To Be Alone With You

Going to college was like the first time I’d opened my eyes.

I had the entire world at my fingertips – classes I enjoyed, a new house full of sisters who loved me as dearly as if I were really one of their sisters, a plethora of clubs and a pending internship that was bound to keep me busy. Weeknights I worked until the bones in my fingers ached so on the weekends I would be free to fly like I’d always dreamed.

“Josselyn, come out with us tonight,” Anna begged as she straightened her hair at her desk, a gathering of our sisters doing their makeup on the floor of our dorm room. I, too, was getting ready, but to do something else instead.

“You know I can’t,” I protested sweetly, pulling a dress over my head. “I have plans. Yes or no to this?”

A few of my sisters chimed in from the floor, a unanimous yes. I glanced back to myself in the mirror, pale in comparison to the sunray that was Anna Burns, but beautiful nonetheless. Just enough for John, my John.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Anna questioned one more time before heading out the door, her acrylic fingers tapping on the wooden frame. “It’s supposed to be fun. You haven’t gotten to Delt yet.”

“Next time,” I insisted. “You know I need this. John needs this too.”

He’d been unhappy, and it was as obvious as the rain on the rooftop of his car that night. We drove to our place on the edge of town, ate our favorite foods that we’d been eating for so long, laughing and teasing like before everything changed. And I knew that for John, I would always try. If he couldn’t smile, I would be his smile. Because for John, I would do anything. Or so I thought, at that time.



The Maine Takes New York: An Exclusive Interview

My jaw slackened as my eyes happened across the front cover of the magazine on the rack, caught completely off guard. The last thing I would have expected to see is the photo I took of the guys in front our taxicab outside the studio, a grand view of Central Park in the background – especially not in a grocery in Tempe, Arizona. Angry bitters rose in my chest, the sheer shock of seeing my work taking it all out of me.

“The bastard still ran the article,” I murmured to myself, setting my basket on the ground and instead going to pick the magazine off the rack.

It was heavy in my hands, like it held the weight of all the decisions I recently made in wake of that fateful article. The picture on the cover alone was enough to make me want to tear every issue on the shelf to shreds. Kennedy and the boys were smiling, with John off to the side looking awkwardly serious. Anyone else wouldn’t think twice about it. But I knew better. This is where it all started.

I flipped through the pages, seeing the work of my old colleagues gracing the pages. Articles on artists like Bon Iver, Frank Ocean, and the works. Album reviews, concert reviews, art reviews, the works. It was everything I used to live and breathe. It was my issue. It was my life, my everyday. And then there was my article.

Just the way I designed it, with the Americana theme and the black and white photos, titled in this amazing font I’d hand picked with the kerning I’d spent hours adjusting until it was just right. My name in the byline. Everything just the way I’d left it. And Rick had the nerve to run it.

“The boys are back in town,” the first line read. I had detailed every little nook and cranny of their identity and sound overhaul, from their stylized guitar riffs to the ripped edges of their jean jacket vests. I bled over those words, writing until the keys popped off my keyboard, and there they were in print.

It was the perfect article, really – something I’d been working towards my whole life. I hadn’t been that proud of an article since my piece got picked up somehow by The New Yorker, by some odd case of happenstance. That had been a miracle. This was my hard work on a newsstand in Tempe. This was all me.

I scanned the pages as I detailed a day in the life of The Maine in New York, following them around to every various place, the conversations between them, the conversations with me. The photos were great, some posted in color to add dramatic effect.

At the bottom of the third page, there were two photos side by side. One of Kennedy, one of John. Kennedy was grinning at the camera with his foolish grin behind his facial hair, a basket of fries from lunch in front of him – displayed in full color. The one of John was directly next to it, his face serious and full of focus as he tuned his acoustic guitar on stage – this time in black and white. The highlights of his face blended with the darkened contours, the moodiness he exemplified that weekend more painfully obvious than ever. He had the same guitar he played all those years ago.

“'It’s really been inspired by Brand New, circa The Devil and God Are Raging Inside Me’ Brock admits with a grin, fondly running his fingers over a copy of their new album the signing. ‘John was really influenced by them while writing, and I think that’s apparent on a couple of tracks. You can hear some Tom Petty and Ryan Adams in us too, I think, but there’s a lot of Jesse Lacey’s influence running through the veins of this one.”

Something struck me as I read through that sentence, something I hadn’t caught before. John was inspired by Brand New. A band that we listened to together, a band that I’d once loved with him as opposed to us each individually. It occurred to me that I was listening to Brand New the first time I met John, at the library not far from the grocery I was at that very second. It was almost like a little bit of our relationship had gone into that album.

I shook my head vigorously, closing the article and tossing it back onto the rack. That was absolutely ridiculous. John wouldn’t do such a thing. John hated me.

“Josselyn!” a voice called suddenly. “Josselyn, is that you?”

My blood froze, my figure stiffening as I bent down to grab my basket full of groceries – Kennedy wasn’t always very good about keeping the fridge stocked. That was a voice I recognized, a voice I once knew all too well.

Annabelle Yocum.

