Being stationed in San Diego, I’d often travel north to visit my grandparents—both on my mom’s side and my organic dad’s. I’d hop on a train or bus, the kind that hugged the Pacific Coast, winding along the ocean like it was guiding you to some revelation. This particular trip, I landed in Long Beach. The bus spat me out downtown, and I made my way to my grandmother’s place over by Signal Hill. Family time. The unconditional kind. Questions about my life, about the Navy, about my future. They gave me the love I needed, love without strings or commentary.
My organic dad, though, wasn’t in the picture. He was still spinning his usual bullshit—that I’d run off to join the circus or something equally absurd. The truth was he needed that lie so he could go on playing house with his wife and kids. Let them play their little games.
Anyway, after the family reunion, they dropped me off downtown Long Beach. Waved goodbye like you’d wave off a ship heading out to sea. That’s when she appeared—a beautiful young woman who looked like Whitney Houston herself had stepped off the cover of Rolling Stone to slum it with the rest of us mortals. She sat near me on the bus, and I introduced myself. Small talk became easy talk. Before long, we were laughing and sharing stories, and the four-hour ride disappeared like a dream you don’t want to wake from.
When we landed in San Diego, I walked her down to Hawthorne Plaza. She was headed to San Diego State University; I was stationed on North Island, grinding through Navy school. Before we parted, we swapped numbers. And from that moment, we were inseparable. School functions, poetry jams, plays—she came from money, carried herself with a kind of confidence I wasn’t used to but liked. She had just enough bossy in her to keep me interested.
I met her friends once at a poetry jam. Afterward, we went to a salad bar in La Jolla. I remember walking in with her, all eyes turning to us. Heads didn’t just turn; they lingered. I was used to people staring. My build—broad chest, narrow waist—always drew attention. But this was different. They weren’t looking at just me. They were looking at us. And I could tell some of them didn’t like what they saw: a black woman and a white man holding hands, walking like we owned the place. No one said anything outright. No thrown food, no slurs, no crosses burned in the yard. But the weight of their stares was enough. We felt it. Brushed it off. What else could you do?
Her family had money. She lived off-campus in a cozy little place in La Jolla. Sometimes I stayed over. It was good until it wasn’t.
The trouble started with a Depeche Mode concert. Keith and Liu—two meathead buddies I worked out with—reminded me about it. These guys were built like comic book characters, bloated muscles pumped full of juice. They weren’t the kind of guys I wanted her to meet. So when I brought up the concert and said it’d just be me and the guys, she bristled.
And then it started. The manipulation. The cold shoulder. The silences punctuated by sharp questions:
“Why can’t I go? Why don’t you want me there? We’re a couple, aren’t we? Why are you shutting me out?”
I was 18. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. So, I caved. “Fine,” I said. “You can come.”
We got to the concert, and as expected, she hated my friends. Keith and Liu were testosterone in human form. The music started, and they transformed into Solid Gold dancers, shirtless and dripping with sweat, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Women weren’t watching the band; they were watching them. And they loved it. My girl sat next to me, arms crossed, eyes shooting daggers.
“Don’t you even think about it,” she hissed.
And I didn’t. Not for the first song. Or the second. I stayed rooted in my seat like a good boy, letting the music wash over me while everyone else stood, swayed, and lost themselves. But then Blasphemous Rumors came on—my song. The opening beats hit, dark and pulsing, and the whole place ignited like a powder keg. Keith and Liu turned toward me, their faces lit up like kids on Christmas morning.
“Come on, James!” Keith yelled, already bouncing on the balls of his feet. “This is your song, man! Live your life!”
Liu chimed in, clapping his hands. “Get up, dude! Don’t waste it!”
I felt her hand on my arm before I even made a move. She gripped me like I was a runner trying to jump the starting line.
“Don’t you dare,” she hissed, her voice low and cutting.
But how could I not? The energy in the air was alive, buzzing with something primal. The crowd was on their feet, bodies moving, hands raised, a tidal wave of people giving themselves over to the music. And there we were, the only two sitting down like some humbugging assholes who didn’t get the memo. I could feel it—the beat thumping through the soles of my feet, crawling up my spine, making my heart race.
