Sound Bites

“California?” he asked. “What the hell are you doing here? Everything okay?”

I nodded. “I know this is really strange, but I have to ask you a question. Am I interrupting anything?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m alone. Come on in.”

I followed Dylan into his living room, which was an absolute pigsty. It had that specific bachelor pad aesthetic to it – piles of books and newspapers strewn everywhere, dirty dishes covering the coffee table, the lingering scent of stale beer and dirty laundry. I could barely tell what color his armchair was because of the massive pile of clothing draped over it. I made a poor attempt to hide the disgusted look on my face, but it must have been pretty obvious because Dylan shot me a judgmental look.

“Listen,” he said. “I know it’s a mess, but I don’t want to hear one complaint out of your mouth or I’m kicking your ass out. Understood?”

I nodded in agreement.

“Good. So what’s up?”

I glanced down, looking for a place to sit, but I didn’t have many options. Realizing this, Dylan picked up the pile of clothes on the chair, threw them onto the floor, and motioned for me to sit down.

“Well,” I began. “I woke up the other night because I heard music coming through my vents and … ”

“Hey,” he interrupted. “If you’re coming here to bitch about the noise, I don’t want to hear it. It’s one of the prerequisites of living in a complex.”

I felt my face harden. I hadn’t even been in the door for two minutes and the guy was already getting under my skin. “Will you let me finish? That’s not why I’m here.”

Dylan threw his hands up, his expression softening. “Sorry. Continue.”

“Okay, so I woke up and heard one of my favorite Jeff Buckley songs, but I…”

My voice trailed off as I noticed a pleased expression slowly cross Dylan’s face, replacing his usual perma-scowl. “Wait a second, you listen to Buckley?”

“Of course. The guy’s amazing.”

Dylan leaned forward in his chair, looking at me with raised eyebrows. The shocking part was, in place of his normal brooding self, he was actually smiling. This was a first.

“Wow,” he said. “California, I may have completely misjudged you. You kind of struck me as some high-maintenance club rat that rocked out to overproduced pop music. But I’ll have you know that I’m a huge Buckley fan myself, which you’ve already probably guessed.”

“That’s what I was getting at. I came here because I’ve never heard that acoustic version of ‘Lover You Should’ve Come Over’ before. I have a few live albums of his but the one you were playing was just…” I searched for the word. “Brilliant.”

Dylan raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m flattered.”

“Huh?”

“I’m flattered,” he repeated.

“What do you mean you’re flattered?”

Dylan smirked at me like he knew something I didn’t. “It’s Renee, right?”

I nodded.

“Well, Renee, you can search long and hard, but you’re never going to find that version of the song.”

I was getting annoyed with his off-topic insinuations. “Okay. Why not?”

“Because that wasn’t Jeff Buckley’s version. It was mine.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.” He pointed to his acoustic guitar in the corner of the living room. “That’s my favorite song to play.”

No way, I thought to myself. There was no way. Buckley was The Almighty. I had yet to meet someone walking this Earth who could be mistaken for him.

“So, you mean to tell me that you were the one singing that song tonight?” My eyes narrowed.

“That’s what I said.”

“Okay.” I walked over to the other side of the room and handed Dylan his guitar. “Prove it.”

He sat in silence for a minute, his smooth wave of confidence crashing down. He suddenly became very interested in studying the ceiling patterns.

I placed his guitar back on the floor. “I knew you were full of it.”

He finally lowered his head and met my gaze. “I’m not lying, I just… can’t,” he mumbled. “I can’t play in front of people. I’ve never been able to. I hate it because a lot of my friends are in bands and I envy them every time I see them up on stage, but I just can’t do it. I get too nervous.”

It was funny because the intensity that usually seared from his eyes had now dimmed, changing his entire demeanor. In a matter of seconds, Dylan had transformed from a cocky, arrogant prick to some sort of self-doubting loner. It was like he oozed both confidence and insecurity at the same time.

