by Lauryn Dyan
We do have ample wine thanks to Samantha and I’ve already had a glass. I find the slightly bitter red liquid soothes my nerves and I definitely need that. Cooking was a good distraction from speculating what Rickly may or may not have done last night but, as I tap my fork waiting for him, horrific pornographic images float through my brain. I picture Trecia’s wavy hair tickling Rickly’s nose as she contorts to grind him in the confined bunk. Then his tattoos bending and flexing as he moves on top. Ugh, I put down the silverware. I can’t let these thoughts take over or I’ll immediately make accusations and he’ll go on the defensive.
I pour another glass of calming juice as Rickly comes up the steps and through the open door. He squints through the darkness until his tall frame glides into the booth without a word. His face is unreadable. If he’d show me some emotion, I’d know how to play this. Apologetic, angry, hurt. Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way.
“Wine?” I ask. He nods. I’m not sure we’ve ever drank wine together so I’m relieved he likes it. Or will drink it, at least. Liquor loosens lips and whatnot.
I slide him the classy plastic cup and vaguely start us off.
“So...last night....”
He picks up his glass and drinks half of my generous pour in one gulp.
“Yeah, not our finest hour.”
I try not to cringe. He used ‘our,’ meaning we both have something to be ashamed of.
“No, I suppose not, but I’m having a little trouble with the details, to be honest.”
His eyes go wide and flick to mine. For a second, his shoulders relax under his dark t-shirt and he almost looks relieved. Is he going to tell me the truth or does he view this as his window to pull one over on me? Bastard better not lie.
“Again? You blackout a lot.”
I wave a hand to say ‘whatever’ and wait for him to go on.
He shrugs.
“I guess if it doesn’t bother you, it's fine. I’m glad you don’t remember this time though. Seeing me punch through your ceiling is a memory I’d rather you forget.”
“Why did you do it? Did I provoke you?” I’ve been known to be antagonistic when I’m hammered.
“Sort of. Those pills made us both super open and sensitive.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You were talking about how excited you are about Canada, more so than when you were sober. I could tell you were being very careful how you mentioned it before we went out but, once you were messed up, your filter was gone.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to rub it in your face. It’s just bittersweet. It’s a big deal for my band, but a bummer for me because I do really want you there. I don’t say that only to spare your feelings.” At least, I wanted him there. We’ll see after this conversation.
“I know and you said that last night. A lot. I mean, it started out fine. We were all over each other, which was a relief because things felt so awkward after the show. Every time we’d kiss you’d say you didn’t want to go on without me.”
A taste of that emotion rises in my chest and I’m tempted to reach out and touch the fingers that rest inches across the table from mine, but I refrain.
“But, as the night wore on, it bugged me more and more. My insecurities eventually outweighed your good intentions.” He takes another drink. “When we got back here, I thought the subject was dropped. We were laughing and goofing off. Then a song by JaxsonTheSavvy came on your Spotify and while you fumbled to change it, you kept saying ‘sorry’ over and over. I told you it was fine, but you wouldn’t stop. Then I got pissed. Then you got pissed. Told me I didn’t fucking care that you care, or something crazy like that, and ordered me to get the hell out and sleep in the United States, whatever that means.”
Good lord, I say stupid shit when I’m blacked out.
“When I didn’t leave, you pushed me. That’s when I punched your ceiling and split.”
“I’m sorry I was so ridiculous,” I say, guilty for the part I played in driving him away. “What I said was true but I didn’t need to hound on it and I didn’t need to kick you out. Technically, you’d still have been in the U.S. if you’d stayed in my bunk.” He cracks a half smile and I’m thankful to have lightened the mood, even if only temporarily.
“It’s not a big deal now. I’m sorry I was over sensitive. I am happy for you, just disappointed for us. Punching the ceiling was unnecessary and extreme but, at the time, it was all I could do to control my rage.”
