In the Absence of You (13 page)

Shit, it’s good to hear her mean little tongue.

“And hello to you,” I murmur. “Did Her Bitchy Majesty enjoy the show?”

She crosses her arms over that suddenly narrow chest and lifts a bony chin. “Some of the new songs are a bit over the top, don’t you think? You guys hiring some amateur lyrics writer nowadays? Let me give you some advice: have Bo write them for free. You do a great job, honey,” she adds in a milder tone, patting Bo’s back.

“Bullshit,” I say, feeling my smirk grow at our sparring. Ah! Deliciously evil Zoe; I’m in her line of fire. “Could that be the song that bugged you? ‘Bullshit?’ The one about girlfriends who’re weak jealous bitches who give up so easily they’re a fucking joke?”

She steps into my face. Absently, I register Aishe entering, gaze flickering over me and going to Troy, who holds out a beer.

“Yeah, you think that was easy? Let’s air some of
your
laundry, cheater
.
How many times did I call you, checking on you when I wasn’t here to make sure you were faithful? Then—
bam—
I found out what you were up to,” she purrs. “I didn’t even have to be present. The finding-out part was easy.”

“Right.” I’m not playful anymore. I soak her up like sunshine, stare at each features, makeup perfectly applied as always. The rain—the Mojave Desert heat—nothing altered her flawless appearance. She’d keep her little makeup purse close, making sure she looked porcelain perfect. The only times I ever saw Zoe without makeup was in the shower.

Zoe in the shower.

Dear God.

“Yeah, sure,” I re-start my response. She eases closer to me, so close I’m unable to keep my fingers from brushing her neck. I’m in the fast lane of a waterslide. Powerless, I can’t rock off course when her stare bores into mine, and she, she’s sucked into our vacuum too.

When I touch her below the ear, she yanks back with a noise that resembles a hiss. I let my hands drop.

“Yeah. I want to talk about that,” I manage. “There’s nothing I’d rather do. You, Zoe, are the most jealous woman in the world. Did you ever consider that by never, ever trusting me, you pushed me away? Did you?

“How many times did I tell you that no-fucking-one can ever be you to me? That you’re so fucking special that if I lost you I’d never get over you?”

It’s not true. I didn’t tell her the second part. I didn’t know yet.

People are leaving, except for Nadia, whose hand squeezes over Zoe’s shoulder. “Are you ready to go?”

Aishe lingers after everyone else too. Troy bends to her, whispering against her ear. He wants her to go with him, but she’s hesitant.

“No,
you
pushed
me
away, jerk. You and your tours, always with your meet-n-greets and after-parties, all the damn girls with their boobs and belly buttons.”

“I just signed them is all! Didn’t I take you to our room afterward and love you senseless? Huh? Wasn’t that what I always did, because you were the only one I wanted?”

Her lip trembles, blue eyes storming at me. Nadia tries again, pleading for her to come with her.

“Why can’t you be like Nadia?” I exclaim. “Why didn’t you trust me instead of fight when we were apart? I always Skyped you when you weren’t here. You were all I needed! Why didn’t you believe me when we had an extra layover in Bogota on our way to Buenos Aires that time? I told you—everyone could’ve verified it—but you wanted to think I’d been cooped up in a hotel with a groupie, so we fought until I got on stage that night. Remember? Remember!”

She pulls her dear face back, stare brimming with what she feels for me.

“Don’t you eat now,” I growl, “because you can’t live without me either? Is that why you’re fucking skinny?”

Zoe slaps me. It’s a
zing
to my cheek that’s so unexpected I’m stunned. My face burns. I lift a hand and cover it.

“And why couldn’t you be like Bo and never accept a blowjob from whores who aren’t your girlfriend?”

She’s walking away. I can’t have her walk away—again—and not let me talk. “Zee, I know you’ve always trusted everyone else more than me, but let me explain what really happened.”

“Because it’d change everything?” Zoe throws at me from the door. “I’d suddenly find a reason to believe in you as some awesome, dedicated, chaste boyfriend? Yeah,
no.
And believe me, there are plenty of actual
nice
guys in L.A.” She exits. Disappears from our conversation.

“Oh like the dull golf pro wannabe you’ve been on two dates with?” I shout to make her hear me.

She angles her head back in through the doorway. Eyes squinted with disdain, she snarls, “Nice. You damn stalker!”

