Page 49 of Poetry By Dead Men
Johnny's eyes are suddenly sad, haunted. "I do. But a little outside the city. I wanted my daughter to have some space to run."
My jaw drops, and a lump forms in my throat. "You have a daughter?" My voice comes out shaky.
Johnny pulls out his phone and unlocks it, showing me a picture of a tiny blonde girl, maybe two years old. "Ella," he says, and the look of grief fades, just a little.
"You’re adad? Are you married?" There are tears in my eyes. Happy ones, but also sad ones. I’ve missed so much.
Johnny looks out the window. “I was. She died. Car accident.”
He says it without emotion, and I wonder if he’s had to lock it away so he can take care of that beautiful little girlon his phone.
“I’m so sorry.” I place a hand on his arm, but Johnny leans back, absently rubbing his thumb on his naked ring finger.
“Anyway. Ella comes on tour with me a lot. She’s with her grandparents right now, but she’ll be here in a couple weeks.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know you have a daughter,” I say, choosing to focus on Ella. I don’t press about his wife, but I can tell her memory is in the room with us now, the shadows in his eyes thick and hazy.
"How would you? You haven't exactly kept in touch," he says, and the words cut deeper than they should. I knew it would hurt him to cut all contact between us, but it’d been necessary at the time. I can’t take it back, even if I wanted to, so why is guilt sitting so heavy in my stomach?
"I’m sorry," I say, and Idomean it, even if I wouldn’t change it. "It was just too much. Bobby—"
"I’m not Bobby," he interrupts me, his voice teetering on angry.
"I know." We fall into silence, and for the second time today, I wonder if never looking backhadbeen a mistake. It was as if I’d excised the damaged piece of my heart so thoroughly, I’d cut away healthy tissue to make sure the pain couldn’t fester and spread, instead of trying to find a way to heal the injured bits. Instead of fighting to become whole again.
I couldn't take the pain, so I'd simply cut that bleeding piece out and continued on with life.
A little bit less me, but also less broken—less damaged.
Johnny takes another sip of his bourbon, his eyes taking me in as if he’s considering the sincerity of my apology. "I forgive you," he finally says. He smiles at me, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. Not the way it used to. "But, Beth? When you leave this time, don’t just disappear."
I exhale in relief.
That is something I can agree to.
"Deal," I say, picking my wine back up and clinking his glass again.
Someone clears their throat behind me, and I turn around to find Bobby leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed and his expression guarded. "Promise?" he asks. His voice is as tight as a guitar stringand rough as the growl of a harmonica, and the gravity of what he’s asking pulls at my lungs, making it hard to breathe. I take a second to consider my answer. He says there are things I don’t know. That my version of events isn't the whole truth of what happened that night, and that I never gave him a chance to explain.
When I left that day, I vowed to never see or speak to Bobby again, but now that I’m here with him? Now that I've felt his touch and heard his voice. I don’t think I have the strength to walk away again. Maybe all those years of history don’t have to be a waste. Maybe a friendship can form out of this strange situation we've found ourselves in.
I nod.
It’s all I can do.
“Tell me about your daughter,” I say to Johnny, needing to move on from the heaviness of the moment. Johnny’s joy is instant and contagious, and as he flips through photos on his phone, I feel more at ease.
Until the bus whines as Patrick shifts it into gear, and we pull away.
The abrupt departure sends nerves skittering down my spine, and I realize how little control I have of this situation. I have no idea what’s going to happen, or what the next two months will bring, and it scares me.
I willingly walked onto this bus, and now I’m stuck here.
Along for the ride, wherever it takes me.
THEN
July 2017
