Jean Haus - Ink My Heart

The bag on Holly’s shoulder drops to the floor.

I dramatically throw an arm out. “On top of everything else, I can’t deal with him right now. Thinking about him makes me crazy. I can’t do crazy with Trevor breathing down my neck.”

Dropping next to me on the bed, Holly wraps me in her arms. “Did you ever consider Justin might be someone to help you with all this shit, someone to lean on?”

“Oh, Hol, I’m not going to use him. I called him on Wednesday, but it was just short and awkward with my head caught in a mess.” I wipe my face, surprised that it’s wet because I hadn’t even known I was crying. “I’m super confused with all this Trevor crap.”

Shaking her head, Holly leans on my shoulder. “I should have never tried to get you to just have fun. It’s always all or nothing with you, isn’t it?”

As I rest my head against hers, a self-deprecating laugh escapes me because she’s described me perfectly. She lets out a sad chuckle too as we sit there leaning on each other.

“Why are you crying?” Ben asks from the doorway. He’s dressed in a fuzzy robe but still dripping water on the floor, his face frozen in a fearful expression.

I try to stand but Holly keeps her arm around me tight. “Sometimes mommies get sad too,” she says. “Everyone has sad days. You know those days when everything seems to go wrong?”

Ben nods.

“Your mom’s having one of those days. Why don’t you come and help me hug her?”

He nods slowly before rushing across the room and jumping in our laps.

After a long group hug, Holly bends until her nose is almost touching Ben’s. “Should we tickle her?”

“Yes!” Ben says.

Their attack is so fierce I fall back on to the bed. In a few minutes, I’m laughing and gasping, “Stop! I’m going to pee the bed!”

Ben scoots off the bed like lightning. “Yuck!”

Holly stands and heaves her bag from the floor. “When someone’s threatening to pee, my work is done.” She pauses at the door. “Unless you want me stay in tonight?”

I wave a hand. “Jake’s waiting. See you later.”

“All right, but call me if you need chick flicks, booze, and an assortment of Little Debbies.”

Zebra cakes and rum? Hard to resist but I wave my hand again. “Go. Jake’s waiting.”

She gives us a wicked grin before taking off.

After she’s gone, Ben crawls back into my lap. “Why are you sad?”

Running my hand though his damp curls, I try to find an explanation that doesn’t have to do with his father or with Justin. “Things were crazy this week at work. I’m a little stressed out.”

“Stressed out?” he repeats slowly, obviously trying to understand the word stressed .

“Yeah, like worried all the time.” I tug on the belt of his robe. “I don’t want to worry anymore tonight. How about you get your pajamas on and then we can read and relax?”

“That sounds good,” he agrees, and scrambles off my lap.

We read books until he falls asleep. I tuck him in, remove his glasses, kiss his soft forehead, and wander through the silent apartment. I fall into the chair next to the window and look outside. It’s almost eleven now, and a few people are coming and going. Some hold hands; others have their arms around each other. The silence grows. It booms loudly through me. Beyond the booming silence is loneliness, the dull ache I’ve grown used to and accepted over the past few years. But tonight it’s more crushing than usual.

Unable to take the loneliness anymore, I move to my easel in the corner and attempt to work on my most recent painting. The shadows get deeper along the street, but that’s all I can extract from my imagination because thoughts of Justin are filling my mind.

I’ve refused to think of him all week, but after talking with Holly, he’s all I can think of. His masculine scent. The bright flash of his dimples. The seriousness of his green eyes searching mine. The sound of his sexy voice singing in my ear. The desperate way he wants to prove himself better than his reputation or his past. The lighthearted way I feel when I’m with him. Memories, images, and emotions swirl in my head until I’m rushing to the closet and yanking out a clean canvas.

I don’t visualize, just let the swirl in my head inspire me while I paint and paint and paint.

Sometime around four in the morning, I step back from my easel.

I’m shocked at the sight.

A picture’s supposedly worth a thousand words.

Mine depicts many, but mostly…

The truth.

Of course, the last studio session is hell. Romeo is on a perfectionist tear. Sam is hungover. Gabe, as always, is being an asshole. And I’m a depressed piece of shit. Perfect time to play some music and record it. At least there will be an edge to our sound.

After four hours of playing, we take a breather to eat the Chinese takeout Sam ordered, declaring he needed some grease to help his hangover. I pick at gong bao chicken and pork pot stickers. The windowless break room is essentially a basement, but at least it has several round tables and is large enough that we can also take a break from one another. I’m sitting at a table alone, picking at my food and doodling in a notebook, when Romeo decides to join me. The ass is obviously dense. I’m not in the mood for company. I go to the pop machine for a drink. When I get back to the table, he’s reading over the bullshit I’ve been writing since the drive this morning.

I plop down at the table. “Didn’t know you were such a curious fuck to invite yourself into my shit.” I hold out a hand. “Give it back.”

“This is pretty good,” he says, continuing to read and ignoring me.

My hand reaches to tear the notebook out of his, but he leans back. I fly up and my chair hits the wall behind me. “I’m not fucking around.”

He still doesn’t look up. “I’m not either. This is really, really good.”

“Romeo,” I say through clenched teeth.

“I’ve been working on a tune this would be perfect for.” Ignoring me, he mouths the words from the paper and nods his head, obviously thinking in music notes. “A few tweaks and we could have one hell of a song.”

With one step around the table, I snatch the notebook away. “I didn’t write if for your album.”

“It’s our album and that could be our first single.”

“Oh, awesome. Tear out my heart and put it on display for the world. That would make a great song.”

Being a business asshole he says, “What do you think? That great songs come from lame-ass poets sitting in the parks under trees?” He shakes his head. “They come from real people writing about life and what matters to them. And those”—he points to the book—“are awesome lyrics because they’re real and they’re heartfelt.”

My hand grips the notebook until it scrunches. “My fucked-up personal shit is not making it into a song.”

Still digging into a white takeout container with his chopsticks, Sam comes to stand next to Romeo. “He’s right. Fucked-up shit usually makes the best songs.”

I glare at Sam.

He shrugs. “Just saying.”

Romeo leans across the table. “How about this? After we work on the music, give me three practice rounds with it, then on the fourth we’ll record. Then if you say no, I’ll let it go.”

I’m trying to ignore their hopeful faces when from across the room, Gabe says, “Quit being a pussy and just sing your pussy shit.”

“Fuck you,” I say, glaring at Romeo. “Four times. That’s it.”

“Give me the notebook and your pen.” He reaches for his chopsticks. In between shoveling in food, he writes out an arrangement using the lyrics. Feeling nauseous like some nervous schoolboy on his first date, I toss my half-full container of food in the garbage, then stare at the wall while drinking pop to wet my suddenly dry throat. I can’t believe I agreed to this shit. And I’m all too aware of the words he wants to use for the chorus. Words from my mutilated heart I’ll have to belt out in front of everyone.