It was calling me.
I hesitated, just for a second. I could feel her glare boring into the side of my head. But then the lyrics hit, and it was like a switch flipped in me. I stood up, shrugging her hand off like it weighed nothing. It felt right.
The music coursed through my veins, my body moving before my brain could catch up. My legs started to sway, my arms raised instinctively. The bass vibrated in my chest, and for the first time that night, I felt alive. The crowd around me fed off the energy, cheering louder, and before I knew it, my shirt was off, exposing my tan skin to the electric heat of the crowd.
That’s when it all exploded.
The girls near the by screamed like we were in a boy band music video. Hands reached out, bodies moved closer, and the whole place turned into a chaotic, sweaty mess of wild energy. I was part of it now. Keith and Liu were already shirtless, feeding off the attention, hamming it up like they were auditioning for Solid Gold. They howled and flexed, playing to the women around them, and it only made me loosen up more.
The music was loud, the lights were flashing, and I let it all take me over. I wasn’t thinking about her anymore. I wasn’t thinking about anything but the moment. That raw, electric moment where the world dissolved, and it was just me, the music, and the wild chaos of the crowd.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I’d pay for this. The way she’d crossed her arms and sunk lower into her seat told me that much. But I couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when the music was flowing through me, not when the crowd’s energy was pushing me forward like a current I couldn’t swim against.
Blasphemous Rumors wasn’t just a song—it was a damn anthem. And for those four minutes, I wasn’t just listening to it. I was living it.
When the concert ended, we walked to the car in silence. Not the comfortable kind of silence where two people understand each other without words, but the kind where every step feels like you’re digging your own grave. I trailed several paces behind her, staring at the back of her head, trying to read the storm clouds forming above it.
By the time we got to the car, I already felt like I’d been tried, convicted, and sentenced. No jury, no appeal. Just me, locked up in her courtroom, waiting for the executioner to show up. The silence in the car was oppressive, like the weight of her disappointment was another passenger, sitting right there in the back seat. We started across the Coronado Bridge, the lights of the bay below us shimmering like they were mocking my dumb ass.
I wanted to speak—God, did I want to say something—but the words died in my throat every time I opened my mouth. Mr. Charmer, the guy who could crack a joke and lighten the mood with ease, had officially left the building. I was frozen, every instinct screaming at me to tread carefully. She hadn’t said a word since we got in, but her body language was loud enough. Her tight jaw, the way she gripped the steering wheel like she wanted to snap it in half—it all told me I was on thin ice.
She didn’t yell. She didn’t slam her fists on the dashboard or throw insults at me. But somehow, the silence was worse. She didn’t need to scream to tell me I’d blown it. I could feel it in every tense second ticking by.
We pulled up to the guard tower gate, the spot where guests get dropped off. She didn’t say a word, didn’t even look at me. Instead, she leaned her body over mine—close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—and unlocked the door. Then she pushed it open, her arm brushing against me like I wasn’t even there.
I hesitated. I leaned over, mouth halfway open, thinking I could salvage this. Maybe a quick apology or a stupid joke could defuse the bomb ticking between us. But then I did the smart thing. I stepped out.
Before I could close the door, she hit the gas, wheels screeching against the pavement as she sped off into the night. No yelling, no fight, no dramatic goodbye. Just gone.
I stood there under the faint glow of the tower light, staring after her taillights as they disappeared down the road. That was it. A handful of songs, a few hours of tension, and everything we’d built unraveled like it was never real to begin with.
It was the first time I’d been dumped.
I’d learned something that night—not for the first time, and certainly not the last. Some things can’t be fixed with apologies or charm. Some people don’t want explanations; they just want out. And sometimes, the best thing you can do is step out of the car before the wheels screech and leave you in the dust.
Still, as I stood there waiting for my pulse to slow, I couldn’t help but think—damn, that was a hell of a concert.
Still, I love that damn song.
