broken roses
I don't usually like explaining fiction or poetry when I post it, because I like to think the text stands on its own (and I think it probably still does here), but this one feels like it merits some context. I watched Broken Flowers almost 20 years ago, when I took an online class about film, because my first few years of college were just goofing around in random electives that sounded neat (and that ruled). I haven't seen it since but I still think about it a lot, as my introduction to Jim Jarmusch as a director, as an example of a narrative where most of the heart of it is from character interactions and emotional beats. And I started this story as a character exercise a couple times before starting from scratch this week and working through this one. It's got some characters from another series of stories I'm eternally working on. They all have flower names because I hate naming characters and that was an easy way to come up with them. I hope you enjoy. I liked working on it.
Someone sent me a photograph. A physical photograph--I didn't even think they still made those. And they used a courier, someone who knew me, stopped me while I was on break. "Moxie?"
"Yeah?"
"Delivery for you." No record of who sent it, just 'MOXIE ROSE' on the envelope, written in an elegant hand. And inside it's a photo of me, and in the same hand, written in marker, 'miss you.'
I can't place the photo. It's at a bar somewhere, the tables are a dark wood, maybe black, I've got a beer and a plate with some errant fries on it sitting in front of me. The lighting is terrible--too dark in the bar and the flash washes everything out--and I'm wearing that dull red duffel coat I've had for ages--you know, the one with all the patches and buttons on--and I'm laughing like I mean it, looking at the photographer. Not a practiced smirk or a polite laugh--I am, in that moment, so happy. They caught me off guard. Just looking at it makes me want to cry. When was the last time I laughed like that?
Who sent me this photograph?
I asked Oracle but she's got nothing. So I've made a list of names. Iris. Zinnia. Hana. Lily. Xiulan. And I'm about to ask Oracle for a map when one pops up on my screen. One stop for each, an old photo of them and--I love her for this--she's even dug up some recent photos. It's been a while and time changes all of us. But there's six stops on here, and the last one doesn't have a photo. Doesn't need one. Nora.
"You serious, Oracle?"
[honestly, coin flip whether or not it's her. what's another couple hours on the road? don't you want to know?]
I sigh. And before I can ask, [i'm bringing your motorcycle round. you can make it to iris tonight.]
Iris. God. I'd say I haven't thought about her in years, but that's a lie. I think about her all the time, just not . . . okay, so. When I was in college, just before I met Oracle, I spent a summer crashing on a friend's couch, right? And I did an open mic night, and Iris was there, and she met me after and said she really liked my songs. And we got to talking, and as I was sitting there trying to figure out if she was flirting, and I was talking about some songs I'd been working on, and she said, "You should come over and play them for me. I'd love to hear them."
And in retrospect there was no mistaking her tone or the look in her eye but I still showed up with a guitar ready to just do a private performance, because what else am I going to do? Her dad greeted me--"Here for the guitar lesson, I take it?"--and I just nodded, because, sure, I can teach someone guitar, why not?
I played her a song, and as I tried to figure out a polite way to ask what I was here for, she took my hand in hers, and traced her fingers along my palm, and I made the most embarrassing whimpering sound as she said, "I didn't ask you here to play guitar, silly."
I think she had an alarm set because after a few hours of kissing on the floor she said, "You should probably go. Dad might get suspicious if your 'guitar lesson' goes on for more than two hours or so."
I nodded, and packed up my things and left. And I don't know what came over me, but as I left, I called, "Same time next week?", which was the first coherent thing I'd managed to say in that whole time, and she laughed. "I'll see you then, teach."
And on the way out her father stopped me. "Excuse me, young lady. What is your name?"
"Uh. Moxie Rose?"
A brief moment. "Ah, of course." And then I got a notification that he had transferred two hundred dollars into my account. "My daughter really needs direction," he says. "It's good to see her take an interest in learning a new skill."
"Ah. Uh. Thank you, sir."
I walked back to my friend's house in a stupor, and when I got there, said, "I think I just got paid $200 to make out with some guy's daughter."
The fling lasted for most of the summer. I didn't need to get a part time job because of it. We barely spoke a word to each other the whole time. And at the end of the summer, when I tried to say goodbye, she just took my hand in hers again and traced her finger along my palm, and just like every time, I forgot my own name and everything I had ever planned on saying. I used to tell that story a lot.
It couldn't have been Iris, surely? Did we ever go to a bar? Was this photo taken at the open mic night? Had I forgotten something? And since this was before Oracle I had no way of knowing. One way to find out, I guess.
It's early summer, and if the forecasts are right, it'll become unbearable in a few days. But for now the skies are clear, and the roads are quiet--just me and the wind in my hair. And so I find my way to the little roadside diner where, if Oracle's information is correct, Iris is now working.
She doesn't recognize me when I walk in, just tells me to sit wherever. So I pick a table and she walks up and finally does a double-take. "Moxie? Moxie Rose?"
"Hey, Iris."
"God, it's been, what, ten years? What are you doing here?"
"Good question," I say. "Looking for something." At her puzzled look, I set the photograph on the table. "Look familiar?"
