2 The Ticking Bomb

Crash

I'm on the deck of my mansion in the hills of Los Angeles. It's ridiculous. Far too big for one person, with the half-acre of lawns and trees, three levels, and a living room bigger than my entire house was growing up. I wasn't supposed to be alone here. But I try not to think about that.

Pulling the guitar in my lap, I start working on the new song. Next to me, on the planks of the deck, my old chocolate Labrador mix, Coda, rests his graying muzzle on his paws, soaking up the sun like a sixty-pound cat. The vet says he has arthritis now. Whenever mom asks about him I pretend he's fine.

It's not lunchtime yet, but there's a tumbler of Scotch on the table next to me. The tiny sips I take whenever I write down a chord aren't enough to get me drunk. That's what I tell anyone who asks, anyway.

Turning from the uncomfortable thought, I run my hand through my hair and my fingers get caught in knots. The sides are still shaved, but the top is long enough to tangle when I don't comb it.

The front door lock clicks and Tommy throws a set of keys on the breakfast bar. Coda perks his ears and his tail thumps.

A year ago, Coda would have leaped up to meet Tommy before he'd crossed the entryway.

"Crash?" Tommy calls from inside.

"Out here." If I carry the C chord to D and sustain to . . . E minor? Or G? I try both. Neither sticks. But I like E minor better. I write it down, cursing when the notebook paper flutters up under my hand in the light breeze.

Another sip.

"Hey." Tommy's in a Thirty Seconds to Mars muscle shirt that shows off the new tattoo on his ribs and brings the smell of potpourri with him. His mom, who he refuses to kick out of his house, must be sober again.

He eyes my glass. "We celebrating something?"

Doesn't he know what day it is? Isn't that why he's here?

"When did I invite you over?" I mutter.

"Yesterday when I was in bed with your mom. She says hi, by the way."

Forcing myself not to laugh, I concentrate on my left hand sliding up the frets of the guitar from C to D to E minor and back to C, waiting for inspiration to hit because I'm missing something. But is it a chord, or the timing?

Tommy points at the fretboard. "You're rushing it. If you're holding D, you need to hold the E minor, too." Then he turns away like he didn't just read my mind. "I'm hungry," he grumbles.

I cut him a look because he doesn't even know what I'm trying to write. But he has a knack for hearing my songs before I do, so I don't say anything. Anyway, he's already walked back inside, tap-drumming his way up the breakfast bar and into my kitchen which is bigger than my living room was growing up.

While he's out of sight, I try what he suggested.

Prick is right. Dammit. "If you're just here to make me feel inadequate, you can go eat someone else's food," I say, loud enough for him to hear me. Then I take another sip on the scotch. The smoky tang burns the taste of gall out of my throat.

"Dude, I've been making you feel inadequate since puberty."

I snort.

Playing through the chord progression until I get to the end, I play with the E minor transition. Should I go to G? Or B minor?

"You want the B minor—" Tommy calls.

"I know, asshole. Why are you even here?"

There's a pause before he answers. "Because of the video."

"What video?" I play through the repetitive chords--including the B minor-- then break, holding the strings so they won't make a sound. I pat the body of the guitar to keep the beat.

A sharp thunk on the tiles in my kitchen is followed by Tommy swearing because he dropped a bowl, and the sound of it circling its rim faster and faster before he slaps it to the floor.

I play the chords on a loop, waiting while a chip bag crinkles and my refrigerator hums as he gets himself a glass of water. He doesn't answer until he's back through the open slider to the deck and pulling on his sunglasses, a bag of my corn chips under one tattooed arm.

"Kelly's video," he says, like mentioning her name isn't a landmine. He catches my eye and I use the Scotch as an excuse to look away.

He knows.

I spent the entire day yesterday fighting the urge to find her and explain so she didn't have to wake up this morning still believing a lie. But I can't just show up. After a year it wouldn't be fair to her. I know that.

So instead, I drink.

Like he doesn't notice my tension, Tommy pulls out the chair on the other side of the table and drops into it, crunching a corn chip as he digs his phone out of his pocket and taps on it. Coda bumps the bottom of my chair getting up to beg Tommy for chips. I call him back— the vet told me human food isn't good for his digestion.

Five years ago, he could eat anything.

When he doesn't come right away, I snap, "Coda!" and he hurries back to me, ears down, tail low but wagging. I apologize by scratching behind his ears. He grins, panting, and I relax a bit. It's the excuse I need to put the guitar down. I doubt I want to be holding it when I hear this.

But Tommy still hasn't answered. I kick his foot. "What video?" I snap.

"Relax. I'm finding it."

I keep scratching Coda to keep my hands busy while Tommy taps and waits, taps and scrolls.

I want to swear. He only said her name. It isn't like she—

"Here." Tommy hands me his phone. I can't see his eyes behind his sunglasses. How bad is it? Did she post one of our music videos from junior high before my voice broke or something? Just how embarrassing will this be? Why do I feel like I just took a fist to the ballsack?

The phone's open on YouTube. A channel called BrokenGirlSinging.

I freeze.

It can't be.

I scroll the list of videos. The recent ones are all filmed in front of a light-green wall. She must have rearranged her room since I was last there...when? A year ago?

Holy shit. I haven't touched Kelly in a year. "So, she's singing?"

"And playing," Tommy says.

"Playing what?"

If he hadn't hesitated, I wouldn't have been prepared.

"She's learned the guitar," he replies finally, knowing how that will gut me.

Tommy's my best friend. My mom gave him his first box of condoms. He was there when my grandma died. My dog loves Tommy more than he loves me. I can tell Tommy anything and there's no question he'll have my back.

So why do I try to pretend that didn't hurt? "Good for her." More scotch needed.

Tommy stops mid-chew. "Was that supposed to sound like you meant it?"

"Shut up."

"You'll need to work on it. I can film you if you want. So you can see yourself and work on your micro-expressions."

"Shut up."

"It's just that your lips are saying 'good for her,' but your face is saying 'go to hell, Kelly'—"

"Shut the fuck up, Tommy!" My voice echoes across the hills behind my house. Coda leaps up and barks once, short and sharp, ears up, head snapping back and forth, looking for the threat because somehow I'm on my feet.

Tommy examines one of his chewed-off nails. "If you're going to hit me, better wait for the last part, because I'll put you on your ass after the first one lands and I don't want you crying to me later about your repressed rage, or whatever."

My rage deflates as quickly as it rose. I sink back into my chair and stare at my best friend, who stares back, his face utterly relaxed behind the sunglasses.

"Fine. Let's get this over with."

Tommy picks up his phone that I must have dropped, taps the screen twice, then hands it back to me. "Don't say I didn't warn you."