Part 37 (1/2)

He said, ”I know I've not been the best ... the best father. But I need you to know, I love you. I want you to be happy.”

I let out an ugly, half-choked sob. Carrie grabbed my hand, holding it tight. ”Dad, I think you need to leave it alone right now. I'll talk with her, and we can deal with it over the holidays.”

I shook my head. ”I don't think I'm coming home for Christmas this year, Carrie. I can't be in the same house with her any more.”

She whispered, ”But ... Julia...”

My father's pained voice behind us. ”Julia ... please? Give us one chance. I mean it. Come home. You're our daughter.”

I was shaking, and right now the only thing I wanted to do was run home. Not to California, which had never been home to me, but to Boston, to that little row house in Southie, where I'd find Crank and Sean and Margot and possibly a stray neighbor or two. That was home now. But ... I couldn't do that to my sister. Not now. Not when we'd just recently started to grow close.

I nodded. ”I'll come home for Christmas,” I whispered. ”But I'm not promising anything after that.”

I started to walk toward the gate, gripping my sister's hand in mine the whole way.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Lights came up (Crank) ”Five minutes,” Julia said, putting her hand up and spreading her fingers wide to visually indicate the remaining time. It was necessary: the club was loud as h.e.l.l. Then she turned and disappeared back through the door. I'd only seen her for a few minutes tonight, when just as we arrived, she led us to the green room at the back of the club. She looked subtly different. She'd streaked her hair and looked relaxed, wearing faded dungarees and one of our new Morbid Obesity t-s.h.i.+rts with a black suit coat.

The t-s.h.i.+rts were new. She showed up at our show two weeks ago with a carload of them, and from what I could see looking out at the crowd, she must have sold two hundred of them the first night. We'd never even tried that before.

Julia had avoided me the last three weeks. She'd shown up at rehearsals twice, to go over the recording schedule and hear the new songs. And she'd shown up at Sat.u.r.day dinners at my Dad's-now my-house. Those nights were painfully awkward for me, but the presence of Sean and Mom, Tony and Mrs. Doyle helped ease the tension.

She gave the band a hard deadline of January 15th to have the line-up of songs ready for the alb.u.m. We started recording in the third week of January. Everyone, including Mark, had a.s.sented to the schedule without argument.

Then she turned around and gave us a schedule of shows, booked every Friday and Sat.u.r.day night for the next three months. She was taking this seriously and running it like a business. I didn't have any objections. The single would be released tomorrow morning, and we'd earned more from our shows in the last two weeks than the three months prior.

Julia had been a G.o.dsend for the band. But she'd made it very clear. She wanted nothing to do with me. I watched for her during shows, hoping I might catch her looking at me. It never happened. I'd see her, busy haggling with the owners of the clubs, selling t-s.h.i.+rts, negotiating with vendors or fans who wanted to get backstage. But I never saw her stand still, and I never once saw her look at me.

It was infuriating. And short of chasing her down, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. My resolve to give her s.p.a.ce and time was waning. What I'd hoped was that a couple of weeks would be enough time for her to rethink things. But I kept coming back to the words my father said. If you love her, you may have to let her go.

That was d.a.m.n hard when I saw her all the time because of the band. On top of that, she and my mom had been talking. They'd even gone out to lunch-something I never would have realized until Mom accidentally spilled the beans one Sat.u.r.day at dinner. Why the h.e.l.l was Julia hanging out with my mother? It made no sense, except in one context. In some ways, Julia had become a bridge between my mom and Sean. I didn't even begin to understand the dynamic behind that.

She was flying out to San Francisco in the morning and would be back before we started recording in January. Maybe that was a good thing. I needed some freaking s.p.a.ce, because the tension of seeing her constantly and not being able to talk to her was driving me nuts.

Julia reappeared in the doorway. ”Time!” she called, pointing toward the stage door. I looked at her, but she carefully avoided my eyes. I got up and headed out on the stage, off-balance and p.i.s.sed off.

As we walked on the stage, an announcer called out our introduction and the crowd screamed. Julia had planted rumors in the local Indie press that our single would be out this week, and our small fan base had picked it up right away. I recognized a lot of people in the crowd, including guys I used to hang out with in the Pit, but there were a lot more. This was our biggest crowd yet, easily four hundred people jammed into the club.

