He shrugged. “That officiant was pretty lousy, but it was just like any other wedding, wasn’t it? Nice and normal.”
What fucking planet were they on these days? Fresh tears spilled from Carver’s eyes, and his throat opened up to make room for a sob, which he choked back down.
Josie noticed this and said, “You’re sweet, honey,” patting him on the shoulder. She dropped her voice and added, “You’re Letty’s favorite cousin, you know. You two were so close when you were kids… that bond never really goes away.”
“Yeah,” Carver gutted out. Sure, that could be why he was crying. Maybe it was, even.
For cocktail hour, they were herded out onto the west-facing deck so they could drink French 75s and eat hors d’oeuvres while looking out over the sprawling and uncannily uniform green expanse of the golf course. Scott and his bassist took up residence in the corner and continued to play upbeat rock arrangements of classic slow dance songs, heavy on motown and blue-eyed soul. Carver stood in a big circle with his people and pounded three French 75s in quick succession, ignoring the looks his parents were shooting him. The drinks were weak, anyway.
His gaze kept falling on Scott, but Scott either didn’t notice or was ignoring him. He looked back at Carver twice, but both times he wore the intensely blank expression of a professional who was in the zone. This was as distressing as it was attractive.
Now that everyone was outside mingling together, it was more obvious which guests stood out. Sana’s hometown and Rutgers friends mostly blended in with this crowd, but the friends Letty made while bartending and working trade jobsstood out violently, though they all seemed to be having a great time. Peals of laughter kept erupting from a group of them who were standing by the guest book table, and each time this happened a few prim elderly people would look over, see tattoos on the bare arms of the women and the backs of some male hands, and shake their heads in disbelief. Occasionally someone in the group would say something in Spanish, which got the same reaction.
This was all totally predictable and Carver wasn’t interested in any of it, nor was he interested in making small talk with Letty’s cousins on her father’s side, two of whom happened to be standing next to him. There was something not quite right about a person’s cousin’s cousins — they were half-formed aliens, like God had run up on a deadline and thrown some people together in a panic.
Finally Carver grabbed a fourth French 75 and excused himself back inside the club so he could find a secluded men’s bathroom and hide away in one of the stalls, sit fully dressed on the toilet and do what he hadn’t had the courage to for the last eighteen years: typeScott McCaffreyinto the Safari search bar.
The initial results were: photos of Scott playing live; Scott’s public Instagram; his March 7th listing on FamousBirthdays.com; Silk Tourniquet’s official Twitter; a Pitchfork review of their 2015 album; the dates for a 2017 tour of the band Culprit, which Silk Tourniquet had been the opener for; an interview Scott gave to Alternative Press magazine in February; and a Genius page which listed the songs he was credited as a songwriter for.
Carver scrolled through his catalog in reverse chronological order, flicking fast with a nervous thumb. He read the lyrics of seven songs, assessed that none of these had anything to do with him, and started to feel stupid. Maybe Scott played him; maybe he was just running game. But why repeat the lie after they’dfucked? He drank half of the French 75 and doubled down, searching harder.
A small, sick, self-abusive part of him hoped Scotthadlied. That would align much better with Carver’s prior worldview and put him back on track. No such luck, though. The tenth song he looked at was a pure Scott joint — songwriting, vocals, instrumentation, production — and undeniably about him.
Carver browsed the lyrics, his heart pounding, then bent low to make sure the bathroom was still empty before pulling it up on Spotify. It was a pretty bare track, almost entirely Scott’s guitar and the deepest registers of his low baritone.
“I told you you’d regret this forever,”Scott rasped. He had, Carver remembered that. “I had this thought I knew you better. For one day I knew it all, I drove into the sunrise. Wherever I go I can’t get away, I can’t get away. I thought I saw you yesterday… dark hair, delicate face.”
Carver exhaled, jiggling his leg, agonized but transfixed.
“I’d come if you yanked the leash, but there’s no one on the other end, no one to make a dumb sucker bend.I’d swallow the truth to do it again. Let me live in the dark and play dead. I took the poison and laid in the tomb, I’m waiting for you, still waiting for you.”
Carver hit pause, inexplicably infuriated. “So you’reJulietnow?” he exclaimed, and threw his phone. It bounced off the stall door and landed face-up on the tile.
How much of this was feeling and how much of it was artifice, and how could he possibly tell the difference? Scott had recorded this in 2003, at the tender and stupid age of twenty. He was a kid trying to break into a melodramatic genre, milking every sad thing that had ever happened to him. If Carver had somehow tracked him down and said, “Come live with me and my three roommates in our off-campus new-build townhouse in Durham, North Carolina,” would Scott have said, “Yippee!”?No, he would have laughed him into the ground. The fantasy was only romantic because it remained a fantasy. And because he’d been the one to say no, Carver now bore the responsibility forever, even thoughScottwas the free spirit,Scottwas the one wholeft,Scottwas the one without any fucking responsibilities!
Carver realized he was clenching his right hand in a fist, and forced himself to relax. There was no need to get all crazy. This was just proof they’d both made the right decision, and any unhappiness they felt now was a coincidence. Many people felt unhappy at thirty-six. Possibly even a majority of people.
Yet he felt so accused and accosted by Scott’s plaintive, raspy voice. I’mwaitingfor you? Fucking liar. He was, by his own admission, out there falling in love with married cougars! Was Carver supposed to cut class, get in his hand-me-down Volvo 240 and drive through the night to go pound on Scott’s door just so he could discover him in bed with some broad wearing leopard print panties? Jesus Christ!
Carver stood up and kicked the stall door as hard as he could, stubbing his toe and swearing in pain. From outside, near the urinals, he heard a guy clear his throat. His heart dropped into his nuts. Someone had snuck in while he was distracted. He sat back down on the toilet and pulled his feet up onto the seat, irrationally paranoid about this guy later recognizing him by his shoes.
The guy took a long piss and then left without washing his hands, which Carver felt was actually worse behavior than his tantrum. He leaned into his knees, exhaling, trying to lower his heart rate. The drinks were mixing poorly with whatever amount of modafinil was left in his system. His toe was throbbing, but didn’t feel broken.
I’d come if you yanked the leash.Liar.Liar!This was why he had never listened to this shit before now — because you weren’t allowed to argue with it. Because it wasart.Bullshit. Wasn’t artsupposed to say something true, or at least gesture at a truth? And how was it fair that Carver wasn’t creative? They weren’t on even footing. There was a lot of shit he could have said in song, if only he were capable.
Carver soon reached a point where he could no longer sustain his anger, and the voice he was repressing said more loudly, “What if you should have gone with him?”
“Shutup,” he whispered to himself, then finished his French 75 and banged out of the stall, leaving his champagne flute on top of the toilet paper dispenser.
Carver rejoined his family out on the deck, put on a pair of Ray-Ban aviators and forced himself to be a part of the conversation. There was an open spot between Chip and Conway that he was able to slot himself into, so at least he had that going for him — one in a set of three. Lillian spotted him across the deck and offered him a breezy wave, then returned to her conversation with Hank’s tiny 95-year-old mother.
When a waiter came by with a fresh tray of French 75s, Carver reached for one absent-mindedly and felt someone grab his wrist hard to stop him. He turned toward the source of the grab and saw it was Chip, who was mid-conversation with Maggie — describing a video he’d seen of a brutal Russian car accident — and barely looking at him.
“Hey,” Carver said, struggling in his grip.
Chip let him go, but it was too late, the waiter was gone. “You need to slow down,” he said to Carver in a pointed undertone. “It’s not even five o’clock yet.”
“Please, you get plastered at every wedding you go to, what the hell are you talking about?”
