To Be Alone With You

“Baby I’ve been here before,” John sang to me as we sat in the back of his pickup truck underneath a bed of stars, wrapped in a heavy cover of blankets. The desert sand whipped around us softly on a Friday night, whispering along with him as though it knew the tune.

“I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor,” he continued, this voice raspy but somehow strong. I’d never heard him sing before and it was then that I realized what a rare gift he had, his jaw quivering as the notes lifted from his vocal cords. He turned to me, his great green eyes all mine, like two secret words meant just for me.

“You know, I used to live alone before I knew you.”

My heart pounded in my chest, a drum protesting the fact that I was quickly and hopelessly falling for John O’Callaghan. In a rush of emotion and a flurry of passion, my lips were on his – finally on his – and I submerged myself in it without any ounce of regret.



After going home that night, calling Charlotte and finishing an entire bottle of wine between the two of us, I had all but forgotten John O’Callaghan and the problems between us. Charlotte had fallen asleep on the couch and I lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, sleep evading me like a skillful assassin. His sharp green eyes and his hateful words haunted me, bitterly poking me with those tiny needles until finally I fell into dreams; but even then, he was still there.

I woke up late, having pressed snooze a few too many times. There was a missed call on my phone from a number I didn’t know, and I had to guess it was Kennedy, wondering if I was on my way
I was up with a start, throwing the outfit I’d picked out the night before in a brief stroke of genius. Hurrying through my morning routine, I prayed that I wouldn’t forget anything that I would have to come back for. With a final coat of lipstick, I threw my camera bag over my shoulder and ran out the door.

“Good luck!” Charlotte called after me sleepily, but I was already halfway down the first flight of stairs, calling a cab.

We hit traffic and my hands were shaking with nerves, desperately afraid of being late for my biggest assignment yet to date, despite the fact that it meant spending the day with John. The article of mine picked up by The New Yorker had been a fluke; just a project of mine from school that I submitted on a bet that apparently impressed a lot of people, Kennedy included. This expose means so much more than that.

Finally we arrived at the hotel the guys were staying at, the Swissotel in Midtown, which was a very decent drive from my apartment in Brooklyn. I bolted from the car, tossing a spattering of bills to the driver that would be more than enough to cover fare and tip, and darted into the building.

“Hey!” Kennedy greeted after opening the door in response to my desperate knock. “We were beginning to worry about you. Come in.”

By we, I quickly realized he meant to him and Garrett, the only two who showed any sign of life in the common kitchen and living room space. I checked my watch to double check the time – I was running late after all – and came to find it was close to ten thirty. These boys were no different than other boys; they all loved their beauty sleep, even when they had a big day ahead of them.

“You look really nice,” Kennedy complicated with a smile as she made his way into the half-kitchen, causing me to blush. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” I panted, desperately in need of something to wake me up and combat my wine-induced hangover. He laughed at my response and poured some straight black coffee into a mug, handing it to me. I sipped from it as I went to sit on the couch and get organized. Garrett was watching me carefully from over his glasses as he pretended to read the newspaper.

“I’m gonna go rouse the troops,” Kennedy announced, ducking into one of the attached bedrooms. I slowly began to unpack my camera bag, deciding what lens o start out with and organizing my note taking supplies: pens, pencils, my red Moleskine notebook, a tape recorder, and more writing utensils still. I felt his eyes on me like surveillance cameras as I went.

“Garrett,” I greeted warily, keeping my eyes on my work.

“Josselyn,” he said back, still watching me. “Never thought I’d see you again.”

I pursed my lips and placed a standard medium zoom lens on my Canon DSLR, locking it into place with a solidifying click. “Same to you,” I muttered in response. “I’m sorry this had to turn out this way. I really tried to get out of it, I did.”

“John didn’t come home last night.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, my head snapping to face Garrett. “What?”

All he did in response was look at me with a blank yet penetrating stare, and I felt my blood run cold, like I’d been thrown into the Atlantic in the dead of winter. “Did you try calling him?” I asked, my voice ridden with panic. “Where was the last place you saw him? Do you know how dangerous it is for someone to just wander about the city alone at night, especially when they don’t know their way around?”

“Joss, do you think we’re idiots?” Garrett spat incredulously. “He came back with us after the meeting and pretty soon after we got settled in here, he left and we haven’t heard from him since. He was really pissed about you.”

