Between Never and Forever by Brit Benson
17
“Fifteen minutes,”Red says from the driver’s seat, rousing me from my nap.
I glance out the window, noting how the scenery has changed just in the two-hour drive from the airport. I bet if I roll down the tinted window, I’ll be able to smell the Atlantic. We’ve played in Raleigh several times over the last few years, but this is as close as I’ve gotten to my hometown since I was fifteen. We passed the exit for it about an hour ago. I was asleep, but I still knew. I could feel it.
“Should we go to the studio first, or do you just want to head to your rental? I already have the entry code.”
Red flips the turn signal and glances at me from behind his dark aviators.
“Rental, please.”
We’re not expected at the studio until Monday, but Red and I decided to sneak into town early hoping to avoid a paparazzi swarm. They always show up where I’m supposed to be. We took a red-eye flight from LAX and rented our own car instead of flying the chartered jet and being shuttled by the studio limo. It’s worked out pretty well so far. The flight attendant asked me to sign a barf bag for his kid sister, and I got a few curious glances in the airport but that always happens when I bring Ziggy with me. Mostly, we’ve gone unnoticed. No one has ratted me out to the press yet.
I watch as Red pulls the address for the rental up on the GPS, then turns the car toward the downtown area. We pass cute little shops, restaurants, and bars, and I watch the people strolling down the sidewalks eating ice cream and sipping on iced coffees. I see glimpses of the estuary and the riverwalk, and then the shops are replaced by historic houses and brick buildings. Red turns down a brick alleyway, then pulls up to a wrought iron gate. He rolls down the window and punches in a code, then pulls forward into a private cobblestone courtyard once the gate opens. We’re not even inside yet and I’m already happy I chose to have the studio put me in the rental instead of the hotel suite. I’m tired of living out of hotels and tour buses.
“Well, this is fucking charming,” I say, taking in the stonework and the tiled art detail on the garage door. “I never would have guessed this was back here.”
“Let’s hope it takes the paps a while to figure it out, too,” Red says, hitting the garage door opener they’d sent us and pulling the car forward.
He puts the car in park and pops the trunk, then climbs out and grabs our suitcases. I sling a backpack over one shoulder and snag my guitar.
“Let’s go Ziggs,” I say, opening the back door and letting my rescue pup hop out.
She’s wagging her tail so hard that her whole body serpentines, and I just watch her for a minute with a dumb smile on my face. She runs around and sniffs everything in the garage, then heads out into the fenced yard and finds a place to pee.
“Good girl, ZeeZee,” I croon, and she bounds back up to me and attacks my hand and kneecap with sloppy kisses.
I can’t believe I almost left her in L.A. with a dog sitter. In the eight short months since I adopted her, my Ziggy Girl has become family. Hands down, the best impulsive decision I’ve ever made. This weird little mutt ball of energy has become the sober companion I didn’t know I needed. Red loves her too, even though he doesn’t show it. I crouch down and scratch her behind her ears and above her tail like she likes.
“Good job, girl.”
Red clears his throat, and I glance up to find him waiting in the open doorway. I roll my eyes and push myself to standing.
“C’mon Ziggy Girl, we can’t leave the old man waiting.”
Red grunts, then heads into the house and I follow with Ziggy trailing me.
As soon as I step through the door, I love it immediately.
What was an unassuming brick building from the street is luxurious and quirky inside. Everything about it is the perfect blend of chic and cozy with the most adorable trendy details mixed in. Exposed brick on accent walls, colorful shag area rugs, and funky light fixtures dot the entire first floor. It’s open concept with a staircase on the far wall leading to what I know will be two more floors and then a rooftop terrace that overlooks the water. I was intrigued when I saw the photos of the house the studio had emailed, but I’m absolutely enamored seeing it in person.
I drag my fingers over the white and gray marble countertop, the matching island with a built-in sink and wine fridge, then make my way into the living room. I drop myself onto the large overstuffed dark purple couch, and Ziggy jumps up next to me, resting her head on my thigh as I tilt mine back into the cushion.
“This has to be one of the comfiest couches I’ve ever sat on,” I say, and I hear Red chuckle from somewhere behind me.
