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chapter fifteen
" If I had a day
That I could give you,
I'd give to you
The day just like today
If I had a song,
That I could sing for you
I'd sing a song
To make you feel this way "
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NOW PLAYING: "SUNSHINE ON MY SHOULDERS" by JOHN DENVER (1971)

___________

TIMOTHY MAZUR, rock critic: The Black Veil was nominated for Album of the Year for the 17th Annual Grammy Awards in '75, but lost to Stevie Wonder's Fulfillingness' First Finale. The most popular single of the album, "Bloodshed," was up against some heavy contenders for Song of the Year. And though the performance of the track is part of what makes it so memorable, it's not the recording artist who wins the award. It's the songwriter.

And Aurora Marquez wrote that track all on her own.

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RORY HOLDS TWO complimentary tickets to the Grammy Awards in her hand, which shakes so violently the looping cursive text is hardly legible. On the kitchen table is a letter informing her that "Bloodshed" has been nominated for Song of the Year, and, as its songwriter, she is invited to the show.

Camila is there when she opens the thick, heavy envelope addressed to her in an elegant font, distinct from the usual mail she receives, which is paychecks. Nobody writes to her. But today isn't the case. Today is the day Rory's entire world turns on its head.

She hasn't been keeping track of "Bloodshed"'s popularity or that of The Black Veil in general. In fact, she prefers to push it to the furthest corner of her mind and forget about it entirely. She changes the station if it comes on the radio. When she works at the store and it plays on the overhead speakers, she zones out by thinking of her other work. Her eyes have glazed over the images of Sticks 'n' Stones on magazine covers and posters.

Rory has been dimly aware of its relative success. She knew it was a popular song. But now, the reality of its fame is staring her right in the face.

She doesn't know at what point she started crying. Her vision goes blurry, the lines of text on her invitation turning to black streaks, as tears line her eyes and then cascade over the precipice of her lower lids, streaming down her cheeks. Then sobs emerge from someplace deep within her. They wrack her small frame with their intensity, making her shudder.

"Oh, manita," Camila says, her celebratory smile immediately dropping from her face as she scoops Rory into a hug. She can't return it because she still has the letter and tickets in either hand, so she leans her cheek on Cami's shoulder instead. "Are these good tears or bad tears?"

Rory shakes her head. She has no idea where this sudden influx of emotions came from and therefore doesn't know how to identify the source. Her feelings are a riot in her gut. Is she happy? Yes, of course— she's achieved such a high honor and received proof that her talents have amounted to something, even if her parents never thought they would. But it's the song that she wrote at the darkest part of her life. It's a song that she can't listen to because it drags her right back to Sticks' rough hands, the pain in her abdomen, how his breath felt on her skin, him hitting her across the face.

But it's also one of only two tracks on the record that she'd written herself. The other is "Bottle it Up", the third song on the album. This nomination is for a song that Sticks hadn't touched. He may have broken her, but Rory is the one who will be renowned for the work she poured herself into, even if it doesn't win.

The stench of burnt food causes Rory's nose to wrinkle. "Something's burning over there."

"Shit," Camila mutters, releasing Rory and hurrying to the stove, where two pieces of bacon have started to blacken to charred bits in the pan. She scrapes them onto the plate anyway— someone will eat them.

Julia babbles at Rory from her high chair, waving her tiny spoon around in one hand. It makes her smile in spite of the amalgamation of emotions churning inside of her like a tornado. Rory wipes her face and carefully tucks the tickets into the thick, creamy envelope along with the invitation, then presses a kiss to the top of Julia's head.

"Next up, we have the top hit that's quickly soared up the charts — here is 'Look At Us Now' by The Six and Daisy Jones!"

The radio announcer's voice catches both women by surprise. Camila lets out an excited "Oh!" and races to turn the dial up, letting Billy's voice fill the kitchen from the speakers. She says to Julia, "You hear that? It's Dadda!"

Since she's at the stage where she'll start talking soon, everyone has to be careful what they say around the youngest member of their household. That means cursing in front of her is off-limits (and, yes, Camila had told Warren, cursing in Spanish counts).

Rory sets the table using clean dishes from the drying rack, swaying to the music as she places each glass and fork. She's missed listening to The Six since Billy's admission to rehab. Writing music has brought them closer, and she'd loved it when they were on a roll with new songs while working on their first album. Hearing her friends' instrumentals in the background of the opening verse warms her heart.

"Hey, hey, baby!" Billy says to Julia as he walks in, patting the tuft of dark hair on her head, soft as feathers. He ruffles Rory's locks in a rougher manner that she swats him for. His joy quickly turns to annoyance once he recognizes the song on the radio, groaning, "Oh, God," and switching it off.

