Page 8 of For Puck's Sake

“Good morning, Lark Bay. It’s good to be home,” I say, feeling genuinely happy to be back. It’s only been a week so far and I’ve been greeted with nothing but warm welcomes from everyone around town. I hang out with Red, Dulce, Charlie, and Tasha every night. It’s like I never left, we’ve picked up exactly where we left off. It’s been wonderful being surrounded by my friends again.

“I’m honored to have an opportunity to sit down with you. Before the commercial break I asked you why you named your guitar. You want to enlighten the listeners—enquiring minds need to know.”

Leaning into the mic in front of me, I smile at the question. I’m not usually a fan of radio interviews, but I’ve known Jay along time and we have an easy rapport. I’ve had a week full of video chats, telephone calls and in person radio interviews to hype up my upcoming tour. Tonight is opening night at Red’s, so I’m riding the high of anticipation.

“I grew up listening to all types of music. Those of you who’ve followed me from the beginning know my musical influence is varied. But I’ve always had a love for Blues. It’s raw and gritty, giving you nothing but the truth pulled from the depths of one’s soul.” I sigh blissfully. “I remember watching B.B. King playing Lucille on television during a musical award show and I was in awe. He sat there, sitting on his stool, just him and his guitar, the sound to me at the time was transcendent. I wanted to be connected to my instrument in the same way, making it an extension of myself. So, I named my first acoustic guitar Bessie after the Empress of Blues herself, Bessie Smith.”

Jay whistles. “For those of you who don’t know who that is, it’s time to do a little early jazz era research. If you’ve been down to Solo Red’s, you’ve seen the mural of the singer painted on the side of the bar. A mural inspired by Brea’s guitar when she first performed there.” He pauses, lost in thought. “When was that?” he snaps.

“Almost six years ago,” I answer, putting him out of his misery. He whistles into his mic at just how long it’s been, and I nod in an ‘I know’ gesture.

“Brea Brookes, ladies and gentlemen, already a local legend, soon to become a global superstar. Thank you for coming down to talk to us this morning.”

“Thank you for having me,” I reply as Dean taps his watch to indicate my time is almost up here. He stands impatiently, pacing slowly back and forth on the opposite side of the glass in the waiting room. I try not to get annoyed by his behavior, but he’s been unbearable these past few days. Yes, he’s kept me on schedule this past week. It’s his job to do so, but he’s also beenshort and giving me major attitude. I can only assume he’s upset that I’ve been staying at Tor’s house instead of the B & B the record label booked for us. I don’t know how many times I’ve needed to spell it out for him that we don’t need to complicate our relationship further than I already have. I broke our little sexual arrangement up months ago, but he won’t let it go.

“Speaking of Solo Red’s, you can catch Brea performing nightly there for the next five weeks before she embarks on her first national tour,” Jay says excitedly, pulling me from my thoughts. “One last question before you leave, Brea.” He lifts his brow to see if I will humor him and I nod my head for him to go on. He looks over to Dean, then back to me and I narrow my eyes at the exchange.

“How do you feel about your former fiancé’s baby news?” Jay asks expectantly.

I freeze. The question hits me square in the chest. I let it land and seep into my bones, my words, the words I need to say to appear unaffected don’t come. Nothing falls from my parted lips, although my brain is screaming at me to react. I’m caught like a deer in headlights. Ababy?I wonder, completely caught off guard.

I glance up, for what, I didn’t know, only to find Dean staring at me intently. He’s hyper focused on my mouth, awaiting my reply. What was he waiting for? Then it hits me. He set this up. I confirm this feeling when I glance at a very apologetic looking Jay who can barely look me in the eyes now. I purse my lips at Dean. He has gone too far. I hope he can see he has over-fucking-stepped the line by the look of disgust on my face. I’m shooting daggers at him, wishing this wasn’t a live interview. Anytime there is fresh gossip or negative news about Ridley, he always finds a way to throw it in my face. I guess it is his way of reminding me of the man Ridley has become.“A selfish asshole hockey player, who thinks he’s God’s gift to women and neverdeserved you,”were his exact words. He didn’t know Ridley. The man I fell in love with, the man I wanted to marry is not the man whose face is plastered all over everyone’s social media threads. No, the reason our relationship fell apart is more complicated than mere infidelities, lack of care, or love for me.

