The Break-Up

John surfaced from his bestial quaking and placed a gentle kiss on the back of my neck before he withdrew and flopped next to me. Before I could move he turned me and drove me into the crook of his shoulder.

"Wow. I never knew it could be like that with you. Now that I do, things are going to change." He kissed my temple.

I pushed the sweat-soaked tendrils of hair from my eyes and sat up slightly to meet his dark gaze. "What do you mean?"

"It could be like this every time. I love that you're not shy, Julie, that you ask for what you want and lead, but I like this. It feels right to take the lead."

"Then why haven't you before?" I smoothed his shaggy hair back.

"I guess I've felt lost. But now...now XRT is going to play 'Simeon.' With any luck this A and R guy from Island will come to my next show at the Green Mill. Finally, Julie, my career is going to go places. I'll finally be able to pay my share of the bills. I won't be living in y- in a shadow," he corrected himself, trying sweetly to avoid a fight.

I sighed, thinking on what his future held. "And go on the road. You know as well as I do musicians make no money off albums, it's touring."

John chuffed and laid back on the pillow. "Why does it always come back to money with you?"

"Because this is the real world, John. In this world money matters."

He was silent for a long moment. "Why did you ever stop painting?"

That shocked me. "I never really painted, I just took two art classes in college and I was good at it. But I'm better at math."

He rolled to his side, dropping me to the pillow as he braced his head on his hand and let his other hand trail over my body. "The painting in your mother's office is yours. Julie, it's fantastic."

I winced, wondering how he'd ever been inside my mother's office on the four occasions I'd dragged him to my parents'. "I'm not meant to be an artist," I said flatly. This was the heart of the issues between us. "I'm not like you, John." I'm boring and steady and have concrete goals.

"I'm not saying you have to be. I'm just saying you should try living for yourself and not your parents."

"Here we go again." I kept my voice soft. I was just so tired of this issue, I couldn't even get angry over it. "I like my boring, stable job. I like always having enough money for the rent, groceries, the bar, and the golf course. I like having evenings and weekends free to read, play, work out, see friends. That's what I want out of life."

His eyes flashed darkly for a moment and his hand stilled. "No, what you want is to be good so your parents don't disown you."

I sat up, angry enough to jerk the cups of my bra up though my panties had been so pulled and shredded they were goners. "I have two degrees and a stable job. I don't need money from my parents. I'm living life the way you're supposed to if you're a responsible, mature adult. What is it, John? You want me to apologize for fate? I was born into a loving, close, wealthy family. So what?"

He turned from me then and sat, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, giving me his back. I'd hurt him somehow, and I wasn't sure how.

When he spoke it was surprisingly soft. "Do you look down on me because of my family?"

I stood and grabbed for my robe hanging on the bedpost. "No, John. How we're born and raised is not our fault and no one is responsible for it. But I do look down on you."

He stiffened in shock and slowly turned to me, glaring. The storm was coming. "What?"

"You know as much as I do you can't write songs for shit. You're a born performer. What you need is to find a composer with no playing or singing talent and form a partnership. Like Elton and Bernie. Do that and you could achieve your dreams. Keep going on this path and you'll fail. That's what I look down on, your stupid stubbornness."

"Is that all my career is to you?"

I could deflect it and start a raging argument, but I was done. "Yes."

He shocked me, standing, doing up his pants. Without a word and climbed down the ladder and slammed the bathroom door behind him.

I dressed quickly in jeans and a t-shirt and pulled out the suitcase I'd packed that morning. Adding a few other things I climbed down too and looked for my favorite sneakers.

"What I this?" He demanded, jerking the door open. "All your stuff is gone from the bathroom."

"I'm leaving you, John. Your life could go places. When you're older you're going to be a hell of a man, but right now we want different things. I can only hold you back and vice versa."

"Why? Really, why?"

"Because I don't respect what you do. Because if you don't change a few things you're going to end up heartbroken. And I don't want to be the one that carries you. I want children, a family, a real life."

He glared at me but I'd never made a secret of that desire. He'd never tried to argue me out of it, rather often he'd posed "what if" questions as if seeing if I could live without following faithfully in my parents' wake.

I waited for something like that now, but for a moment his shoulders slumped. We stood silent for a long moment until he pulled himself up, like a puppet on strings, and a slow fire had begun behind his eyes. "So what now?"

There was no artistic temperament, no throwing things, no screaming. It unnerved me. "I'm going to go stay with Beth. I paid the rent up for the next six months. If you can pay the bills you can have the loft. I'll come for my things next week. I'm sorry, John. I love you but it just isn't working."

His eyes narrowed. "You are such a fucking bitch."

