Kim Karr - Dazed

I am rewarded with his bright white smile. “How about you open it when you get home and tell me if you do?”

I nod. He doesn’t move away. He’s standing so close. Moments of silence pass until he steps back and opens my door for me. Once I’m settled in my seat he hands me my seat belt and I buckle myself in. He steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets and I notice he’s biting his lip. I also realize I’m doing the same. With the car in reverse, I roll my window down and point to his car in front of me. “I really do think your car is cool.”

The lights from the driveway hit him, highlighting his good looks, but my gaze is drawn to his eyes. “What?” I ask, catching his stare. His head drops, but his eyes lift. The look can only be described as hot. And I never, ever, call a guy hot. Well, on occasion I have, but only when I’ve been drinking.

“For a sixteen year old. You forgot to say I think your car is cool for a sixteen year old.”

“No, I didn’t forget. It really is just cool.”

I start to roll my window up and he steps forward. “Aerie, wait. I completely forgot why I was so excited to meet you.” And I don’t fail to notice it’s the first time he’s used my real name all night.

“Oh, that’s right. River did say that.”

He leans down and braces his hands on the door. Again he is so close. I can smell his unbelievable scent. I can see how his dark hair shines in the moonlight. I notice the fullness of his lips—I could kiss him if I wanted.

“Do you think I could take you out to lunch tomorrow? Later next month I’ll be auditioning for the role of your uncle in the movie No Led Zeppelin and I’d love to pick your brain.”

And just like that my stomach somersaults. But this time it’s not fluttering, it’s falling.

In a hopeless effort to will the memories away, my fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. Although the sky is clear, my mind is anything but. And, tonight of all nights, the traffic is light and I exit the 405 in no time. However, instead of taking my usual right, I go left and head south. I’m not in a hurry to get home and be alone, but why I head this way—I don’t know. As I drive through this small sliver of California that I usually avoid, I can’t help but allow Levi James to seize my mind. He was the first boy I ever loved, the boy I gave my virginity to, the boy who took away my faith in men, and the one who stole the precious window of time I had left with my uncle.

Tonight was unlike anything I’ve felt for a long time, if ever. But Jagger Kennedy wasn’t interested in me—he wanted something from me. When he asked if I would have lunch with him, I should have said no, but I couldn’t. A small part of me wanted to believe he was sincere. So I said I’d think about it and took my foot off the brake. I needed to leave. I glanced at him as he walked back up the steps. He stopped on the landing and with his hands in his pockets he watched me. He looked sincere—or maybe that is just what I wanted to believe.

Pulling over near the shore on the south bluff, I stare out into the water thinking about how I dislike the beach—and yet I never used to mind it. Why do things bother me so much now—how the sand that gets in my clothes is annoying, the wind that batters my hair is always distracting, and the jellyfish I have to sidestep are no longer wonders of beauty but hideous creatures. When I was younger I loved all of those things. Even before I followed Dahlia to Laguna, I had spent many days here. My uncle’s house was hidden away on the bluff and summer after summer this beach had been our playground. My uncle wasn’t married and he didn’t have any children, so I was like the daughter he never had. My parents didn’t go on vacation—they wouldn’t ever leave work long enough—but my uncle did, and he took me with him. We frolicked on the beach, he took me into LA, and he showed me all of California. And then before returning to Chicago, he’d fly us anywhere I wanted to go—Hawaii, London, Milan, and even Greece.

But after the heartbreak of that last summer I’d spent in Laguna with Levi, I didn’t return until it was too late. For the longest time I felt like Levi took the few years I had left with my uncle from me. Now I know it was me who robbed myself of those years, because I didn’t want to go back. I wish I had made different decisions and often feel guilty that I didn’t.

I loved my Uncle Ian. Maybe more than I loved my parents. What wasn’t to love—he was fun, full of adventure, had no rules. And he was unbelievably famous. As the lead bassist for the band Dazed, he lived the life of a rock star. Rolling Stone once said Dazed was the only band ever to have more influence on music than Led Zeppelin. And I believe that my uncle was the only musician to ever command a magazine cover more confidently than Robert Plant. Dazed may never have sold as many records as Led Zeppelin, and they might not have attracted as many concertgoers, but their sound will never be forgotten. But Uncle Ian’s death put an end to his legacy—or so I thought initially.

He was diagnosed with lung cancer just before my high school graduation and only lived six more months. The cancer was ravaging his body and when we’d spoken on the phone, his optimism always made me feel that he would get through it, but I should have recognized how sick he was. When my parents told me we were all going to Laguna for the summer, I knew then that we were nearing the end and I didn’t even wince at the thought of seeing Levi. I knew my uncle needed me.

By the time we arrived, his health had deteriorated so much from when I had last seen him a few months previously. Madeline, Levi’s mother and my uncle’s next-door neighbor, had been helping him out. But when we arrived, she no longer had to. I spent every minute I could with him. A hospital bed was set up in his study and I slept on the couch beside him.

He didn’t want to die but he tried to prepare me for it. Nurses came every day, and he only got weaker. By the time the end of summer neared, he was sleeping more and more and had stopped eating solid foods. He had to talk in whispers to conserve energy. Sometimes he would hallucinate, sometimes he would cry, and sometimes he would laugh. He would pick at the sheets and I’d hold his hands to stop him. I’d stay with him for hours and just sit and talk—to take his mind off the pain.