I suppress a shudder wondering what would have happened if he hadn’t assaulted my bunk. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy that beats on girls, but you never know when you throw drugs in the mix.
He finally does what I couldn’t and places his hand over mine. I want to forget what I witnessed this morning and move forward from here, but there’s a rock in my stomach and it’s not from my untouched pasta. I keep my voice as level as I can, but it comes out a little high-pitched at the end. “So where did you sleep last night after you left?”
He almost imperceptibly flinches but doesn’t break eye contact.
“What?”
I’m not going to elaborate. If I admit I saw his possible walk of shame, he’ll have to fess up. If I don’t, I’ll get to see if he’s a liar.
“You heard me.”
He exhales. “I slept on RBYW’s bus.”
“Why?”
“I just ended up there.” He shakes his shaggy locks. “I didn’t want to sleep in my cramped, shitty van. When I stormed out, I ran into Ace and Trecia and they had more booze and invited me over.”
Innocent enough. Do I keep pushing? A part of me doesn’t want to, and another part is morbidly curious.
“And where did you sleep? Specifically.”
His eyes bore into me unblinking. He’s going to fucking make me say it.
My voice is strained.
“Whose bed were you in?”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Nothing happened.”
I quickly yank my hand back. Holy shit. I had really thought, or wished, that this wasn’t possible. Like I said before, we’ve never officially defined our relationship, but this is crossing an unspoken line.
“You asshole,” I mumble. There are tears of hurt and anger bubbling behind my eyes and I pray they don’t spill.
For a second he scrunches his nose in annoyance, and I want to punch him in the face like he punched the bus. Some nerve to be irritated with the girl he betrayed.
“Seriously Kennedy, don’t overreact. Nothing happened. Nothing.”
I just stare at him, forcing him to continue.
“You know she’s in love with Ace. Anyone with a brain knows it. We were all playing drinking games, but I was more messed up than the rest of them, so I stumbled over to the first bunk I saw to sleep. Trecia came over and asked me to go to the couch but I was in no position to move. Ace was watching us and I think she saw her chance to make him jealous. She climbed in with me.”
Fuckers. Both of them.
“But nothing else happened. She drew the curtain and we fell asleep. We didn’t even talk.”
“You don’t need to talk to have sex,” I point out, petulantly.
“No, you don’t, but we didn’t. I was pissed at you, but that didn’t change how I feel about you.”
“Really? And how’d you think I would feel about this?”
“It didn’t register. I was tired, and irritated, and tripping and I wasn’t thinking anything. I passed out. End of story.”
I want to believe him, but I keep replaying the ‘Rickly and Trecia do the Nasty’ porno I concocted in my head earlier. Sometimes having a vivid imagination sucks.
“Seriously, you have to believe me. Go ask Trecia.”
“That whore hates me. I wouldn’t believe her either way.”
“Well, shit, I don’t know what else to tell you. You’re the only one I want to be with. I knew it the first time we ever met at that show in Tempe.”
And I did, too. Aside from their talent, Rickly is why I
’d fought so hard to get Sheltered on the tour. We had instant chemistry and I wanted him in a lusty way I’d never experienced. Sure, when we first started hanging out months ago we weren’t exclusive, but part of that was to test the waters to see if blatant flirting bothered the other person. It had, so we’d stopped. Or, at least, one of us stopped.
“God Rickly, I want that to be true.”
“It is. Please don’t let one bad night ruin us. If I call what I did a mistake, it makes it sound like more happened than did. I want to be with you, only you...I know I love you.”
Those damn blue eyes look so sincere his words hit the mark. I shove the pasta and wine out of my way and kiss him with all the emotions swelling up inside of me: joy, excitement, relief and a touch of fear and doubt.
Chapter Six
The next day, when I arrive for my session with Craig, he looks at me expectantly. There’s a hopeful twinkle in his crow’s feet laden eyes that the Kennedy he met yesterday afternoon, with the colorful drawing and insightful commentary, is here and not the morose and unhelpful bitch he usually sees.
