More Than Once (14 page)

I had to do this. I had to know if I was over her.

I grabbed the scissors and ripped through the tape, tearing it away from the cardboard. My heart was pounding and my hands shook as I slowly opened the box. Inside, I found my old hockey trophies and high school yearbooks, cards from my grandparents who had passed away, and squiggly drawings my brother’s kids had made me when they were younger. All things I wanted to keep, but didn’t necessarily want to look at every single day.

And there, in the bottom, was the small, black, velvety box.

I stared at it for a good five minutes, trying to work up the nerve to pull it out. Before moving to Dallas, I’d packed the ring and tried to put it out of my mind completely. I’d buried it deep, along with the memories and the pain. But now it was time to dig it up again, along with all those feelings I’d worked so hard to ignore.

I clutched the tiny box in my hand and took a deep, slow breath. Yes, I’d proposed to Tara. Yes, she had turned me down. Yes, it had almost killed me.

But it had also led me to Becca.

I opened the box and looked inside, and the sight didn’t hurt me as much as I thought it would. The ring would never be on Tara’s finger, but maybe on another girl, someday… The idea didn’t seem as impossible now as it once had. I wasn’t ready to propose, not even close—but Becca made me believe it might be possible.

I’d known her for—what, a handful of days when you put them all together? But somehow she’d done the impossible and brought me back to life again. She’d made me realize my past didn’t have to determine my future. She’d made me want something
more
.

I wasn’t the same guy who had proposed to Tara. Since moving here, I’d turned myself from Andy into Andrew. Maybe I would always be the good guy at heart, but I’d become a little bit of the bad boy, too. Becca had helped me uncover that dark part of me I’d been afraid to admit I had—and she’d embraced it. She’d taught me that I could change, that I could be whoever I wanted to be.

Right now, I wanted to be the guy who was dating Becca Collins.

I threw on some clothes, grabbed my keys and my glasses, and ran out the door. It was late and the road was empty, so I got to her house in record time. But when I ran up to the front door, I realized I couldn’t just knock. Becca lived with her sister’s family, and I didn’t want to wake everyone in the house up.

I walked around the icy grass, looking up at the second story, picking out where Becca’s window was. It was dark, like every other one in the house, but I had a feeling she was still awake. I thought about throwing rocks at her window like in the movies, but ultimately decided that was stupid. Why risk the chance of breaking the glass when we had technology?

With my dented phone, I sent her a text:
I’m outside. Can we talk?

Go home, Andrew,
she wrote back almost immediately. She was still awake, too.

I’m over Tara, and I can prove it.

Her face appeared in the window, gazing down at me. I gave her a small, hopeful smile, but she shook her head. With one last, lingering look, she closed the curtains.

Give me another chance, please. One more date.

She didn’t respond.

I sent her one final text.
Please, Becca. I do want more with you.

No response.

I waited for an hour in the cold, hoping she would change her mind and send me a text or walk outside.

But she never did.

T
he next morning, the sun was shining and the air was warm enough for me to go outside with only short sleeves on. It felt like the kind of day when anything was possible.

A day for second chances.

Last night, Andrew had come to my window and said he was over Tara. I’d wanted to believe him, but how could he know for sure when only hours earlier he’d been a total wreck at the mere sight of her name on his phone?

I’d barely slept all night, unable to get his words out of my head. I’d reread his texts a hundred times and composed a thousand responses in my head. None of them were right. None of them got across what I really wanted to say: that I was scared of opening myself up to someone who might never love me back. That I was just as terrified to go after a possible future with the band. That I was worried I would never be good enough, never stop failing, and never get what I really wanted—in life or in love.

Andrew had asked me for another chance, but how could I give him one when I couldn’t even give
myself
one?

I stood on the porch and let the wind blow through my hair as I sipped my coffee and stared at the garage. Andrew’s words about the band had left a lingering feeling of unease in my gut. Sure, I was starting to turn my life around and get my shit together…but at what cost? What was I giving up by going down this path? And did I really want to become that person for good?

