Ким Карр - Mended

I stare at her, trying to read her for a different sign, but it’s not there, so I decide to do as she asks—leave the past behind. When her eyes break away from mine, she again reaches for the doorknob.

“Let me,” I say, motioning toward the door with my hand as she moves hers away. I pull the door open and she walks out.

“Good night, Xander,” she calls and looks back at me. “Thank you.”

“Good night, Ivy,” I respond and with a strong sigh I close the door—frustrated, confused, and maybe just a little optimistic.

My face is flecked with two-day-old stubble and my thick brown hair is a mess. I slept like shit. I have a lot on my mind and I had a hard time getting started this morning . . . Maybe I was just procrastinating while trying to figure everything out. There’s a battle going on in my head—Why is she really doing this? I understand she has limitations due to her contract but is there more to it? Did she feel what I felt the minute I saw her again—that what we had so long ago was still there? She could have joined up with any band, so why this one? Did she do it for me? Because I’m not sure I buy the win/win explanation.

Blinking the sunshine out of my eyes, I’m still trying to sort my thoughts as I walk through the doors of Tyler Records. We’ve come and gone in and out of the glass-and-steel building for years. Actually, ever since my mother started seeing Jack, he’s let us use the studio whenever we needed. My stepfather has been a huge asset to us, with his keen knowledge of the business and his unwavering willingness to help.

The band is so deep into rehearsing a song from our first album, they don’t even notice me as I quietly slip into the live room. I stand off to the side and check out the scene—Nix has a Fender strapped around him, Ivy is at the microphone singing “I’ll Find You” with unbelievable depth, Garrett’s at the drums, but the cymbals sound a little washy next to the electric keyboard. And at the board stands a tall guy with a spray of freckles across his nose and dirty-blond hair that I can only assume to be Leif Morgan. He’s wearing a pink button-down, and his wavy hair looks somewhat controlled by a slew of hair products, no doubt. I had pictured someone completely different—older, more fatherly, not a guy that looked like he modeled for Abercrombie and Fitch. Why, I’m not sure, but I think it was because of the fondness I saw in Ivy’s eyes when she said his name.

I listen for a moment and I’m immediately impressed—his playing is spot-on. We just need to work on getting everyone in the same scale. All in all, not bad for the first time they’ve all come together. Shadows from behind the glass pique my curiosity. No one was supposed to be here today. I stride toward the front of the studio, and the sound engineer waves me into the control room. The heavily equipped space is state-of-the-art, including the latest digital audio workstations. I glance at Phil. “What’s up?”

He presses the speaker button. “Hang on, guys. Give me a minute,” he tells the band.

Ivy rocks back and forth, smiling at him and unleashing her soft laugh before she stops singing and replies, “No problem. We’re not going anywhere.”

I can’t stop myself from turning at the sound of her low, creamy voice through the intercom. Her profile is nothing short of perfection. She sets her guitar down, and when she lifts her head our eyes collide. For the briefest of moments I think I feel the stirring of her heart in mine. She blinks and gives me an obligatory nod before shifting her gaze. I do the same, but my nod is slow, wistful, wanting, and I don’t look away. I watch as she studies the music sheets in front of her. Her deep blue eyes practically dart with enthusiasm as she points to the papers on the stand and starts explaining something to the guys. She glances quickly at me again and notices my stare. But she immediately averts her gaze and continues with her conversation, tapping her leg to her own beat. She looks beautiful—every curve of her body is visible. She’s wearing fitted jeans that hug her narrow hips and a tank top that clings to her perky tits. She is perfect.

Phil extends his hand as I approach him. “Hey, man, good to see you.” Phil is the kind of guy who punctuates every sentence with man.

“You too.”

He gives me a friendly thump on the back and with a broad grin he leads me over to his desk.

“We’re just in here for rehearsal time,” I let him know because I see him slithering into recording mode.

“I know, man. But I couldn’t help but listen in. I think we should record a track and remix Ivy’s voice in with River’s.”

“Glad for your enthusiasm, Phil, but we’re not ready for that.”

“No, man, you have to hear this. I’ve already played around with it. Just listen.”

He pulls up a sound bite on his computer and hits PLAY. Her voice surrounds me, followed by River’s, and I have to tell him, “It sounds fucking amazing.”

