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“We need somebody with a jazzy, rockabilly background, Nance. Someone who can lay down a killer bass line,” Peter explained earnestly. “Someone who can really go wild with us.”
And I’d just sat there, trying not to cry. Feeling like a fool.
“It’s not that we don’t love you, Nance. What we’re trying to say is, everybody should do what they’re best at,” Henry coaxed.
“Yeah, and what you’re best at is finding gigs,” Peter said, in a bracing tone. “You should be the band’s business manager. That’s where you really shine.”
I’d dabbed at the tear-snot with a tissue, and stared at them, eyes blurred.
“For real, we can’t do without you, Nance,” Henry said earnestly. “You take care of us, you know? Like how you always make sure that Chad’s shirt doesn’t clash with his pants before he goes on stage. And the way you find us gigs. That’s total magic. That’s what we need. Bassists are a dime a dozen. We can find a bassist anywhere.”
Peter patted my shoulder. “Come on, Nance. Be a sport.”
“Oh, I’m trying,” I’d told them, dully.
And it was true. I’d tried to be a sport. Tried very hard.
Then I’d tried again, a couple of years later, when Peter fell in love with Enid. Oddly enough, he’d used almost the same words as when he’d dumped me as a bassist.
“It’s not that I don’t love you,” he’d said, patting my shoulder. “It’s just a different kind of love. The love I feel for Enid … it’s like she sets a match to my heart, and I just go up in flames. Match to my heart. Huh. Cool image.”
He started humming, then let out an irritated sigh when I burst into tears.
“Oh, God, Nance. Please. Don’t,” he begged. “It’s not like we had this grand passion. Come on. Be a sport.”
So I’d choked back my tears and been a sport for Peter and Enid. Then I’d been a sport again when Ron dumped me for Liz. And damned if I hadn’t been a sport yet again for Freedy, when he jilted me for Andrea.
I was a real goddamn trouper.
The loss and the humiliation had felt so crushing back then. Strange, how it felt so insignificant now, after losing Lucia. After facing terror and death in a nylon mask, carrying a switchblade. After making love to Liam.
Ron, Freedy, Peter—they all felt like dimly remembered games of hopscotch and dodgeball from grade school. Kid stuff.
Peter was yelling my name. “Nance! Are you having a seizure, or what?”
“I’m fine,” I said faintly.
And in that moment, for the first time, I heard the words as I said them. I’m fine. I said it all the time, as a reflex. But it was a huge lie right now.
Peter’s frown was turning into a pout. “I need feedback, Nance, and I really don’t feel like you’re there for me. Would you please listen while I play the new order?”
I braced myself for the burst of percussion that opened “Glory Road,” but halfway through “The Slippery Slope,” I zoned out again, staring blankly at Peter’s profile.
It struck me as effeminate. Insubstantial.
Liam’s stern, masculine beauty radiated strength, solidity. Peter’s had an air of fragility.
My instinct had always been to protect Peter from harsh reality. To bolster his confidence. To manage his career so he could make a living doing what he loved. To make the magic happen for him.
There was nothing fragile about Liam. I would never have to make sure his socks matched. I would never need to find work for him.
Strange, how all these years, I’d been so busy trying to earn what love and attention came my way, it had never even occurred to me how sexy self-sufficiency was in a man.
My revelation brought me no pleasure, however. If anything, it made me more miserable. Liam was so angry and hurt. He probably never wanted to see me again.
The final strains of “The Road to You” were dying away. Peter gazed at me expectantly. “So?” he prompted. “What do you think? Do you get my idea?”
Exhaustion rolled over me. “It’s fine, Peter.”