I glanced up from behind my eyelashes to see her standing there, a grocery cart packed full of various items, especially a couple large cases of beer. Her cropped blonde hair fell in her face, the same way it always did in high school, bangs just long enough to skin the tips of the lashes surrounding her pale blue eyes. A smile was on her deep pink lips.

“Annabelle,” I greeted awkwardly, going to her with my basket and wrapping her up in a hug. Under any other circumstances I would be more than happy to see her. But with the fact that I was essentially trying to hide my presence in Tempe from anyone but Kennedy, seeing an old friend really wasn’t the highlight of my agenda.

“It’s so good to see you!” she chirped in her singsong voice, still the same perky friend she had always been. “I think it’s been since – "

“Yeah, I think it has, sadly enough,” I replied, cutting her off from showing how long it had been since I’d been home out loud. It was embarrassing and painful to say aloud. “I needed to get out of New York for a while.”

“Hectic lifestyle, huh?” Annabelle teased, leaning up on her cart. “Needed the slow pace of Tempe in your life again?”

“Yeah,” I mused. “Just for a while, I guess. I was just trying to get some alone time.”

“Are you here with your mom?” Annabelle asked. “I just saw her a couple of aisles over.”

My heart stopped in my chest. My mom was in the store, somewhere among the maze of aisles. The woman I needed to see the most but couldn’t see at all was in the vicinity, so close she easily could have seen me already. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Annabelle confirmed, pointing a long finger down the aisle. “She’s right there.”

I looked up just in time to catch the eyes of my mother, the same as my own, looking at me from the mouth of the aisle, the freezer section behind her blasting cold toward me with her gaze. My mother. The first time I’d seen her in years.

And with that, I dropped my basket in Annabelle’s cart and made my way quickly out of the store. Forcing myself through the crowds of people, fighting my way out the door through a gaggle of teenagers with Snapples in tow, I jumped into Kennedy’s car and got out of the parking lot as fast as I could. It was like I’d seen a ghost. A ghost that looked astonishingly like myself – my mother.

Cursing myself the entire way home, I fought to get my heart to restart. I knew better than to go out in public, than to take a casual trip to the grocery store at the peak visiting time in an outfit that didn’t do any favors to disguise me at all. I knew better than to put myself at risk like that. And now, my mom knew I was in town. Now, my secret was out. It was only a matter of time until she showed up again.

I stumbled through the front door, Kennedy nowhere to be found. I didn’t expect him to be hanging around; he usually went out to eat the guys for dinner on Fridays. And for once, I was thankful to be left alone – not wanting to deal with Kennedy after being totally rattled. Seeing my mom was enough to make me forget how to breathe again, realizing just how long it truly had been.

Going to the kitchen and downing a glass of water, my phone started ringing with a number I’d never seen before. With a sigh, I answered the call, pressing it to my ear. Immediately the line was filled with the static hustle and bustle of somewhere in New York, the sound iconic of a office – I knew it all too well.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Is this Josselyn Stevens?” a deep, manly voice questioned on the other line.

“Yes, may I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Detective Lutz from the New York Police Department,” he hummed in an almost bored tone, and despite that fact my heart picked up – worried for Charlotte. “I have a few questions to ask you, if that’s okay.”

“Yes, yes of course,” I answered instantly, running my fingers along the edge of my lower lip. “Ask away, whatever I can do to help.”

“You were formerly employed at Alternative Music, is this correct Miss Stevens?”

“Yes…” I replied cautiously, leaning up against the fridge. “Up until about a month ago, I was.”

“And you were under the supervision of Mr. Rick Salamancas, were you not?”

“That’s correct,” I replied, pressing my head into my hand. “I’m sorry, not to be rude, but what is this regarding?”

“Our records show that you filed a complaint with your human resources department describing an instance of sexual harassment on behalf of Mr. Salamancas. Is this correct?”

“Sir, please explain what’s going on…” I begged, my stomach churning.

“If you could answer my question, I would be happy to elaborate.”

I sighed, trying to fight the repressed memories of what happened in Rick’s office that night. “Yes, I filed a complaint. All the details in that complaint are exactly what happened that night. I expect you have a copy of the report.”

“Yes ma’am we certainly do,” the man clarified, the sounds of fingers typing on a keyboard clacking persistently in the background. “Thank you for disclosing that information, it’ll be really helpful in our investigation.”

“Which is what, exactly?” I pressed impatiently.

“Rick Salamancas is currently in custody and being investigated in a case of serial rape in the states of New York and New Jersey, primarily in the Brooklyn area of New York City,” he explained curtly, his voice expressing no emotion. “I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you for now.”

My heart stopped right in my chest, all breath leaving my lungs at the sheer shock of his words. Rick, my former boss, was being investigated as a serial rapist. The man I worked for, alongside so closely, for a year was in the custody of the NYPD. Wanted by the FBI. And I’d almost been one of his victims.

“We may call back for further questions,” the man continued when I was unable to find my voice. “Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Stevens.”

I pressed end on the call without another word, collapsing to the ground in a fit of breathlessness and panic. Kennedy’s kitchen floor cradled me as I began to sob, for the first time truly feeling the ramifications of my actions. I had been in a taxi cab with Ted Bundy, and I’d escaped. I’d danced with the devil, and I somehow got away.