I couldn’t let my past haunt me forever. If I wanted to move on with my life, I had to know for sure that I was ready to let go of that dream—and that I didn’t want that life anymore. Maybe if I could do it, then I could believe that Andrew was ready to move on, too.

I opened the garage door and flipped on the light, scanning the dusty, cobweb-filled room. Pretty sure I saw a mouse scamper across the concrete floor. Gross. But there, in the back, underneath the summer yard toys and the kiddie pool, were my bass guitar cases.

I shoved the other stuff off and dragged them out to the middle of the garage, beside Trish’s minivan. The first one was a long, slim box with a gleaming silver handle. The metal latches clicked open with a loud snap, and I lifted the lid slowly.

Inside, the electric bass shined in the sunlight, a Fender Precision with a candy-apple red body and a black pickguard. I clearly remembered the day my parents had given it to me, on Christmas morning when Trish and I were fifteen. She’d gotten a new laptop, and I’d gotten the instrument that would become my best friend over the next few years.

The strings looked like they needed to be replaced, but otherwise it was as perfect and shiny as when I’d put it away. It was practically begging for me to plug it into my amp and start playing again.

As soon as I touched the neck, memories of rehearsing with Villain Complex flickered through my head, so strong I could close my eyes and almost believe I was there with them again. Good memories at first: laughing with the guys, playing on stage with them, feeling the music flow through me, hearing the audience cheer.

But then came the bad memories—the drinking, the fighting, the ultimatums—and with them, a heart-wrenching slam of shame, guilt, and regret. If I did this, if I joined the band again even for one show, I’d be opening myself back up to that life and to the chance of returning to my old ways. I’d risk failing at my dream a second time.

I closed the case up and pushed it aside. I wasn’t ready for that yet.

Underneath it was a curvy, thick black case covered in stickers for old punk and emo bands. I popped it open and gazed inside at my acoustic bass, made from the most beautiful pale wood I’d ever seen. The strings on this one didn’t look as bad, but this case had always had excellent insulation with its thick, fuzzy walls. This bass was like an old friend, one I whispered all my dark secrets to in the middle of the night, even if we were rarely seen together in public. I’d learned to play on this baby, and it never let me down.

With a deep breath, I pulled it out and tossed the leather strap over my head. The familiar weight of the guitar settled on my shoulder and against my hip. I plucked one of the strings to check if they were still good and felt the low note hum throughout my body.

God, I loved that sound.

Most people wanted to play guitar. I’d started there myself, as most bassists did. But as soon as I’d picked up a bass guitar, I knew I’d found my match. There was something about the deep tones, the low frequencies, and the soulful pulse of each note that hit me in my core. Playing bass wasn’t as flashy as playing guitar, but it was just as important to a band’s sound. I didn’t care about the spotlight or about being at the front of the band ‘cause I knew I was the one getting the audience to bob their heads and tap their feet.

I tested each string, and they still sounded good, even if the bass needed to be tuned badly. I should really put it back—it wasn’t like I was going to play it, after all—but before I could stop myself I began tuning it, plucking at the strings, twisting each knob until the note sounded right. I tested out a few melodies and was surprised how easily my fingers fell back into it. I was out of practice after six months without playing, but my subconscious seemed to know what to do—and it urged me to keep going.

Okay.
Okay
. I would play one Villain Complex song. Just one, to see if I still remembered how. If it was too hard or I got too emotional, I never had to do it again. I could put the bass back in the case, close it up, and shove it to the back of the garage, where it would collect cobwebs until I was ready again.

If I would ever be ready again.

One song. I could do this.

I set my hands on the strings and played the opening to Villain Complex’s most popular song back when I was part of the band, “Behind the Mask.” The chords came slowly at first, like I wasn’t sure I could really do it. But as I kept going, note after note, the music began to rush out of me, bursting forth like champagne from a shaken-up bottle.

I remembered everything. All the basslines I used to play. All the words I used to sing backup on.
Everything
.

