by Henry, Max
I laugh. “Can’t fuck it up when I can’t think of anything.”
“You stalked her damn profile and came up empty?” He signals, turning us toward the shopping precinct.
“All she shares is band stuff.”
“So, call her,” Kris states as though it’s that fucking simple.
“I wanted to surprise her.”
He hums, chewing on his lip ring as he thinks. “What is she doing for Christmas? You know that?”
“Going to her parents' place.”
“Cool.” His lined eyes flick to the rearview.
“Not cool.” I straighten in the seat, checking out the jacked truck being a fucktard behind us. “She doesn’t want to be there.”
“Damn.” Kris moves to the other lane, allowing the jock to roar past. “Keep it simple then.”
“What you thinking?” I narrow my eyes on him.
“Do something to make her day better.” He shrugs. “You’ll know what makes her happy, surely.”
That’s just the problem—I don’t.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have got us in this fucking standoff, to begin with.
FORTY-ONE
Alice
“The Acrobat & the Philosopher” – Johnny Stranger
“There’s something I need to talk to you guys about.” Shanae spreads out the array of Chinese boxes on the counter for us to pick from. “Grab something to eat, and we can get comfy first.”
Fria glances my way as she lifts a plate.
I don’t have it in me to even shrug. Not when I thought it would be me delivering that same line.
I haven’t told them what the doctor said yet, just that the cause of the headaches isn’t serious for my health. I wanted to set their minds at ease, not give them something else to stress over.
At least, not until I’d managed to figure out how the hell I’d tell them.
With a generous helping of sticky pork and fried rice, I sink into the armchair and wait on Shanae. She fusses with her place setting on the coffee table, moving her can of drink this way and that until everything lines up inside a perfect square.
“For fuck’s sake,” Fria moans around a mouthful of noodles. “Just say it.”
Our bassist meets each of our curious gazes in turn before taking a deep breath. “Cleo wasn’t a match for this latest donor.”
“Damn. I’m sorry.” My fork rests on the plate in my hand.
Shanae shrugs. “It’s always a gamble when they come up.” Her sister has been waiting for years. The last time she was a match, there was a kid deemed higher importance who got the transplant instead. “She’s not doing real good. Mom said she’s been vomiting again, and when I was there, her ankles were swollen.” Shanae lifts her gaze. “She tried to hide it.”
“What are you doing here, then?” Fria asks, blunt as always.
Shanae flattens her lips in a wry smile. “I was getting to the crux of it.” Her shoulders rise. “How would you both feel if I went home indefinitely?”
“As in…” I start.
“Until your sister dies?” Fria frowns.
Jesus. Sugarcoat it, why doesn’t she?
Shane nods, her eyes glistening. “Exactly. We don’t know how long she has, but she’s been on the waitlist for two years. If they don’t find a donor soon, I don’t think her dialysis can keep her.”
“Shit.” I set my uneaten dinner aside and slip off the chair.
Fria mirrors me on Shanae’s far side, and we wrap our arms around her neck, cradling our little red firecracker as best we can. There isn’t a damn thing either of us can do to help, and I know the instant I meet Fria’s concerned stare behind Shanae’s head, that she feels as useless as I do.
How am I supposed to tell them now? In a way, Shanae’s departure is serendipitous. I have the perfect timing for a break to rehab myself. But I couldn’t do that to Fria. When it comes down to replacing our bassist for a while or sending our drummer back to the streets, then I know what I choose.
Without a doubt.
“You’re going home,” I say softly to Shanae as Fria and I both pull away. “There’s no question, here. Fria and I will be fine—we’ll manage.”
“Are you sure?”
“Damn,” Fria groans, rising to her feet. “You’re asking a chick who lived on the street for over a year if I’ll be able to manage?”
The jest pulls a smile from our friend. “I feel terrible, though. I might be there for three months; it could be a year. Nobody knows.”
“It’s as long as it needs to be.” I resettle on the seat and lift my lukewarm dinner. “Eat. We’ll worry about it later.”
“Do you want me to help find a replacement?” Shanae asks before popping a money bag in her mouth.
“I don’t think so.” The rice grains swirl around my fork. I should eat, but my appetite waned the minute the doc gave me his assessment.
“We can look at ways to cut costs in the short-term,” Fria states, eyes down on her meal. “At least, until your face is pretty again, Alice.”
“Thanks.” I sass before testing a mouthful.
The flavor explodes on my tongue. I’d kept a pretty steady diet of ramen and yogurt while on bed rest the first few days since they took the least amount of preparation. I’d almost forgotten what real food tastes like.
The room falls quiet as each of us enjoys our meal. I allow my gaze to drift between the girls, wondering if either of them feels the same: nostalgic. As though nights like these are a dying breed.
The inkling was there, that what we’d achieved had hit a brick wall. That we’d peaked. But I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to think that if I did what everyone said and just kept trying, kept pushing in case our breakthrough was around the next corner, that we’d make it.