“I know, man, I told you. Imagine what it will sound like if we pop that sweet tart in an isolation booth.”

I suck in a breath and hold it to keep myself from pounding a guy who’s always been a friend. Letting it out, I slide my eyes toward her. “Her name is Ivy, man.”

He laughs. “Yeah, man, I know her name. I just like the sound of the words pop and sweet tart mixed together with isolation booth, if you know what I mean.”

Anger flashes through me as I shoot fire at him with my eyes. “I wouldn’t talk like that. It might get you in trouble.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I was only kidding around,” he says, with concern ringing clear in his voice.

I turn to leave the room, throwing over my shoulder, “I’ll get back to you on the remix.”

Garrett pounces on me when I push on the large steel bar across the heavy door to exit the studio through the rear. “Where are you going?”

I gesture down the hall toward the alley. “I need to get some air. I have a fucking headache and the air in the studio is stifling.”

“How about an aspirin?” he asks.

“I’m good.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, I just needed some fresh air. And what’s with the fifty questions?”

He eyes me. “Your past with her isn’t going to be an issue, is it?”

“No, Garrett. I’m just beat.”

“If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

He puts his hands up. “I’ll leave you alone, but how about we grab some dinner tonight?”

“Sounds good.”

He turns around and walks back toward the studio. I keep going and open the last door leading me outside. The sun shines bright and the sound of the music fades as I take the three steps to the sidewalk, where I can finally breathe. Blurry from exhaustion and hungover from too much booze, I give in and stumble backward. Sitting on the bottom step, I cradle my head in my hands and pray I can do this—that I can handle being around her every day and still do my job.

Ivy

Music has always been my everything. But when I was young, it really was all I had—it was my shoulder to cry on, my confidant, my best friend. I was an outcast in school because I kept to myself. I was always writing lyrics, and the other kids didn’t know what to make of me, so they made fun of me instead. I didn’t really care. I didn’t have time for friends. My mother kept me busy. She wanted me to be an actress and she made me go on audition after audition. I hated the thought of pretending to be someone else in front of a camera. I hated the thought of acting, period. That wasn’t what I wanted to do. I just wanted to share my music with others. But my mom saw it differently. We had very little money and she worked two jobs and odd hours to make ends meet. She thought if I acted we’d be secure. So if I wasn’t running lines for a part I didn’t want, I was going on auditions. I’d gotten a few parts here and there, but nothing permanent. I was also responsible for taking care of my younger sisters. So, like I said—I had no time for friends.

Then I met him—he got me, understood me, accepted me, guided me, showed me who I could be. Before I knew it, music and Xander Wilde—they became my world and stayed that way all the way through high school. I loved him. He was everything I didn’t know I wanted and everything I needed. But my world turned upside down the day he betrayed what we were, what we had. I was shocked, surprised, and heartbroken, but somehow I think I always knew I wasn’t enough for him. After that I left LA and never looked back. I couldn’t be what he needed, so I never sought him out again. And why would I, anyway? All I felt toward him was hatred. I locked him away in my mind and tried so hard to never think about him. Now, without warning, he’s come back into my life, and my world feels like it’s been turned upside down.

A shiver ran through me and somehow I knew he was there—it was the strangest thing. I felt his stare and when I looked up into those eyes blazing with an intensity I once knew so well, they were boring into me. I felt a sharp jab of pain for what we had shared as the eyes of the boy I once loved quickly morphed into the eyes of the man I hated. The eyes I spent years looking into—the ones that sometimes look green but if you study them long enough you’ll see their hypnotic flecks of brown.

He was the same, but different in a few ways. His startling hazel eyes, his tousled brown hair, sharp jawline, and strong, lean frame hadn’t changed that much. He was so good-looking—not in a pretty or adorable way, but more in a rugged, handsome way. But he looks harder, even more closed off now. Then again, I’m sure I do too. Staring at him across the pool, I got lost in my thoughts. He was a boy no girl could ever forget. My mind filled with all the things I’d missed about him—our conversations, his protectiveness, his cocky grin, his charm, the way he said “fuck” just because. So many things I didn’t want to remember, but they were all right here in front of me.