage room. It housed items the Formans no longer desired to see but refused to toss out.
Steven set up his guitar and amp away from Izzy's ears. She'd parked herself several feet in front of the futon, on an area rug, with a Disney sticker book. Jackie sat with her, but Ariel, Flounder, and Sebastian had all of Izzy's attention.
That was fine. Steven had Jackie's attention. He was sitting on the futon. A red pick was between his lips, but he he plucked it from his mouth. He checked the tuning of the guitar then played "Spark".
Her insides hummed with the music. When he reached the second verse, he censored the first word, probably because of Izzy's presence. But he sang with a voice so rich and powerful it threatened to shake Jackie apart: "Open your eyes. You're not alone. Such degenerate matter, you matter to me."
"Steven, stop," she said, her own voice a quavery mess. She was far from crying, but being in this vulnerable state in front of Izzy was less than ideal.
His hand became still mid-strum. "What's up?"
"Nothing. I just can't right now."
"Can't what?"
Feel, but she wouldn't say that with Izzy here. She stretched her cardigan sleeves over her hands for the second time today. Its cotton fabric would definitely be stretched beyond repair. "You and Laurie. You're close. How did that happen?"
"Helped her out of a bad situation." He began tuning the guitar again, changing the notes of each string. "We're not that close, but the blood between us is good."
"Blood?" Izzy said.
"Another word for family," Steven said.
Izzy stuck a rumpled sticker of Cinderella onto a pumpkin carriage. "Oh."
"So you and Laurie are family," Jackie said.
"Pretty much."
"I wonder what that's like, having one." She hadn't meant to say it out loud, but Steven's gaze was fixed on her. He maintained eye contact in a manner she wasn't used to from him, one she'd yearned for when they dated. Sunglasses were no longer glued to his face or hooked on the collar of his shirt.
She wished she had on a pair. Steven's light was too bright, and she looked at Izzy's sticker book. Jackie didn't belong here. Or anywhere, really.
"Izzy," Steven said, "Farmor is decorating the tree again. She needs her best helper, kid."
"Will she give me another cookie?" Izzy said.
"Maybe even two."
Izzy leapt to her feet, the sticker book forgotten. Steven offered his hand, and Izzy took it. Together they went toward the wooden staircase. "Jackie," he said, "stick around."
Slowly, quietly, Jackie packed up the sticker book. She sat on the opposite end of the futon where Steven had been. Her gaze traveled to his guitar, down its neck, and held steady at the sound hole.
"Christmas used to depress the hell out of me, too," Steven said, sitting across from her. He'd returned while her mind had been elsewhere. "Kid's gone. You can quit bein' G-rated."
"You bribed her," Jackie said, but the rebuke masked her appreciation. He'd realized what she needed and made it happen. "Is that what you did for Laurie?"
"Bribe her?"
"Figure out what was missing in her life and give it to her."
He put the guitar on his lap, and he held the red pick between his thumb and forefinger. "I invested in her bakery."
"Like she was a charity." A snarl emerged on her lips. She tried to stop it, but a wild, nasty, and defensive feeling had ruptured her gratitude. "Do you connect with anyone at all? Truly connect? Or is it one rescue case after another?"
He answered with a strum of his guitar.
"So once you've 'fixed' us, you move on, right?" She was glaring at him, but he looked back with no anger on his face. "Fuck you, Steven."
He answered with another strum of his guitar.
"You don't actually love me," she said, and the rusty machinery of her heart shrieked. "But that's fine because no one really loves anyone anyway." She grabbed Izzy's toy bag and shook it before slamming it on the floor. "Love is conditional and temporary. It turns into shit. It always does. No matter what the hell I do, it always does!"
Years' old rage had escaped from the depths inside her. She was having an emotional flashback, with no memory attached, and had only moments to act. She snatched a pillow off the futon and screamed into it. Screamed and screamed until she was lightheaded.
Only her therapist had witnessed this behavior from her, but she placed her hot cheek on the pillow as her thoughts cleared. Going to the Formans' for Christmas had been a mistake. It highlighted all she lacked, would ever lack, and she'd projected it outward.
"I'm sorry, Steven," she said weakly, though she was sure he'd long left. "I'm sorry. My existence has a negative impact on everyone. I guess I wanted, needed you to see that."
"You failed." Steven hadn't left after all, and he played a riff she'd never heard before. "You had a primal scream moment. Worked your way into it, using the safest person available. Been there."
"You have?" Her breath shuddered, but tears didn't follow. She was beyond crying. "I shouldn't have said those things to you."
"Heard worse. Said worse." He played the riff again, repeatedly, and she closed her eyes. The notes lit stars in the darkness of her whole being. "Laurie wasn't a rescue case," he said. "She did most of the work herself. Faced her crap. Figured it out. I had the means to give her a boost, so I did." The riff changed keys, from major to minor, and took on a mournful quality.
She listened for a while. The chugging, moderately aggressive riff eventually shifted into a plaintive chorus, and one-by-one the stars inside her went nova. "I haven't been in love with you for a long time," she said. "Did it make you sad to fall out of love with me?"
The music crashed into a barely audible buzz through the amp. Steven's palm had to be pressing on the strings at the sound hole. She opened her eyes and found she was right.
"Confused," he said. "I was confused." He cleared his throat and turned a knob on the amp. The buzzing stopped. "Tried to force it out of me, what I felt for you. Thought I didn't have the right to feel it, but it had to fade on its own, naturally."
"How long did it take?"
"Long enough."
"Me, too. All of that." She sat up, but chills had seeped into her. She hugged the pillow to her stomach and shivered. "But I did feel sadness." More than sadness. Letting go of him had been the same as letting go of joy, in its purest form. "I really loved you. ... If I ever loved anyone, it was you."
He reached his hand toward her, but she couldn't take it. Grief flickered over his face, and he returned his hand to the guitar.