May 30, 2016
MY PHONE BEGAN ringing just as I pulled into work. A glance at the screen had me hissing out a curse when I caught sight of the name.
I’d been expecting this call ever since I’d walked out of Mama’s the morning before, and was surprised it had taken him this long to ream me. Or maybe I was surprised that she hadn’t immediately run home to tell her brother about what I’d said.
I shut off my car, and took a steadying breath as I answered the call. “Yeah, Jagger?”
“You working today?”
My brow pinched when he didn’t immediately begin laying into me, and I glanced up at the building in front of me. “Uh, yeah . . . just pulled in. Why?” I asked, drawing out the word.
“When you get a break today, can you do a favor for me?”
My initial surprise deepened when I realized Charlie hadn’t mentioned anything about the day before as Jagger went on, but my frustration over her slowly filled my veins once the favor was laid out for me.
I opened my mouth to say no, but shut it and sighed through my nose.
Grey would kill me if I said no, and it would unnecessarily bring up a discussion with Jagger right then that I didn’t want to have.
After a few seconds, I conceded. “Sure. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Charlie
May 30, 2016
Who listened to your stories sad songs
The shoulder that you cried on
Out on that cliff you walked on
When
I RAPIDLY TAPPED the edge of my pen against the pages of my notebook as all of the words in the world failed me.
“When . . .” I said under my breath. “When you . . . no.”
I let my eyes slide shut and imagined a simple melody, and tried to hear my words interwoven with the notes, but each time I stopped on that last word. Something felt off about what I had already written down, and I knew that when I fixed it, I would be able to go on.
My mom had always taken credit for my ability to sing and write poetry, which had turned into writing songs, just as she had taken credit for Jagger’s amazing ability to draw—as long as music was blasting nearby. Saying it was all because she’d named us after members from her favorite band, the Rolling Stones, and had had music playing nonstop while we were growing up.
Except she hadn’t really been around while we were growing up, and—as she chose to forget—I spent most of my time reading novels, and would have preferred to have the ability to write them. But I’d never been able to figure out how to expand my dreams into something longer than the poems and songs that filled this notebook when inspiration hit.
And this song . . . these words were begging to get free, but my thoughts were scrambled after having locked that night with Ben away for years.
I ran through the words in my mind again and again. Just as I stopped my furious drumming on the paper to write down a few more words that had burst into my mind, the door to Mama’s opened, and my break ended as the beginnings of the lunch rush came filing in. I hurried to get out of the booth and smiled timidly at the two groups of people. Grabbing a handful of menus, I led the first to my section at the back of the restaurant as the words I had worked so hard to unscramble slid from my mind.
It wasn’t until I reached into the far left pocket of my waist apron for a check holder nearly an hour later that I realized why my apron had felt so odd since the lunch rush had begun.
My notebook wasn’t in there.
I spun in a circle to face the front of the restaurant. Fear and embarrassment flooded me as I scanned the filled booths up there.
“Charlie.”
My head snapped up at the sound of my name, and I stared wide-eyed at Wendy, another waitress, as she looked me over, plates of food balanced precariously along her arm.
“You okay?” she asked.
“What?”
Her eyes darted over my face quickly again, her eyebrows pulled together. “Are you okay? You’re just staring off with a check in your hand. Did a table run out on you?”
“No! No, nothing like that. I just . . . I just realized that I left my notebook at one of the booths in your section.” Before I could tell her that it contained words that were somewhat personal, her eyes lit up with acknowledgement.
“Is it brown, soft leather?”
“Yes!” I said in relief.
“Well, whoever found it left it on the desk up front. I just saw it there when I went to grab menus to seat a couple. I put it in the cabinet up there.”
“Thanks, Wendy.” My voice still ached with the relief I felt, but the thought that someone had possibly read my words had my cheeks darkening from my embarrassment.
I hurried to take the check to my waiting table, then rushed into the kitchen to grab another’s food as I tried to force unwanted thoughts from my mind.
But throughout the rest of my shift, all I could think about was that someone had held my notebook; had seen my words. Even Jagger knew not to touch my notebook or ask to see what I wrote in there. And I wondered what the stranger, or strangers, had thought. Had they mocked my darkest dreams and deepest thoughts? Had they been immature and destroyed them? Had they torn the ink-filled pages out to be hateful?
Each pass to the front desk to seat newcomers left me itching to grab the notebook from the cabinet, but I’d known I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from inspecting the pages right then instead of doing my job.
It was a long three hours.
As soon as I clocked out, I nearly ran to the front. Dread filled me and my hands shook as I finally opened the cabinet, and I dropped to my knees to reach in and rip my notebook from its depths.
After wasting only half a second to run my hand over the cover, I opened my notebook and quickly scanned each page. My worry lessened with each piece of paper that slid beneath the tips of my fingers. A soft, nearly inaudible laugh bubbled from my throat when I got to the page I’d been working on during my break, and I started to shut the notebook when I realized what I’d just seen.
A different-colored pen.
More words crossed out. More added.
A note on the side of the page in a messy, masculine scrawl that most definitely did not belong to me.
Who listeneds to your stories sad songs
The shoulder that you cried cry on
Out on that cliff ledge you walked on
When
The note on the side read:
Right . . . so I don’t know you, but I’m now fucking terrified for you. If I had the time, I’d wait to see who showed up looking for this journal. I changed some words because I want you to know that I’m here listening to you. And “cliff” sounded so final. Don’t let whatever you’re feeling be final. I’ll be back. Will you hold on if you know I’m coming back for you?
