The Boy from the Band

Compromises

I pack slowly, not knowing if I am relieved to be leaving or reluctant to leave Rick. I keep wondering what I should do, move back to New York so I can be with him or stay in California and leave the drama of our relationship behind.

"I thought I'd take you to the airport," he says, "I don't know how long it will be before I see you. Are you ready? Dacy?"

I stand dumbfounded, I say nothing because my mouth won't cooperate. It is a full minute before I can speak. "Yes," comes out, I can't think of anything else to say.

Rick takes my suitcase. "Come on," he tells me, "We've got to get going." I shrug my shoulders, then follow him out the door.

I'm dragging my feet. "Hurry up," he tells me and opens the door for me to get into his Cadillac. I hate the cars he drives. There is something about Lincolns and Cadillacs that make me feel hostile. At least he's not driving a Bentley.

We head down the road, he's driving too fast but after all these years I'm used to it, sort of. We'll get to JFK in one piece—barely.

He's not heading towards the highway. "Where are we going, Rick?" I want to make my plane, we have plenty of time but I know what he has in mind.

"There's a little motel down the road from here, I thought we'd stop there." That's all the explanation I get.

"All right," I mutter and sink down in the seat. I don't mind, but I don't like the fact he sprang it on me. Maybe he meant it as a surprise but it would have been nice to be asked. Damn Capricorns and their need to control everything.

The motel is cute, and surrounded by trees. He leaves the engine running as he goes into the office. He comes back with a red plastic key emblazoned with a gold "9". "I got the room in the back," he informs me, "Nice and private," which is hardly necessary as we seem to be the only ones here.

I follow him into the room. It's not fancy but it's clean and quaint with a handmade quilt on the bed. "Does it meet your satisfaction?" he smirks.

I'm giving in, "Yes," I say and put my arms around him. He leans his head down and kisses me and pulls my jacket off.

"Take off your clothes," his voice is soft but the command is implicit so I obey. "You too," I tell him.

We make love while I keep an eye on the clock. There's something desperate about our lovemaking lately but that doesn't mean I don't feel it. He can make me feel things, take me places, that no one else ever has—not even Bob. I wish we could drag this out, but we can't.

When we finish, he holds me, kissing me on the eyes, my nose, and then my lips. Then he pulls back slightly and asks, "Are you going to move back?"

"Rick, isn't it easier to not have me here? Before that person busted us things were fine, now I'm not so sure. If I'm not around, then you don't have to worry. As for my moving back, that will depend on you. Are you willing to wait for me to finish school? I have less than a year left you know. And then there's the matter of your heroin. You want me, you get clean, I'm tired of worrying about you and your drug habit. If you want me as badly as you say you do, you'll give up the junk."

"Babe, I know, I know. You've put up with me and the drugs for years. I try to go straight, but I can't seem to stay that way. I'll try, I promise, but you know how it is."

Yes, I do. He was a junkie before I met him, I was just too naïve to realize it. I know he's spending a lot, has spent a lot, on heroin but I don't know the exact figure. He doesn't take much time off; I don't know if he needs to be on stage or if because he needs the money—probably both. He told me once that he needs to be on stage, that it was the only place where he felt truly safe but I don't understand. He's never adequately explained to me exactly what that means.