She looks at it. "God, what a good picture of you. You look so happy."
"Not one of yours, though?"
"When could I have taken it?" She gives me a smile. "So, you here to eat, or just to bug me when I'm on shift?"
I order some food, and a beer, and when she drops it off she says, "You know, I did actually take some guitar lessons that summer."
"Oh?"
"Figured my dad might get suspicious if I couldn't at least play him a song by September." She looks sheepish for a brief moment. "Can I play some songs for you?" And before I can even start to wonder, "I mean actually play songs. I'd like you to hear them."
"I think I'd like that," I say.
She leads me back to a little studio apartment not too far from her workplace--walking distance, and it's such a beautiful night and everything is so strange I'm actually crying by the time we get there. She pretends not to notice, and I dry my eyes and we step inside.
She has a couple posters from my band on the wall, and that makes me stop halfway inside. She blushes profusely, then starts laughing. "Oh God, I didn't even think--you must think--fuck, that's funny."
"I take it I left a strong impression." I step inside and shut the door behind me.
She takes a guitar from its stand and sits on the couch, cross-legged. "I like your music. For a long time I wondered if, you know, I only liked it because, well." She blushes again. "But who cares? I like it. Doesn't matter if that's 'pure' or whatever. I went to a couple of your shows, a few years back. Got a poster each time. And some t-shirts."
"You should have said hey."
"Didn't want to make it weird." She looks me in the eye. I look away. "Anyway. I've been doing the singer-songwriter thing for a while now. Played a few gigs. Nothing big, but . . . you want me to play a few songs for you?"
"Please."
I sit on the couch next to her and she plays some songs. There is always something magical about unaccompanied voice and guitar, and there's a certain rawness to her voice, and perhaps because it's been a very strange day and my emotions are doing odd things, or perhaps it's just the rare intimacy of a concert performed just for you, but I find myself crying again, and this time I don't stop. And she just keeps playing.
Finally she plays a song that is familiar, and this returns me from my reverie to the real world as I try to place it, and I realize it's one of my songs. She smiles at me sheepishly when she's done. "I always play that at the end of a set. It's . . . well. Your music has meant a lot to me over the years." She takes my hand in hers, and traces a finger along my palm. And I'm ready for it, I've been ready for it, and I still can't stop that sharp intake of breath, losing focus. Then she kisses me on the cheek. "Let me give you a copy of my album." She pulls a metal chest from under her bed. "You have a record player?"
"Yeah."
"I'm all about analog media." She hands me an LP with a sketchbook rendition of her playing guitar on the front. "And I hate to be a bad host, but you do have to go." A sad smile plays across her lips, just for a moment. "But it was so good to see you again. If you want to jam sometime . . ."
"Yeah. I'll be in touch. Promise."
"Don't make promises, Moxie Rose." She kisses me on the cheek again. "Not unless you're going to start keeping them."
Oracle is quiet until I get back to the bike. [got a motel room for you. scammed the payment system so it's free.]
"I was just going to ride. Clear my head."
[don't be stupid. you need rest. it's a long road to zinnia's place.]
"Thanks, Oracle."
[you're welcome.]
She leaves me alone until I'm pulling into the hotel. [so it was totally iris right?]
"Shut up, Oracle."
The night clerk barely looks at me as I come in, just tosses me the keys--actual mechanical keys--then says, "You know how to use those, right?"
"Uh. Yeah?"
"Hey, not everyone does."
The room has that weirdly inert quality that motel rooms always have: you can just tell it's not really inhabited. Everything feels a little off. But at least it's clean, and there's no bedbugs, and the hot water lasts for a good ten minutes when I take a shower.
I'm used to living on the road. I always keep a bag with a few days of supplies on the bike, just in case, and the bag I take with me everywhere usually has at least a change of clothes and some other necessities. I tell people I picked up the habit on tour, but that's not true. I picked it up because there's at least six people who could have sent me that picture. I picked it up because I was--am--terrified of what happens when I stop moving.
It's still early when I wake up--sky's just beginning to lighten up--and I do my usual scan for waking up in a strange place: bag, yep. Clothes, boots, yep. The goal is to be able to be up and out within a minute or two in the worst case, but this morning I take my time, look over the map. It's about five hours of driving until I get to the town Zinnia lives in now, and Oracle doesn't have a convenient "just show up at her job" plan for her. [aren't you supposed to be good at people? figure something out. show up with a bottle of wine and a big smile.]
That will never work, but as I ride out into the sunrise, nothing comes to me. Another lovely day, and the traffic's all heading into the city in the morning. I stop at a cafe to get some coffee and a breakfast and flirt with the barista, who is playing some folk music that is almost certainly not corporate approved. "I just discovered the coolest folk singer-songwriter," I tell her, and Oracle is kind enough to pull up Iris's band name for me so I don't have to look it up. The barista puts her album on and it's starting to remind me of how weird last night was so I rush through breakfast and get out of there.
Lunch is at a little restaurant a few miles from the freeway, a few hours into the desert. There's almost no one there and I get some very "you're not from around here, are you?" looks from the ones who are there, but the server is friendly enough and the food is decent. But no helpful ideas.
