Page 59 of Poetry By Dead Men
"No, it’s okay." Bobby laughs good-naturedly. "He’s right. But I have a lot of good memories on this particular bus," Bobby says directly to me. "It seems I just can’t let it go."
I’m blushing, and this time Harrisondoesnotice. "Oh, don't look so scandalized. He said he knows the bus is dated."
Johnny’s eyes remind me of a ping-pong ball as they bounce back and forth between Harrison and Bobby. “It’s our original bus. We could never get rid of her,” he says with an exaggerated shrug.
Bobby nods. "She's an old girl, but she gets us from here to there. How was your flight in?" Bobby asks, and I’m grateful he’s trying to change the subject.
"Just great." Harrison says, his words clipped.
"Beth gave me a glimpse of her piece for Rolling Stone. It's coming along nicely. She’s quite the writer, isn’t she?" Bobby continues, trying to keep the mood light.
Harrison’s eyes narrow at the use of my nickname. "If you like fluff pieces about symphonies and dreary art exhibits, absolutely." Harrison says, smiling like a snake watching a mouse stumble straight into its path. I stiffen, sweat beading on my neck as he impatiently taps his fingers on the chair arm.
Bobby's eyes flash with white-hot anger, and I silently beg for him to let it go, but I know him better than that. Johnny sits up, scooting to the edge of his seat and watching Bobby as if preparing himself to step in if his friend loses it.
"I’m sorry, but don’t you think that’s extremely disrespectful?" Bobby says. His tone is harsh and his voice tight, but honestly, I'm just grateful he chose words instead of standing up, punching Harrison in the face, and telling him to get lost.
Harrison stiffens, his jaw cracking open as if he’s in complete shock and disbelief that someone dared to call him out.
"Ithink,"the word crackles as he hits the consonant hard enough to make me wince, "ifElizabethhad truly been a gifted, phenomenal writer, she’d still be doing it today. Don’t get me wrong," he raises his hands and smiles. "I’m grateful that her writing this article for you allowed us to sign our deal. But she knows her time is better spent doing other things. Right?"
Harrison's eyes meet mine, and there's no mistaking the demand there.
Agree with him.
Admit it's all been a waste of my time.
Admit I belong at home with him.
I don't answer, and Harrison's vein begins to pulse above his eyebrow. "Thanks for your concern, though,Bobby."He says the nickname pointedly, and I know he’s doing it to get to me. “What do you think, Johnny?”
“I think you’re out of line,” Johnny answers, then stands. “Actually, no. I think you’re an asshole.”
Harrison tips his head back and laughs, and the menace in it sends a shiver down my spine. “Takes one to know one, eh?” he says, taking another gulp of scotch.
I don’t understand what’s happening. Sure, we had a fight before I left, and he might’ve said roughly the same things to me before about how he thinks my time could better be used elsewhere than writing, but he’s never beenso harsh about it.
So blatantly cruel.
“I don’t see anyone else here glugging scotch and berating their fiancée.” Bobby's fists are clenched, his shoulders tight and his breaths deep and slow as if he’s counting the length of his inhales and exhales in an attempt to keep calm.
“Well, if my fiancée is as good with words as you say, I’m sure she’ll have no trouble telling me how she feels herself.” Harrison's no longer making an effort to make it seem as if this is just a jovial conversation.
He's trying to prove a point.
Bobby looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to chime in, but I'm frozen.
"See? She agrees." Harrison finishes his drink in what I think might be record time. "Or have you spent so much time withmyfiancée that you know her better than I do?" He spits the word, as if it’s a shackle tying me to him.
As if he owns me.
“After all, you’re the greatest performer of our generation. One that makes women question why they bothered to settle down with that boring accountant. The one who allows those same women to feel loved vicariously through the…" Harrison pretends to think. "What was it you said, Beth? The soulful sounds and tender words of the songs he writes."
My article.
“How did you get that?” I ask, a shiver running down my spine.
Harrison’s eyes flash. “You think I’d give you a new laptop without making sure I have access to everything on it?”
