Page 60 of Poetry By Dead Men
I stiffen. “You had no right to do that.”
“Why? Hiding something, Elizabeth?” Harrison asks, cocking his head.
"Of course not!" I throw my arms out, no longer caring that Bobby’s sitting in the room with us. “That’s what this is about? My article?”
"What what’s about?" Harrison feigns innocence. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean. We’re just sitting here hanging out. Havinga drink." He stands and goes to the bar to pour himself another, and the embarrassment of his behavior makes my teeth hurt.
“You’rehaving a drink,” Johnny says. “Several, it seems.”
“Well Johnny boy, you’re welcome to join me.” Harrison rattles the ice in his glass.
I’ve never seen this version of Harrison before. This rude, combative man with no regard for manners or decorum, and in front of a client, no less.
Bobby’s jaw clenches so hard I think his teeth might crack. Anger has deepened the lines of his face, and his knuckles are white on the armrest.
"Listen," Bobby stands up, and Johnny tenses. "I don’t know if this is how you normally speak to Beth, but you’re certainly not going to do it in front of me. I suggest you put that bottle down, and apologize."
Harrison laughs, but it’s humorless. "Come on, man. I’m not insulting—"
"Actually, you are," I say, finally finding my voice, even if it comes out soft and shaky. I lift my chin. I’ve had enough of this. How dare he embarrass me and give Bobby even more ammunition to hate him, all because he’s angry about what I wrote in my article. The articlehemade me agree to in the first place. I’ve never known Harrison to be insecure or vindictive, but there’s no other way to describe how he’s behaving right now.
"Is that right?" he asks, slamming the liquor bottle on the counter. "So, what, a couple weeks on the road and you think you’re better than me now?"
"Harrison!" I stand up, but Bobby steps forward, putting himself between Harrison and me. "What on earth are you talking about?" I ask around his shoulder.
"It’s time for you to leave," Bobby says. "Go cool off. Sober up. I need Beth for soundcheck, anyway. You know, part of ourdeal." Johnny moves toward Harrison, and he straightens, tilting his head back as the fakest smile I’ve ever seen spreads across his face.
“Of course,” Harrison says, raising his hands before Johnny can force him off the bus. “Wouldn’t want to get in the middle of yourwork.” He uses his fingers to put quotations around the word, then grabs the liquor bottle, sneering at me before storming off the bus.
Bobby turns to me as Johnny excuses himself, likely to make sure Harrison isn’t going to cause trouble somewhere else, but I can’t look at him. This isn’t the Harrison I know, and I’m not sure how to explain that to Bobby. Usually, he’s funny and charming and kind, if not a little distracted.
Sure, he has a temper, but it’s so rare, and never, ever in public or over something so petty. This side of him scares me, and if I have to unpack it and figure out what the hell is going on with him, I can’t do it with Bobby staring at me with pity in his eyes.
"Beth—" he says, taking a step forward, but I hold my hands up.
"I’m gonna grab my notebook." I clear my throat as I scramble toward the back of the bus as fast as I can. "I’ll see you at soundcheck," I say. But I never go.
Instead, I curl up in a ball on Bobby’s bed and cry, wondering how I’m going to make it through the next three days with Harrison here.
That is, if Bobby even lets him stay.
There’s only an hour until Bobby’s opening act goes on, and Harrison hasn’t come back.
I’ve called him at least a dozen times over the past several hours, but every call has gone straight to voicemail, and I wonder if he packed up and went back home. My stomach’s been in knots since he stormed out, but not really over the argument.
What has me so on edge is what that argument represents. It’s blatantly obvious how he feels about me having things in my life I enjoy other than him, about my writing, so how am I supposed to tie myself to him forever?
Bobby was kind enough to not question me on why I missed soundcheck, though it’s likely because he didn’t have to ask. My hundred-dollar eye cream and Tom Ford concealer did nothing to hide the puffiness around my eyes or my red nose.
I don’t have to ask how Bobby's feeling, either. The tension in his shoulders, clenched jaw, and constant fidgeting tells me he’s livid. Furious. Another, more elegant, word for angry that my poet mind can't seem to think of.
Because you’re so out of practice.
I don’t think I can even call myself a poet anymore, not when I haven’t written a poem in years.
There’s a tentative knock at the bus door, and I pause, putting down my notebook where I’m jotting down ideas for the rest of the article. Harrison pops his head in, waving his handkerchief above him with a sheepish smile on his face. He means to break the tension, but all it does is infuriate me further.
Who carries around a white handkerchief in their pocket to use as a prop?
