by Casey, L. A.
I didn’t realise how much until that moment.
“Is that a good idea?” I wondered. “Us being in each other’s lives after so long?”
“I think so,” Risk squeezed my hand. “I miss you, Cherry.”
Those four words melted me.
“I think we can be friends. We . . . we were friends before we got together, right?”
“Right.” Risk laughed a little. “We were. What’re you doing tomorrow?”
“Same thing I do every day. Work.” I snorted. “My shift tomorrow is from ten until five then I’m going to visit my mum.”
“Can I tag along?” Risk quizzed. “To see your mum?”
“Sure,” I nodded. “That’d be lovely.”
“Brilliant.” Risk suddenly got to his feet. “Get to bed. I’ll pick you up from work tomorrow . . . and Frankie?”
“Yeah?”
“Happy birthday.”
I blinked. “My birthday was last month . . . so was yours.”
“I know but since I missed it, I wanted to say it.”
My lips twitched. “Risk?”
“Yeah.”
“Happy birthday.”
His smile nearly knocked me off my feet.
I expected him to just leave, but he didn’t, he hugged me before he went and he kissed the crown of my head, just like he used to do. It lasted five seconds, maybe less, but the security and comfort I found in his embrace nearly stole my breath. I locked the front door when he was gone, then I wandered aimlessly into my bedroom. I sat on the bottom of my bed and felt my body shake as Oath brushed against my legs. I pinched myself and hissed. The pain was a vivid reminder that this was real, Risk had really been in my home and we somehow agreed to move forward and be friends.
I was both excited and scared beyond belief.
“Please,” I pleaded with God. “Don’t let this end badly again. I’m begging you.”
I looked down at my hands and realised I was holding my phone. I must have grabbed it when I left the kitchen to see Risk out without realising. My hands were a little unsteady as I tapped on the screen, clicked into my messages and tapped onto Risk’s name. It was his old phone number and nobody but Oath knew of a secret I had been keeping.
A few years ago, my therapist, before I stopped seeing her, suggested keeping a journal to express my feelings. I found a better coping mechanism to help me breathe through the pain of missing Risk . . . I sent text messages to his old number every so often, pretending that he got them. I talked to him and while I knew it was kind of crazy, it helped me focus my emotions.
I scrolled through the hundreds of messages I had sent Risk over the years. They varied in length from paragraphs to mere a handful of words. I almost couldn’t believe that he was back in my life. It was so strange. He penned songs to project how he felt, I wrote message entries.
Texting Risk saved me . . . I wondered if writing songs saved him.
CHAPTER TEN
FRANKIE
Text message #1
Frankie: I’m texting your old number because I know you’ll never see this message, but typing it out and getting it off my chest and sending it to ‘you’ will hopefully make me feel better. My therapist recommended it. My fucking therapist, Risk. I still can’t believe I pay someone to listen to me talk about the things that keep me awake at night. My mum made my first appointment and though I didn’t want to go, I’m so glad I did.
Maybe talking to ‘you’ will be my new thing instead of talking to the therapist and I’ll save myself a few quid in the long run. This will be like my venting vice until someone gets this number and tells me to piss off. I’m supposed to message ‘you’ and tell you what is on my mind whenever things get hard for me.
Funny? Nah. Pathetic? Hell yeah.
I haven’t seen you in exactly ten months and nothing has changed here, but I know everything has changed for you. Blood Oath being signed to an actual record label is all anyone can talk about in Southwold. You guys are already legends here as far as we’re concerned. I heard you guys dropped a new single for the upcoming album you are working on. Mum told me she read that it went to number one on the Billboard Hot 100. That is huge, Risk. Huge. I’m so happy for you and the guys, I mean that with my whole heart. I wear my earphones everywhere I go just so I don’t hear your voice by accident. I don’t listen to the radio anymore. I’m afraid that if I hear your voice, something inside of me will shatter.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #39
Frankie: I woke up today and I forgot that everything was different. For a few seconds, I thought you were still my boyfriend and that when I rolled over, I would see your handsome face on the pillow next to me. When I remembered that we broke up and you moved away, it felt like a kick in the teeth.
