I Do With You (Maple Creek)

Chapter 27 HOPE

Chapter 27

H OPE

Two Weeks Later

I stumble into Dr. Payne’s office, flicking on the lights. I’m the first one here, same as I’ve been for the last week or so—not because I’m glad to be back at work, but because I toss and turn all night, waiting for the sun to rise, when it’ll be slightly more reasonable to go to work. My time off was far from the perfect honeymoon I’d planned, but my vacation’s over, and I have to get out of bed, out of the house, and mostly, out of my mind.

And despite the gratuitous amounts of coffee I’ve been drinking, I’ve been a zombie, merely going through the motions of life.

There’s pain and heartache, but I’ve felt it so deeply, wallowing in it, that I think my brain has finally shut off all my emotions to protect me from myself. I’ve moved beyond tears and into action, willing myself to be better through self-care.

I cleaned out my room, taking down all the pictures and mementos of my relationship with Roy and carefully putting them into a shoebox because while I don’t want to see them anymore, they don’t trigger pain for me. I moved on from that girl a long time ago. Which is also why I bought a new bedspread and some velvet pillows with fun tassels that make me smile. I’ve journaled extensively, done some hard self-analyzing, and taken a few walks around the neighborhood and once through the woods. I even saw a titmouse flying from tree to tree, and it made me laugh, like a sign from the universe that things have come full circle.

But it’s not all healthy recovery over here, because, like picking at a scab, I’ve also been devouring Midnight Destruction videos, trying to find any hint of the lying, betraying, game-playing asshole Ben is. But all I find is a masked figure that haunts me when I do get a few minutes’ rest. He sings to me in my dreams—not the screaming noise he makes onstage, but the soft, shy “Here Comes the Sun” he sang to me on the boat. I wake up sad and sick to my stomach, and then don’t sleep again for fear that the dream will come back to torture me once more.

Eventually, my coworkers come in, happily ready to tackle the day despite their bleary morning eyes. Dr. Payne brings in two trays of coffees, each one specific for someone with their current favorite order. He’s caring like that, and always does kind things, but I think he’s working hard to cheer me up.

“Hey, Hope!” he greets me. “Ready for a day of bad breath, Oreo-crumb-coated teeth, and biting kids?” He grins expectantly, hoping his joke will lighten my dark mood. Unfortunately, for all his awesome traits, Dr. Payne isn’t a funny guy, and his question is a little too accurate to be witty. Plus, as better as I feel, I’m still not in the mood for humor yet.

I force a small, empty smile and a polite chuckle. “Yep. Chairs one and two are ready for you.”

His perfectly even white grin falls, and he grows serious, lowering his voice to give us privacy. “Thanks. And really, take all the time you need. You’re important to us here, but we can make it a few more days without you if necessary.”

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. He really is a great boss and friend. So are the rest of my coworkers, who’ve all been absolutely supportive of my mood swings, from hyperfocused productivity as a distraction method to bump-on-a-log pouting sessions while hiding out in the bathroom. Luckily, I haven’t had one of the latter in several days.

“Thanks, Dr. P. I need the routine, I think.”

He nods wisely. “Well, if you change your mind, just let Jordan know you’re leaving and we’ll hold down the fort.”

Jordan is our receptionist. She’s the best one we’ve ever had, full of youth in a bubbly, charismatic way that puts patients at ease. She’s also engaged, and we’ve done a fair amount of wedding planning together on our lunch breaks, sharing Pinterest inspiration pictures, Reddit threads about wedding-day drama, and Instagram stories filled with happily-ever-afters. She’s been avoiding me like the plague since I came back to work, probably afraid my wedding-day disaster will rub off on her and ruin her own special day. Or maybe she’s being kind by not reminding me of the thing we so recently had in common. Either way, I won’t be talking to her today.

Except life has other plans.

“Morgan, can you check—” I say, heading into our insurance-billing supervisor’s office. But I stop, realizing Jordan is sitting in front of her looking like I busted her for stealing out of the office cookie jar. To be fair, our cookie jar is shaped like a molar and usually filled with small trail mix packets, undyed drink-mix sticks, and sugar-free gum in a variety of flavors. Definitely nothing worth stealing. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, sorry. We were just talking about cake.” Jordan’s eyes widen, and she slaps her hands over her mouth. “Sorry, Hope. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

Morgan looks aghast too.

I realize something important. They, if not everyone, think my recent heartbroken state is related to Roy and bailing on the wedding. They have no idea of the truth.