It's still daylight when I finally pull into the little town Zinnia calls home. It's a town of rolling hills and grasslands, which I have to imagine looks stunning in the springtime but is just a slightly different shade of brown from the rest of the desert at this point in the summer. And I still don't have a plan.
[so. she's a history professor.]
I stop in at a grocery store and get the most expensive bottle of wine they have, and I'm left hoping that that and a big smile will be enough.
She looks like a history professor, somehow, which is weird since when I knew her it was all punk rock. Her look goes from confusion to irritation when she sees me. "God damn it, Moxie. What do you want?"
"Just . . . saying hey. Was in the area, you know how it is."
"No. I don't."
So, Zinnia was the first person I really, properly ghosted. I was technically studying history at college, so we met in that program, and she was unfathomably cool. She knew all the best parties, and she was razor-sharp, and how could you not fall in love with her?
I'd had my heart broken by the girl I'd gone to college chasing after, and I came up with this idiotic notion that maybe, if I leave right when everything is going well, I'll just be a happy, wistful memory. You know? Like, I remember going to this show once and I had the most amazing time, I was dancing with this girl who was standing next to me and it was the most perfect thing. And then when the show was over I tried to signal that I was getting my bag from coat check, wait up for me, and she just took that as a wave. And I still think about that, and I know if we'd started dating it would have probably soured eventually. We never spoke a single word. And I thought, idiot youth that I was, that maybe, just maybe, I could be that for everyone.
And, yes, I was terrified of things going well. Because that meant I might want to slow down, and I might want to stop, and then what? What happens then? I'm not waiting around to find out.
So I tested it on Zinnia. It wasn't entirely intentional--I had to drop out for reasons far beyond my control--but the best part about doing science is, so long as you never look at the results, it's always a success.
[i was joking about "bottle of wine and a smile", but you should try the smile, she looks like she's about to stab you]
I put on my best smile and Zinnia . . . she doesn't soften. But she relents. "Fine. Dinner is instant ramen. You can stay if you want."
"You're the best, Z."
"Don't . . . don't call me that. Please."
Her house is small, and there's a lot of books. It's messy but comfortable, and she points at a chair--"Sit there"--and walks into the kitchen to start making dinner. I decide to sit rather than follow after her, and she returns with a couple of bowls and two glasses of wine. She pours the wine--"Use the fucking coasters"--and hands me first the wine, then the ramen. She's put an egg in the bowl.
"So. You still going by Moxie?"
"Yeah. Finally changed my legal name after I had a shitty roommate who insisted on calling me Whitney. Not her worst offense, just . . . you know. One that lingered."
"Sounds like a story." I have never seen someone eat noodles so angrily. "I hear some of the students talking about your band every now and then. Local radio station likes you, I think. I always said you had talent."
"You did."
A long silence, punctuated by angry slurping sounds. I feel like I'm intruding so I try to eat as quietly as possible.
"So, what's the scam? You decide to look up your old exes and see if you can hook up again? You got into some MLM job and you're extremely bad at it? I don't get it. It's been like ten years. Why now?"
I wince, and with a heavy sigh, pull out the photograph. "Someone sent me this. I'm trying to figure out who."
"That's it?" She looks at it. "That could be anywhere. Why are you asking me?"
"Did you take it?"
She just stares at me. "Why do you even care?"
I open my mouth to respond but I realize, I have no idea. Was I really just curious? Is that reason enough to drop everything and take a trip across the country?
"You don't even know! Amazing."
"I feel bad," I said. "For . . . everything. For leaving like I did. Ghosting you. And I'm not trying to come crawling back or anything, just . . . I don't know. It brought up old ghosts. I wanted to put them to rest." I catch her gaze and hold it. "So, I'm sorry. I really am."
For the longest time I'm certain she's not going to answer, but eventually her glare softens, and she looks away. "It did hurt, you know. I'm not going to sit here and sing your praises because in retrospect you were kind of a wreck, but, fuck, we had fun together. And not even a word? Did I do something wrong?"
"No. I was just an idiot." I force a smile. "Still am, I guess, but I'm trying."
"Well. Apology accepted." She tops off my wine, and then hers. "You have a place to stay? No, of course you don't. There's a guest bedroom. It's not much but you're staying there tonight. And you're going to help me finish this wine while we watch a movie one of my students keeps telling me I will absolutely love." She sighs. "God, that makes me sound old."
"You used to know all the best movies and the coolest bands."
"Didn't ask," she says, but she smiles when she says it. "I lost the energy for it, I guess. I always wondered how you did it."
"Oh, I burned out hard a few years later. I was barely holding it together as it was."
She put the movie on--some art house film about returning home, all slow and brooding, and one of the things I forgot I loved about her is she doesn't talk during movies. She just sits and watches. That perfect silence, just being present with art in the company of another person . . . I've missed this.
The credits roll and we sit in silence for a while, before she says, "All right, time for bed. I've got an early morning." She throws a pillow at me, and points at a door. "That's yours, you're in there, scrounge up your own blankets." As I'm on my way to the back room, she calls after me, "And Moxie? Thanks. It doesn't make up for . . . everything. But thank you."