I open my mouth to answer, but Troy appears, blocking my view. “Emil. Dude. Enough for one night, yes? Let’s get out of here. Have pizza down the street.”

I want my bitchy girl.

“No meet-n-greet?” My voice is hoarse. Troll won’t be happy about that.

“Not in another hour. The venue’s figuring out their logistical issues between us loading out and Moksha hitting them up early; they’re playing tomorrow, you know. Troll will buzz me when the meet-n-greet’s set up.”

I look around for my jacket, and Aishe holds it up for me. I thank her, and she strokes the back of my arm in lieu of a “welcome.”

I can’t look at Aishe. My disappointment over Zoe walking off is too big. I’d fight with her for days straight if it meant we’d be in the same room, if I could extend a hand and touch her even if just for moments.

Zoe and her crazy brain. So possessive, so whom I need. Sometimes I wake up thinking it was a dream that she left me. Those are the worst mornings, because my damn head roams for signs that she didn’t really walk off. In the end, I always have to settle with the truth.

“Aishe?” Shandor’s in the doorway, wanting her attention. “Chavali and her husband are at the exit.”

She pulls in a breath, tensing. “They came?”

“Yep. She wants to see you.”

“Got plans tonight?” I go through the motions of asking.

“Guess I do…” She trails off, unsure-sounding.

“You’ll be fine, Aishe,” Troy says.

“Who with?” I grab my backpack and pull out my wallet.

“My sister. I haven’t seen her in six years.”

“Whoa.” I turn to look at her. She’s pale beneath that golden tint. “You don’t look so good. What’s wrong?”

“They’re not really on speaking terms. Or is that too strong a verdict?” Troy adds.

She bites her lip. “No… it’s not too strong.”

“Ah so your sister’s why you’re not traveling with your folk anymore?” I suggest. It would make sense. The girl never talks about her family, and Gypsies, the way I saw them back home in Sweden, seemed damn close.

Instead of replying, Aishe looks like I just punched her in the face.

AISHE

“I
don’t want to go alone.”

“No need for that. We’re family. I’m always here for you.” Shandor’s eyes burn with sincerity as his hand curves around my hip, keeping me from being pushed over by drunken concertgoers on the arena floor.

Outside, hundreds of fans linger in clumps. Which has no impact on me. Because Chavali is the only one I see.

I was wrong. She isn’t taller than me. I’m wearing jeans now, and she’s wearing her best jewelry and a long, lush skirt, but if it weren’t for our outfits, we’d be reflections of each other.

Resentment wars with love inside me when her hands fidget with the fabric of her skirt.
Oh God,
I think, because she’s worried and I have no idea how to feel about that.

Despite what happened, my little sister shouldn’t be worried. No, she shouldn’t. I hate that she’s worried over seeing me again.

“What are you doing in America?” It’s my first thought, and I let it escape.

“Looking for you.” Chavali’s pitch breaks on
me
, round eyes overflowing and letting tears drip down cheeks that are darker than most around us.

Behind my sister stands a man with eyes as tender as hers. He’s barely an inch taller, and no meat fleshes out his wiry physique. With the original tan of our families, despite the twenty years he holds on Chavali, he dons scarce wrinkles, and those he has are subtle and show an inclination to smile.

My
sister
makes you smile.

Protective of Chavali, whom
I
used to shelter, he rests a hand on her arm, stroking discreetly as he waits to see how our reunion plays out.

Old bitterness flares high in me. This man is my parents’ age. As a young girl, I didn’t pay much attention to his generation, so I don’t actually know him. He was just the father of a boy who, for a heartbeat, was my sister’s fiancé.

Six years it’s been. The two of them left family, friends, even his son behind. They’ve been married for six years. Ostracized for six years.

“Hi, Kennick,” I force myself to say. “How are you?”

He takes a step forward, grateful for my civility. I wasn’t so civil the last time I saw him when my sister had her bags packed and wanted my blessing before she eloped. “I am well. It’s good to see you, Aishe. Chavali and I are so happy you had time for us.”

In lieu of an answer, I turn to my sister while Shandor murmurs his greeting to them both. “You look good,” I whisper, my tears falling like hers as I touch her face. “Look at you. Don’t cry, baby girl.”

She giggles the way she used to giggle. “You stop first. I can’t stop if you’re crying.” Which makes us both giggle.