I blanched, the resounding headache pounding in my skull. It was my fault John had disappeared into the depths of New York City at night, alone, probably looking for a bar and a broad to drown his anger in. It was my fault, it was all my fault.

“What do we do?” I asked quietly, feeling incredibly small.

“Wait it out, I guess,” Garrett replied, setting down his newspaper on the coffee table in between us. “He does this some times. And always comes back. He won’t ditch out on the fans, not like this. If he’s okay, he’ll come back.”

The pit in my stomach grew to an overwhelming size as I thought about all the places John could be. Passed out in an alley way. In some girl’s bed. In a cell at the police station. The panic grew as I thought about John in a New York City jail – he wouldn’t last a minute with the thugs that graced those halls.

Just as my thoughts were turning to the worst, the handle on the door turned and in walked John, looking exhausted and still in yesterday’s clothes. His hair was massively disheveled, more so than usual.

“John!” I gasped, standing up as a gut reaction but not really knowing what else to say. He glanced at me with hate deep in his eyes, and then brushed past to the adjoined room across from us, slamming the door behind him.

“I told you,” Garret murmured, his gaze like daggers into my very being. “I hope you realized how badly you fucked him up. How badly he still is fucked up.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. What could I say to explain myself? To make this any better? Garrett was right, it was very clear to me now. Before I could make any case in my defense, Kennedy, Pat, and Jared came out of the room opposite the one John had just entered, shattering the moment – much to my relief.

“John’s back,” Garrett said, picking up the paper again.

“Knew he would be,” Jared grumbled, going to pour himself a cup of coffee. Kennedy took a seat in the armchair next to Garrett, picking up my camera and examining it. Pat looked at me cautiously, like he wasn’t sure what to do with me.

“It’s okay Pat,” I hummed with a soft laugh, patting the couch next to me. “I don’t bite.” He grinned sheepishly and came to my side, tucking his knees up to his chest so the holes in his jeans exposed his skin tightly.

“I guess now’s as good of a time as ever to start interviewing, while we wait for John,” I suggested, hoping to break the tension. “What do you guys think?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Kennedy, his face and demeanor bright as ever. He was either so painfully unaware of the circumstances or doing his best to push through them. He wasn’t around at the time things with John and me went bad, only Pat and Garrett.

I pressed play on the tape recorder and we all talked for a while, about the band, about touring, about music, about being exhausted and ready to go home. John was taking his sweet time getting ready, surely avoiding me and his bandmates and the slew of questions we would hurl at him about his whereabouts last night. I snapped pictures of the guys as they talked and goofed around, trying to capture the end of their morning routine.

It was nearing twelve thirty by the time John emerged, exactly at the time we needed to hit the road to make sound check for the acoustic set. He wore a plain white v-neck underneath a deep mulberry cardigan; a grey beanie covering his pushed back hair. No words were exchanged between us as we headed out the door and to the cab that Jared called, but Kennedy and I chatted the entire way.

“So how long have you been in New York for then?” he asked as we sat in the taxi, miraculously not stuck in the midtown traffic. Garrett, Pat, and Jared all bantered playfully and John sat in the front seat, watching silently out the window.

“A year and a half,” I answered proudly, raising my camera to take a picture of him. He threw on a cheesy smile, complete with eyes squeezed shut. I giggled in response, snapping the shot.

“I can’t imagine leaving Arizona permanently,” he hummed, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. “You’re pretty brave to get out of Tempe and move to a big city like this.”

He watched me very intently when I talked, his hazel eyes honed in on me. I couldn’t help but find them beautiful – they were so unique and full of laughter – whenever Kennedy laughed, his eyes laughed.

“Beautiful girl in a big city,” he repeated, shaking his head with a smile. John scoffed from the front seat, revealing that he’d been listening to our conversation the whole time. I ignored John and opened my mouth to ask Kennedy what he meant, but the cab pulled to a halt and we were all forced to tumble out and into the record store.

I snapped pictures from the back as the guys dragged their equipment around the makeshift stage, Pat carrying around a simple tambourine and shaking it at anyone who would listen. Garrett plucked the strings of an acoustic bass guitar, something I had never seen before. A crew pulled together a couple tables and some chairs for the guys to sign at, more towards the front of the store. I dreamed of the photos being printed in black and white, an Americana layout, exactly how I wanted it how to be, entirely how I wanted it to be.