"Least I could do," I tell her, and close the door.
I panic when I wake up, because my boots and bag are both still out in living room. Zinnia's already awake when I try to sneak out, and she says, "Sit down. I'll make you breakfast and coffee." And so I do, and she does. The coffee is cheap and the breakfast is off-brand cereal but it's what I need. Dull and mechanical.
"You know what's funny?" she says. "I don't even know when the last time I thought about you is. Then you show up and it's like no time has passed, like everything is still raw. But now I look at you and I don't see that girl from ten years ago. There's someone else sitting there. And you look like her, but you're not really, are you?"
"I guess not. Past me would never have apologized."
"I'm thinking about that photograph. You're not the same person that was in that photo, either, I bet."
I have nothing to say to that.
"I assume you're leaving today?"
"Yeah."
"If you come back, and warn me before you do, you can come back some time."
"I will."
She makes a face that suggests she very much doubts that. "Until then, take care of yourself, Moxie."
"You, too."
Back on the road. Oracle doesn't bother me with anything besides [get back on the freeway, you'll be going east for a while] for an hour or two, so I'm alone with my thoughts. I focus on the road. For so long as I've got that, I can ignore the storm howling in my brain.
[okay, so, there's two of them in chicago. hana and lily. i'm sending you to hana first. she's nicer and you look like you could use someone being nice to you.] When I don't respond, [you are very lucky i am willing to facilitate this for you.]
It's probably late afternoon when I finally decide to stop for lunch, and it's very nearly the middle of nowhere that I find a tiny little town--probably a few hundred people, if that--and stop in at the town restaurant. As soon as I stop moving I can feel how hot it's gotten already.
A handful of patrons all stop talking to look at me as I walk in. I grab a seat at the bar and ask, "What's good?"
"Nothing is," jokes one of the locals, and they all laugh. Then someone else recommends the chili burger, and I say I'll have that. They are mostly content to leave me alone until one of them notices the bike. "Hey, miss. That yours?"
"Yeah. I'm doing a cross country trip."
"How's it ride?"
We chat for a while--mainly about their rides, which honestly is fine with me. I'm not really in the mood to talk, but this level of idle chatter is just enough to keep me distracted. But then I've finished my burger and coffee, and one of them says, "Back to the road, is it? Where you headed today?"
"Chicago," I say.
"Hear it's gonna be a real scorcher there tomorrow," one of them says. The others nod in agreement. "Gonna keep on getting worse, too. You got plenty of water?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Lotta empty road between here and there."
I'm feeling more or less settled when I get back on the road. "All right. Oracle, tell me about Hana."
[you don't have to say my name, you know. i'm always listening.] A moment's pause. [librarian. lives in a nice little apartment with her wife. chicago's easy, i've got all the surveillance drones tapped. they'll be at a restaurant to get some food before a show when you roll into town, you want to meet them there?]
"You're the boss."
[i'm literally not, but okay]
I met Hana through a mutual friend. After Nora left, I wanted something uncomplicated. She was easygoing and didn't seem to mind that I would sometimes disappear for weeks at a time, for touring, or just because I was too burned out to do anything besides work. She took me exploring subway tunnels and abandoned buildings, and every time she offered to be there for me when my mental health was falling apart I pushed her away just a little bit more. Eventually I told her, "I think I'm too much of a mess to be dating anyone," and she gave me a hug and told me she wished me the best.
She loved taking pictures. I still have an album full of them, which I never look at. And that makes me wonder, even if none of the pictures I can remember look much like the one that started all of this.
It's getting dark when I pull up to the restaurant, but the heat's still lingering, and I'm feeling pretty gross, but there they are, sitting at one of the outside tables: Hana and a tall woman who I assume must be her wife. I briefly consider pretending to be surprised, but I settle for honesty. No time for that. "Hey, Hana."
She looks at me, and brightens. "Oh my God. Look, honey, it's Moxie Outlaw!"
"Not what I'm called," I say, at the same time as her wife says, "Huh. Well, I just lost a bet." I must look confused. She continues, "I always thought she was lying about dating you before. You know, to try to sound cool."
"Nope."
"I told you!" says Hana. "It really happened. Oh, Moxie, perfect timing, actually. We're going to a show after dinner. You should come! I always wanted to introduce you to some cool music, but you always knew them."
"I wouldn't be intruding?"
"Of course not! You're basically family!" She points at an empty seat at their table. "Sit down, I'll buy you dinner."
This is not the reaction I expected. They both pepper me with questions while they wait for a server to arrive and explain that I am unexpectedly joining them, and then they argue over which dish I should have, and I feel extremely unbalanced by the whole encounter. Then they bundle me into their car and we drive to a club just outside downtown. We grab a booth in the back, and Hana gets us a round of drinks.
"I love going to shows on these hot nights," she says, as she sits down. I feel like I need a shower, but I nod, because whatever is going on is so far outside of my control I may as well just enjoy the ride. "Watching people dancing and having a good time when it's hot and all you want to do is just sit back with a beer and relax . . . there's poetry there."
