The Miles Between Us (16 page)

“
Guess what, my friend? Neither am I.”

Silence
. He puffed out a hard breath through pursed lips. “So what do we do about it?”

“I have no idea
. But I’m not backing down on the birth control issue. Having another baby is something I’m not willing to give up on. No matter what you say.”

“Then we’re at an impasse, because I don’t intend to back down, either
. Keeping you alive is something I’m not willing to give up on. No matter what you say.”

“Damn it,
Flash.” A tear glimmered at the corner of her eye. “Why are you making this so difficult?”

“You just said it
. I’m a jackass. I come from a long line of jackasses.”

“And yet, I still love you
. Why is that?”

“
Believe me, babydoll, there are days when you’re no picnic yourself. But I’ve loved you since the first time I set eyes on you. I couldn’t change it now if I wanted to.”

Fear widened her eyes before she shuttered them and the fear was replaced with defiance.
“Are you saying you want to?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Fiore.
” The tear rolled down her cheek, and he cursed himself for forgetting how vulnerable she was right now. “Look,” he said, “it’s late. We’re not about to resolve a damn thing tonight. Let’s dump out the beer and go to bed.”

She nodded, wound her arms around his neck, and
pressed her cheek to his chest. He brushed his lips against her hair. “So you’re still my girl?” he said.

“
Are you kidding, MacKenzie? Always. Always and forever. I may be a little crazy, but I’m not that crazy.”

He let out a breath as the fear that had a tight gri
p on his insides eased a little. “Jesus,” he said. “We are a mess, aren’t we?”

* * *

Thus began the most miserable episode of enforced celibacy he’d ever lived through.

They’d
experienced celibate periods in the past, but there was always a legitimate reason:  the weeks before and after childbirth, the weeks that followed each miscarriage. The weeks he’d spent on tour with Chico Rodriguez, after Chico’s lead guitarist had an unexpected medical emergency and he’d stepped into the breach. There’d been good, solid reasons for them to forego intimacy, reasons they’d both embraced, so it hadn’t seemed a hardship. Those six weeks apart while he’d been on the road had been a challenge, but the homecoming had more than made up for the entire six weeks of deprivation.

This was different
. This was deliberate, born out of conflicting desires and fears. A line had been drawn in the sand, and because neither of them had any intention of stepping over it, the situation created a tension between them that had never existed before. They’d become adversaries. If it hadn’t been so serious, he might have found it comical. But this was a life-and-death issue, and Casey was determined to torpedo his well-meant intentions. Because they both knew there’d be no resolution until one or the other caved, every word, every glance, every touch was rife with implicit meaning. They’d always been able to hold a conversation without words. But now, the unvoiced conversations that coursed between them ran to silent accusations: 
“You know, we wouldn’t have to go through this if only you’d stop being such a jackass and see things my way.”

But of course, they were both jackasses, each of them unwilling and unable to see things from the other’s perspective, so
the gap between them widened, fueled by anger and hurt and resentment.

And, on his part at least, a growing fear.

* * *

Sweat, assisted by gravity, drizzled down his ribcage and along his spine, saturating his clothing and leaving him stewing in his own juices. The air conditioner had been on the fritz for the last three days. With the five-dollar part needed to fix it on back order, the atmosphere in this place could best be described as one step this side of hell. Somebody had brought in a fan, but all it did was move around stale air, and the damn thing was so noisy, he couldn’t use it while he was recording anyway. New York City was clutched in the grip of a full-fledged heat wave, the kind of heat that accelerated the murder rate, left sidewalks steaming, and turned New Yorkers—not known for their courtesy under the best of circumstances—into total ass
holes. All you had to do was turn on the TV to the nightly news to see the effect the weather had on normally sane and rational people. He’d lived through three New York summers, and he’d grown up in Boston, so it wasn’t as though he didn’t know the score. But he’d been spoiled by his years in California, where this kind of mugginess, so thick you could eat it with a fork, was rare.

One good thing had come of the weather: the notable absence of Phoenix’s posse. Even Luther, who was built like a linebacker, had succumbed to the brutal heat. The gentle giant had spent half of yesterday mopping sweat from his face with a snow-white handkerchief before giving in and returning to his hotel.

Work wasn’t going well. The heat, the time squeeze, the pressure to perform, were all getting to Phoenix. He’d been snippy all morning and into the afternoon. Cold pizza and tepid Coke hadn’t done anything to sweeten the kid’s mood, and when Rob asked him, for a fifth time, to dig deeper into his emotional repertoire to mellow out a line that sounded too harsh, the kid slammed his headphones to the floor and said, “It’s only flippin’ pop music! What in bloody hell is
wrong
with you?”

Sighing, Rob made a mental note about covering the cost of the headphones from his rapidly-dwindling budget. Into the mic, he said, “It’s only your flipping career. What in bloody hell is wrong with
you
?”

“Bugger off,” the kid said.

Rob glanced over at Kyle, whose balding pate gleamed with perspiration, and made an executive decision. “We’re quitting for the day,” he said. “Kyle, go home and spend a few hours with your wife, before she forgets what you look like. Phoenix, front and center.”

“Man, you don’t have to say it twice,” Kyle said. “I’m outta here.”

“See you tomorrow, buddy.”

The kid dragged into the control room, a sneer on his pretty face. “What?”

“You’re coming with me.”

“And where might we be going?”

“For a walk.”

“In New York.” The kid raised a single dark eyebrow. “In this heat.”

“That’s the way it plays out.”

“You’re fuckin’ serious.”

“Jesus, Phoenix, lighten up a little. You’re seventeen. Life’s supposed to be fun at seventeen.”

