Page 57 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Eventually, the conversation turns in my direction. I’ve relaxed to the point I can talk about Alex.
I’ve never talked about him before with anyone. Never explained how his death devastated me. Destroyed my parents. I’ve never faced the fact that his passing pushed me deeper into drugs and alcohol. I couldn’t face the truth that I also used it as an excuse to do horrible, hurtful things to the people I loved.
Everything pours out of me in a cathartic wave. I’m breathing fresh air at last as I purge myself. I even tell Emerson about Jessica, how Dylan and I shared her. I expect her to recoil with disgust over the sexual details in my confession, but she doesn’t say a word. She merely nods, a somewhat puzzled look on her face as she attempts to understand that relationship. I can almost see the unwritten question in her eyes. Do I, or would I, expect a similar arrangement with the next woman in my life? My silent answer, the only answer, is if that woman was Emerson, I would say no. I wouldneverbe able to share Emerson with anyone. The thought leaves me feeling a bit sick.
“Why did you… and Dylan… stop sleeping with Jessica?” she asks softly.
I take a deep gulp wine, having finished off my whiskey from earlier. Emerson leans forward, waiting for my response.
“It wasn’t thatwestopped.Shestopped. At least, where I was concerned. She and Dylan continued on their merry way without my involvement.” I rotate the glass, watching the swirl of the red liquid interact with the glittering backdrop of the pool.
I explain how Jessica played us against each other until she decided she wanted only Dylan. She thought he was more important than the rest of the group, and she loved being with a front man. For that matter, she loved anyone who could shower her with money and attention. Dylan fulfilled both of those needs.
Emerson holds my hand, squeezing it tight when I acknowledge blaming Dylan for Alex’s death. There is no censure when I tell her the many ways I punished him for his role. It’s hard, accepting the cruelty of my own actions.
“I still can’t believe my brother and Jessica were sleeping together, so I can’t completely process how that makes me feel,” I say after a few moments of thought. “The idea Alex kept that secret from me, that he was screwing my best friend’s girlfriend behind his back, is disturbing.”
Ripples of betrayal for my brother flow through me. Admittedly, Alex was never without female companionship. He went through women as frequently as he did underwear, with a new girlfriend every week. Sometimes, more than one. When women found out he would soon become a very skilled, very rich plastic surgeon, they threw themselves at him.
Knowing his track record and Jessica’s, is it a huge stretch to think they wouldn’t have become involved with one another?
“I’m glad you and Dylan are speaking. That’s good for the band, right? You have so much more music to make.” Emerson fidgets with the stem of her wineglass.
“We do. At least with this album, anyway. I know the label will be ecstatic if we make peace enough to go on tour again, but I’m doubtful…”
Emerson frowns. “I hope things work out… for both of your sakes. It’s never easy when you lose a friend.”
“I haven’t seen Dylan since the last tour ended, although we have talked on the phone. I still haven’t forgiven him for the night we played the Hollywood Bowl. He kicked my ass all around the parking lot outside that bar,” I comment. “I was so drunk and high, I barely remember.”
Emerson freezes then, smiling brightly, wiggles her finger at me. “Look. I’m pruning like a raisin, and I’ve had way too much wine. We should probably get out. Call it a night. The quicker I go to sleep, the closer I am to this French Toast you’ve promised.”
Her eagerness to end our evening is puzzling, but I reluctantly agree. We get out of the hot tub, and she stands while I wrap one of the huge, fluffy towels around her. I briskly rub her arms and shoulders with the cloth before grabbing a matching towel which I tie around my waist. Emerson uses a second towel to blot at her hair, and I use the last one to rub my head and dry my own shoulders.
She’s surprised when I suddenly reach out and take her hand.
“Thank you, Emerson. For listening. For understanding. You might not believe me, but I’ve never confided in someone like that before. Not about Alex. Thank you. And, thank you for the photo. For an amazing evening. I don’t want it to end.”
Her eyes, with their many facets of sparkling blue, soften as she squeezes my hand. She leans over, kisses me on the mouth, and says almost sadly, “All good things come to an end, eventually.”
Her words prove prophetic as if she possesses some foresight regarding the events to come. I wish I examined my flash of remembrance when it happened. Figured out what was right in front me and solved our issues right then and there. I would have accepted any explanation from this girl, any word or excuse that would smooth things over. I would have done anything to make it better; whether it was begging forgiveness on my part, or kissing away her tears if she begged for mine. I would have made love to her so tenderly and so expertly, she would have never wanted to flee from me again.
I would have done whatever she asked of me.Anythingto hear her say she loves me. That she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.
Too bad the shit-show the following morning makes that impossible.