It’s going to be the former from now on. I need to get better, or at least fake getting better, so Craig signs off on my discharge and I can race back to my life. That fucker will not win. Staying in here like a shell of a person is what he wants, and I won’t give him the satisfaction.
In truth, I do want to know why I keep blacking out. I’m almost positive it’s because Rickly’s somehow found a way to make it happen; covertly slipping me something in my food or water. I tried not eating or drinking when I was first admitted, but do that enough and they threaten to shove a tube in your arm if you don’t. I stopped that tactic pretty quick, especially when the blackouts kept happening. I’m still cautious, but I figure there’s not much I can do. Somehow, I sense he’d still get to me no matter what.
But what if I’m wrong and it’s all in my head? We’re probably paying out the ass for my sessions, I might as well find out if my mind is cracked while I have these services at my disposal.
Either way, I’m determined I will not be in here forever. Watch out world, I’m coming back.
***
Rickly and I lay tangled naked in the noodles I tossed on the floor, a hot mess of sweat, red wine and spaghetti. It’s seriously gross but, in the moment, we didn’t even notice the culinary disaster below us. Thank God for laminate. We’ll have to clean up soon before the band gets back but, for now, I want to relax and enjoy Rickly’s arms while I think over our conversation.
I haven’t decided what parts of his story I believe. He’s shown no interest in Trecia before but that doesn’t mean he didn’t hook up with her last night because she was there. I’d like to assume he has more of a conscious than that but I’ve known enough piggish guys to realize not everyone thinks before they screw. Some girls too, to be fair.
The love part, that’s what’s got me reeling. Does he love me? Do I love him? I don’t know. We haven’t been together that long, but my feelings for him are strong. Stronger than like for sure. Teetering on the edge of love perhaps. He’s right we’ve been connected since we met, but that could just be lust.
The million dollar question then: if he does love me, is he innocent of committing any sins aside from assaulting the bus?
***
“I want you to go back. To remember a time before you drank, before you blacked out.”
I’ve been in Craig’s office close to an hour trying to illuminate the darkest recesses of my mind. To remember something I’ve lost. It’s been completely futile so far, so he’s switching tactics. I wish he’d end the session instead, but I can tell he wants to capitalize on my uncharacteristic cooperation. Hopefully, the more we meet and I’m engaged, the less he’ll want to drag things out. I only have so much patience, even when I want to be helpful.
I easily find my answer to his pre-blackout question.
“That’d be my first three years in high school unless we need to talk diapers.”
He chuckles politely, not because it’s funny, but because that’s what you do when a usually, tight-lipped, crazy person cracks a joke.
“Great. What about you then differs from the you now?”
I close my eyes and picture myself. The younger, less weathered me. She stands awkwardly with her eyes cast down while I analyze her like an observer of an experiment through one-way glass. I start with the subtle differences in her appearance.
“Her hair is long and brown. No crazy purple like I had when I got here, that’s now faded to gray. Her skin is untouched, sans tattoos.” I instinctively bring my hand to my wrist where my first, and favorite, tattoo resides. A ring of unfilled stars in honor of the band. We all got them together after we played our first show.
“Good,” Craig says, drawing out his o’s. “What about her demeanor is different?”
“She looks like me, but less mature. Not that I was an immature kid, but I just seem less sure of myself. Like I’m still figuring it out.”
“Figuring what out?”
“What I want. How to be my own person outside the confines of what’s been laid out for me.”
“Is she optimistic about her future?”
“She’s leery. Like she’s not sure she can take control of it. It doesn’t feel like it’s hers to take.”
His voice is like a purr.
“How so?”
“There are so many others counting on her future, who have invested in her success. Her mom or, I guess, my mom, wanting me to go to a university, unlike the community college she attended. All the time she spent helping me comb through those glossy brochures and plan. My sister, who looks up to me and expects me to set a good example, whether she knows it or not. My mom’s church friends who believe they’ve helped raise a good girl. Sonny, who is ready to follow my lead. I can’t let them down. The old me is afraid.”
