Page 41 of Come Back To Me

“Give David a hit of that,” Ferdinand said to Brick, who was smoking a joint.

I waved it off.

“It’s like you’re strung out on something, man.”

Ferdinand knew me pretty well, but I didn’t want to talk about it. Yara had been different with me the last few times I went into The Jane—not as talkative and friendly. I took a shot to appease them a few minutes before the show started.

“Who are you looking for?” Ferdinand asked as we walked onto the stage. Ferdinand knew who I was looking for but he liked to ride me about it.

“Yara,” I said, without thinking.

“The one you’ve been obsessing over? Dude…”

“You haven’t seen her. You don’t know. Actually I don’t want you to see her.” I picked up my Charvel and ignored the way he was looking at me. Ferdinand was the bassist, but he got more ass than I did. As the face of the band, lead singers got the most ass; their name was the one most called out and remembered. He was six foot four and wide like a bull, women thought Ferdinand was a combination of mysterious and dangerous. In reality, he was a man of few words who had a kitten screensaver on his MacBook. He didn’t like to talk unless it was about music or his mother, and he cried when he got a nosebleed, but hey, the illusion was half the fun. It worked out well for his social life.

“Who’s that?” Ferdinand asked.

He jutted his chin toward the bar as he turned the E peg on his Fender. I lifted my eyes, tried to see past the bright lights that shone on the stage. A flash of platinum hair, but it could be anyone. Girls with that hair color were a dime a dozen. Her hair was so long it kissed her hips, hips that sashayed when she walked.

“A blonde,” I said. “Wrong one.”

“There are plenty of blondes you can pick from right here,” Ferdinand said. “An entire buffet of blondes.”

I flipped him the bird and picked up my guitar. A buffet. Right. That’s what it had become. You could swipe left or right, go on two hookups in one night. If you didn’t like one there was another. Around and around you went, fucking groupies, girls on Tinder who said they wanted to have a good time but were looking for a husband. You could fuck your way through the Pacific Northwest if you were halfway decent looking and carried a guitar. It was all unfulfilling. Barren experience after barren experience.

Time to start. Brick was on the drums. “One…two…three…”

It was her. I realized that halfway through our first song. Energized, I moved around the stage with new vigor. Ferdinand raised his eyebrows, tilted his head slightly toward her as if to ask,That her?I nodded. He pursed his lips, dipping his bass guitar and closing his eyes. This was his favorite part of the song. What would be Yara’s? I sang, played to impress. I didn’t want to scare her and for that reason I didn’t make eye contact until we were three songs in. She was here, she had come. I was into it. She wasn’t just going to be my muse, I was going to make her my wife.

A lot of good that did me. A lot of fucking good.

I count the days she’s been gone. I count them until it becomes painful to know there was an actual number pushed between us—a number that only grew. Would only grow. Days, then months, then years. They tell you it gets better but it doesn’t. I make a list of things I want to forget because it hurts to hold them in the forefront of my mind.

That one time she cussed out my brother when he told me to get a real job.

That one time we were playing a show and I saw her in the crowd with her eyes closed and her hands raised like she was worshipping.

That one time she was so angry with me she threw a loaf of bread at my head and told me to choke on it.

That one time she licked the tears off my face and said she was craving something salty.

That one time I felt sorry for myself and told her I was a lousy artist and she told me to write a song about it.

That one time she filled the vodka bottle with vinegar and when I started coughing and choking she told me I needed to stop drinking so fucking much.

That one time she convinced me to let her wax my balls and told me it wouldn’t hurt at all.

That one time she drew boobs on my face with a Sharpie while I was sleeping and then I had to play a show later that night.

That one time she sang to me when I wouldn’t sing anymore and it was so bad and so good at the same time.

That one time we got married.

That one time she left.

When does it get better? Can someone give me a time frame?

If someone doesn’t want you, the only self-respecting thing to do is to let them go. Truth, honest to God, I’m not lying to you. It’s that or a restraining order. I’ve seen those guys who wouldn’t let go. Their girls would peace out and they’d lose their shit. Man, those fuckers reminded me of beggars; stooped shoulders, watery eyes like they’d just hit a joint. How do you let yourself get to that point, man? That’s pathetic. What bothered me most about those guys was the type of girls they were grieving. Shallow girls, cover girls, too much lipstick—girls, none of them even a little bit like Yara. I judged those guys so hard and I guess I shouldn’t have. We all have someone to grieve even if it’s not Yara.

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