The band starts playing. They're a lot poppier than what I usually listen to, but it's good. I can see myself listening to this on purpose. And I'm sitting here thinking about the band, about the coolness of my beer--warming as the set goes on--about the humid air, all the sweat, the unpleasantness of the heat--all the while Hana is snapping pictures on a camera that I can't tell if it has film or not--when the set ends and Hana says to me, "I'm going to get some fresh air. You want to come?"
Her wife volunteers, "I'll watch your stuff."
I follow her outside. We both lean against the exterior of the venue, watching the handful of stars that can pierce the light pollution, feeling what little breeze we can on our faces, and she says, "So, why are you here?"
I should have been expecting this question, but it somehow comes out of nowhere. I feel myself tearing up, force myself to smile, and, because I can't think of a better answer, I hand her the photograph. "Was wondering if this was one of yours."
She looks at it and wrinkles her nose. "Are you kidding? That flash washes out everything. Terrible lighting. Like, it's a great candid shot of you--hard to catch that unguarded joy like that--but . . ."
"Had to ask." I take a breath. "I feel like I treated you badly. When we were together."
"You did, but that's okay. You were going through some shit." I wish I could see my face. The sad look she gives me is devastating. "Aw, hey, c'mere." She gives me a hug. "You're a good person who's fucked up a few times. Show me someone who hasn't."
"More than a few. But thanks."
"You really came all the way here to show me a photograph, though?"
"You're my third stop. If we're being completely honest, I didn't think about it. Just kind of left. Had to figure out why on the way here."
[you left because i told you to.]
She lets me go, pats me on the shoulder. "Anyway, everything worked out. Got the best wife on the planet, and now I get to watch a cool band with my old pal Moxie. C'mon, kid. Next band's probably about to start."
The rest of the night is a blur of music and drinks and dancing. They let me crash on their couch, and I'm up early and out before either of them wake up.
But I leave them a note, at least.
Thanks so much for putting up with me. Sorry I had to bounce--you know me. Gotta keep moving. I'll write. -Moxie
[right. on to lily. she works at some law firm. always gets breakfast at the cafe in the building.]
Lily and I didn't last very long. She was very straight-laced law student, and she absolutely adored me for reasons I was never entirely clear on. I felt trapped, because I have a hard time saying no to people. So we were inseparable. It's not even that I didn't like her. I just . . . there wasn't a spark, you know? But she seemed so happy. I ghosted her inside of two months, because I couldn't bear it anymore.
She's not at the cafe yet, so I order a coffee and a breakfast sandwich and sit down at a space where I can watch the door. I'm feeling pretty good after talking to Hana. Already halfway through the list.
Lily walks in. She looks so professional. I'm standing up to say hi when she notices me, and stops in her tracks. "No. Absolutely not."
"Lily?"
"Whatever you want, the answer's no."
"Can I just--"
"Fuck. Off."
I sink back into my chair, mostly because I'm too stunned to do anything else. And I overhear the barista saying, "Who's that?"
"Worst ex," she says, her voice flat.
I see myself out.
It takes some doing to talk Oracle down from spying on Lily to try to [figure out what her deal is], but I manage. If there's one thing I can relate to, it's not wanting to be around me any longer than is necessary. The whole exchange, brief as it was, has me feeling pretty numb. The road is a welcome relief.
I don't need Oracle to tell me the next stop is New York. It's hard not to keep up with Xiulan, if you're into good music. She was a friend of Nora's, and one of those people who was so insanely cool and talented and attractive that I figured she was out of my league, then one day a few years after Nora had left she asked me if I wanted to collaborate. And that collaboration turned into, well, more than collaboration. We produced one amazing track, which is on her first album, and spent the next year or so trying to recapture the magic.
We did a lot of bickering. I was pretty insufferable to work with, in retrospect, and I brought that energy to our entire relationship. A lot of arguments over petty things . . . maybe I felt inadequate? Threatened? Who knows? Maybe we just knew how to push each other's buttons. Eventually after a shouting match I stormed out and never came back.
[so, she's got a show tomorrow night. i got you a ticket.]
"Great."
[and i got you a hotel room tonight. you look like you've been on the road and living out of a bag for the past three days.]
"Thanks."
[not even a quip? you okay?]
"Tired. Ready to be done with this trip."
[just two more left]
"Yeah."
It's unbearably hot out but I think that's what's keeping me going. I hold onto that, to the feeling of the wind on my face, whipping my hair and my clothes back, the way it's almost too much--like I can feel the absolute force of it as I keep driving forward, along the freeway, the afternoon sun at my back.
Oracle has scammed me a pretty good hotel--not amazing, but not a cheap roadside motel. The sort of place respectable people might stay on a business trip. I check in and immediately decide to take a shower--a proper shower, not just a quick rinse while trying not to waste my friends' hot water.
I look . . . rough. My hair is a mess, my lips are chapped from the wind and sun, I'm getting sunburnt, and the circles under my eyes are darker than ever. I turn the water up as hot as I can stand it and let that scour all these thoughts from my mind. And then when that's too much, I walk out into the room and collapse on the bed, and pass the fuck out.
