Diner on Seventh

“It’s always the next thing then the next thing then the next thing. I feel like I’ve been in a tornado for the past six years,” Ella’s buttering a piece of toast quite manically.

“It was Europe, then South America,” she’s speaking quickly. “Then three months of studio time peppered with press and promotional appearances.” She takes a bite, and breathing through her nostrils, continues speaking with a mouthful.

“Don’t get me wrong - I’m super grateful. I wouldn’t trade it for anything, I just…” she swallows and deflates a little. “Grey, I’m just tired.”

She seems it. We’re at the old diner on Seventh, and she’s wearing a black baseball cap low over her eyes, hiding her unmade-up face. Even scheduling a time to get together was all over the place. She reallocated the date three times on me, and rapid fire texted until I confirmed. Just texting felt like I was in the midst of her storm.

She perks up straight again, waving her half eaten toast around in the air while she talks. “Sometimes, when my brain really gets going and I can’t get it to stop, I try to conjure up a memory of band,” she chuckles. “Like that time Mr. Ecker wore those pants that were way too tight, and every time he turned around his wedgie sunk deeper into his ass crack.”

I laugh, “or that time when he tripped over Millie’s tuba and wiped out.”

She cackles, and shakes her head. “It was all so pure back then.”

I don’t have to ask what she means. She’s talking about the music. Ella has been on the go pretty consistently for years now. When she’s back home, it’s only for a week or two at a time, and she usually has a bunch of family stuff going on. I haven’t seen her since last Christmas.

“And now?” I ask quietly, pushing hash browns around my plate. “Why can’t it still be that way?” I know why. I just want to plant the seed in her head that maybe there’s a way for her to find pure love for guitar again.

“It’s not just me posting in my bedroom anymore, Grey,” she laments. I’ve heard this spiel before. “It’s the agents, the roadies, the fans. I have too many people depending on me. I can’t let them down.”

I nod, slowly, carefully. “Either way you’re letting someone down,” I nearly whisper. Of course, I mean she’s letting herself down. But there’s an undertone I didn’t intend to be there.

She puts her toast on her plate and looks at me, serious. I look up to meet her stare. “You mean, I let you down, Grey?”

“No, no of course not,” I plead, “You’ll never let me down, El.”

I did it again. We have this conversation every couple years. I always swear I’m not going to let it get to this point. I promise myself we’re going to just meet up and laugh about old times. I tell myself I’ll listen to her bitch about her glamorous rockstar life, and just be the support she needs. But it almost always goes sideways.

She scoffs, “you say that, Grey, but I know you feel like I abandoned you.”

“No, El, I..I really don’t. I’m so, so happy for you. You caught up to your dreams! I just…” I tread lightly.

“You just what?”

“I just don’t like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like, tired!” My voice crescendoes a little, “Stressed out! And reminiscing about high school band. I mean, the way I remember it we were actually really depressed all the time. We were bullied, and bored. We were forced to learn music we didn’t care about playing and forced to learn it only after we finished all our homework, instead of going to parties or games or whatever the other kids did. If that was the fondest time in your life, I just worry about the toll it’s all taking on you.” I don’t want to be saying any of this. Why can’t I help myself?

“It’s not your job to worry about me anymore, Grey,” she’s snaps. “I can make my own decisions.”

“I know, I know.” I move my fork around a bit more and settle my breathing. I’m not her boyfriend. I haven’t been since we were 20.

“I’m sorry,” I say after a few tense seconds. “I really just wanted to see you. It’s been such a long time. Let’s just forget it? Can we?”

Her eyes are hung low on the table so I hang my head below it, so that my eyes are sort of under hers. I fork a potato and start to airplane it up to her lips. She purses them tighter and moves her head. I keep the plane spinning closer and closer, until she starts smirking. The whirlwind dissipates.

She picks up her toast, takes a small bite, swallows. “How’s it going at the shop?”

“You know, it’s busy. Can’t complain.”

“Do you still have time to play, Grey?”

I sigh, “I try to. Every now and then I’ll dust off the double bass or plug in my Mustang. It’s just for me at this point though, not much goes on around here anymore.”

“Paddy’s doesn’t still do jazz night?” Ella asks.

I shake my head, “not since last year when Mick had his stroke, no.”

“Oh right…that’s too bad.” She seems genuinely upset. Then she lights up, “You should start it back up!”

“Yeah, maybe,” I reply, hesitant. “I don’t know if I could fill his shoes.” We both know I’m too busy with my dad’s shop to take it on.

I update her on the hometown gossip: who got married, who died, who’s in jail now, who got pregnant. She seems present and engaged, grateful to be somewhere other than her own spinning head. I know Ella better than anyone. She thinks every day until she passes out. It’s why she started making music in the first place, to quiet that tornado brain of hers. But I worry all the stuff surrounding her music just worsens the storms.

We split a piece of pie. Cherry with one scoop of vanilla ice cream, our old tradition. We check out; she pays. I hold the door for her and we’re out in the cool sun.

“What’s next?” I ask.

“Back to LA. Tomorrow night.” She responds. I detect a hint of melancholy in her voice.

“Well, I hope you’re happy, El. I really do.”

She nods, rocks back and forth on her feet. “I hope you are too, Grey.”

We hug for a long time. She clings on to me, like she’d blow away if I wasn’t there to keep her glued to the sidewalk outside the diner on Seventh.

“I miss you,” she whispers.

“I miss you too.”

She kisses my cheek as we pull away. “Bye, Grey,” she says softly before crossing the street to get in her car.

I watch her drive away before I turn left and walk back to the shop. I’ll stay right here in this town, waiting, while she goes with the winds. I’ll never stop hoping that the twister will drop her back here, with me, at the end of the storm.