I don’t know how long I sat there, but I knew I didn’t have another minute to spare before my silence was perceived as more by the people listening. So, I did the only thing I could to save face, I lie.

“Well, if it’s true, I wish him well and offer my congratulations.” I force a smile and try to swallow down the bile pushing its way up my throat. But I keep my face as neutral as I can in the moment. My eyes move back to Dean, and he has the nerve to look guilt-ridden for what he’s done. I’m not buying the sudden slumped shoulders and sad puppy dog eyes he is shooting my way. Hell no, I attribute his response to me not responding the way he thought I would, and that makes all of this even worse. He is supposed to be my road manager. He is supposed to have my back in all things when it comes to my wellbeing as a musician. What he’s not supposed to do?—

“Brea Brookes everyone. Thank you again for stopping by this morning,” Jay says into his mic before the red live button goes dark and Jay turns to me with an apology on his lips.

I hold my hand up to stop him. Yes, he should have known better, but at the end of the day, it is his job to get me to open up about my life. I get it. “Jay, I don’t blame you. Thanks again for having me on your show this morning. It’s always a pleasure seeing you,” I say before I grab my satchel and slip it over my shoulders. I hear Jay apologizing again as I leave his booth and make a quick exit from the radio station. I know Dean is following behind me, his hands in his pockets, walking at a leisurely pace, as if he’s on a morning stroll. The cavalier way he’s behaving only pisses me off further. As soon as thecool morning breeze hits my skin, the glass doors of the radio station swinging wildly behind me, I round on him and let my spiraling emotions take hold. A baby . . . no . . . fuck . . . not here Brea. Memories threaten to consume me, but I will not fall apart publicly. I can’t. Deep down, I know this is about more than just Dean, and I will unpack it later. For now, though, I aim my anger toward the big ass.

Dean approaches slowly, until he’s towering over me, hands out in surrender to stop me from advancing. Oh please. I don’t let his height deter me from getting all up and personal. I point my finger into his chest and growl. Yep, I’m pissed. My Zen is shattered and the sound coming from my chest is animalistic. I don’t stop to consider we are out in the open and how easily this confrontation can be recorded. I don’t think twice about the fact that I have to sing tonight or worry about the stress I’m putting on my vocal cords. Suddenly, I’m livid and all the months of putting up with his shitty behavior comes to the forefront of my mind.

“Brea, I’m?—”

“Fuck that, Dean! You are not sorry. What did you expect me to do in there? You what?”—I tilt my head in contemplation—“You wanted me to humiliate myself on air to thousands of listeners so you could rush in there and save me from myself? My relationship, or what was my relationship with Ridley Masters, is off-topic during interviews. Nonnegotiable” I point my finger in his chest again and he backs away a step. “You know this. You’re my fucking road manager, Dean. Act like it, for fuck’s sake. You are not my boyfriend.” I turn, pacing, irritated. This was not how I wanted to spend my morning, but this conversation is long overdue. “You’ve done nothing but behave like a petulant toddler for months because I stopped our physical relationship.” I cluck my tongue at the ridiculousness of it all. “I’m done tiptoeing around your feelings because I allowedthis thing between us to go too far. That’s on me.” I slap my hand over my chest, my heartbeat pounds a mile a minute behind my ribcage. I try to blow out a breath to calm myself but being in his presence only infuriates me more.