“It’s just me,” I reminded him. “It’s not like you’re playing in front of an audience.”

He turned and stared at his guitar for a long time, as if debating whether or not to pick it up. I knew he wanted to, but he probably felt strange emptying his soul in front of someone he barely knew.

“I…I can try,” he surrendered, reluctantly picking up the guitar. “But I’m telling you, it’s not going to be as good as the version you heard a few nights ago. I play the best when I’m alone because I’m not nervous.” He let out a quick laugh. “Actually, on second thoughts, I always play alone so I guess it’s hard to compare.”

“Have you ever played in front of anyone?”

He nodded. “Yeah, when I was younger and had no fear. But for some reason, when I was in my late teens, I couldn’t do it anymore. I think it’s because once you get older, you start to become more aware of your surroundings and how people view you. And whether you like it or not, you start to care what they think.”

He was right, to a point. I thought back to when I first met Justine, when I was fourteen and fearless. But I could still see glimpses of myself that stuck with me through the years, besides the bowl haircut and excess flannel. Dylan, on the other hand, didn’t exactly strike me as the type that gave a damn what people thought of him.

I motioned my head towards the guitar, signaling for him to play. He fiddled with the tuning for a minute, then began to strum the first few chords of “Lover You Should’ve Come Over.” He stopped after a few seconds, took a deep breath and then started the song over again. I sat in shock as he belted out the first verse of the song.

I was wrong. His voice didn’t just sound similar to Jeff Buckley’s; it sounded almost identical. The guy could go around impersonating him to the blind and they’d think he’d been resurrected. It was surreal. To me, Buckley had always been someone who no musician could ever compare to, so the fact that I had found someone worthy of his comparison was mind-blowing. Not to mention that certain someone happened to live within a ten-foot radius from me.

Dylan’s voice was a little shaky throughout the first half of the song, but by the end it had smoothed out completely. But what was even more intriguing than his vocals was his entire aura. When he sang, he sang like he meant it. He sang with a sense of desperation, like his entire soul had come to life through the music. I figured out why he always sang alone; it was too emotional for him. It made him vulnerable. And that was a side of him I assumed he didn’t let many people see.

When he finally finished, I sat in silence with my lips halfway parted, debating on how the hell to put the last six minutes and forty-three seconds into words.

“Wow.” That was all I could manage. That was enough for Dylan, though, because he smiled for the third time that night.

“Dylan, you have a gift,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said modestly. “I like to think so.”

“But,” I continued. “If you’re the only one who gets to see it, then what’s the point of having it at all?”

Dylan rolled his eyes as though I was telling him something he was already well aware of. “Don’t you think I know that?” he asked. “It’s not something I can control. I wish more than anything that I had the confidence to walk on stage and perform the same way I do when I’m alone, but I don’t. I’m just not comfortable with it, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.”

If there was one thing that Dylan and I had in common, besides our love of music, it was the fact that we were both stubborn as hell.

I glanced at my watch and realized it was almost one in the morning.

“I should go,” I said, as I stood up and headed towards the door. “But before I do, I have a question.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you play for me again sometime?”

He walked over to where I was standing and rested his arm against the door, looking me up and down warily like he was trying to figure me out. I noticed that his confidence had reappeared. I didn’t like his confident side. It made me nervous.

“You can come by anytime, as long as you leave that bitchy attitude of yours at the door,” he said. I sensed that he was joking, but he didn’t smile. “Just make sure there isn’t a red Blazer in the parking lot because Christina is pretty jealous as it is, so unexpected female visitors might set her off.”

“Understood. I’ll see you later.”

I turned around and began to descend the stairs. I was about halfway down when I heard Dylan’s door creak open.

“Hey, California.”

I looked up and saw him staring down at me from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?”

He grinned. He had a sexy, crooked grin where only the left side of his mouth shifted upwards. I grinned back stupidly, even though I had no idea what he was about to say.

“You know, you’re not half bad.”