Camila makes an offended noise. "We were listening to that!"

Billy grumbles incoherently as he fills a glass with water from the tap. His long curls are still dripping wet from the shower, staining the neck of his tank top a darker shade of gray.

"Oh, poor baby has a number one single," Cami teases. "It must be so hard!"

"You think it's frustrating, too, don't you, Jules?" he asks as he sits at his usual spot at the head of the table. Julia fusses. "See, Jules agrees with me."

"I think she just dropped a piece of egg on the ground," Rory retorts, crouching down to pick up the fallen bit and tossing it in the trash. Julia's face begins to twist in devastation. Rory reaches out and strokes her cheeks as they flush, trying to stop a meltdown before it begins. "Oh, mi princesa, you can't have floor eggs! They're all dirty. ¡Puaj!"

She makes a dramatic face of disgust as she repeats the word over and over until Julia laughs. Rory pats her face again. "Bueno."

"Smells good in here," Graham says in a sing-song voice, marching in and snatching a piece of toast from the plate beside Camila. He tears off a bite before she can protest.

"Uh-uh, you can wait," she tuts. Her words fall on deaf ears. Immediately afterward, Warren slides in, successfully grabbing a piece for himself while she tries to duck out of his reach without dropping everything on the floor. "Save some for the rest of us!"

"Hey, hey," Graham protests, his voice muffled by his mouthful of toast, which he uses to point at Warren and Eddie. "They live in the back house. So Camila doesn't have to feed you vultures."

"Except for Rory," Cami says, bumping her with her hip. "She helped."

Rory had been very focused on filling her glass with orange juice. Camila's movement causes her arm to shake, spilling a few drops onto the table.

"Oh-oh!" Julia exclaims.

"'Uh-oh' is right, Jules," Billy agrees.

"It's alright," Rory says, now intently focused on mopping up the small puddle with a paper towel that Eddie had handed to her. Then she starts shoveling eggs into her mouth like she's no better than the vultures currently invading the kitchen.

One of those vultures is happily munching on his piece of stolen toast, lifting himself up to sit on the countertop. Rory pointedly avoids looking at him. If she does, she'll notice how he's wearing a pair of overalls with no shirt underneath. She'll see how his arm muscles had tensed when he'd jumped onto the counter, revealing smooth peaks and valleys that would be hard to the touch. She'll observe the pale morning light hitting his exposed collarbones, which are normally an uninteresting aspect of human anatomy, but somehow seem mouth-watering now.

And she hasn't noticed any of these things. Really, she hasn't.

"When's the last time anyone went through the mail?" Karen asks, holding a large stack of envelopes.

"I thought that was your job," Warren says.

Karen's brows shoot up her forehead. "My job?"

"I didn't touch anything that wasn't my own," Rory supplies. She maintains her laser-like focus on her plate, not even looking up when Graham reaches across her to grab the salt and his forearm is in her face. Every morning, she gets the mail from the box and sifts through it, placing whatever isn't hers in a neat stack on the counter of the smaller kitchen in the back house. Apparently, her multiple reminders for the others to look at it have gone unheard, and the stack has grown into a mountain.

At one point, she'd gotten so frustrated that she'd almost torn into every last envelope and organized it all, but she'd ultimately decided not to. The others are adults and she does not need to baby them. If they don't check their mail, that's on them.

Karen takes the last empty chair and, to Rory's surprise, hands her something. She must have missed it this morning; the surprise of the letter from the Grammys had overloaded her senses. Her name is written in neat cursive on the front of a sky-blue envelope. When she reads the return address in the top left corner, her fork clatters onto her plate.

"What?" Graham asks.

"It's from my Tía Paola," Rory breathes. The sight of her old address back in Colombia makes her heart constrict.

She's dimly aware of the others ripping open envelopes of their own and exclaiming in excitement, too focused on the letter to pay them much attention. How can something so light carry so much weight? Her hands tremble as she slides her finger across the back, carefully ripping it without tearing the envelope to shreds in the process.

It takes her a moment to process her aunt's old-fashioned penmanship written in neat, slanted cursive across the paper. It's written entirely in Spanish — back in Colombia, none of them spoke English — and it sends a fresh pang of homesickness reeling into her gut.

Dearest Aurora,

I hope this letter finds you well. I have been wanting to write to you for a long time, but did not know your address. Your mother wrote to me years ago and said you had run away, but did not tell me where. I do not know how much she told you in the past, so forgive me if some of this is old news.