Morning dawns even hotter than yesterday and I wake up feeling very nearly refreshed. And with nothing to do until the evening, I decide to make a day of it. Coffee and breakfast in the morning, a nice big lunch, then before the show I head back to the room, put Iris's album on, and take another long shower, just because I can. And this time I just listen, nowhere to be, no past to run from. Just me, and the music, and the hot water.
I give myself one more once-over in the mirror before heading out to Xiulan's show. Can't do much about the sunburns and the chapped lips but I don't look quite so haggard, at least. And I can throw on my very favorite tank top and a plaid skirt because I've got this room until tomorrow so I don't have to worry about dressing for a long ride.
And then I'm at the venue, and I think I can finally see why Hana says she likes these hot nights. The air feels electric as I dance through the opening band's set, and flirt with the bartender when I get my drink topped off, and then dance and cheer and scream for every song Xiulan plays. The plan was to find her at the merch table, but I've almost forgotten all that as I'm standing in the line, just another body in a sea of them, the music still ringing in my mind, damp with sweat that the humidity will never let me dry. I feel so alive.
Then I'm buying a shirt and a record and I'm about to hand my money over to someone when I hear Xiulan's voice, "No, no, no, hold it. Her money's no good here."
And there I am again. My mind has caught up. I feel all eyes on me and want nothing more than to turn and run, and leave all of this behind me.
"That's Moxie fucking Rose," she says. "She wants something, she can have it."
I can hear my heart pounding, but I breathe a sigh of relief and smile. "Xiulan. Great show."
"Right? We fucking nailed it." She beams. "Hey, you want to chill backstage until I'm done here? We gotta catch up." Before I can finish nodding she's made a gesture at the guy running merch, and he's on his feet.
"This way, uh. . . ." He hesitates. "Miss Rose?"
I don't think anyone has ever called me that before. I make a face. "Mm. Don't like that. Moxie will do."
He shrugs. "Didn't want to presume."
"It's all good."
He leads me to a room backstage. I settle into a seat and close my eyes and do my best to relax.
I must have dozed off--her "Hey, Mox, sorry for the wait" startles me awake and it takes an effort of will not to bolt. As I'm blinking back to consciousness she drops into the seat next to me and leans against me, easy, intimate, confident. "God, how long's it been? Are you in New York now? You look fucking great."
"I'm traveling. Still in Seattle."
"Now that's a hell of a journey." She puts an arm around my shoulders. "You on your bike?"
"Yeah."
"Wild. Hey, you want to see something funny?" She places a screen in my hands. "Check this out. You know that song we wrote together? The one I put on our first record?"
"How could I forget?"
"Look at this." It's a fan's compilation of information about her band, and their section on the song. This song will likely never be performed live. According to Xiulan, "Moxie doesn't want to play it live and I don't want anyone else to sing her part. That song is her." A petition to find another vocalist to play this fan-favorite...
"A petition?"
"The music nerds fucking love that song. You ever want to blow some minds? You join us on stage. Or, no. You walk out on stage for the encore. Lights go up and it's just you, and your guitar . . . God. They would lose their fucking minds."
I hand the screen back. "You . . . want to play it again?"
"Hell yeah."
"I figured, you know. You'd rather not be reminded of me. Let alone work with me."
She gives my shoulders a squeeze. "You gotta have some confidence in yourself, my friend. You're great. So we broke up, so what? That song contains everything beautiful about our time together. I love that. And I'd love to see that again. Feel it again."
I let that linger for a while. Then, "You playing Boston soon?"
"Next week."
"I'll be there. You look me up, and hook me up with a guitar--"
"Hold up. You came here without your guitar?"
"It was not a planned vacation."
She laughs. "God. I fucking love you. Yeah, I can hook you up. We'll work it out." I can feel her shift next to me. "So, I wanted to apologize."
"For what?"
"Don't 'for what' me, Mox, please. For ghosting you. I was . . . I don't know. I felt like you couldn't forgive me for being so . . . I don't know. I don't even remember why we fought. I just felt like you must have hated me, and . . . are you laughing? What the fuck?"
I am. And I try to explain but it's too much--her apology, after everything that's happened this trip . . . I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe. I try to talk a few times, and it's only when I notice her eyes starting to well up I calm down. "Sorry. Sorry. It's not . . . I came here to say basically that, to you."
"What?"
"After that fight. I felt stupid for getting so mad all the time. So I just . . . left. And this whole trip . . . I'm trying to make things right."
"So. You ghosted me?"
"Yep."
"We ghosted each other?"
"Seems like it."
Then she starts laughing, too, and that starts me laughing again, too. When one of her bandmates comes in and gives us a look we manage to settle down, but for the rest of the night, as she takes me to her favorite dive, every now and then one of us remembers and we just lose it.
It's late when she finally walks me back to the hotel, and just outside, says, "So, Boston."
"Yeah."
"Nora there? You found her?"
"Yeah."