But perhaps fairytales are just too far-fetched for the reality of our world? Maybe not all of us are supposed to have a happy ending. After all, science teaches us that all actions have an equal and opposite reaction. That for one thing to thrive, another perishes.
Maybe that’s what we are? Some kind of sacrifice, paving the way and making mistakes so that other younger musicians can learn from our failures?
Or maybe that whack to the head was a little too hard?
“Everything okay over there?” Fria scowls, plate clean.
“Yeah.” I stare down at the relatively untouched portions before me.
“Your fork has hovered over the rice for a fucking eternity.” She rises to her feet and heads for the kitchen. “You’re somewhere, Alice, but it’s not here.”
“I’m allowed to think, aren’t I?”
“Sure.”
Shanae eases back, looping her arms around bent knees to watch us parry back and forth.
“But it’s not like you to keep opinions to yourself,” Fria finishes. “What happened today?”
“I told you: I have headaches from muscle strain. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“So, they’ll go away eventually?” Shanae asks.
I nod, bolting from the seat. Fria lifts an eyebrow when I dump the uneaten dinner on the counter.
“I’ll clean up after myself later. I need to lie down for a moment.”
Their muted chatter dies off behind me, my bedroom door providing as much reprieve as I can from the girls. I dive onto my bed, scooping my phone from the nightstand after I land. Everything swirls around inside of me, and if I don’t get these thoughts out, I’m fit to burst.
Like a fucking pinata.
In a mess all over the goddamn floor.
I dial him without a second thought. The only people aside from Emery who understand this right now are out there in the living room, and they’re the last people I want to discuss a goddamn hiatus with.
“Hey,” Emery sings, long and lazy. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Are you drunk?” I roll to my back and push to a seated position.
He giggles like a fucking girl. “You said to take it slow, right?”
“Babe, babe …” He grunts as though finding it hard to move. “It’s a little alcohol. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Why the fuck does he keep doing this? “Is she there? Did Deanna put you up to this?”
“No.” He whines like an irritable child. “Why do you have to bring that bitch into this?”
“Because she’s the only reason I can pick why you’d be drunk again.”
He sighs—the sound one that seems frustrated he has to explain. “I just wanted a little escape, Alice. Is that such a terrible thing?”
“Jesus …”
“What did you call for anyway, babe? How the fuck are you?”
“Better than you.” I flop to my back again. “I wanted to vent to somebody who’d understand, but you’re in no state to help.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” he mumbles, mouth far too close to the mouthpiece. “I might not much help, but I can listen.”
He’s trying so damn hard to sound serious, his S lisping despite the effort—damn it all, I laugh.
“There,” he proclaims, shouting down the line. “I made you feel better already. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Fuck you. I was trying to be mad at you for drinking, Em.”
“As I said, it’s not such a big deal. One night,” he whispers as though we aren’t the only ones on the line. “Just one night. We’ll keep it a secret.”
“I miss you.” I screw my eyes shut, slapping my free palm to my forehead. “I miss the way you always made me laugh.”
“I’m a hell of a guy.” He chuckles. “It’s not much of a surprise.”
The line falls quiet, and yet I feel more connected than I have in a long time.
“What’s the problem, then, babe,” Emery whispers. “Tell me your dirty dark secrets.”
“I think I’ve reached the dreaded fork in the road,” I confess through a thick throat. “I think I have to give up live music.”
“Nah,” he grumbles. I can almost visualize him, swatting his hand through the air. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I do, Em. I have an injury that I need to correct if I want to get rid of these headaches.”
“Agh. The headaches red mentioned.”
“Hey?”
“Red,” he repeats an octave higher. “Your roomie.”
Damn it, Shanae. “She’s stepping down to spend time with family, too.”
“Ooo.” He sucks the sound between his teeth. “Now that throws a spanner in the works.”
“You’re telling me.” I drop my hand away, yet leave my eyes shut.
I like it this way; it’s just him and me in a darkened room. I could easily take myself back there and pretend we’re back in the living room, the moonlight casting perfect shadows across his broad form.
“How long?”
“Is she home? We don’t know.”
“Nah. How long do you need to take off?”
“Six months, maybe.”
He pauses. “Not that long, really.”
“This feels like the end, Em.” My fingertips dig into my palm. “My gut says that things won’t ever be how they were.”
“Well, no shit.” He scoffs. “You can’t repeat the past, babe.”
“Can’t we?” Because this feels a lot like I am.
“Not without doing it better.” His voice takes on an unusual clarity given his current state. “I’ve got a few days before I have to be back in boot camp.”
“Boot camp?”
“The studio,” he explains. “Want me to come see you?”
“I don’t know …”
“Say yes, Alice. For fuck’s sake, just do something for yourself and say yes.”
“Yes, Emery,” I whisper. “I’d like you to come see me.”
“Good.” He laughs. “Because I booked the ticket this afternoon.”
FORTY-TWO
Emery
“Save Me” - Shinedown
Like I rolled my head in a bucket of nails.
A vise wound past stop on my skull.
Carpet for a tongue.
Rocks for teeth.