She’s in my arms, my sweet little sister, and I can’t believe how long it’s been. She’d call me. I didn’t pick up. What a vicious cycle of resentment and pride. I want to forget it, make sure she’s okay.

The two of them have a black car with a big motor, which can pull their camper through state after state, complying with the urges of our blood. Kennick drives us to a restaurant that’s built inside an old-fashioned RV. The Trailer Park isn’t run by Romani, neither is it on their campground, but they chose it, Chavali says, because the place serves juicy burgers and fries so perfect they melt on your tongue once you’ve bitten through the crispy shell.

With an air of peace I don’t recall from her, she tells us of their adventures since we last met. The two of them have traveled Europe alone, occasionally meeting different Romani clans on their way.

“We felt lost in the beginning. It was hard to adjust to such a lonely existence,” Chavali murmurs, beaming at her plague. He beams back, gaze caressing whenever it finds my sister.

“Yes, it was. My sweetheart cried a lot.” Kennick is more honest than I expected. “You missed everyone, didn’t you? Especially Aishe,” he adds, looking to his wife—my sister—for her input in ways I don’t remember from the older generation. It makes me wonder if our love fire evolved.

Chavali smiles. “He wanted to return me to the clan.” The rapid blink of her eyelids when she concentrates reminds me of her toddler self.

“He did?”

“Yeah, Kennick didn’t think us being together outweighed my pain. It took him a while to understand that the thought of him was the only thing keeping me alive. If it weren’t for his face before me in my mind—”

Her cheek targets his shoulder in a sloppy motion meant to be funny, but really, all it does is deepen my fear of the future; the plague punches you in the gut and in the heart. Kicks you into action. It’s one of two: it’s going to kill you or lift you into an intense heaven.

Ah how silly was I thinking I could trick it with Emil.

Later, much later, peace has settled inside me too. Portland is a hotel night for the band, so we can stay out late. Shandor and I go with them to their campground. Get a tour of their simple camper decorated with what Chavali calls chevron paper overlays—wallpaper-style canvases in festive colors, all with love as a clear theme.

“Hearts, huh?” I ask, pressing my lips in between my teeth to keep from smiling, because I don’t condone her actions back then. I’m still upset by how she left me, how she didn’t speak about what she went through before it was too late. But to see her in front of a blazing bonfire lit by a husband who adores her? It’s a relief beyond any I had imagined.

“Yes, hearts. I know what you’ve been up to, Big Sis. You’ve been on the run from the plague,” Chavali teases, gaze skimming my expression. “Is it working?”

I scan the dark tree line for Romani men. Kennick took Shandor to the lake twenty minutes ago, beers in hand and jovial back-slaps accompanying low laughs as they trotted off. Something about fish jumping at midnight. For now, no leaves rustle alerting us to their arrival.

“It went well for a long time,” I whisper. My sister angles closer, the flames honeying her features.

Instead of easing, the tug of longing stiffens beneath my ribs. I lean over crossed legs and pull her in. Chavali’s arms go around my neck, and the closer we are, the more I hiccough. It’s so strange to sit like this, with the years we spent apart spilling like sand through my fingers.

“I love you,” my sister snivels out.

“Your voice sounds weird,” I say, causing us both to laugh. I squeeze her tight, tight, like I should have instead of yell at her when she almost died.

“Who is he?” she whispers. “Shandor doesn’t know, right? His only mission in life since we were little has been to keep you out of harm’s way.”

“Nuh-uh. That’s not true.”

“He came back, remember? Instead of taking classes on campus, he returned to be with the family. And when did he leave the family again?” she asks, knowing.

“At the same time as I did.”

“Yes, so Shandor will be on your case until you’re safe, either with a good love fire, or when you’re so old you’ve beaten the plague forever.” Despite the gravity of the future she paints for me, I smile. After years apart, she still has our cousin pinned down. “Does he have a love fire? He doesn’t, right?” she adds.

“Right.”

“I bet he hasn’t had time because he’s too busy watching over you.”

“Oh come on, Chavali.”

She just sniffs in response. “Tell me about yours, Aishe.”

I hesitate. Then realize I have no reason to hold back. “My plan was to beat the plague by deciding who I’d pick instead of letting it invade me, but as I selected him, it turned out the plague had picked
me
.” I have something digging into my side. It’s a distraction that keeps a sob of self-pity from slipping out.