Before I had a chance to reply, he had already disappeared back into his apartment.

Chapter Seven

It had been over a week and I still couldn’t get Dylan’s voice out of my head. The red Blazer had been in the parking lot nearly every night, and even on the nights when it wasn’t there, I didn’t have the balls to show up on his doorstep again. I didn’t want him thinking I’d been permanently perched at the window, eagerly awaiting the departure of the Blazer, even though I was about one window-perch away from becoming a certified stalker.

On my way home from work, I grabbed a bottle of wine and a romantic comedy to mask my depression about spending another Friday night alone in my apartment. After settling down on my couch with a glass of Cabernet, I picked up the phone and dialed Beth’s number.

“Do you remember that guy I was telling you about the other night?” I asked her. “The one whose van I backed into in the parking lot?”

“Yeah. Why?”

I proceeded to fill her in on my night with Dylan. For once, she didn’t interrupt me until I was finished.

“Well he definitely scores points in the music department if he listens to Jeff,” she said. I had turned Beth onto Buckley’s music years ago, and she now always referred to him as “Jeff,” like they were on a first-name basis. “So, what’s up with this new guy? Is he cute?”

“Sort of,” I replied. “In a dangerous, tortured kind of way.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know, the type of guy who doesn’t own a hairbrush or a razor and looks like he hasn’t eaten in a really long time.”

“Oh, gotcha. But other than the hobo look, is he attractive?”

“Yeah, you know, the bed head look actually suits him. It gives him character. But, he’s kind of a dick. And he has a girlfriend.”

“Oh, bummer. Well, how’s everything else going? You unpacked?”

“Yeah, I just…” My response was cut short when I heard a knock at the door. I told Beth to hold on and opened my door, only to find myself face to face with Dylan. He jutted his chin out as his way of saying hello, looking nervously around my living room.

“Hey,” he greeted. “Bad time?”

I held my index finger up, motioning for him to hold on. “Beth, let me call you back, okay?”

“I hear a guy in the background!” she yelled. I prayed that my phone volume wasn’t loud enough for Dylan to overhear. “Is it the guy that lives upstairs?”

“Yes, it is,” I replied, trying to sound casual. “I’ll call you tomorrow okay?”

“You better.”

I hung up the phone and motioned for Dylan to come inside. He followed me into the living room, peering around like he felt out of place.

“I saw your car outside,” he explained. “I didn’t know if you were doing anything tonight. I’ve been working on some songs that I thought you might want to hear.”

I was psyched that Dylan had decided to share his music with me, since it was something that was obviously very personal to him. Not to mention, I also wouldn’t have to spend another pathetic Friday night alone.

“Sure, sounds great,” I said, making a horribly failed attempt at sounding cool. “Why don’t you go grab your guitar and bring it down here? My apartment is a little, um, cleaner.”

“And green, not to mention. What’s up with the neon walls?”

“Oh,” I said, laughing. I’d become so used to the color that I was completely oblivious to it now. “Apparently the gay gays that lived here before me liked bright colors.”

“Guess they don’t call ‘em flaming for nothing,” he joked, as he made his way out the door. He reappeared several minutes later, guitar in hand, and propped himself down on my floor. As he fiddled around with the strings, I noticed his gray t-shirt exposed three Chinese symbol tattoos that ran vertically down his right forearm.

“What do those mean?” I asked, pointing to the tattoos.

“Courage, strength, and faith.” He looked down at his arm as if seeing it for the first time. “Three of the most important traits.”

“Sounds like something I could use right about now,” I said, more to myself than to him.

Dylan continued to toy with his guitar for a minute, then placed it on the rug next to him. “So, were you serious about why you moved back here? You know, because…” His voice trailed off.

“Because my best friend slept with my boyfriend?” I asked. “It’s okay, you can say it. And yes, I was serious.”

He winced. “You want to talk about it?”

I shook my head, because in truth, I didn’t. But after a moment, I could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air, like some sort of silent presence, and I knew the only way to make it disappear was to acknowledge it.

