my hand. Maybe it's magical thinking to believe that being in the same space that Lang occupied will help me. Touching the strings he touched, feeling the vibrations he felt. It has to mean something, even though at this moment, I can't force myself to put a single finger on the strings.
I'm starting to think leaving rehab early wasn't such a great idea.
I put the guitar back on its stand before I can do something with it I'd regret. I don't need any more damaged things around me. Instead, I use the sound-proof room to scream at the band, the fans, the cocaine, Sophie, Hondo, Lang, my family, myself—everything that has brought me to this point.
Then, I pull my broken phone put of my pocket and choose a number from my favorites list.
"Hey, Trent, call me back. I need to talk to you about something I did."
Scene 21 ~ Sophie
The next morning, I go into the kitchen and find another stranger in the house: our new cook. He and Nicole already seem tight, so engrossed in conversation that neither one realizes that I'm there.
"Hi," I say. They look up at me in tandem, and he extends his hand. I shake it. "Sophie."
"Chef Cole Jansen."
Ah, not a cook. I'm glad I didn't say it out loud. I made that mistake when I was a kid, and I learned you really don't want to piss off the person in charge of your meals. A good life lesson, in general.
I sit on one of the stools around the kitchen island and watch Cole chop vegetables for an omelet. I sneak a few red and green chunks to chew on as he works. For the first time in a really long time, I'm hungry. Ravenous.
"So, let's go ahead and get this over with," I say. "Are you a Lang Winter fan?"
Cole pauses and looks at me with a wary expression before responding. "Well, my tastes run more on the classical side of the spectrum."
I grin. "Welcome! We're going to get along just great."
The three-egg omelet is unbelievable. I come very close to asking for another one. Mark must have great connections in Dallas to land Cole here.
We talk for a while as he preps ingredients for the week. He would be here for four hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of each week. In addition to the meals he will cook in person, he'll prepare meals to freeze for us. It all sounds heavenly to me. I sit back on the stool with my belly full and happy and look out the over the pool area.
The eggs turn to stone in my stomach. A man I've never seen before is outside talking to Mark. It's clear they are discussing the state of the pea soup pool. I practically run from the kitchen, out the doors, and to the side of the pool.
"Sophie," Mark says. "This is Rick. He's going to clean up the pool and get it working again before summer."
"No," I say.
"No, what?" Mark says.
"No, we're not going to clean up the pool."
An impatient look crosses Mark's face. Rick the pool guy has a tiny grin on his face. Celebrity drama is the best kind of drama.
"Sophie, can we talk over here for a minute?" He grabs my arm and pulls me to a corner of the patio. "What the hell is going on?"
"I might have forgotten to mention it, but the pool stays the way it is."
"For how long?"
"Forever."
"Fuck." Mark runs a hand through his hair. "This is crazy, you know."
"I know."
"And you realize I can have the pool cleaned whenever I want because it's my house, and I'm paying, right?"
I blink at him, trying to find words that will persuade him to leave the water alone. "You know the story," I say, almost pleading. "Everyone knows the story about Lang and that pool."
"I understand what happened. I know this pool has the biggest ghost of all for you," Mark says. "But don't you think it's time to let it go? It's been six months."
"I don't care how long it's been. No one touches the fucking pool," I say as my voice grows louder.
The anxiety starts at my toes and follows my nerves all the way up to my scalp. I'm shaking, and my nose is running. Not exactly crying, but close. And I feel like an idiot. A pathetic, snotty-nosed
I'm starting to think leaving rehab early wasn't such a great idea.
I put the guitar back on its stand before I can do something with it I'd regret. I don't need any more damaged things around me. Instead, I use the sound-proof room to scream at the band, the fans, the cocaine, Sophie, Hondo, Lang, my family, myself—everything that has brought me to this point.
Then, I pull my broken phone put of my pocket and choose a number from my favorites list.
"Hey, Trent, call me back. I need to talk to you about something I did."
Scene 21 ~ Sophie
The next morning, I go into the kitchen and find another stranger in the house: our new cook. He and Nicole already seem tight, so engrossed in conversation that neither one realizes that I'm there.
"Hi," I say. They look up at me in tandem, and he extends his hand. I shake it. "Sophie."
"Chef Cole Jansen."
Ah, not a cook. I'm glad I didn't say it out loud. I made that mistake when I was a kid, and I learned you really don't want to piss off the person in charge of your meals. A good life lesson, in general.
I sit on one of the stools around the kitchen island and watch Cole chop vegetables for an omelet. I sneak a few red and green chunks to chew on as he works. For the first time in a really long time, I'm hungry. Ravenous.
"So, let's go ahead and get this over with," I say. "Are you a Lang Winter fan?"
Cole pauses and looks at me with a wary expression before responding. "Well, my tastes run more on the classical side of the spectrum."
I grin. "Welcome! We're going to get along just great."
The three-egg omelet is unbelievable. I come very close to asking for another one. Mark must have great connections in Dallas to land Cole here.
We talk for a while as he preps ingredients for the week. He would be here for four hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of each week. In addition to the meals he will cook in person, he'll prepare meals to freeze for us. It all sounds heavenly to me. I sit back on the stool with my belly full and happy and look out the over the pool area.
The eggs turn to stone in my stomach. A man I've never seen before is outside talking to Mark. It's clear they are discussing the state of the pea soup pool. I practically run from the kitchen, out the doors, and to the side of the pool.
"Sophie," Mark says. "This is Rick. He's going to clean up the pool and get it working again before summer."
"No," I say.
"No, what?" Mark says.
"No, we're not going to clean up the pool."
An impatient look crosses Mark's face. Rick the pool guy has a tiny grin on his face. Celebrity drama is the best kind of drama.
"Sophie, can we talk over here for a minute?" He grabs my arm and pulls me to a corner of the patio. "What the hell is going on?"
"I might have forgotten to mention it, but the pool stays the way it is."
"For how long?"
"Forever."
"Fuck." Mark runs a hand through his hair. "This is crazy, you know."
"I know."
"And you realize I can have the pool cleaned whenever I want because it's my house, and I'm paying, right?"
I blink at him, trying to find words that will persuade him to leave the water alone. "You know the story," I say, almost pleading. "Everyone knows the story about Lang and that pool."
"I understand what happened. I know this pool has the biggest ghost of all for you," Mark says. "But don't you think it's time to let it go? It's been six months."
"I don't care how long it's been. No one touches the fucking pool," I say as my voice grows louder.
The anxiety starts at my toes and follows my nerves all the way up to my scalp. I'm shaking, and my nose is running. Not exactly crying, but close. And I feel like an idiot. A pathetic, snotty-nosed
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