Something To Dream On (16 page)

I don’t believe in abandoning anyone just because the going gets tough. People who care about each other stand together, unless there is good reason to run. Jensen has not given me any indication that he is putting me in danger, so beside him I will stand.

She sniffles, and then looks dead at me, shaking back her head in bravery. The smile that slips across her face helps me to release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Yeah, I can honestly say we’ve never been better. I respect anyone who is reaching out for a second chance. Just keep showing me that I can trust you, okay?” I get another kiss, this time a sweet one on the lips. “Give me some time to clean up.”

Lizetta heads to the house, and as the screen door shuts behind her, I plop onto the sofa. A spring tries to poke its way between my legs, but right now, I wouldn’t care if it went up my butt. I’m just too damned relieved.

Jimmy resumes playing as Paul steps up and gives my back a double pat. “See, kid. She means it, too. You’re gonna be just fine.”

My thumb glides along the edge of the one hundred and twenty day, guitar pick chip. I should be proud, but I am still ashamed of my previous actions.

I also should have called Mom by now. I’ve got paycheck stubs gathered, print outs of my school schedule, copies of papers I’ve written—all ready to prove to her that I’m doing all the right things—yet I have failed to call the woman who sacrificed so much for me, which means I am just as pathetic as ever.

Not anymore.

I dig into my back pocket and don’t allow myself to think of what I am doing or the pain I have caused. Instead, I dial the number and wait. A hesitant voice answers. “Jensen?”

Maybe she fears I’m calling to again belittle her parenting skills for having two fuck-ups for sons. Or maybe she is afraid that she will hear that this is the police department calling the person I’ve listed in my cell phone as the emergency contact. Regardless, I stare at my sobriety chip and let the words pour out—words that start with, “Mom, I’m sorry—for everything.”

My tears drop at the shuddering of her breath. I need to keep the conversation going. I need to prove that my apology is real, and that it covers my every action that harmed her. “I’m sorry for all the times I came home in the middle of the night and puked on the floor. I’m sorry for the time I hit your car. I know I claimed that Bertha skidded on some grease, but I was wasted and hit the gas instead of the brake. I’m sorry for hitting you in the head with a bottle on the night you kicked me out. I’m sorry for doing my first line, because
you taught me to be better than that
.” Warmth is pouring down my cheek, and the sobbing starts, for both of us. “Your voice rang in my head the entire time, and I’m sorry that I didn’t listen. I’m sorry that I didn’t have the courage to call you well over a month ago, when I hit ninety-one days clean.” Her breath hitches. “I’m sorry that—”

“Jensen.” The gentle tone that only a mother can make slips into my ears. I’m not done, but I’ll stop, because she deserves the respect. She gulps. “What have you done over those one hundred and twenty days?”

My accomplishments race out so she can see that I’ve returned to the land of the respectable. “I’m in school, just like we always planned. I have a job assistant managing a warehouse. And as of a few weeks ago, I started making new friends. I found a sponsor, a fellow musician, and … and a really special girl that you would approve of. Mom, she’s amazing, and she trusts me.” I choke on the word trust. Trust from Lizetta means so much. I need it from Mom, too.

Etta barks, reminding me that she is someone who relies on me. “That was Etta. I rescued and adopted her a few weeks back. Mom, the universe works in really strange ways.” That statement holds so much emotion that I can barely get it out.

“What—What happened to that other girl? To Laura.”

Is the fear I sense that she’ll hear Laura is still in my life, or that Laura took it too far and is no longer with us?

The words are hard to say; yet I force them anyway. “I had to leave her behind.” An image of a bloody corpse on a battlefield covers my inner vision. My eyes squeeze tightly to shut it out, but it won’t go away.

“Well, then,” Mom says. Is that joy in her voice?
Please, God, let it be joy.
“It sounds like we have a lot of catching up to do.”

My head drops, and all goes blurry from the heat that washes out of my eyes.

Thank you.

This new version of the band sucks! I take another swig out of whoever’s bottle of cheap crap is sitting on the coffee table. If I’m going to suffer through this racket, I’m gonna need some help.