Your cousin Ricardo has been living in Miami since 1965. Last year, he mailed me a record by a rock band I had never heard of, leaving instructions for me to listen to it. I did not know why until I realized your name was credited for some of the songs. I will admit, the music is not my style, but I have listened to them many times over. Your Tío Carlos started to complain about hearing it too many times, but I know he was not truly upset.

Since Ricardo found your address, I can finally tell you how proud I am of you. Your mother did not sound pleased that both of her children had run off. I was worried sick until she said you were alive. All the way to California! Philadelphia already seemed so far for my sister to move, and now you are even farther away. I suppose I should not be surprised. You have had stars in your eyes since the day you came screaming into this world.

Your grandparents would be just as proud of you as we are back home. I have a photograph of them that I sometimes talk to. I told them their Solita was making it big, and I swear their smiles grew wider.

Please visit us any time. You are always welcome here. We would love to have you back home.

Love,
Tía Paola

Rory doesn't realize she's crying until a teardrop lands on the page, smearing the ink. She quickly wipes her face before more can stain the letter. All this time, her parents' refusal to return to Colombia has made her think she wasn't allowed to do so, either. Coming back to that house without her grandparents would feel like a failure. They'd left to give Abuelo a better chance at survival, only for the cancer to take him anyway. She'd assumed she'd face the passive-aggressive expressions of her family members or hear the taunting of her trip to la gringolandia from her cousins.

Tía Paola had wiped all of her worries away in a handful of paragraphs.

What a gift she has given Rory. She'd forgotten that they'd called her solita, a nickname meaning "little sun", due to her name, Aurora Luz Marquez Bennett, relating to the morning sun's radiant light. She would give anything to see a photograph of them. Her mother had taken them off the walls shortly after their deaths as if seeing their faces was too hard to bear. In her haste to leave, Rory didn't have the time to search for them.

She strains through the fading memories of her childhood, squinting at images that fade with each year she grows older. It's like trying to see through stained glass. The colors are there, but the details have gone foggy. Can she truly remember her aunt's face? She sifts through the portfolio of her brain for the sound of her voice. Was it warm or stern, crackly or smooth as water?

She's shown Rory more kindness than her own mother has in her 21 years of age, and Rory can't even recall exactly what she looks like.

The chair scrapes against the tile as she pushes it back. The once-enticing scent of breakfast forgotten, she heads to the back house, oblivious to her friends' newfound riches or Camila's concerned eyes following her out. As soon as she locates a pen and paper, she starts writing.

It's a difficult decision, trying to pick who will attend the Grammys with her. She purchases one additional ticket along with the complimentary ones she'd been given. Much to Graham's dismay, he has an appointment scheduled for that night, so the others hash things out using the very sophisticated method of rock, paper, scissors. It's Billy and Eddie who go with her in the end.

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[Excerpt from Aurora Marquez's acceptance speech for the Song of the Year Award at the 1975 Grammy Awards]

"I never thought I'd be standing here today, holding this award, much less even getting to fulfill my dream of writing music for a living. Most of you probably haven't heard of me, but I bet you've heard this song, and I can't thank you enough for listening ... I want to give a special thank-you to Walter Disick at Ellenmare Records, Sticks 'n' Stones, and my friends in The Six for their unending support ... This goes to everyone who has bought 'The Black Veil!'"

RORY: Walter helped me write my speech. I was shaking so hard I thought I was going to faint. Honestly, I barely remember talking up on that stage. I think I blacked out. I was sweating buckets.

BILLY: Eddie and I were screaming the loudest in the audience when they announced the winner.

EDDIE: We hated Sticks 'n' Stones, but we were so proud of her. I think it's great that the songwriter won that award, because that album probably would've been shit without her.

RORY: And then all these famous people started congratulating me after the ceremony, and I felt like I was hallucinating. I mean, Paul Simon? Roger Taylor gave me a pat on the shoulder. I'm pretty sure John Lennon looked at me.

BILLY: Rory still didn't realize how famous she was getting. She seemed shocked every time she received recognition for her work, like part of her was still convinced she was still writing in the privacy of her bedroom.

EDDIE: I'll never forget how Brian May congratulated Rory and then walked right past Billy like he wasn't even there. That was a pretty great moment.

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Thanks to their newfound wealth, Billy, Camila, and Julia are able to move into their own house. Rory tries to be happy for them. A distant part of her had known they wouldn't live under one roof forever, but she'd gotten so used to it that it hadn't been on the forefront of her mind. Her muscles struggle to remember that they aren't there. She wakes up expecting to hear Julia's adorable baby noises echoing from somewhere. It takes weeks for her to stop thinking she sees Camila out of the corner of her eye.