I sit back up and look at the coffee table book—historic photography of the area—then push myself to standing despite my body’s desire to stay sunken into the plush couch cushion. Ziggs doesn’t even budge, and I don’t blame her. I think she’s found her favorite place in the house. I look at Red and point to the ceiling.
“I’m going to check out the upstairs.”
Everything looks how it did in the pictures. The primary bedroom has a giant king bed and an ensuite bathroom with a spa tub and steam shower. The second bedroom is slightly smaller, but also has an attached bathroom, which makes me feel better about making Red stay in there. He’s a big guy, but if I offered him the primary bedroom with the king bed, he’d never accept it.
Then I find the door to the rooftop terrace.
It’s fucking beautiful. Twinkle lights strung around the perimeter, stylish patio furniture, a small fire pit, and an outdoor kitchen make the area beyond impressive, but my favorite part is the unobstructed view of the estuary and riverwalk. I want to watch the sunset and rise from this terrace. I want to light up the fire pit and play my guitar under the stars.
The whole scene lifts me up and excites me briefly, and then I’m hit with a wave of sadness.
It makes me miss the band.
A few years ago, we would have loved this set up. Mabel’s laughter would carry, and I can close my eyes and imagine us jamming around glowing embers under twinkling lights. Jonah would make sure we had everything we needed, filling our drinks and stoking the fire, ever the mother hen. Torren would brood, smirk, and crack the perfect jokes at the perfect times.
The image brings a smile to my lips and a sting to my eye.
I miss that kind of fun. Fun like we used to have before we blew up and lost all semblance of normalcy. When they were my chosen family instead of my contracted business partners. When we actually liked each other.
I sigh and bring my attention back to the estuary. It’s a thirty-mile-long stretch of the river that’s become mixed with the salt water of the Atlantic before the two waterways meet, and the riverwalk is teeming with energy. Restaurants, coffee shops, boutiques, all of it. There’s even an area a few blocks down for bands to play during the warmer summer months.
I grew up just about an hour from here, but I was never able to visit. Never saw this riverwalk. Never stepped foot in the ocean at the end of it. Never even thought about this town until that very first tour. When we played here, we were still Savannah Alt. It wasn’t until our first show outside of D.C. that we became The Hometown Heartless. Right on time, too, because our second D.C. show is when we debuted “Just One More,” and it changed everything.
We were asked once in an interview why we named the band The Hometown Heartless, and Jonah answered for us.
“The concept of a hometown can evoke visceral emotions. People either love their hometown, or they hate it. They embrace it, never want to leave, or they run as far away as they can. But for us, the idea of never leaving means shunning growth and avoiding change. Those things—new things, different things—don’t fit into the ‘hometown’ mold, and a hometown can be real cozy until you try to break out of the mold. For people like us, people who don’t really fit, a hometown can be stifling. It can be heartless.”
We all sat in silence for a moment, nodding and soaking in Jonah’s answer. I remember feeling glad he answered because I wouldn’t have been as eloquent. I would have said my most debilitating heartbreaks still reside in my hometown. Jonah’s answer was better.
He was so much more vocal and charismatic in the beginning. The boy who always had a classic novel in his duffle bag. Who did crossword puzzles for fun between books he was reading. What a contrast to how he is now. My heart aches at the memory, and then I smile.
In that interview, after his answer stunned us all speechless, he laughed, then said with a smirk, “plus it just sounds fucking cool.”
And that was Jonah. Insightful and deep, with a cool wit that always took the edge off.
I walk to the railing on the edge of the rooftop and brace my hands on it, leaning forward and breathing deeply. The air smells better here than it does in L.A. It’s quieter, too. I hear the river lapping at the rocks from the boat wakes. I hear faint chatter and laughter and music. It’s peace in a form I’ve never known. Calm and relaxing. Content.
Sometimes, I wonder where I’d be if the band hadn’t hit it big. It’s a delusional game I play with myself. I romanticize the hypothetical. I attempt to fool myself into thinking I’d be healthier and happier. I try to picture myself as one of those normal people on the riverwalk, sipping iced lattes and chatting about their daily lives.
The image never lasts, though. The reality always crashes in, reminding me just who and what I was before I was Sav Loveless. A broke stripper with a budding substance abuse problem. A runaway teen from a fucked-up family. Vulnerable prey for disgusting, vicious people.