“He’s the singer of Clown Irruption,” I say. “Emil. You saw him onstage tonight. I just didn’t realize who he was to me until it was too late.”

We’re on a blanket. The ground is uneven, and I reach down to pull the branch out from beneath me. I toss the small piece on the fire and watch the flames lick it, calmly at first, then with more insistence, slowly changing its color from pale to dark. Soon, it will turn to charcoal.

“I haven’t given up yet,” I whisper. “He likes me, but he’s trying to get over someone from before, a girl who left him.”

My sister nods, squeezing my hand with strong fingers. “He’s lucky. I hope he understands how wonderful a life he has ahead of him if he lets you love him.”

The fear of a darker outcome sucks the air from my voice. “Me too.”

EMIL

“Russian roulette is
the shit,” I puff out, tipping back the last chug of Jameson from the bottom of my glass. Whiskey and pizza’s the perfect mix. My head is swimming.

“It doesn’t have to be with a revolver,” I continue, my tongue thick. “You could do it with any gun as long as it has chambers with room for more than one bullet. Ya know? The point is there’s got to be a margin for error, or whatchamacallit. Like, you can lift it to your head”—I raise the wireless mic I haven’t let go of since I got off the stage and point the narrow end to my temple—“and then you go,
Click!,
then
Click!
Then
POW!”
And there comes the first happy-rush in my veins since Zoe joined us.

“Pretty sure it’s got to be a revolver. You’ve seen how’s supposed to go, right?” Elias butts into my contentment. “
Riiip,”
he creaks, adding a single round in an imaginary cylinder and placing the muzzle of a nonexistent revolver to his head. “Revolvers are the only guns with cylinders, at least that are small enough to—”

“Well, fuck,” I say. “We’ve got tons of hunting rifles at home. We could shut our eyes while loading them though. Put the bullets in without looking.”

“No, dude. Have you never loaded a rifle? You’d have to pop in blank ammunition and mix it with the real deal. Problem is, they look so different you’d know which was which. Wait, not if your
mom
put them in randomly for you.” Elias snickers.

“Guys, we gotta get back for the meet-n-greet,” Troy says, staring at his phone. The screen is lit up, probably with Troll texting him.

“No!” I exclaim, sounding drunk even to myself. “I don’t wanna sign boobs tonight. I want another Jameson.” I half-point at the waitress. “Lady?”

“No one’s forcing you to sign boobs, Emil. If it’s not what you want, just don’t do it.” Troy is the voice of down-to-earth reason. I don’t want to be reasoned with.

“Pff. They expect me to sign their bodies. You do it too.”

“Bo doesn’t. And there’s no rule saying you can’t mix shit up and do things differently. Pull yourself together now. Let’s go.”

“Well, I’d rather talk about Russian roulette.” I lift my chin high enough to stare him down. Troy folds his arms, waiting. Elias rolls his eyes. But I think Russian roulette kicks ass—
Click—Click—
Fucking
pow.

“How about you talk about Russian roulette all the way up the street and ’cross the road,” Troy negotiates. I grumble. Wobble to my feet. Sway a little and wave to the girls at the next table. Then I make it outside without toppling over.

At the meet-n-greet, Troll has about fourteen worry lines crisscrossing his forehead. “Finally. The
band
is here,” he mutters to Irene, God knows why.

“Ja! Where’re all the horny chicks with boobs to sign?” I ask. Bo doesn’t look up at my question. He’s being proactive, signing T-shirts and posters and whatnot, getting them ready. He’s all snooty. I’m not signing crap, I decide.

“You hoity-toity t’nite?” I poke him in the ribs, but he still doesn’t pay attention to me. Life’s hard when your girl’s waiting for you. Prick.

“Just shut up,” Elias says. “Let’s get this over with. I want to go to bed.”

“Ah!” I say and blink at him, long and hard with one eye. “Elias’s planning to get laid.”

“Not even. All I want is a warm hotel bed and to not see your Russian roulette-obsessed face for freaking hours in a row. It’ll be awesomeness.”

“That again?” Bo asks, and Elias bobs his head.

The hordes enter with stars in their eyes, and I quickly remember how much meet-n-greets rock: like, one hundred percent. It turns out I have no issue signing boobs and bellies after all. I don’t have a woman who hates it anymore, so I’ll totally whore out my Sharpie.