***

Conquering the quarter-life crisis is much harder than you’d think. It changes the way you look at everything – your job, your goals, your relationships. As soon as the dreaded twenty-five starts creeping around the corner, you feel like the world is going to end. You have so much to do, and so little time to do it. Your passions and goals in life suddenly spring out of left field, reminding you that you only have five years left to backpack through Europe, land your dream job, and find the person you’re destined to spend forever with. Because once you turn thirty, you could wake up one day married with three kids, working a dead-end job, and realize it’s too late to pursue your long-term goals. Or, even worse, you could end up thirty and alone.

Luckily for me, the career aspect of my crisis was covered now that I’d landed a job as a music writer. And the traveling, of course, was something I could arrange between now and the next five years. But what was really weighing on my conscience was the relationship aspect of things.

“Hey J,” I’d said to Justine, who was sprawled on our living room sofa watching an E! True Hollywood Special on Angelina Jolie. “Do you ever think about marriage?”

She looked at me like I was insane “As in, do I ever think I’ll get married?”

“Yeah.”

She laughed wickedly. It was a stupid question. Justine was the biggest commitment-phobe I’d ever met. While most people acquired a handful of lasting, meaningful relationships throughout the course of their life, Justine acquired a new one just about every weekend. She had dated every type of guy under the sun, but typically got bored with them after a few dates and moved onto the next one.

“I’m serious,” I’d insisted. “Have you ever been with someone you could picture yourself marrying?”

“No,” she’d said, without hesitation.

“What about Mark?”

Justine’s longest relationship to date was with Mark Wheeler, an adorable real estate agent who was the poster boy for the ideal husband. For the likes of me, I couldn’t imagine how this guy ended up with Justine. Considering the fact that she and I had been friends since age fourteen, I knew more or less the type of guy that she was into. No job? Check. Motorcycle? Check. In a band? Absolutely. Long hair? Tattoos? Double check. Ryan Gosling look-alike with responsibility, brains and a great resume? Not so much.

Mark was perfect on paper, but I knew exactly why Justine grew bored with him. He was just too damn nice. He was the one of those guys that you really wanted to like because you knew your mother and grandmother would adore the shit out of him, but when it came down to wanting to rip his clothes off, the burning desire just wasn’t there. Women never liked the nice guys; it was an unspoken rule. We liked the dickheads, the pompous asses, the narcissistic bastards. We wanted a guy to act like they didn’t give a shit about us because then they presented a challenge. Of course, women never said this aloud. We always said “Oh, I wish I could find a nice guy” but what we really meant was “Oh, I wish I could find some arrogant prick who loved me.”

Justine shook her head. “Definitely not with Mark. He was so routine. The most exciting thing he ever did was throw away the Sunday paper without reading about the stock market section first.” She crinkled her brow. “What are you getting at?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I love David and everything, but I just feel like we’re…different.”

Deep down, I knew exactly what it was. It was that profound, meaningful connection with another person. That spiritual soul connection. That painful aching for each other. I enjoyed David’s company and loved being around him, but when I thought about true love and all the things that came with it – weddings, honeymoons, having a family, committing to spending all of eternity with one person – I wasn’t one-hundred percent certain that he was it. Not to mention, there was no way I could visualize spending forever with a guy who thought Muse was a clothing brand.

Justine leaned forward in her seat. “Renee, are you saying you want to break up with David?”

I shook my head, because in all honesty, I didn’t want to break up with him. Aside from our differences, David was everything I’d ever wanted. Caring, funny, gorgeous, affectionate. He was unlike anyone I’d ever been with. Most macho Boston guys wouldn’t be caught dead spending the day watching chick flicks with their girlfriend or surprising her with flowers, and I’d always wanted that. All women wanted that. I just hated the fact that, now that my mid-twenties had arrived, I had to look beyond that. I couldn’t just date someone because he was nice and cute and thoughtful. I had to think about goals, beliefs, forever.

