Page 122 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

Those damn red lips of hers. So kissable. So tempting.

Why did I say I didn’t care what she’d been doing or who she was doing it with? I fucking cared.

I strummed my guitar again.

Last night, it took everything in me to walk away instead of pleading with her to ditch the asshole (one of hersomeones, I assumed) and have dinner with me instead.

I strummed louder, cursing myself for waiting so long.

Was it too late? Had she already fallen in love with someone else, someone who treated her right and was exactly the kind of man she deserved?

Wasthatwhy she wanted a divorce?

My left hand strangled the neck of the guitar and my other hand crashed against the strings.

“What the hell are you doing, man? It’s eight o’clock in the morning.”

Since Eddie was awake now, I played the tune I’d been working on. The one that had been running through my head for weeks now.

Eddie crossed the living room in his underwear with his long, curly hair wild, rubbing his middle finger over the soul patch on his chin.

“All right, you win, asshole.” Yawning, he got behind his drums, tossed his sticks in the air and caught them, ready to go. “Let’s hear it,” he said, striking the cymbals. “Nice and loud so the neighbors won’t get any beauty rest either.”

I stood in front of the open window and played the opening chords while he tapped out a beat.

“Anger. Depression. Love. Hope.” I played around with the tunings and dropped the D.

“Your usual vibe. Got it,” Eddie said. “Nothing like a dose of melancholy to start the day.”

I played a slow, gentle ballad that evolved and finished in a powerful anthem. He joined in and we jammed for a while without vocals, trying to find the right sound.

When it finally started coming together, I sang the lyrics I’d been working on since five o’clock this morning, hitting notes that could probably shatter the windows.

When I finished, I was surprised to find myself standing in an apartment on Eldridge with the morning sun streaming through the dirty windows.

Someone was banging against the wall next door, and down below, a woman yelled, “Shut the fuck up!”

Eddie had stopped playing and was staring at me.

I packed up my guitar and propped it in the corner next to a neglected houseplant. Dead leaves littered the parquet floor.

“That sounded like shit, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, man, your voice is total shit.” Eddie shook his head. “No one sings like you do. I’m glad you’re back. Fuck, I’m glad you’rehere.”

I knew what he meant. Here, in this world, and not the next.

I tugged a T-shirt over my head and stuffed the rest of my things in a backpack. I had to be back in Montauk by five o’clock to pick up Otis.

Unfortunately, my dog didn’t enjoy city life. Or, rather, he didn’t appreciate being cooped up in Eddie’s apartment. Last time we left him alone, he destroyed Eddie’s sofa and chewed up his boots. Couldn’t blame him. He just needed a little love and attention. Didn’t we all?

“I miss touring with you. Can’t wait to get back on the road.”

I looked over to him. “You’re always on the road.”

“Yeah, but it’s different. I’m just some guy who plays drums in a touring band. There’s no real connection there. We were more like a family. We had some great times. Except when you hit the Cuervo too hard and forgot half the lyrics.”

He chuckled under his breath. “There was this one time at Lollapalooza when you were feeling all the love and decided to crowd surf. You took a swan dive right off the stage. You looked like Jesus on the cross.” He spread his legs and held out his arms, throwing his head back. “You passed through so many hands and so many lips that by the time you made it back to the stage you’d lost your shirt, and your skin was covered in lipstick and love bites. But you kept right on singing. It was fucking epic, man.”