I can't read her face by the streetlights. "I'm glad. After what happened . . . I'm glad." The silence that follows is weirdly sobering. "All these years, what I really wanted was to say goodbye properly. I don't . . . I'm not saying we should start again. But we didn't really even stop, did we? We just ran away."
"Yeah."
"Can I . . . stay with you tonight? For old times' sake. I'd like something better to remember you by than . . . what happened. Then we can go back to living our lives."
"Yeah," I say. "Yeah. Come in."
I can't sleep. It's not just that Xiulan is asleep on my chest, or that it's too hot out, but either of those would be enough to keep me awake. I've got the windows open and there's a bit of a breeze and it feels so, so good, and I'm trying to think about tomorrow, about finally seeing Nora, but my mind won't let me. It slips off, focuses on the performance I promised I'd do--the logistics of staying in Boston for a week, of remembering how to play this old song well enough for an audience . . . and then the song is running nonstop in my head, over and over again. How could I sleep?
[i always thought it was fucked up that you could only sleep when you've neglected yourself for so long you can't keep yourself up with stupid bullshit]
This last leg of the journey is going to be brutal--it's supposed to be even hotter tomorrow--but this close to the end I can't even consider slowing down.
[you nervous?]
I am. I very much am.
[listen. i know you better than most humans think should be possible to know someone. you'll be fine.]
Nora was . . . I was ready to settle down, with her. She felt right. And then, one day, she was gone--and not just your usual "left without saying goodbye." If it wasn't for Oracle, and a few things she left behind, and some old film photos, I wouldn't even have any evidence she was there at all. Someone deleted her. I was pretty fucked up about it for a while and even after I sort of got over it and started dating people again it was the perfect mystery. I kept an ear out, and then Oracle found her, living out in a little place in Boston. She had emerged from vanishing, and she didn't reach out. And it had been long enough that the desire to see her again, to get that closure, was not, until Oracle talked me into this, stronger than my fear of hearing her say why.
And now I'd committed myself to being in Boston for another week. No turning back now.
Eventually the sun starts shining through the curtains, and Xiulan stirs and says, without opening her eyes, "I was really hoping there'd be at least one hour when it was actually cool enough to sleep."
"Mm."
"I hate summer. There needs to be a bit of a chill in the air so you can wear that stupid coat you always used to wear."
"I still have that one."
"The red one? Really?"
"Yeah."
"You're always wearing that one in my dreams." She rolls onto her back and opens her eyes. "You're giving me a look, stop it."
"Sorry. Just thinking." Of how many versions of her I'd met in just the past night--Xiulan the performer, Xiulan the lover, and now . . . Xiulan the person? Xiulan the friend? The way the light of day makes you realize that no matter how much intimacy and old emotion there is, you still have to shower and eat breakfast and get ready for the day. "I think this place has continental breakfast," I tell her. "And this is the kind of place that doesn't ration hot water."
"I'll stick around for cereal and soggy toast, but even with how you drive you gotta hit the road early or you'll melt out there." There is something in her smile that says she's thinking more or less what I was. "I'll grab a shower when I get home, though. You go ahead."
There was a time this sort of thought would have spiraled out of control for me--I'd obsess about "the self", its authenticity, the way one person can wear so many masks even when interacting with the same person. I'd have been immediately looking for an escape route. And I can't stop myself smiling when I realize I don't even know where my boots are right now.
We spend a quiet morning together. As I'm finishing breakfast, she says, "Can I say something?"
"Mm?"
"You seem . . . subdued. That's not a bad thing, but I couldn't imagine you sitting still for a continental breakfast at a respectable hotel when we were together."
"I think the poetry's gone out of the world for me. Trying to find it again." I consider this. "But also, that wasn't the real me. Or . . . look, we all contain multitudes, right? But not every mask we wear is sustainable. Past Moxie was real but she was burning herself down to be the way she was."
"Well. I rather liked Past Moxie but, if I may be so blunt: fuck her for treating my friend like that." She smiles. "And you really should be going. If you die of dehydration on the road you'll miss our performance."
"Yeah. It's been good, Xiulan. I'm looking forward to it. It's nice to have . . . any sort of plan."
Another wry smile, and she gives me a hug and says, "See you around, Mox. Stay safe. Say hey to Nora for me."
I'm about to leave when I remember the photograph. "Oh, hey. I was meaning to show you this." I toss it at her.
She looks at it and laughs. "That is such a you picture. Where'd you get this?"
"Someone sent it to me," I tell her.
"I miss that smile." She taps the photo. "Someone smiles at you like that? Best feeling in the world." She hands it back. "No idea who it's from?"
"Nope."
"Huh. Weird." She gives my arm a squeeze. "All right, get out of here before I decide to keep you."
Oracle finally bothers me when I'm on the freeway. [so, you know i can't really keep people from finding out where you are if you go on stage in a week, right]
"That's fine."
[okay great. i am pretty cool but i'm not that cool]
"And I know you're trying to distract me, but I'm fine."