And it felt fucking amazing.

The music was still in me, even though I’d buried it deep inside and locked my bass guitars out here in the dark. Releasing it was so powerful, so intense, and so damn
right
, I found myself in tears as I finished the song.

My god, why had I ever given this up?

When I stopped playing, it was like coming out of a daze. The sun was shining. The wind was blowing. Birds were chirping. And my sister stood at the edge of the garage, watching me with a faint smile.

“It’s nice to hear you play again,” Trish said.

I nodded, quickly pulling the guitar off and wiping at my eyes, embarrassed that she had caught me in such an emotional, vulnerable moment.

“I’d forgotten how much I missed the sound,” she said as she moved toward me. “It was such a constant in my life when we were younger. Remember? You would practice for hours, long into the night, while I’d be curled up with a book at your side. I used to pretend that whatever you were playing was the soundtrack to the book I was reading.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, and all the embarrassment faded away. “I remember. I was always practicing, and you were always reading. You used to go through a book a day.”

“Still do.” She smiled, but there was a touch of sadness in her eyes, probably undetectable to anyone but me.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, setting the bass down in its case. “Is it Matt?” I’d heard the two of them fighting again last night when I’d gotten home from my date with Andrew. This morning, they’d barely said a word to each other.

Her face crumpled and she nodded. “I…I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

“Oh, no.” I wrapped my arms around her, letting her bury her head in my shoulder. “Why do you say that?”

“I just feel so…trapped. I love him, but he doesn’t understand that I’m twenty-three and I feel like my entire life has already been decided for me. I’m a stay-at-home mom who never went to college, and I’ll never be anything more than that.”

“That’s not true. You’re the smartest girl I know. You were valedictorian in high school. You could do anything you want.”

“I wish it was that easy. We just got married too young. I can’t help but wonder—if I hadn’t gotten pregnant with Hannah, would we even still be together? I don’t regret having her, not for a second, but sometimes…” She ran a hand across my bass guitar case, wiping away the dust. “Sometimes I’m jealous of your life.”

“My life?” I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, god, don’t be.”

“Yes, your life. You’ve dated dozens of guys, lived in different cities, played in a rock band, and held all sorts of jobs. You’ve always done whatever you wanted, no matter what anyone thought. You went after your dream. I know it didn’t work out, but at least you
tried
.” A tear dripped down her cheek, but she kept going. “I’ve lived in the same city since I was eleven, and I haven’t had a job since I worked in that ice cream parlor in twelfth grade. I married my high school sweetheart and had a kid at eighteen. I wouldn’t give up Hannah for anything, but there are so many days when I wish I could be as free as you are.”

“Trish, you have it all wrong. The reason I’ve done so much is ‘cause I fail at everything. I dropped out of college. I’ve been fired from every job I’ve ever had. I quit my band and gave up on a career in music. I even got kicked out of my apartment and had to come crawling back home to beg you for a place to live. If anything, I’ve always wanted to be more like
you
—you always seemed to know what you were doing. You’re an amazing mother, a loving wife, and you’ve never once let our parents down. You’ve always done the right thing.”

“The right thing?” She let out a sad laugh and wiped at her eyes. “All these years I tried to be good and do what everyone else wanted or expected of me. I was the perfect wife and mom and daughter, but now I’m just so freaking
tired
. I had so many things I wanted to do with my life, and I don’t think I’ll ever do any of them.”

I’d had no idea Trish was so miserable, and her confession was breaking my heart. How had I missed her unhappiness over the last few months? I’d always thought she was the bright light in the family, while I was the crushing darkness—but maybe we were more alike than I’d thought and she just hid it better. “What is it you want to do?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I want… I want to go to college.”

I took her hand and smiled at her. “I think that’s a great idea. We could start at the same time and go to class together. We could even pretend to be each other in class, just like the old days. Wouldn’t that be fun?” But she didn’t seem as excited about this idea as I was, and I knew there was more. “What does Matt say about this?”