I drag my hand across the page, side of my head resting atop the coffee table while I make out my Reasons not to drink anymore list for when the urge strikes in the future.
Paralysis from the neck down—except painful.
Fucking famished for food that makes me vomit.
Mosaic nudges his head on my thigh, groaning as he stretches his legs. The big guy has kept me company on my trips between the bed and the bathroom, silently watching on. I drop the pen and drag my hand off the side of the table with a thump, connecting with his ribs. He sighs, my fingers lazily rubbing the edge of his belly.
I had this random thought while the band was in the studio last week that I should call Mom. Figured that I could get her to come up and ransack my apartment while I was away to get rid of any drugs or alcohol that I forgot I had stashed. But I ignored the niggle, reasoned I could do it myself.
I can’t.
There was a whole fucking carton of bourbon stashed in the bottom of the closet, right next to where I left my duffle after I got home. How the fuck I didn’t see that before I went, I don’t know. Maybe I did, and my subconscious was the reason why I had that thought?
I don’t know. Call me paranoid, but I almost feel as though somebody—namely a bitch I recently cut loose—has been in here.
“Did you see her, buddy?” I twist my head on the table to see half of Mosaic’s face.
Of course, he wouldn’t tell me. He was probably over getting pampered by Mom and out of earshot.
A notification slides down the top of my phone—a new email.
Using what’s left of my motivation for the day, I lift my hand back to the table to swipe it open. Kris did say Rick was sending details over for our next rendezvous together. The screen wakes properly, forcing me to dim the illumination to its lowest setting before I can trust myself to read the email without throwing up—again.
It's not Rick. It’s a goddamn reminder to check-in for a flight I’d booked for this afternoon.
To Alice.
Fuck. What the hell did I do now?
My head slides from the table, body hitting the floor with a thump that stirs Mosaic from his spot. He wanders around the furniture to sniff my head, checking my breath.
“Yeah, I know. I’m a bit sick, buddy.”
He lies down, paws tucked beneath my ribs to lay his head on my chest. A trick he’s pulled a few times before when he wants to be sure I stay breathing.
“You’re a good son of a bitch. You know that?”
This afternoon. I’ve got a few hours.
***
“Emery.” My name is muffled, and yet it feels as though the person trumpets it directly in my ear. “Emery.”
Mosaic whines nearby.
“Karl, call the damn ambulance.”
I’m here. I’m still here.
***
“He’s awake.”
I crack my pain-laced eyes open to find Mom flapping her hand in my direction, on her feet while she searches for somebody.
“Hey, love.” Her smile fills my foggy vision as she leans over me to press something.
I have fucking rails on the side of my bed … and I’m goddamn strapped to them.
“What the—” My voice gives out, vocal cords drier than a fucking camel’s ass.
“It was for your own safety,” Mom explains, reaching for the leather strap. “But, I’m sure they won’t mind if we undo them now.” She wrenches the strap back to release the buckle.
What the fuck went down? Last that I remember I was detailing how shit a hangover feels, and the next—
“I grabbed you a coffee in case you wanted … He’s awake?” Alice moves into view at the foot of the bed, ditching two Styrofoam cups on the bed tray before shoo
ting up the opposite side to Mom. “You’re awake,” she says again. “Properly.”
“Properly?” I rasp.
Mom still wrestles the restraints.
“You came and went, Em.” Tears line Alice’s eyes, yet she smiles. That’s good, right? “But you were never properly coherent.”
“What the fuck happened?” I finally manage to ask.
“You almost fucking died,” Mom snaps.
I lift my brow, wide-eyed. She’s not the kind to swear about just any old thing.
“All these years of lying awake at night worrying about you,” she continues. “I always reasoned with myself that my boy is sensible. That he knows not to be stupid with the damn things he does.” She shakes her head, Alice watching her speak. “But to mix not two, but three narcotics with alcohol?”
“What were you trying to do, Em?” Alice whispers, perching on the side of my bed.
I open my mouth to answer, yet the medical staff sweep in the room and order Mom and Alice to move back.
A rotund nurse’s cleavage assaults me as she leans over me to check the vitals on my machines, calling numbers to another younger girl who records the digits. A graying middle eastern guy calmly strides into the curtained-off cubicle and beelines straight for my head.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Morgan?”
“Shit,” I croak.
“Any dizziness? Nausea? Chest pains?”
“None of that.” I lick my lips. “Fucking parched, though.”
He dismisses me, talking to the nurse about medicines and optimal vitals. I tune out, leaning past him to reach the straw Alice offers. The water is a fucking orgasm for my goddamn throat.
“I feel so bad,” she whispers, shuffling to get out of the way for the doc. “I knew you were drunk when I rang you, but I had no idea you’d taken all this.”
“I didn’t take anything.”
The doc interrupts again, one cold hand to my head, the other pointing a fucking penlight at my eyes. Satisfied that my responses are reasonable, he pockets the light with a grunt and scratches something on the clipboard the nurse passes over.
He leaves without saying a thing.