When I explained this to Justine, she looked at me, again, like I was crazy. “Renee, honestly, I think David is great. But if you’re having doubts, maybe you should take some time apart from him to really think about it.”

Fortunately, this wish was granted to me less than an hour after Justine made the suggestion. My mother called and informed me, through broken sobs, that my grandfather had unexpectedly passed away from a heart attack. I was on a plane back to Boston the following morning, part of me grateful for the time I’d have to myself to think things through.

When I arrived back in L.A. the following week, I had a new and improved attitude. I realized how much I missed David when I was away, and told myself that I would stop over-analyzing every aspect of our relationship and start living one day at a time. Maybe my forever feelings about David would change in time. Or maybe opposites really did attract. But what mattered was that I loved David, right now, at this moment in my life. And with my new outlook in mind, I went right from the airport to his house to surprise him.

I surprised him all right.

I strolled in his front door, through the living room, down the hallway, and threw open his bedroom door, not expecting what was waiting for me on the other side.

I stood there in a momentary lapse of paralysis, taking everything in, as David’s eyes stared back at me in horror, followed by another pair of eyes. Eyes that belonged to someone I loved and trusted more than life itself. Eyes I knew that, no matter how many times I stared back at them, would never look the same again.

Somehow, after gathering the scattered pieces of my brain and piecing them back together, I managed to unbuckle my feet from the floor and back away from the deluded scene that was unfolding before me. My legs guided me in the reverse direction as the outline of their figures became smaller and smaller.

And then I did the only thing that I could manage to do in my state of shock. I ran.

And I never once looked back.

***

“Did you have any idea that was going on?” Dylan asked. His back was propped against the living room wall, eyes trained on the ceiling, like he was trying to visualize the horror show I had just laid out for him.

“Not a clue.” I thought back to all the times David had hung out around the house with Justine and me. Sure, they got along great, but I’d never picked up on anything that revealed it was more than purely platonic.

“Why don’t you call your friend and talk to her about it?”

I shook my head. “I can’t. Maybe someday, but right now I can’t.”

“Understandable. So, what’s up with this David guy? Did you have any idea he was like that?”

I forced a sad smile. “I thought he was perfect. And up until that happened, he was.”

“How so?”

I paused, considering. “Well, I was sort of a late bloomer growing up. I dressed like a boy throughout most of high school, so I didn’t exactly have many boyfriends.”

“You?” Dylan looked at me skeptically, eyeing my hot pink Victoria’s Secret yoga pants. “Miss California? I don’t believe it.”

“Trust me, if you saw pictures of me from freshman year, you wouldn’t recognize me,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But anyways, I always felt like sort of an outcast. All my friends had boyfriends in high school, and I was so jealous. I didn’t have a boyfriend until senior year and his idea of a romantic date was smoking pot in the woods together.”

Dylan’s lips curled upward. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

“Oh, I’m sure you guys would get along great,” I joked. “So, after dating more or less the same kind of guys in college, I met David.” I smiled nostalgically. “I know it sounds stupid, but I’d always wanted to be with someone who had a romantic side. David wasn’t afraid to be affectionate in public, or surprise me with gifts, little things like that.”

“Well I bet those other guys wouldn’t have hit on your best friend when you were out of town.”

“That’s the other thing.” I lay back on my couch and propped a pillow under my head, looking sideways at Dylan. “Why her? Of all the girls in the world, why Justine?”

I had gone over it in my head a million times, and could never come up with an answer. Growing up, Justine had always been the cooler, sexier, more adventurous one, teaching me how to dress, where the parties were. It was like she had got a head start on life, and I was just a little Catholic school girl trying to keep up. But as we got older, I found my own sense of style, my own major, my own career. And finally, someone who I thought loved me for who I was.

Dylan’s face darkened, and he looked at me with a faint sadness in his eyes. “You know, you can torture yourself with these questions all you want, but you’re never going to know unless you ask the people who have the answers.”