“This you, when does she stop being afraid? When does she believe she’s in control?”
I try to piece together my past to reveal when the self-confidence I have today emerged. What was the trigger? I open my eyes.
“It was when I started to blackout.”
***
The bus is clean and back on the road. Rickly decided to ride with us and we are lying in my bunk watching the TV in the wall, neither of us moving much. Our breathing is slow and in sync as I drift off to sleep in his arms.
***
Craig is nodding and writing furiously. I want to peer at his notepad to see if he’s scrolling “BREAKTHROUGH!” in big fat letters.
His pen stops and he looks back up at me.
“That’s an interesting conclusion. Most people would say they feel out of control when they blackout. Why do you feel the opposite?”
I don’t have to think long this time before I reply.
“Because blacking out was how I got to be my true self back then. If I wanted to completely let go of my inhibitions and fears and just be me, I had to drink until they came.”
“Did that ever change?”
“Eventually, the real me took over sober me as well. I got tired of being two people, so I made a choice of who I wanted to be and went with it. I still blacked out but it was just an extension of me then, not a different version.”
“And now?”
“Are you saying there might be two of me again?”
“Is that what you think?” Damn, I hate that.
“Possibly…I don’t think blackout me is the real me anymore. Maybe because now I feel out of control like everyone else when they happen. Or, maybe it’s more that I can’t control the blackouts. They come against my will and when I don’t expect them. Before, I had a good idea when I was going to cause one.” Like every night I partied.
“That’s good. I understand how you’ve positioned blackouts as a part of your life then and now.” He writes one more note. “That’s enough for today. Next time, I’d like to talk about when things shifted specifically. When you lost control of being out of control.�
� His lip twitches like he might actually smile at his interesting choice of words.
I nod and stand to leave. My body is sore from sitting and my mind is tired from the exertion. I fixate on Craig. His lanky frame and lack of hair. I want to say something but I’m not sure what. I blink slowly, ready to turn away, but my vision turns hazy.
Suddenly, I’m back in my boring room, the bed sheets a mess and the lights mounted on the wall still off as it turns to dusk. The change in scenery is startling and my eyes scan the space bewildered, unsure how I got here.
I lost it. I must have. That time between his office and returning here. The darkness pulled me under again.
***
“You are so awesome!” A young female fan, around sixteen, shakes my hand and smiles around her braces with so much overwhelming enthusiasm, I have to grin back. We’re in a cozy room, at the radio station, meeting six fans that won the radio meet and greet contest. Tonight, they’ll get to hang with us backstage before and after the show.
It still amazes me that people are excited to meet us. That we have minor, celebrity status. I want to tell them I’m nothing special, but I guess that’s no longer true. We have what so many want: talent and fans. Fucking unreal.
The four male winners are playing it cool, talking to Davey, Jack and Oli about our instruments but one seems to have his eye on Sonny, and two are stealing glances at me. I’m pretty sure the fourth is into Davey. I lost track of the other female winner, but my grin for young Courtney carries over to the guy fans and before I know it, they’ve migrated my way.
I find the male attention flattering, no matter who or how many guys it is. I was a wallflower when I was a kid, unnoticed by a lot of the boys I had crushes on. I was better in high school. I dated a little, and had a guy who was my “boyfriend” senior year, which didn’t entail much other than losing my virginity. Now I may not have my pick of men, but there’s a lot of fish in my sea.
Whenever I’m asked if I’m in a relationship, I deflect by making some joke or flippant remark and move on. Samantha said it’s better for our image if we come across as unattached. It hasn’t been a problem, but now I’m not sure if I need to change my tune. I never said “I love you, too” to Rickly because I’m not sure yet if I do, but does his admission mean I need to acknowledge us more officially? I’m hesitant because, if I’m being honest, I still have my doubts about him and Trecia. Trust is a fickle bitch.