[this is a legitimate logistical concern. but i'm glad you are, indeed, fine, just as i predicted you would be]
It's still before noon and it's already way too hot, and I should be feeling miserable, but I'm in the right mood for it. There's a poetry there, in the heat shimmer on the road, in the glistening mirages in the distance, in feeling one of the planet's reminders that we exist at her sufferance. In, mile by mile, getting closer to the end of a journey. I am exhausted, but I am alive.
I am miserable, but I am alive. I notice Oracle is not guiding me to Nora's house, but to a spot about an hour west of that, outside of town. Before I can comment, though, [can we make a stop?]
"What's up?"
[i found where melody is buried.]
Holy shit.
"Of course," I tell her. I stop at a flower stand by the road, who insist that I stay in the shade and drink some of whatever sports drink they have in that big cooler and sit in front of the fan for a while. Normally this sort of treatment would make me self-conscious but I'm too exhausted to care. Meanwhile they fuss over a container that will protect the bouquet from the wind and the sun.
The sun is almost directly overhead when we pull into the cemetery. Even with guidance it takes some wandering to find Melody's grave--the paths meander among the little hills and trees. It doesn't have a cute little legend, just her name, and two dates, the span between which was not nearly long enough. I leave the flowers there.
[it's weird that she never knew she's why we met,] says Oracle.
"Yeah."
[she was kind to me when no one else would be. i miss her.]
To my lasting guilt, I was just about to leave when she died. Another case of being afraid of being happy, I guess. It's not like I could have kept her alive by not being me, but . . . it feels like that moment has been crystalized. I kneel at the grave and tell her, "You deserved better."
I sit down against a tree, and for a moment I can imagine there is a cooling breeze, as I sit and stare and remember--that sharp mind, that knowing smile. The way she looked at me like I was worth having around.
[thank you, moxie.]
Time we were moving on. I brush my fingertips along the gravestone, and the flowers, and head back to the road.
Nora's house is a ways north of the city proper, a little place at the end of a road that overlooks the Mystic River. I take a big drink of my water and dump the rest over my head to cool off. I open the porch door, and ring the bell inside, and wait.
It's a few minutes before she comes down, dressed in an oversized band tee--one of my band's shirts, from well after she disappeared--and she looks at me with a puzzled look and says, "Yes?" and then she looks again. "Moxie?"
"Hey, Nora." She's staring. I decide to get it over with, and hand her the photo. "You send me this?"
She looks at it, and then at me, and then back at the photo. "I don't think I ever saw you smile like that," she says. "You look so . . . unguarded." An apologetic smile. "Come in. I have cold drinks."
I follow her inside, up a set of creaky stairs, and into a living room, where she directs me to sit on an easy chair--I sprawl into it--and disappears into the kitchen. She returns with two glasses of something made mostly with crushed ice, hands me one, then sprawls on the couch. She doesn't say anything. I should be used to her silences, but it's been too long. She's different now, and I can't read them like I could before.
Finally she speaks. "I meant to write, when I could. I'm sorry."
"It's fine." I try to read her expression, but she's not looking at me, and I'm not sure I could even if she were. "I didn't come here to . . . it's been too long. We're different people now. I just . . . had to know you were okay. Had to make sure you didn't . . . I didn't . . . drive you away."
She sighs. "Is that why you're here? You need me to tell you that? Really?"
"I think I just wanted closure."
She takes a long drink from her beverage, and for a while I'm not sure she's going to respond. "I don't think I believe in closure," she says. She lets the silence linger again. "I loved you, when I left. The last eight years were . . . pretty bad. Changed me. And I think I'm glad you tracked me down, but . . . I don't know. You wanted to know if I was okay? I wasn't. I think I am now. And that has nothing to do with you."
I watch her, I try to read her face, her posture, her silence.
"I don't want to relive that story. I'm sorry, but I don't. I know you want to hear. You want to hold me and tell me it's okay. You want to empathize." I can hear her smile here. "And you're even letting me talk, because you know I used to hate having to regather my thoughts every time someone interrupted me. I still do. Thank you." She closes her eyes, holds the glass close to her cheek. "It speaks well of you, that you want these things. But telling that story just hurts."
"I'm sorry."
This time the silence stretches on from moments into minutes. She gets up to refill our drinks, sits back down. Now that she's done talking, she's watching me. There's some curiosity there. "I'm not just miserable here," she says eventually. "Does that help? You look so sad."
I give this some thought. "It does," I say. Then I find myself rising to my feet. "I should go, I think."
"Stay," she says, sounding annoyed. "You're a friend. I live here now." A strange emphasis on live. "Let me show you my haunts." A sparkle in her eyes. "At least stick around until it's not too hot for a hug."
"Okay. I should say, I agreed to, uh, do a performance here next week. If you're offering a place to stay--"
"I am."
"--I'll take it until then, but if you want me gone I will have Oracle find me a hotel room, and I'll get out of your hair. Just say the word."
"Okay." She thinks for a moment. "I can't believe Oracle is still around."
[yeah me neither honestly, i thought for sure you'd have gotten me killed by now]
"Neither can she."
And she laughs. It's short, but there's a moment, just a glimpse, where she is in a moment of pure, unguarded joy, and I am so grateful just to have had the chance to see it.