Rhythm by Marie Lipscomb

Chapter Seventeen

Beth

“Holy crap.” Sadie presses her fingertips to her lips as she stares wide-eyed at the painting.

Beth stands back, her heart beating so hard against her ribcage she feels like it’s about to burst out of her chest. Even face down, ass up on the couch in the cabin she didn’t feel this exposed.

Sadie laughs and claps her hands together. “I honestly think this is the best you’ve done, although my judgement may be clouded by the fact that it’s hot as Hades.”

Beth cringes. “Appropriate for charity though?”

“Oh fuck no,” Sadie smirks. “But I guarantee it’ll raise a lot of money for them.”

“I don’t know,” Beth crosses the room and searches through her portfolios for the thousandth time, looking for something else for the exhibition. “It feels like I’m exposing us both.”

“I don’t think so. I only know who he is because you told me. It’s abstract enough that it keeps both your identities secret, and you can’t see his face fully. I think it’s fine. Better than fine.” She stares at it a moment longer. “If I had the money, I’d buy it.”

“You want my nipples on your wall?”

“Ugh, I thought you’d never ask.” Sadie cackles and picks her bag up from the floor. “I feel like as your friend I should tell you I don’t really approve of something so beautiful being created to honor an asshole who walked out on you after playing with your heart like he did.”

Beth frowns. “You told me to paint him—”

“I didn’t think it was going to be this good.” She sucks her breath between her teeth before she puts her hand inside her purse. “Okay, so you’re probably going to be super mad at me.”

“I’m never mad at you.” Beth leans back, perching on the edge of her desk. “What did you do?”

“I might have maybe bought tickets to Vixen’s Wail’s show tonight.”

Heat courses through Beth’s body as her jaw clenches. “Yeah, okay I’m mad at you.”

Sadie cringes a little, gritting her teeth together as she pulls the tickets from her wallet and holds them between her thumb and forefinger. “We don’t have to go. It was just an idea. We could stand way, way back and… I don’t know. I thought seeing him again might cure you. Like, it might take some of the mystery away. Plus, I’m actually kind of into their music now. I’ve been listening since…You know.”

Beth sighs. The painting of her and Finn, entwined in a passionate, climactic embrace looms bright in the corner of her vision. He’s become a constant specter, a source of wonder. The burning question of what might have been, and what went wrong; simultaneously an asshat for leaving, and the best lover she’s ever had. Schrödinger’s fuckboy.

If she saw him again, perhaps… perhaps she’d see he was wrong for her all along.

As ridiculous as Sadie’s plan is, it just might work.

Beth releases a labored sigh and rolls her eyes. “Can we dress up like goths?”

The squeal which erupts from Sadie has an inhuman, banshee-like quality. “Yes! Oh, dear gods yes!”

Finn

The mountain haunts him, a distant, hazy monument to his humiliation as he unloads the RV.

He tries not to look. Being back home, so close to the place where his heart was torn out, picks at his healing wound. Somewhere up there is the cabin; pristine, freshly painted, carpeted, and refurnished. That weekend cost him a lot, but the money can be re-saved. The other stuff… well, that might take a little longer.

He climbs down the vehicle’s steps, and walks toward the pile of boxes, amplifiers and instrument cases.

“This is awesome,” Nic grins as they lift their violin case. “Easily the nicest venue we’ve played.”

“Oh, for sure.” Finn shields his eyes as he looks around the loading bay. An iron fence surrounds them, keeping their equipment safe while they unload, and holding the smattering of early, diehard fans, back from following them backstage. It makes a change from unloading in the dank alleyways behind the dive bars they played in other cities.

The rest of the band lug the heavy cases of equipment into the venue, and the air crackles with excitement when they’re near. The fans beyond the fence cheer whenever they spot them. Mia, and Nic, Anya the guitarist, Tamika the bassist, Liz the keyboardist, and Jordan the cellist, laugh and wave, giddy with the band’s burgeoning success. Their excitement is contagious, but the effect is short-lived. The second he’s left alone, shielded by the RV, all he can see is the mountain.

“You okay?” Mia asks as she returns to his side and dabs her forehead on her sleeve.

“Yeah, just… it’s weird to be back, you know?”

“Do you have anyone coming tonight?”

He shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets, toeing the corner of one of the cardboard merch boxes. His shows are too loud for Gigi, and his mom and dad don’t really do that kind of thing. The one and only time they came to see his high-school band play, they had an argument so explosive it almost split them entirely. Since then, for the most part they treat his music as their bad luck charm.

“You don’t think she’ll show up?”

Mia’s question stills his heart.

“She?” He knows exactly who she means. He sniffs sharply and shakes his head, turning his back on the fence. “No. She’s probably done everything she can to forget about me.”

Back in the cabin, Beth had said she would come. He pushes the naïve fragment of hope from his heart. She’d promised a lot, she’d given a lot, and she’d hated herself for it.

“Her loss.” Mia waves at the fans, and releases an exhausted breath. “Shit, I can’t wait till we’re famous and we can pay roadies to unload all this crap.”

“You’re an excellent roadie, don’t sell yourself short.”

She flashes him a you’re-an-asshole-but-I-love-you-anyway glare, and heaves a case of wires from the ground. She continues muttering as she hurries into the venue. “Most vocalists use this time to warm-up, you know.”

Finn chuckles and follows after her, carrying his bass drum. “The day you actually get time to warm-up is the day it’s over for every other vocalist in the world.”

She grins at the compliment and leads the way through the labyrinthine corridors.

The venue is the Ritz compared to the dives they once played. It even has a dressing room, as opposed to them all taking turns getting ready in a single toilet cubicle, and only minimal brown water stains on the possibly-asbestos ceiling tiles.

“Fancy,” Finn smiles as he steps inside.

A mirror surrounded by mostly-functioning light bulbs glows in the corner of the room, mounted on the bottle-green wall. One side of the room is dedicated to a giant cork board, displaying posters for upcoming local events. Vixen’s Wail has the biggest poster, the most eye-catching, thanks to Nic’s graphic design skills. Anya has already taken a sharpie to it and signed her name. The band’s costumes, for when they hit the stage, are hung along the opposite wall, wrapped in their dry-cleaners’ plastic.

Finn’s throat tightens. It’s hard not to feel elated. This is the payoff for a decade of hard work. It’s the beginning of something big, he can feel it.

With all seven members of Vixens Wail inside, the dressing room becomes a hive of bristling energy, as they begin to prepare for the show, and as the soundcheck approaches, Beth Barlow is momentarily the furthest thing from his mind.