And suddenly John’s voice rang through the building, doing his mike check. The clarity of the sound startled me, sending a cold shiver down my body. It had been years since I’d heard his singing voice. I’d forgotten how heartbreakingly beautiful it was. I snapped a shot of him when he wasn’t looking, knowing that if he saw me, the beautiful sound will stop right in its tracks.

Before anything more could happen, the guys were being ushered to their places to sign their autographs and a slew of anxious fans filed in and they signed and I took pictures for what felt like hours. The set was amazing and the fans couldn’t seem to get enough, begging for more after every song. Kennedy’s eyes didn’t leave me for the entire set, following me as I took pictures of the guys and of the enormous crowd that had showed up. I felt excruciatingly self aware under his constant gaze, confused and somehow pleased to have someone pay such close attention to me, though I didn’t understand it.

Afterwards, we found ourselves congregated at Z100, one of the city’s more popular radio stations, in a small recording room. The guys had played a couple songs, Kennedy singing backup vocals and watching me with those astounding hazel eyes all the while. They’d finally settled into answering questions of the radio host, John being at the lead.

“How long have you guys been playing music then?” the host asked into the microphone across the table from the rest of the guys. John glanced at the guys before leaning forward into the microphone; I snapped a picture and he quickly turned to glare at me.

“Officially since 2006, but together since 2007,” he responded shortly.

“That’s a long time to be playing music,” he observed, and the guys all made some sort of sound of agreement, “what do you think is the one song that has influenced you most?”

The guys went each in a row and explained their musical influences, from Kennedy with Third Eye Blind and Jared with John Mayer, all the way to John on the end. He seemed to be ruminating on me, his eyes wild with pent up anger against me that had been building all day. It seemed as though simply being in the same room as me was starting to aggravate him.

“And you, John?”

“You know,” John began, scratching at the scruff that was growing on his chin. “Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah has had a big influence on me, lyrically and instrumentally. It taught me a lot.”

“How so?”

“Maybe there’s a God above,” John cited, and I felt as though I could sink away into the wall behind me. “But all I’ve ever learned from love was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you.”

“What do you mean by that?” the host asked, leaning forward inquisitively. I begged for this all to stop, but John’s sights were locked on me and he seemed to be going full speed ahead, unafraid of the consequences.

“It means that there’s always going to be terrible bitches who break your heart out there in the world,” he growled, the anger in his expression growing more and more desolate, his bandmates looking between each other in a confused panic. “But they’re not worth a minute of your fucking time. They’ll leave you high and dry and tear your heart out and leave it on the floor, tie you to a kitchen chair and cut off every last bit of your hair, and at the end of the day they were never worth your fucking time in the first place. They’re just selfish, heartless girls who love the sound their shoes make as they run away.”

The room was silent between all seven of us occupying it, no one knowing what to say. I struggled for breath as a look of smugness graced John’s face. Every word he said was tailored for me, made just for me, and he’d spit it out so everyone in the island of Manhattan could hear. It was only a matter of time until John was on his feet and out the door of the room.

“Alright,” the host chirped, struggling to recover. “That was The Maine! Thanks guys for being here.” And we were ushered out of the room and into the hallway. I immediately searched for John but didn’t have to look very hard, for he was leaning up against the wall across from the heavy wooden door.

“I thought we were going to keep this professional, John!” I shouted angrily, trying my very hardest not to punch him right in the face. The smirk on his face was intolerable, the way he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed all coolly, like he’d accomplished something drove me absolutely insane.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I cried, wanting to tear my hair out.

“You, Josselyn!” he cried back. “You’re my problem!”

And with that, he stormed out down the hall to the exit, and I watched as his figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance, not sorry to see him go.

“I’m sorry,” came a voice from behind me, and I turned to see it was Kennedy. “I don’t think he meant all that – he didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Oh no, he did Kennedy,” I replied quietly. “And he succeeded.”

He heaved a sigh and put an arm around me. “Don’t let him get under your skin,” he argued, squeezing me. “Come on. Let’s go to your apartment and get you changed into something that makes you feel good. We’re going to hit the bars tonight.”

And in a moment of weakness and desire to rid myself of John O’Callaghan’s words with copious amounts of alcohol, I accepted.