“I wanted more, so that’s on me,” he replies with pleading eyes. I understood where he was coming from, I did, but we’re adults, not children. “Do you know how hard it is to be— You know what, never mind. You don’t give a shit about my feelings, so yeah, I’ve reacted badly.” He lifts his shoulder nonchalantly. All traces of apology are gone as he smirks at me, his dimple, the one I thought was so cute, makes me want to punch him in the face. This whole Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing is definitely a red flag I ignored. “The news just broke this morning, I thought you should know,” he says, as if that makes any fucking sense at all. I didn’t need to know. In fact, that news can stay dead and buried, but now that I know . . . now that I know.

I throw my hands up in the air in exasperation. I need to go. “You thought I should know, huh. No, you wanted to hurt me with that bomb drop, Dean. You’ve known me long enough to know what it would do, and you did it anyway.” I blow out a breath, running out of steam.

I stop pacing and face him full on. I have to draw the final line in the sand. “This is your last warning. I can’t be on tour with someone who can’t maintain a professional demeanor. I can’t be in close proximity with you if I can’t trust you to have my best interests at heart. The next time you pull some shit like this, I will call the record label and demand they remove you from my tour. History be damned, Dean. I fucking mean it.” I turn on my heels and head toward my jeep.

I hear him shout behind me. “You would drop me just like that?”

I don’t turn to reply with words. I throw up my hand, offering him the one finger salute over my shoulder instead.

“Don’t be late for sound check,” is the last thing I hear him say as I slam my door and pull out of the parking lot. I round the corner, putting as much space between us I as I can. By rights, I should call my label and cut ties with Dean. I know whatever misplaced feelings he has for me won’t disappear overnight. But I don’t. Fuck the sense of loyalty I feel towards him because he was there for me when Ridley and I split. Now though, now it’s gone too far. This is partially my fault for falling into his bed with him. My need to feel something, anything, that wasn’t Ridley. It was reckless, stupid, and look at the fallout of my own bad choices.

I drive aimlessly, with no destination in mind. I don’t stop until I reach the cove and pull in next to the rows of pick-up trucks lining the dock. I stare out into the bay and watch the sails of the boats flutter in the morning breeze and just sit. I quickly glance in the back seat of my jeep, eyeing Bessie, my fingers itching to play. I turn away knowing the moment I touch her I’ll crumble into a sobbing mess. No one wants to see me fall apart in the early morning hours in the middle of town. So, I sit there. I will myself to find my calm, but my efforts of breathing in and out are futile. Try as I might, there is no escape from my own thoughts, the news about Ridley sits on my chest, heavy, weighing me down. My anger at Dean morphs into despair, my despair for everything I lost transforms into frustration. My frustration brings forth memories I’ve buried deep in the recess of my mind. Memories painful enough to leave me breathless and panicking. My entire body shakes, and it takes me longer than I care to admit to finally pull myself together. I can’t fight the images, everything about the news is triggering. All I can do is relive it.

I hang my head and let myself feel. It’s the only way. I close my eyes.

All I see is blood.

“Brea, baby, let me in. What’s happening? Talk to me,” Ridley called my name as he gently tapped on the door to our bathroom. If I could have moved toward the door I would have but the pain that washed over me had me clutching the sink with white knuckles, forcing myself to stay upright. My knees wobbled as I took slow tentative steps toward the toilet, while cramping tore away at my insides. Bile rose up in my throat, sickly sweat dotted my forehead and my stomach threatened to betray me. Anxiety and fear took hold of me with each wince of discomfort. I reached down and pulled up the hem of Ridley’s oversized t-shirt and my entire world came crashing down around me.

“Oh God,” I whispered as blood ran down my legs, taking my hope with it. I knew something was wrong when Ridley got home from his game. I should have told him about the baby then, but I’d thought—I’d thought I had time. The news I was pregnant had hit me hard and I was selfish. All I had thought about in the weeks since I’d found out was my music career. I had moved to Seattle to be with Ridley. I had made a promise to myself that being with him wouldn’t change me, my goals, or my drive to perform. But the woman staring back at me in the mirror then, clutching a positive pregnancy test in her hands, had lost herself. I was going to tell him. I had just needed to come to terms with it and somehow find a way to have it all. But I guessed fate had decided for me.

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