Page 67 of Backstage

“That’s why I don’t want any relationship, anyone in my life. I don’t wanna be like my father.”

“Damian, look at me,” she says, taking my face in her hands and turning it towards her. Her eyes are full of tears and sadness. “You’re not like your father, you’re a generous, protective person who cares about others. You only have to see how you act with your friends to understand that you will never hurt anyone, let alone the people you love. You’ve helped me overcome my greatest fears. How could you think you could hurt anyone?”

I disentangle from her grip and get up, putting some distance between us. “I went to prison, Lilly. Did you miss that? I was there because I took a baby away from his mother. I’m just like my father, I’m exactly like him.” My voice comes out trembling with anger and pain.

“It was a mistake. You didn’t know there was a baby in the car, don’t you understand? When you realized what you did, you left him in front of a hospital, you did the right thing...that’s why you’re not like your father,” Lilly tries to reason, but my heart won’t listen to it.

“You don’t go to jail by mistake,” I whisper before I grab the door handle and walk out of the room, so I don’t implode and choke.

“Damian, wait,” I call him. I know he hears me, but he doesn’t answer.

He’s been avoiding me for days. We haven’t spoken since he left my room after telling me about his father. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to grow up in a violent family, but that doesn’t mean he has to become like him. We’re not our parents. We’re not their blood. We can learn from them, sure, but we can learn from their mistakes, even when they’re as hard to deal with as Damian’s father.

“Give him some time.” Thomas’ voice behind me makes me turn. I show him a forced smile.

Time. I’ve been trying to give him time for days, but I don’t think that’s what he needs at this point. “I just wanted to give him back the sweatshirt he forgot. Do you mind giving it to him?” I hand him the sweatshirt with a grimace that’s supposed to be a smile.

“Would you like some coffee?” he asks.

I watch him for a few seconds. I know he’s Damian’s best friend, so I assume he wants to talk to me about him. My cheeks are starting to burn from humiliation. I already know he’s gonna tell me I’m making a fool of myself with these clumsy, ill-concealed attempts to approach him. He’s going to tell me how it works in this environment, that it’s normal to fuck with someone, and there is no talking after it’s happened. He will tell me that I’m no different from the others he’s taken to bed, to grow up, not to be a little girl, and forget what happened. I was just a pastime for his friend. But when Thomas Simons from Jailbirds asks you to go for coffee, you say yes, and you don’t refuse just because you don’t want to hear the things that are obvious to everyone.

“Yeah, why not? We have time before the show.”

He signals me to follow him, and we walk into the parking lot. Max is leaning against an Escalade, reading a book while sipping a cup of coffee. The sight of this big guy, six feet tall with broad shoulders, reading a book with yellowed pages and a bookmark between his fingers makes me smile. I have the impression that I’ll have to get to know him better. Maybe he’s someone I can exchange book suggestions with. When he sees us, he straightens up and puts the bookmark between the pages.

“You are the man of my life. You bookmarked instead of bending the corner of the page.” I put my hand on my heart in a theatrical way, making Thomas giggle.

Max seems surprised by my comment, but then his face opens with a smile. “Only the children of Satan fold the pages of a book to mark their place,” he says, grinning.

We all burst out laughing as we get in the car and the tension I was carrying slips away, exchanging jokes that lighten the weight I’ve been carrying for days.

*

The elevator goes up to the building’s top floor, where the view opens onto the city from the three glass walls that enclose the room we enter. The city’s skyscrapers that surround us open up to a few glimpses of the neighborhoods of two-story houses arranged neatly in rows along the streets. The greenery of their gardens contrasts with the glass and mirrors of the buildings from which they emerge. It is an exclusive place that occupies the top floor of a luxury hotel, with well-separated tables and only few people who seem intent on conversations that no one should eavesdrop on. No one gives us a glance, perhaps because, in here, we are the most ordinary people who sit at one of the corner tables that look directly onto the glass wall. I believe that, not far away from us, there is an Arab sheik intent on haggling, leather briefcase in hand, with a man in a suit and tie who, with a straight face, could easily have a gun hidden under his blue suit jacket and white shirt with diamond cufflinks. Everything about the conversation at that table oozes importance and secrecy.

I feel underdressed in my tank top, shorts, and Vans. Then I look at Thomas in jeans and a T-shirt, and I feel a little reassured.

Max moves over to the counter to submit our orders.

“You want to tell me to stay away from Damian? That he’s just having a good time, and I don’t have to press him?” I ask without beating around the bush.

Thomas smiles, amused. “Right to the point. I like it.”

“More than anything else, I want the humiliation to end as soon as possible. I know Damian doesn’t want anything from me. He made me realize that in a thousand different ways. When the tour’s over, I’ll disappear, I swear.”

Thomas laughs, this time more openly, leaving me a little surprised. “It’s the exact opposite of what I wanted to ask you,” he says, looking straight into my eyes, sipping the coffee Max just brought before walking away and sitting at a table a short distance away.

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I thought...” I’m not even able to finish the sentence since his words caught me off guard.

“Give him time. Damian’s not easy, but honestly, I’ve never seen him worry about a woman as much as he does about you. He needs to understand that what he’s feeling is right...that he’s not gonna hurt you. He just needs your time and patience.”

“He told me about his father, why he was put into foster care.”

This time, it’s me who surprises Thomas. He seems pleasantly impressed with my statement, and stunned. “Really? He told you about that night?”

“Not in detail, he told me the fight escalated, the police intervened and they put him in foster care. I’m assuming the social workers imagined he used to beat his mother some time ago.”

Thomas seems to weigh my words very carefully. Then he takes a deep breath and continues seriously. “It took him over a year and a half to confess to us. He kept pushing us away at first because he was afraid of hurting us. When we were in jail, he would often end up in fights, throwing scary fists. He had a temper he couldn’t control, and, in my opinion, it was his way of ‘proving’ that he was like his father. Then he met the prison psychologist, he met us, and that anger went away a little bit...but I think he’s afraid that it might come back out of the blue, like with his father, and he might hurt somebody.”

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