“No thanks to you. Bleeding sadist.” But he followed Rob down the corridor, past the reception desk, where Sheila sat, fanning herself with the sports section of the
New York Times
, and out the front door.

Outside, heat rose in waves from the pavement. Traffic was at a standstill, all those combustion engines adding a heady cocktail of heat and gasoline fumes to the sultry atmosphere. An elderly couple with cameras conferred over an open map, while a statuesque blonde wearing too much eye shadow and a black leather miniskirt—in this heat—clicked down the sidewalk on silver stiletto heels. “Stop staring,” Rob said to the kid, who was standing on point like a bird dog. “
She’s way out of your league.”

Half a block away, a vendor sold hot dogs from a pushcart. Rob bought two with the works, one for him and one for the kid. “You’re welcome,” he said, handing a hot dog and a bottled water to Phoenix.

The kid eyed him through those mirrored sunglasses, which did nothing to camouflage his identity. Not that it mattered. In these temps, any girl who recognized him would be too weak from heat exhaustion to do anything about it. “Thank you,” Phoenix said fussily, and bit into his hot dog.

They ate, and walked, in silence. Eventually, his hot dog gone, Phoenix said, “I don’t suppose you’ve a destination in mind?”

“Right over here.” Rob veered across the densely crowded sidewalk to a sporting goods store that featured a wide array of athletic shoes in its window display. “Ever play basketball?” he said.

“Are you barking mad?”

“I take it that means no.”

“It means yes. But not in this bloody heat.”

“Oh, come on, Russell. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I left it back in London. And don’t call me Russell. That’s not my name any more.”

He clapped the kid on the shoulder and steered him through the entryway. “Live a little,” he said.

After some deliberation, which took longer than it should have because the store was
so nicely air conditioned, he bought a regulation basketball. While the sales clerk rang it up, he picked out two white terrycloth sweatbands. He paid, and they headed back out into the brutal heat in search of the small public court he vaguely remembered from his New York days.

He took a couple of wrong turns before he found it, tucked in between brick buildings on a narrow cross street. Nobody else was crazy enough to be out here, so they had the place to themselves.
Rob dropped his water bottle on a bench, peeled off his tee shirt, and donned the sweatband. Lazily tossing the ball from hand to hand, he said, “Okay, kid. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

“You’re a musician,” Phoenix said, shucking his own shirt and dropping it beside his water bottle on the bench. “I’m not picturing you as an athlete.”

Rob bounced the ball on the pavement. “I was six feet tall at fourteen. It was pretty much a foregone conclusion that I’d play. I was on my high school team for a couple of years. I liked it well enough, but my heart was elsewhere. You?”

“Played a little at school. But I can probably beat the likes of
an old sod like you.”

“Think so? You’re on.”

In spite of the heat, they played with an intensity and a determination that mirrored the complex rivalry of their off-court relationship. Rob dove in, snagged the ball, took a jump shot, and missed.

Phoenix snickered. “
What a Nancy,” he muttered as he captured the ball. “I’ll show you how a real man does it.”

“Hah. Good luck with that.”

They fought for control of the ball. Phoenix won, dribbled it to the end of the court, jumped and made the shot.

“Not bad, kid.” Breathing heavily, Rob snatched the ball out of Phoenix’s hands, dribbled it a couple of times, raised his arms and shot. The ball hit the backboard, circled the rim of the basket—while they both stood silent with
anticipation—then dropped into the net. “Score! So tell me, Hightower. Best band ever.”

“The Stones.” The kid grabbed the ball, said, “Yours?”

“The Beatles. Followed closely by Steely Dan. Favorite Stones song?”

“
Beast of Burden
.” He dribbled the ball, aimed, and shot. It went cleanly into the basket. “Favorite Beatles song?”

“
Let It Be
.”

Phoenix shot again, missed the basket this time. “I don’t know Steely Dan.”

“Well, then, sonny, you’ve missed a crucial piece of your musical education. I’ll have to play them for you. Walter Becker and Donald Fagen. Nothing short of gods.”

They lasted forty minutes before the heat got to them and they collapsed side by side on the bench. Rob peeled off the sweatband, swiped his arm across his forehead, picked up his bottle of water and took a long sip. Then he upended it over his head, letting the coolness refresh his overheated body.

With his tee shirt, he wiped his face, his hair, then pulled it back on over his head. “Jesus,” he said, stretching aching muscles he’d forgotten he owned. “I haven’t had a workout like this in years.”

Beside him, Phoenix pulled his own shirt back on. “Tell me, mate. You don’t talk like a New Yorker. So where are you from?”

“Boston. Wheah we nevah learned to pronounce ouah ahs.”

The kid blinked twice before he got it. “And where’s Boston?”

“Couple hundred miles northeast of here. But Casey and I live in Maine, another hundred-fifty miles beyond that. Middle of nowhere. God’s country. Sometimes, it’s so quiet, you can hear your own heart beating.”

“And you like that kind of thing?”

The kid sounded so horrified, he had to laugh. “I take it you don’t spend much time away from the city?”

“Not deliberately.”

“It does take some getting used to, if you’re a city boy. But you know what? It’s home to me now. It grows on you after a while. Besides, it’s where Casey is. And wherever Casey is—” He paused, let out a breath. “—that’s home.”

“A tad besotted, are we?”

He shrugged good-naturedly. Said, “I’m worried about her.” A cloud passed over the sun, providing temporary and much-needed relief from its brutal onslaught.

“Why?”

“She hasn’t been herself at all. Ever since she lost the baby. She’s hurting, and withdrawn. Grieving beyond what I’d call healthy. And I can’t get through to her. It’s like we’re two strangers, sitting at opposite ends of a mile-long dinner table, with all that empty space between us.”