I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’m not this”—I gesture to myself, knowing I look like hell despite the under-eye patches and the hair-oil mask I did last night—“because of the wedding or Roy. It’s Ben.”

“The rebound tourist?” Jordan asks, her perfect brows pulling together.

Pressing my lips together, I nod slowly. “He was more than that. A lot more.”

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t know!” Looking hesitant, she says, “Um ... in that case ... if it’s not too tender to ask ... I do have a wedding question ...” She pauses, waiting for permission to ask something I’m probably going to refuse to answer. When I don’t disagree, though, she continues, “After you, uh, left , did anyone eat the cake at your reception? You know how we were going back and forth between the Chantilly cream and the almond-vanilla? I’m having second thoughts.”

I bark out an unexpected laugh of shock because that’s not at all where I thought she was going. I fully expected something entirely too personal about me and Roy, the wedding itself, or my 400 m sprint exit in custom cowboy boots. And once I start to laugh, I can’t stop. My entire life has become so ridiculously dramatic. Tears spill out of my eyes, which surprises me because I thought I’d dried out every last one of them, but apparently there are different wells for tears of laughter and tears of heartbreak. Jordan looks completely dumbfounded by my laughter, and Morgan seems worried about me, so eventually I corral it in.

“Sorry, I really needed that,” I explain, catching my breath. “No, I don’t know about the cake, but I’m sure they’d both be delicious. You can’t go wrong, so follow your gut. Literally.”

She smiles brightly. “Thanks, Hope! I knew you’d know the right thing to say. And again, I’m really sorry. About everything.”

She is. It’s written all over her face, shining in her brown eyes, plain as day. I hope she stays that blissfully innocent forever and never has reason to question her wedding day, her groom, or their relationship. She deserves the absolute best, and she’s found it in her fiancé, who not only loves her but is also her partner in the true sense of the word.

After work, I stop at the grocery store, going through the aisles on autopilot. I’ve got a basket on my elbow with a dark chocolate bar, a tiny bottle of red wine, lavender-scented bath salts, and a new pack of colorful pens for my journaling, and I’m making the extremely important and difficult decision of which frozen pizza to buy for dinner tonight. Supreme or margherita?

“Hope?” a familiar and unwanted voice says.

I can’t stop the sigh that escapes. The last thing I need is another spectacle. Clean up in aisle twelve!

Rolling my eyes, I turn. “What, Roy?”

“I heard that Taylor guy left town,” he says, his face carefully neutral. But I can see the spark in his eyes. He thinks that’ll be enough to finally make me come back to him.

It’s not.

The problem is, I know exactly who Roy is. To his credit, he was at least honest about that. I just excused the parts I didn’t care for, pretending they didn’t exist as I molded myself to fit the image he had of a girlfriend, fiancée, and almost-wife while very nearly making that image my own ideal too.

But no. I don’t want to pretend like a naive girl anymore. Not with Roy, and not with Ben. I want it all—the good, the bad, the ugly—and I want it laid bare before me, with someone who trusts that I can handle it. In return, I’ll give him all my heart, trusting him to care for it like the fragile bird it is, despite it being encaged in steel.

“Listen ... it wasn’t about him. It was about you and me—”

“Us,” he corrects, giving the word weight it no longer holds.

I swallow thickly, trying once again to find the words to make him understand. “Who we were once upon a time and who we grew up to be. I ran because things weren’t right between us. I think you know that, too, deep down. I should’ve talked to you sooner. Maybe we could’ve worked it out, but it’s too far gone now. I’m too far gone, Roy. I truly do want better for the both of us, and if we try to pretend like this”—I point from me to him—“is enough, we’ll waste our whole lives settling.”

“I just want you,” he answers, carefully inching closer.

“You don’t even know me, Roy,” I return, trying to be calm but not backing down. “Not because you didn’t try to, but because I didn’t know me well enough to give you that. But I’m learning. I’m figuring it out, and you will too.”

He dips his chin, and his eyes fall to my lips for a split second where I think he’s going to try to kiss me. But slowly, they trail back up to my eyes. “I hear you. I want you to know that. And when you figure things out, maybe I’ll still be here, because I do love you, Hope.” I start to argue and he steamrolls over me. “Or maybe I’ll have moved on. I don’t know anything right now. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry we aren’t married and eating dinner together tonight.”

He glances at the pizzas in my hands, then turns and disappears around the corner before I can formulate anything to say to that.

That was really insightful and heartfelt. Sure, it could be another ploy, a tactic to woo me back, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt like Roy did actually hear me, maybe for the first time ever. He’s doing some growing of his own.