I did a silly thing after you left, you know?
You left one of your hoodies here by mistake when you collected your things and I put it inside one of those airtight bags to keep your smell safe. I’ve opened it twice, just for a few seconds, so I could inhale your scent. I have it sealed up tight because I’m so scared the smell will disappear one day. I miss it so much. I miss you so much. The reality that you’re gone from my life is breaking me, but I know it’s all for the best. You couldn’t stay in Southwold and I can’t leave. It’s what’s meant to be, but it still fucking hurts.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #73
Frankie: I didn’t think talking to ‘you’ would be worth my while, but it’s actually helping me. It’s been fifteen months since I last saw or spoke to you. Today I’m missing you really badly and I have to send this message to get this off my chest. It’s crazy but I’ve started to notice that I don’t feel as sad as I did when you first left and that’s really good, Risk.
There were weeks where I wouldn’t get out of bed after you left. Missing you hurts like hell. Loving you hurts like fucking hell. I have hope though, like there is light at the end of this dark tunnel I’m walking through. One day I’ll be able to listen to your songs and see you on TV and I’ll think, ‘Get ’em, Risk.’ Until that day, I’m just going to keep doing this for my sanity’s sake.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #142
Frankie: I was walking down Parade Road earlier today and I couldn’t believe what I saw. On the ground was a magazine, and on the cover was you with that Kigi model, or whatever her name is. This is the first time in two years that I had seen evidence of you being with another girl. Anna and Hannah tell me what, and who, you’re up to whenever they get the chance but for the most part, I tune everything about you out.
I’ve cried all day. You’re moving on from me. I’m angry with you and I have no right to be, I know that, but I’m still angry with you. I’m so hurt, so fucking hurt, because I still love you more than all of the stars in the night sky.
Half-naked and drunk off your arse leaving a club – you’re not even legal there yet! – with a bunch of people you likely don’t even know is your new norm now, is it? It’s considered cool in Hollywood, huh? FYI, it just means you’re a dumb arse here. Please don’t contract an STD, May’s mum will kill you. Happy 20th birthday.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #189
Frankie: I redecorated the cottage today. I’ve modernised it with a couple of coats of pure white paint and I got new furniture. I got rid of everything with Michael’s permission. I love you, but I need to clear out my living space. Right now, I look at a piece of furniture and I remember how you did something on it, or near it, and it’s slowly driving me up the wall. The hardest thing to get rid of was the bed and mattress because we made love for the first time on them both but it’s time for a new start.
I need to try something, anything, to help me not feel so broken inside.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #248
Frankie: Three years. We broke up three years ago today. I haven’t seen your h
andsome, freckled face in person in 1,095 days. Yeah, I’ve been counting. On one hand, I can’t believe it’s been three years, and, on the other, I can’t believe it’s not more. Some days feel like minutes and others like decades. God. I miss you, Risk.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #303
Frankie: I got a promotion today and a pretty sweet raise. You’re the former boyfriend of . . . wait for it . . . the head waitress of Mary Well’s diner. Eat your heart out, Keller.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #346
Frankie: Guess who got caught in a bloody downpour? Yours truly. I’m literally soaked to the bone and I’m as cold as ice as I type this message, but I can’t help but laugh. It reminded me of the time we got caught in the downpour not long after we started dating and when we got to my house and you realised my mum was at work, you convinced me to undress and share your body heat so I wouldn’t get sick. Do you remember? You copped more than a feel you smooth-talking fucker. LOL.
I’ve noticed that I’m starting to laugh again and I don’t even have to force it anymore. It only took three and half years for me to get here . . . that’s steady progress, right? FYI, my mum said she saw you and the guys on The Ellen Show and that you were very funny. I didn’t believe her because we both know you don’t have a sense of humour.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #391
Frankie: Blood Oath is a MULTI GRAMMY AWARD WINNING ROCK BAND. Did I or did I not tell you that you guys were gonna take the world by storm? I did. I totally did!