The boys... well. They practically throw a party.

The first thing Warren, Graham, and Eddie do with their newfound freedom is sample every kind of alcohol they own. Then they buy more. Gone are the peaceful, quiet days of having a baby in the house. Eddie cranks up his music so loud the walls rattle. Warren and Graham watch movies until the early hours of the morning. Rory and Karen are left with their hands full. Technically, they no longer have to share a room — much less a bed – but Karen makes a face at the idea of moving into Camila and Billy's old one.

The others quickly notice that the separation has Rory down in the dumps, though she tries her best to act upbeat. She can only hide so much from them before someone gets suspicious. It's Graham who realizes it first, observing how quiet she's been for the past few days and that her smile appears forced on her face like a marionette is pulling up the strings at the corners of her mouth.

"Give me your acid tablets," she says to Eddie one night. The cicadas are chirping loudly, their song echoing throughout the canyon in a calming serenade. A warm breeze drifts through the open windows of the house.

"Huh?" he asks, struggling to focus on her. He's sitting on the overstuffed sofa in the sitting room, his head tilted all the way back, tousled brunet strands of hair pooling around his face. His pupils are already blown in the epicenter of his honey-brown irises. A crease forms between his brows as he peers up at her.

"Give me. Your Acid. Tablets," she repeats more firmly this time.

"Why're you upside down?"

Ignoring this, she holds out an expectant hand. Eddie grumbles an incoherent, "Okay, okay," before rummaging around in his pocket and smacking the dyed paper into her palm. "Christ."

His sour mood is clearly a product of him thinking she's confiscating his drugs. However, she surprises him by tearing off two squares and placing them on her tongue, allowing the bitter taste to spread through her mouth. Then she tosses the sheet back so it lands on his stomach.

Eddie blinks at her. "Shit."

"What happened?" Karen asks, appearing in the doorway. The scent of marijuana drifts in behind her. She must have been smoking a blunt outside with the others.

"Ror just took two a'these." He waves the sheet at her.

Karen raises her eyebrows. "Shit. That means none of us is sober."

The acid does the trick. In a few minutes, the five of them are on the balcony, a blanket of stars draped over them, twinkling like glitter spilled across black paper. Rory's head is on Graham's shoulder with her eyes directed at the sky. The breeze tickles her face, carrying her above the balcony, the canyon, the world, until she's completely surrounded by shining stars in outer space, weightless, with no worries to tether her to the earth. Her hand reaches out to cup a star in her palm. It runs away from her, darting further into the endless chasm of the galaxy, leaving her behind.

She tumbles back down to earth when Warren claps his hands.

"Look at us," he says, gazing down at the quartet sprawled in lawn chairs in front of him. "Not a sober person in the house and we didn't burn it down!"

They all release a chorus of cheers.

"The night is young," Rory jokes. "No more cigarettes for you just in case."

Warren makes a face of mock offense. "What makes you think I would be the guilty one? Eddie's always starting accidental fires."

Eddie, too spaced out to retort, inspects his finger with the intense focus of a surgeon.

"Doesn't mean you're the most responsible," Rory says.

"You break my heart, Ro-Ro." He reaches down and grabs her hand. "I thought you trusted me."

He tugs her onto her feet and away from Graham'. She moves as easily as a rag doll, the dark colors of the night swirling together until she smacks into Warren's chest. He'd misjudged his strength and pulled her too hard, causing them to stumble a bit before he regains his balance, circling his arms around her so they stay upright. Rory giggles. The drugs always make her giddy, and this close proximity to the boy she adores is making butterflies form a riot in her stomach.

Warren is wearing a denim vest over a tank top, so why does he feel so much warmer than Graham? Rory is grateful for the cover of darkness that hides her flushed cheeks. She glances back at the others, but Eddie is still staring at his hand and Karen is trying to convince Graham to also try a tablet, so nobody is paying attention. It's just them, floating in outer space.

"I do trust you," she insists, poking his chest with her index finger. "I don't trust that you're incapable of starting a fire."

He catches her hand and positions their arms to the side. The floorboards creak as he takes tiny steps, moving them both in a miniature version of the salsa. When he spins her around, it's like the stars dance with them, shining like spotlights in her peripheral vision. She lands back into his chest a laughing mess.

Rory is suddenly struck with the realization that she could kiss him right now. Nothing is stopping her. They're close enough to do it, the lightbulbs strung around the balcony encasing them in a soft glow, their friends oblivious. She could stand on her toes, put one hand in his curls, and pull him to her mouth.