Then summer ended and I begged my parents to let me hold off on starting school until the second semester, but they refused. So I went to USC during the week and went back to my uncle’s on the weekends. And then it happened, when I was there. On a Friday night he asked me for a sip of water and coughed it up. We both noticed it was black. I told him I was sorry I gave him coke, so as not to worry him. But that night he couldn’t swallow his pills, so the nurse gave him some kind of shot in addition to extra doses of morphine through the pump. The next morning he was awake and grabbed my hand and tears spilled from his eyes.

“My little darling, I’m dying,” he whispered.

“I know,” I cried.

After the nurses left that morning, my parents begged me to go back to school. But I couldn’t. I knew he would be gone before I got back. So instead I stayed by his side. I kept my hand in his as his breathing quickened and grew shallow. Tears leaked down the side of his face and I’d wipe them. His eyes glazed over, but I knew he saw me. When his top lip turned bluish in color, his breathing slowed even further and he was staring. I thought he was staring at me until I noticed his breathing had stopped completely. And just like that, he was gone from my life.

And now Warner Bros. was making a movie about him. I’d already met with the executives last year and agreed to consult on the movie script. I wasn’t privy to all the information about my uncle’s life, but I was confident I knew enough. I was the keeper of his belongings—awards, albums, documents, and his guitars.

The first meeting with the film producers was both a classic rock love-fest and a contentious boxing match between the biographers and the scriptwriters. The movie manuscript took over a year to come to fruition—but I read it last month and couldn’t be prouder. Rather than be involved in the day-to-day workings of producing a movie, I released my rights and decided to let them do what they do best. I felt comfortable with the direction the movie was taking and work had grown crazy with so many new demands now that Damon was overseeing Sound Music, I just didn’t have the time to dedicate to it. My attorney wanted me to add an addendum that any major re-writes had to be approved by me, but I didn’t think that was necessary. Last I heard Brett Hildebrandt had been named the director, and I was happy to know they had hired one of the best.

I have to admit the idea of Jagger playing the role of my uncle intrigues me. Jagger is taller, much thinner, has darker hair, and honestly, better looking, but he does exude a similar confidence to my uncle. His looks could be downplayed. And for some reason I felt a certainty that beneath his lean, long body was a tower of strength—the same strength my uncle exuded. Shoving my own insecurities aside I decide that I’ll help him.

The beach parking lot is deserted and just as I put the car in reverse, I get a text message from a New York number.

Are we on for lunch tomorrow?

Assuming it’s Jagger, I respond quickly: I haven’t decided yet.

How can I persuade you?

Let me pick the place.

Done. So I’ll pick you up at noon?

No. I’ll meet you.

That’s not how dates work.

I didn’t think this was a date.

Time seems suspended as I wait for a reply. Staring at my illuminated phone, I jump, startled when my phone rings from the same number that just texted me. The thunder in my pulse makes my finger shake as I slide it across the screen.

“Hello,” I answer.

“I would have called you to begin with, but I wasn’t sure if you’d still be awake,” a low sultry voice says through the line.

“I’m not even home yet,” I answer, looking at the small silver watch on my right wrist.

“It’s almost 1:30. I thought it was an hour drive? Is everything okay?”

“Yes.” I laugh. “I just had a stop to make. I’m heading home now.” I ease my foot off the brake and start to pull out of the parking lot.

“An oil change?” he jokes.

“No, definitely not an oil change.”

“Well, when you’re in need—you let me know. I just might be able to hook you up with an excellent service center.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So about lunch tomorrow. I thought you should know—I really want to see you again. It’s not just about your uncle.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, sounding incredibly stupid, but not knowing how else to respond. I’ve never been asked out on an afternoon date. Then, I hear voices in the background.

“Is that Dahlia?”

“No. She and River went to bed. It’s just me, the TV, and the dead bodies.”

We both laugh and the sound of his laugh makes me laugh harder. Once our laughter fades he asks, “So I’ll pick you up then?”

“No, let’s meet at the Loft in Laguna. Say one.”

“Do you not want to ride in my car?”

“How’d you guess?” I tease.

“I knew it.”

“No really, it’s just easier that way.”

“Okay, for this time. You need to get your comfort level up. I get it.”

And he did. What could I say to that?

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. What is it?” I manage to sound relaxed when I’m anything but.

“Do you ever take the top down?”

I’m not the joking kind but I know exactly how to answer. “No. Never. In fact I’m not even sure I know how.”

A beat. A pause. I can tell he’s thinking. He’s been doing this all night—asking me a question and then quietly processing my answer.

“Jagger, I’m pulling into my neighborhood, but I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I hope so, Alice,” he responds before the line goes dead.

There’s a line from Alice in Wonderland that tugs at my thoughts. The quote says something about being different yesterday than you are today and it strikes me as overly philosophical to have come from a fairy tale written in the 1800s, and yet it’s completely on the mark. Signaling, I take a right and head toward my house tucked deep away in Laguna Canyon. Easing past the community pool and the tennis courts, I come to a stop in front of the attached garage of my cape cod–style townhouse. My home backs up to a wooded hill and has a beautiful private patio where in the mornings I could sip my tea and listen to the birds sing while the sunlight filters through the large trees—I could, but I never have.