 
I can see through Jensen. He’s happy now because he has his little girly; yet he’s still not able to walk away from what we have to offer. What is it he wants? Obviously it’s not me.

Why can’t it be me? Sure, it’s been ages since anyone has been able to call me sweet but … Well, Jensen knows why. Shouldn’t the hell of my past get me a little bit of love? Can’t he see that if only someone loved me, I’d be such a better person?

I rub out the water forming in my eyes. Staying tuff is the only thing that keeps me alive. If I gave my reality too much thought, I’d crumble.

The recording contract hinges on him, so he could probably get one on his own. Whatever the reason, he hasn’t let us go nearly as much as he thinks he has.

Inside the family room, Jensen’s forth replacement gives one of his signature riffs a shot. A two-year-old imitating Slash on a ukulele would be more impressive. It must take some serious talent to sound that bad. It also takes some serious alcohol to tolerate it, so I polish off the last of the vodka. All the other bottles are empty, except for some rum. I hate rum. Hopefully there’s beer in the fridge.

Jensen’s too far above admitting he wants to go back to his old ways. Who better to give him a push in that direction than his new girlfriend? She ditches him, he wallows back, and my world returns to normal. I just need to plant the magic seeds of doubt in her brain about trusting him. With his past antics and all the girls who can say he banged and ran, that’s a freakin’ cake walk. I’ll also help girly find a replacement and away we go!

The fridge is empty. Damn. I’m stuck with the rum.

She’s probably staying at his house. I’ll head over just before dawn so I can follow her home and work from there. Easy peasy. Besides, I could use a little fun. What better way than to make a new buddy, even if I am going to screw her over and steal her man?

A bottle that I didn’t notice before sits on the coffee table. Well, what do we have here? Some kind of fancy brandy? No one here drinks this stuff. It must belong to the new guy. Wonder how I missed it? I must have been looking for the old standards.

It gets chugged down, but not before I toast the magic of the universe for bringing me a precious gift.

What’s that sick smell? My head feels like little green men are having a rave in it, and that stench makes me want to puke.

I open my eyes only to slam them shut as the sun nearly blinds me. I squint hard to get past the pain, and then slowly creep them open. I’m on the sofa, but God, what is that smell?

I roll over to avoid the light. Something cold squishes when my cheek hits the cushion.

Ah, God! Puke!

Across the room, my brother laughs. “Rise and shine, lightweight! That’s kind of impressive for a girl who only had a little vodka.”

“Ugh! It was the swanky, French brandy that got me.”

“Imported brandy? Man, you really must have hit it hard. No one around here touches that stuff.”

I try to get up, but the brightness of the sun glaring in my eyes smacks me down. “What time is it?”

“One-thirty.”

“In the afternoon? Shit!”

Larry laughs. He can find it funny all he wants, but I more than missed my chance to spy on Jensen’s new lay. Crap!

CHAPTER NINE

Friday, June 2

Bertha rumbles as we pull up outside of Good Samaritan. Thoughts of Lizetta woke me before my alarm did. Now that she has accepted everything about me, I want more—a lot more.

With the turn of the key, all goes silent except the birds outside Bertha’s window. I swoop up the bouquet of roses and head for Good Samaritan. The place is dark inside, so I take a seat on the concrete with my back to the wall and wait.

What do I say without sounding like some crazy guy who's begging for attention or a perv who’s trying to score? I just want more with her. Is that what I should say? “Lizetta, I want more.” No, that sounds like a proposal. The universe can dictate if and when that happens, but now is a little much.

Two days ago, clean test results came through—again. Ever since the condiment incident, every thirty days I've taken an AIDS test. Again it's pathetic how it took a personal threat to wake me up. With all the women who have cycled through my bed, some of whom have had very questionable morals, I should've had a test sooner for everyone’s sake. After hearing about Lizetta’s dad, I’ve made a point of telling her that even though my tests have repeatedly come back clean, there is no way that I am touching her without a hat on. I love her too much to risk hurting her.

Wow … There it is. I was wondering when that word would spring up, though I really didn’t think it would be this soon.