I have to laugh at myself otherwise I’ll cry.
It’s not that I’m not grateful for where I am now. I am. For the fans, the success, the money. I have a fucking Grammy. This movie role is one actors go their whole careers trying to land. I’m lucky, and I know I’m lucky. That label rep in the D.C. dive bar who heard “Just One More” and saw potential in The Hometown Heartless changed my whole life.
But recently...
Damn if sometimes I wish he’d never showed, and I don’t know what that says about me.
“Kid.”
I startle and turn toward the door to find Red standing on the terrace, arms folded across his chest, assessing.
“No coverage at all,” he says, glancing around to the neighboring rooftops. “Anyone with their phone camera could get you. The right lens will do it from one of the boats on the river, too.”
I snort and shake my head.
“You’re a fun sucker,” I say, walking toward him. “You just suck the fun out of everything.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“You still know how to have fun?”
I punch him in the stomach, and he acts like it hurts, then quick as lightning, crouches down, swings his leg out, and sweeps my feet out from under me. I land hard on my ass with a thud.
“Could have at least tried to catch me.” I groan, lying myself flat on the ground and throwing my arm over my face.
“Could have but didn’t want to suck the fun out of it.”
I grunt and kick at his foot.
“You’re a dick.”
Red chuckles, then sticks out a hand.
“Get up. Your mutt is getting restless. I don’t want her to eat the couch.”
I reach up and let him pull me to my feet, then I make my way to the door.
“She wouldn’t eat the couch,” I say with confidence I don’t feel.
He doesn’t say anything because he knows I’m full of shit.
I pound down the stairs until I’m on the first floor and find Ziggs doing laps around the kitchen island. Definitely only a matter of seconds away from eating the couch.
“Want to walk downtown?” I ask Red and he shakes his head no like I knew he would. “C’mon, Red. We’re in town days early. No one knows I’m here yet. I want to explore a little before I’m inevitably being stalked with every step.”
He pauses a moment before nodding reluctantly. I flash him a grin, then rush to my backpack and pull out my baseball cap. I throw my hair in a loose bun at the nape of my neck and pull the hat low on my head, then slip on my aviator sunglasses.
“You still look like you,” Red says, and I sigh loudly.
“Fun sucker.”
I call Ziggy over, clip her leash onto her collar, and grab my handy little wristlet of dog poop bags. Then, just to be an ass, I toss the wristlet at Red and smile sweetly. He slips it onto his hand without expression, and I roll my eyes.
“C’mon, Ziggy Girl,” I say, giving her some head scratches. “Let’s go for a walk.”
She’s spinning in circles and panting like crazy, which has me smiling, but then Red has to go and ruin it.
“The ring,” he reminds me, and my shoulders bunch with irritation.
“No.”
“Yes, Savannah.” His voice is stern, using the father tone that I have a love/hate relationship with. “You agreed. Until you make a decision, wear the ring.”
“This is so dumb, Red. This move is low and skeezy, and you know it.”
He nods.
“It’s bullshit. But unless you want to announce that you’re being replaced, you need to do it. And Savannah, I really don’t think you want to be replaced.”
I sigh, then groan and stomp my foot like a child. This whole mess has me wanting to rage and throw an epic tantrum. But Red is right, so reluctantly, I dig back through my backpack until I find the velvet box with the engagement ring. I slip it on my finger without looking at it.
It’s a gorgeous ring. That almost pisses me off more than the proposal. Torren knows me better than most. This three-carat teardrop cut emerald on a simple gold band is the ring I’d pin on a wedding vision board if I were the type to do that. Makes me wonder if I described it to him once when I was high and forgot about it.
Red is already standing at the door with Ziggs, so when I step up to him, I act like I’m going to take the leash. When he reaches out to give it to me, I grab his arm, throw all my weight into him, and pull a perfect foot sweep, spinning out of the way so he lands hard on his ass. I bark out a laugh, then point at him while bouncing my eyebrows.
“You’re getting slower in your old age.”
He pushes himself up to standing.
“You’re getting faster in your sobriety.”
I grin, ring on my hand almost forgotten.
“I know.”