Make Me Sin

22

For one of the members of such a famous band, there’s surprisingly few personal details about him. He has no siblings. His parents died years back. Most of the information involves his musical career and the bands he played with before Bad Habit, which he joined five years ago. The drummer Bad Habit had before A.J. had a severe cocaine addiction and died of a heart attack after a three-day drug binge.

“That’s awful,” I murmur.

There’s a considerable section on chromesthesia, the neurological anomaly he has.

I read aloud, “Chromesthesia or sound-to-color synesthesia is a type of synesthesia in which heard sounds automatically and involuntarily evoke an experience of color. As with other variations of synesthesia, individuals with sound-color synesthesia perceive the synesthetic experience spontaneously, without effort, and in a way that the individual learns to accept as normal. The exact mechanism by which synesthesia persists has yet to be identified. Given that synesthetes and non-synesthetes both match sounds to colors in a nonarbitrary way, and that the ingestion of hallucinogenic drugs can induce synesthesia in under an hour, some researchers claim it is reasonable to assume that synesthetic experience uses preexisting pathways that are present in the normal brain.”

I wonder if I can find hallucinogenic drugs so I can try to re-create what A.J. sees when he hears music. I bet Trina could find me some.

When I continue with the article, I note that in almost every accompanying picture of him, A.J. wears sunglasses, and something covering his head. Usually it’s a hoodie. Sometimes it’s a hat, pulled low over his forehead. Even in the rare picture that captures him without sunglasses, he never looks directly into a camera. His face is always lowered, or hidden, or turned to the side. Even in promotional shots for the band—even on the pictures for the CDs and singles—he hovers in the background. Nico, Bad Habit’s extroverted lead singer, is always front and center, flanked by the other members of the band, but A.J. is almost always in the shadows.

Just looking at the photos for a few minutes, I can tell it’s deliberate.

I want to know why.

I tap my fingernails on the desk, calculating how long I have to wait before Kat’s up, and I can call and get her to ask Nico for A.J.’s home address.

When I get home that night, there’s a team of men from the management company just leaving. The security gate at the front of the apartment building which has been broken since I moved in, is miraculously fixed.

On the narrow concrete steps in front of the gate sits Eric, staring dejectedly at the ground.

I tense. Can I do this now? Do I need more time? What will I say?

But it’s too late. He’s seen me, standing motionless in the street beside my car, and stands. I have to go in. He waits for me with his hands shoved into his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

We haven’t talked since A.J. hung up on him last night. I’m full of anxiety about what might happen next.

When I’m within arms’ reach, he reaches out and wordlessly engulfs me in a hug. He buries his face in my neck, breathing me in. He’s shaking. His nose is cold against my throat. I wonder how long he’s been sitting here, waiting for me to show up.

“I’m sorry, babe. I was an i***t. I never should have said anything to your parents. The way I handled that . . . and then you wouldn’t answer my calls . . .” He pulls back, looking at me with worried eyes. “Are you all right?”

I nod.

Softer, he asks, “Are we all right?”

The tension ebbs from my shoulders. It isn’t going to be World War III. I sigh, nodding again. “I meant what I said at dinner, though. We have some things we need to talk about.”

“Of course, of course.” He’s relieved, too, reassuring me, squeezing my arms. I can tell that no matter what I say, he’ll agree. He doesn’t want to lose me.

What I’m not so sure of is whether or not I want to lose him.

Into the lockbox on the gate I punch the security code I’ve never used. It’s the same number as my apartment, and therefore easy to recall. The gate swings open. We trudge upstairs. We’re silent the whole way.

Once inside, I head straight to the fridge. There’s no beer left, which I know Eric prefers to drink, but we’ll need something to lubricate this jagged encounter, so I open a bottle of cabernet. I pour a glass for each of us. We sit on opposite sides of the coffee table in the living room, silent and tense, looking at everything but each other.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to be married.

Eric clears his throat. “I want to say something.” He sets his wineglass on the coffee table, rests his elbows on his knees, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “I don’t know who that guy was that you were with at the bar last night, but you said he was a friend.”

Our eyes meet. He’s waiting for confirmation, or a confession. I nod, meaning yes, he’s only a friend. Eric inhales a deep breath, lets it out sharply. He’s relieved.