We were in position. The lights weren't up yet, and I could see Julia, standing next to the bar near the exit. Arms across her chest, watching. Then the lights came up, making it impossible to see her. The crowd started screaming, Pathin hit the drums, and we started.

Say it again (Julia) The opening chords of the song Crank wrote for me rang out, and the crowd went nuts, screaming, as the spotlights found Serena and Crank. I swallowed, keeping my arms across my chest. For now, my job was done, and for the next two hours, I could watch.

Every time I heard this song, it sent chills down my spine. And I'd heard it a lot lately, because White Dog Records had pushed it out to every radio station in the country. I'd been pitching it to blogs and local newspapers, and working with Boris's press people to get it everywhere we could. Release was in the morning, and the buzz was building. This song-this very personal song-shook me to the core. And everyone I talked to in the industry was saying the same thing: it was going to be a hit.

For the thousandth time, I thought I should go to him. Right after the show. Tell him I'm sorry. Tell him I love him.

Because I'd finally admitted it to myself. I love him. With all my heart, I love Crank Wilson.

But I've been so afraid.

A drunken frat boy approached me, half spilling his beer. Before he could get to me, George got in the way and none too gently blocked him. George was the bouncer and very protective. I appreciated having him around. Some of the clubs we'd been in had been a struggle to keep the drunks off. Did I give off some kind of signal that attracted a.s.sholes? I don't know, but I'd learned to make friends with the bouncers at every club the band played. Because I went to all the shows now.

This one was already shaping up to be a good one. I'd sold nearly three thousand dollars worth of t-s.h.i.+rts and handed out flyers about the new single. We were getting the word out.

My guard was down when I looked at Crank. Because he caught me looking, just as he launched into the chorus. Singing those words, ”Julia, where did you go?”

I couldn't break the eye contact, and I felt my eyes water. d.a.m.n it, why did he have to affect me this way? Why couldn't we just be friends? He sang the chorus, staring straight at me, and for this moment, ignoring the rest of the audience. I bit my lip and muttered a curse because I felt a tear roll down my cheek. Angrily, I wiped it away and hoped he couldn't see clearly from up there.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Oh, for G.o.d's sake. It was Barrett. I'd made it very clear to him that nothing was going to happen between us. But he'd called me again last night, asking me to meet him tonight. Irritated, I answered the phone, walking toward the front door of the club. ”h.e.l.lo?” I shouted.

”Julia? It's Barrett.”

”Hey, Barrett, what's up?”

”I thought you were working tonight. It sounds like you're in a club.”

I shook my head. ”Barrett, I manage a rock band. They're playing at the Cave tonight, so I'm here. What do you want?”

”Just wondering if you'd changed your mind.”

I sighed, but I could be nice about it. ”That's sweet, Barrett, but no. I'm not really up for dating right now.”

”You're at The Cave? In Somerville?”

”Barrett, I'm working.”

”I just want to swing by.”

What the h.e.l.l? ”I won't have time to see you, I'm sorry.”

”No worries,” he replied. ”I want to check out this band.”

I grimaced. He wanted to check out the band? Whatever.

”I've gotta go, Barrett.”

”Wait ...”

I closed the phone and put it back in my pocket. By the time I got back inside, the first song was over, and Crank was singing ”f.u.c.k the War”- better choice. They'd reworked the song as part of the preparation for the alb.u.m. It was a lot better ... loud, driving guitar, screaming lyrics. They'd turned it into a duet, and Serena's clear, tragic voice made the song into something wholly new. I'd discussed releasing that one as a single with Boris, but he wanted to wait until recording the alb.u.m was complete before making a decision. I could live with that. It was a lot easier to think about the band and business, than it was to think about what was or wasn't happening between me and Crank.

I spotted Craig Owens, the owner of the club, standing near the stage door on the left side of the bar. I worked my way down that wall. He was a big guy, six foot five, with a heavy beard, who had a past as a biker.

”Hey, Craig,” I said.

”They're rocking it tonight, Julia. Fans are happy.”