MY PHONE BEGAN ringing just as I pulled into work. A glance at the screen had me hissing out a curse when I caught sight of the name.
I’d been expecting this call ever since I’d walked out of Mama’s the morning before, and was surprised it had taken him this long to ream me. Or maybe I was surprised that she hadn’t immediately run home to tell her brother about what I’d said.
I shut off my car, and took a steadying breath as I answered the call. “Yeah, Jagger?”
“You working today?”
My brow pinched when he didn’t immediately begin laying into me, and I glanced up at the building in front of me. “Uh, yeah . . . just pulled in. Why?” I asked, drawing out the word.
“When you get a break today, can you do a favor for me?”
My initial surprise deepened when I realized Charlie hadn’t mentioned anything about the day before as Jagger went on, but my frustration over her slowly filled my veins once the favor was laid out for me.
I opened my mouth to say no, but shut it and sighed through my nose.
Grey would kill me if I said no, and it would unnecessarily bring up a discussion with Jagger right then that I didn’t want to have.
After a few seconds, I conceded. “Sure. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Charlie
May 30, 2016
Who listened to your stories sad songs
The shoulder that you cried on
Out on that cliff you walked on
When
I RAPIDLY TAPPED the edge of my pen against the pages of my notebook as all of the words in the world failed me.
“When . . .” I said under my breath. “When you . . . no.”
I let my eyes slide shut and imagined a simple melody, and tried to hear my words interwoven with the notes, but each time I stopped on that last word. Something felt off about what I had already written down, and I knew that when I fixed it, I would be able to go on.
My mom had always taken credit for my ability to sing and write poetry, which had turned into writing songs, just as she had taken credit for Jagger’s amazing ability to draw—as long as music was blasting nearby. Saying it was all because she’d named us after members from her favorite band, the Rolling Stones, and had had music playing nonstop while we were growing up.
Except she hadn’t really been around while we were growing up, and—as she chose to forget—I spent most of my time reading novels, and would have preferred to have the ability to write them. But I’d never been able to figure out how to expand my dreams into something longer than the poems and songs that filled this notebook when inspiration hit.
And this song . . . these words were begging to get free, but my thoughts were scrambled after having locked that night with Ben away for years.
I ran through the words in my mind again and again. Just as I stopped my furious drumming on the paper to write down a few more words that had burst into my mind, the door to Mama’s opened, and my break ended as the beginnings of the lunch rush came filing in. I hurried to get out of the booth and smiled timidly at the two groups of people. Grabbing a handful of menus, I led the first to my section at the back of the restaurant as the words I had worked so hard to unscramble slid from my mind.
It wasn’t until I reached into the far left pocket of my waist apron for a check holder nearly an hour later that I realized why my apron had felt so odd since the lunch rush had begun.
My notebook wasn’t in there.
I spun in a circle to face the front of the restaurant. Fear and embarrassment flooded me as I scanned the filled booths up there.
“Charlie.”
My head snapped up at the sound of my name, and I stared wide-eyed at Wendy, another waitress, as she looked me over, plates of food balanced precariously along her arm.
“You okay?” she asked.
“What?”
Her eyes darted over my face quickly again, her eyebrows pulled together. “Are you okay? You’re just staring off with a check in your hand. Did a table run out on you?”
“No! No, nothing like that. I just . . . I just realized that I left my notebook at one of the booths in your section.” Before I could tell her that it contained words that were somewhat personal, her eyes lit up with acknowledgement.
“Is it brown, soft leather?”
“Yes!” I said in relief.
“Well, whoever found it left it on the desk up front. I just saw it there when I went to grab menus to seat a couple. I put it in the cabinet up there.”
“Thanks, Wendy.” My voice still ached with the relief I felt, but the thought that someone had possibly read my words had my cheeks darkening from my embarrassment.
I hurried to take the check to my waiting table, then rushed into the kitchen to grab another’s food as I tried to force unwanted thoughts from my mind.
But throughout the rest of my shift, all I could think about was that someone had held my notebook; had seen my words. Even Jagger knew not to touch my notebook or ask to see what I wrote in there. And I wondered what the stranger, or strangers, had thought. Had they mocked my darkest dreams and deepest thoughts? Had they been immature and destroyed them? Had they torn the ink-filled pages out to be hateful?
Each pass to the front desk to seat newcomers left me itching to grab the notebook from the cabinet, but I’d known I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from inspecting the pages right then instead of doing my job.
It was a long three hours.
As soon as I clocked out, I nearly ran to the front. Dread filled me and my hands shook as I finally opened the cabinet, and I dropped to my knees to reach in and rip my notebook from its depths.
After wasting only half a second to run my hand over the cover, I opened my notebook and quickly scanned each page. My worry lessened with each piece of paper that slid beneath the tips of my fingers. A soft, nearly inaudible laugh bubbled from my throat when I got to the page I’d been working on during my break, and I started to shut the notebook when I realized what I’d just seen.
A different-colored pen.
More words crossed out. More added.
A note on the side of the page in a messy, masculine scrawl that most definitely did not belong to me.
Who listeneds to your stories sad songs
The shoulder that you cried cry on
Out on that cliff ledge you walked on
When
The note on the side read:
Right . . . so I don’t know you, but I’m now fucking terrified for you. If I had the time, I’d wait to see who showed up looking for this journal. I changed some words because I want you to know that I’m here listening to you. And “cliff” sounded so final. Don’t let whatever you’re feeling be final. I’ll be back. Will you hold on if you know I’m coming back for you?