I winced at that and couldn't even get angry because hell, he was right. Like a fool I'd assumed he'd been feeling the end coming like me. If I were a better woman perhaps we would have talked about it months ago and gotten it out in the open. Instead I'd cowardly waited and sprung this on him, and obviously he wasn't expecting it.

"I really am sorry. It's better this way. Go on the road, don't be tied down. Dive into the business and do what you need to. And if you ever need any help, I'll be there for you."

He laughed, and it came out a choked sound like a sob. "It's the biggest night of my career so far. It could be the start of something huge. You supported me all the way there and now when it's paying off you jump ship? I depend on you to be my rock and now you're gone. So you're a fucking liar, Julie. If you were there for me, you'd stay."

Madly, I thought of the Meatloaf song "I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)" and it took all I had not to laugh madly. John had actually done a great version of that on the album he'd cut with the Columbia students. "I really am sorry, John. Good bye." I finished putting on my shoes and rose, keys in hand.

"Before you go-"

"What!?" I was about to lose patience.

He smiled, and it was almost evil. "Your parents are complete shits. They don't really love you. They brainwashed you to be a daughter they could brag about. Your mother told me she hangs that painting of yours in her office to remind her how close you came to losing your mind.

"Did you know the night I met them, dear old daddy tried to pay me to leave you? I refused ten grand. Boy, was I stupid." With that he turned and slammed back into the bathroom, the only way to escape me in the open floor plan.

I had no reply but a wince, and so I closed the door and walked out of his life.

It was five years later and I still thought of that night all the time. What ifs haunted me. What if six months before I'd talked to John about my feelings? What if gently he'd broken the truth of my parents to me earlier? What if one of us had the courage to change the routine earlier?

He'd been right. I'd always assumed that food, clothes, and attendance at graduation ceremonies meant love, but my parents were just following a script. I guess I'd always known since one sentence expressing the desire to become an artist got me threatened with being cut off and disowned back in college. They hadn't changed: when I told them I'd left John they threw a party and invited all the single sons of their friends my age.

Disgusted, I'd left in the middle of the party and gone back to my best friend Beth's apartment stopping to buy supplies on the way. I'd painted for the first time since college and it helped with the anger. I made five paintings before Beth took notice and encouraged me to seek a showing. When I'd told my parents you would have thought I'd announced I was a lesbian Nazi who ate puppies for fun. It's funny to know that all along John was right. I wasn't really happy. I'd been following a script my parents wrote.

I went back a month after that night to get my things but he was gone. Nothing of his remained but the piano. So I'd moved back into my loft and for some stupid reason I kept the piano tuned, though I couldn't play.

I started painting regularly and Beth's boyfriend helped me get showings. After two years I was selling enough that I quit my job at Allstate. Long ago I'd stopped the racquetball and golf and started spending more time in coffee houses and galleries. I gave up the gym membership and embraced living without an alarm clock and becoming a creature of the night.

Now The piano sat in the corner and my work area dominated my loft. I worked when I wanted, spent time with new friends. Most of my old ones had melted away once I left the corporate world. I had parties with strange people and every now and again someone sat at the piano and played it, but no one ever as good as John.

I still spoke to my parents but things were strained. Still, it was worth it, my younger brother followed my lead, quit the law firm, and was pursuing writing. It was my older brother shockingly who'd kept my father from flipping out and disowning us. Still it was understood by all we'd get no help from them. Stephen and I were proud to make it on our own and got together for coffee weekly.

I had a few lovers but nothing serious. Finally I understood how difficult it was to get anyone to understand being an artist. Plus I liked being alone often, even if my dreams were filled with long, dexterous fingers teasing me.

Life was good, great actually, but on rainy days I sat there staring at the piano haunted by a ghost.

John was doing great. Shockingly, he'd taken my advice. He called his little management team from Columbia and had them switch the debut single to the Meatloaf cover and it did well. He got a record deal with Island Records and met a songwriting partner shortly after.

He did well in adult contemporary circles and his two albums had sold well. He ended up getting a part on Broadway in a musical and that album sold well too. After, some agent had made him tan, dyed his hair black, brought out his Mexican side, put him in a gym, and marketed him as a Latin lover. He got parts in movies and has contributed to the soundtrack in the two films he'd done so far. One was even an action flick with guns and explosions. I snuck out from my own show to catch it opening night.

No matter what I couldn't help but wonder if we ever would have gotten this far in our lives if not for that night. Funny how something that felt like the culmination of a series of mistakes seemed to be just what we both needed.

As June rain began to fall outside I wiped my hands with turpentine and washed them, then went to the kitchenette to make lunch and check the mail I'd brought up after my morning jog. A small package stopped me and inside I found a CD with John's handsome face on it.

Shocked I popped it into the CD player on the counter and pushed play as I gathered sandwich supplies. "Year of the Cat" began and I couldn't help but smile. Some mistakes were nothing but a second chance in life after all.