Her skin burns where his hand touches her back, searing straight through her blouse. A swallow lodges itself in her throat. Her hand slips from his. Moving as if detached from her body, containing a mind of its own, her index finger softly traces his mustache, barely grazing the edges of his lips. She could do it. She could slide her hand to his jaw...

But Rory doesn't want it to be like this. Not while they're both high, their inhibitions released by the drugs coursing through their systems. Not when Warren probably doesn't realize what he's doing and might not remember the details of this in the morning. Even though her heart craves it, rationale cuts through the haze of the acid and takes the reins.

Rory pulls away from the heat of him and collapses back into her chair before she does something she'll regret.

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RORY: Teddy stopped by a few days later to chat. He wanted to let me know that Fred Weisz had officially retired after the success of The Black Veil and Sticks 'n' Stones were asking me to help them write their third album.

GRAHAM: She almost said yes. I could see it in her eyes. We all could.

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Silence weighs heavy in the air, smothering the group like a blanket that's too heavy. Rory gnaws at her lower lip. She can feel Daryl Earlington's hands on her again, roaming territory nobody had ever touched before and making her nauseous with his touch. The memory feels like insects crawling across her skin.

She never wants to see that monster again. Henry Slate, she could tolerate — he was nothing but kind to her when he was sober enough to talk. But Sticks... bile rises in her throat at the mere thought of being in his presence again. Then again, people clearly want her to write for them again. After the Grammy win, people told her that they can't wait for the third record. Some music critic who's listened to all of her songs had deemed "Bloodshed" to be her best work.

"Rory," Graham says, his voice hoarse with emotion. She glances up to see him staring intently at the spot where her black eye had been. He shakes his head. A plea.

"What's goin' on?" Eddie asks. He and Warren walk inside, having returned from the store, setting paper grocery bags on the kitchen counter before joining them in the sitting room.

"Sticks 'n' Stones want Rory to write for them again," Karen replies, spitting out their name like it's venom on her tongue.

Warren laughs. It surprises everyone, because it's not a jovial sound at all. Rory isn't sure she's ever heard the noise come out of him before. It's sardonic, sarcastic, meant to feel like a slap in the face to the recipient. If Sticks had been in the room, he'd have been knocked dead by the poison in that single noise.

"Fat fucking chance of that," he spits.

"You're okay with them being near her again?" Eddie asks Teddy, rage lacing his tone. His expression is just as thunderous as it had been when he'd seen Rory's swollen face two years ago. "Sticks hit her, Teddy. Gave her a black eye."

Teddy's mouth falls open in shock. He's a level-headed man who's nearly impossible to surprise, but now he appears equally stunned and horrified. For the first time, Rory sees him at a loss for words. "I — I didn't — He what?"

That's not all he did, Rory thinks, shifting in her seat, but she doesn't voice that out loud. Her friends look ready to murder someone and they only know about the tip of the iceberg. There's no saying what they would do if they had the whole truth.

Karen is looking at her, clearly thinking the same thing. She plops down next to Rory and tugs her into her arms in a protective embrace.

"Rory," Graham says again, sounding as if he'd been torn into shreds from the inside out, "please don't. Don't go back."

"Physical violence is against contract," Teddy pipes up. He's found his words again. "Sticks 'n' Stones will have to be dropped from Ellenmare and banned from Sound City."

"Please don't let the public know why," Rory begs.

Teddy's face softens. "They won't know a thing. I promise."

She relaxes, dropping her head into Karen's shoulder in relief. The tabloids are never kind to women who get hit by powerful men. Somehow, they are always painted as deserving it.

"She's never seeing that asshole ever again," Warren says. Unlike Eddie, who looks ready to pick a fight in the street just as an excuse to let out some of his restless energy, he has more of a calm rage simmering inside of him. His usually bright eyes are dark with fury.

Rory has never seen him this angry.

Finding Teddy's gaze again, Rory asserts, "I'm never seeing that asshole ever again."

That is the day she files her restraining order against Daryl Earlington.

______

a/n:

me going feral in my room while writing this chapter:

I'M SO EXCITEDDDDDDDDDDDDD AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH !!!!

warren needs to stop walking around shirtless in those overalls like a slut. or actually he should keep doing it. idk. i was fanning myself.

thank you all for reading!!!! AND THANK YOU FOR ALMOST 30K RAAHHH!!!!

— kristyn

TRANSLATIONS:

Mi princesa: My princess

¡Puaj!: Yuck!

Bueno: Good

( word count: 4.9k )