Decision made, I put both the supreme and margherita pizza in my basket. I’m going to cook them both and eat half of each. Because I’m growing too. Getting stronger and more confident, expressing myself with more clarity, and expecting more of life.

B EN

“These are great, but ...,” Sherwood tells Sean, Trent, and me as we finish playing one of the new songs we’ve written. I never asked, so I’m not sure if Sherwood is his first or last name, or if he changed it to something “unique” when he got into music. Not that he’s a musician. He’s so much worse—our AMM-assigned talent manager.

He rolled into our lives with the last album, wearing a plaid suit, an open three-button vest, and a Bruno Mars concert shirt. He favors slick loafers with no socks so his bony ankles show, scarves that drape down his chest and flat stomach, and more jewelry than the queen, including a watch that costs more than my first three cars combined. I’m not sure how he got stuck with us, but none of us are particularly thrilled with the assignment.

When he came striding into our practice session like a man on a mission earlier, I thought for sure Hope had told someone, news of our identities had gotten out, and Sherwood was here to read us the riot act. I was almost relieved by the idea of being done with it all. All the charades, all the stress, all the drama. None of that has happened, though. It’s been complete radio silence, from Hope and AMM.

“Great? They’re the best fucking thing we’ve ever done,” Sean interrupts, coldly correcting Sherwood as he tosses one of his drumsticks end over end toward the wall. After hitting the soundproofing panel, it falls cleanly into the trash can below. That’s the third stick he’s broken today—not in anger, but because the drumline is that intense and he’s playing that hard.

He’s right. Of course he is. Sean’s right about everything, which only pisses me off more and more.

I’ve funneled all that anger—over losing Hope, at Sean’s interference, at the utter unfairness of life—into the songs that’ve been pouring out of my heart and onto the page. The lyrics are dark and ugly, speaking of hatred and loss and retribution, so of course, AMM loves them.

“Yeah, yeah, agreed.” Sherwood nods along pleasantly, not wanting to upset the talent, a.k.a. Sean. News flash: Sean’s always upset at something. Lately, it’s been me. And between the two of us, other than sniped comments about the music or mutters of “fucking asshole,” we’re not talking.

It’s not the same. Nothing’s the same.

Even if AMM doesn’t know that someone outside this room knows the truth about us, I’m this close to saying fuck it all and walking away. I do this for Sean, and right now, I don’t want to do shit for him except hold his head underwater. Or maybe cheap whiskey, because at least then he’d wake up in hell with a hangover he’d suffer from for eternity.

“There are a couple we’re thinking of scratching from the album, though.” Sherwood cuts his eyes to me, and I already know what he’s about to say. The time in Maple Creek was supposed to be a reset, but instead I came out of it with half a dozen songs, and I’ve written at least ten more since then. Some of them are crap, but most are bangers.

Except one.

“‘Hope’ stays,” I declare. “And Losing Hope is the name of the album. It’s not open for negotiation.”

Sherwood pans back to Sean, hoping for reinforcements. “I know it’s from your heart, but the sound is basically the antithesis of everything Midnight Destruction is about.”

“Like you fucking know what we’re about,” Sean sneers. “You just got here, asshole.” Nope, Sean’s definitely not on Sherwood’s side. Not sure he’s on mine, either, though. He’s probably just being his usual, charming self.

“Okay, okay. How about this? We can do a private, VIP-only pop-up show at the Cobra Room as an album teaser. It’d be like the old days—an intimate club show, no flashy pomp and circumstance, just you and the music and the fans. You can play an entire set, start with the classics to set the vibe and then maybe six or seven of the new ones? Get some audience feedback in real time. We could arrange it for early next week? Maybe Monday?”

I already know my schedule and Sean’s, which amount to a whole lot of mean mugging and cursing at each other, so I look to Trent and he shrugs. “No soccer games on Monday. I’m down.”

Sean and I lock eyes, trying to gauge each other.

“Song stays, no need for a showcase,” Sean declares.

“We’ll do it,” I say at the same time.

I’m not sure if Sean’s trying to back me up in some misguided attempt at an apology or if he truly likes the song and wants it on the album. Or he might just be fucking with Sherwood, or me. With Sean, there’s no telling.

“What the fuck ever,” Sean snaps, hopping up from his drum throne and stomping toward the door.

“On one condition,” I add quickly, and Sean freezes as Sherwood looks at me eagerly. He wants to make this happen. He was probably sent here to coerce us into doing this exact thing, which is why we have an advantage for once. “Tickets are free for the invited guest list and AMM pays for the venue since you’re the ones who need handholding to finish this album. Midnight Destruction’s not paying for shit, and neither are our fans. You’re out the money up front, but you’ll get it back one-hundred-fold in the guerilla-style social media publicity and you know it.”

Sherwood blinks, then pulls a face of confused disbelief. His jaw drops open to say something, and I hold up a finger.

“Or we’re out. Song stays and you can fuck off.”

His mouth clacks shut, and he starts typing on his phone. Sean narrows his eyes, yelling at me from afar, but I hold strong. I know what I’m suggesting is an expensive proposition for AMM; renting out a place like the Cobra Room will cost them serious bank, but they have it. Most importantly, they have it from our blood, sweat, and tears, so they can damn well spend it on us too.

A ridiculously short few seconds later, Sherwood nods and looks up. “Done.”

It was that easy. It was that damn easy. So why the hell are we still stuck in this ridiculously punitive contract that owns us? All we have to do is stand up to them. We have what they want—the music, the fans, and we make them the money.

Why can’t Sean see that?

“All right, then,” I clip out, glaring at Sean, who’s hovering by the door. See? I fucking told you! “We’ll get you a set list ASAP.”

“Sounds good, guys!” Sherwood agrees, making his way toward the door now that he’s done what he was sent to do. He basically scrapes his back on the side of the doorframe to stay as far away from Sean as possible.

When it’s the three of us, Sean throws his other drumstick at the wall. “Motherfucker!” he yells.

Sherwood gave in so easily, and so did AMM. There was no fight, no big battle, and they didn’t stop us for daring to have a fucking opinion or making a demand. I’m right, and he finally saw exactly how right I’ve been all this time. He’s furious ... at himself, mostly.

“I’m out. You two let me know if we still have a band by Monday,” Trent says casually, treating Sean’s outburst like it’s no big deal. He’s been in other bands with big-personality people, so to him, the drama Sean and I have right now is child’s play. He walks out a few steps behind Sherwood, and we can hear them chatting about the weather. Trent’s solid, laid-back style is a good fit for us.

“We can talk about contract negotiations,” Sean grits out when the door closes and he knows that Sherwood can’t hear us. “That was some absolute bullshit. How much money do you think we’ve shit away by not ...” His own mental calculations are running in his head and he growls in anger, probably reaching the seven- or eight-figure mark. He rips the hairband from his bun, letting his hair down so he can run his hands through it punishingly. When he looks at me, I can see the remorse in his eyes, not only for not acting on the contract sooner but also for what he did with Hope. “Ben—”

“Save it. It doesn’t matter now. It’s over.”

Honestly, a lot more things than Hope and I are over. I can feel the band slipping through my fingers. Even if Sean’s willing to work with me against AMM now, I’m too furious with him to live this way. I can barely stand to look him in the eye, and hearing him banging away on the drums behind me sets my teeth on edge, so another tour, with its constant togetherness, would likely end up with one of us underground in a shallow grave.

I want to destroy him the way he destroyed me—ruthless, brutal, cold annihilation. Hell, the rage I feel toward him is the inspiration for one of the best songs I wrote last week. And yes, I intentionally set it up so that a good chunk of the song has him only playing his double-bass pedals so he has to sit there and twiddle his fucking thumbs, listening to me scream about what an asshole he is for a solid four minutes and nineteen seconds.

Born of hell, evil to the core. Puppeteer of the dark, you’ve incited war. Decimation, extermination, I will slaughter your soul.

“I told you I’d pick you up if she tore you to shreds. Just hoped it wouldn’t go that way,” he mutters so quietly I almost don’t hear him.

Maybe I imagined it? “What?”

“I knew she’d be furious,” Sean says, a little louder. “Hell, who wouldn’t be? I didn’t think she’d go scorched earth, though. I heard the way she talked about you, saw the certainty in her eyes. I figured you’d have a blowout fight, cool off for a few days, and then you’d be all happy-sappy and fucking like rabbits when you made up.”

“You didn’t know a damn thing about her!” I shout. He’s the strategic, brilliant mind, but he miscalculated big-time with Hope. And with me. “I told her I love her, and she said it wasn’t enough. Word for fucking word, it’s not enough. I’m never enough, and the one time I got something good, you ripped it away because you’re a jealous asshole. I hate you.”

But that’s not the truth. Or at least, not all of it.

The truth is ... I hate myself for hurting her.