What the absolute fuck, Risk? I am SO proud of you guys. I can’t even put it into words just how happy I am right now. I was working the morning shift when Hannah told me you guys took home five awards the night before. Five of those little babies are for the band and one for you as a songwriter. BABE! Best Rock Album, Best Rock Song, Song of the Year, Record of the Year and Album of the Year. You guys nicked three of the ceremony’s most prestigious awards. WHAT?? This is actually real life. I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #416
Frankie: Happy New Year, stupid head. I can’t believe it’s been four years since I last saw or spoke to you. I don’t find the need to text you as often anymore. My mini breakdowns when I grab my phone to ‘talk’ to you are few and far between. I think that means even though I’m still struggling with you being gone, I’m starting to cope in this new, strange way. I don’t know, it’s probably mad, but I can breathe a little easier when I think about you now.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #437
Frankie: I’ve been awake for hours. I had a dream about you, you touched and loved me. It felt real . . . I wish it was real. I hate you for leaving me, Risk. I told you to go, but I can’t believe you really listened to me. I hope you’re happy. Even though I’m hurting right now I know that when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll still love you just as much, but I’ll miss you a little less. Even though I don’t have you anymore, there are times when I feel happy. Time really has helped heal the wound that you leaving ripped open. These periods of sadness when they come . . . Christ, they really do hurt, though.
Keep chasin’ rock star.
Text message #471
Frankie: I had an asthma attack today. It was scary, it hurt, but eventually the pain went away. I wish the pain of missing you would go away. I hate it, Risk. I fucking hate it.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #499
Frankie: Anna told me that you were making eyes at a Kardashian at an award show. You’re such a PIG!
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #511
Frankie: A tourist in town asked me out on a date today. I turned him down, but it wasn’t a flat out no, which tells me I might be ready for a new relationship soon. Maybe not, I’m not exactly sure. Being emotionally fucked up is so fun. Can you feel my sarcasm? I feel like you can feel it.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #533
Frankie: I miss you. I love you.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #567
Frankie: Hannah told me that you were all over Twitter. Again. Stop taking drugs and drinking alcohol, wazzock. I fucking hate that you’re taking that squit! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? Please, please, please, stop. I can’t lose you again. I can’t. Please. Stop.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #589
Frankie: I heard you’re sober. Do you have any idea how happy this makes me? Do you, Risk? I’ve been so worried about you. So worried. I was terrified whenever Hannah or Anna mentioned you in case they would tell me that you’d died. I’ve been sick just thinking about it, but you’re sober now. I’m so proud of you. Please, please, don’t take that stuff again. It’s not worth the risk. Don’t take it.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
My eyes rolled over my sent messages to Risk’s old phone number. I skimmed past the similar-sounding ones and focused on the ones I remembered sending and how I felt when I sent them. I was still waiting to receive a message one day telling me I had the wrong number and to stop bothering the new number’s owner, but until that day came, I was going to keep sending messages to ‘Risk’ whenever the mood struck me because it helped me. It really did. It was a form of expression and even though it was only me who knew about it, it helped me straighten out how I felt. Most of the time, anyway. I tapped on the message box and began thumbing out a new message and when I hit send, for once, I wished Risk would text me back.
Text message #600
Frankie: You’re home.
Our first encounters were not good . . . not good at all, but you came to find me and you apologised for the things you said to hurt me. I think I gave in easier than I should have, but I couldn’t help it. You were in my fucking kitchen, drinking tea and holding my hand. I could have died. We decided we’re going to be friends, but what I want to know is how are we going to make that work? How can we be friends . . . ? How can we be when I’m still so deeply in love with you? I thought our love was past tense, I thought I was holding on to you because I was hurt and messed up inside but I’m holding on to you because I NEVER stopped loving you. We’re going to be friends and I love you, how messed up is that?
Risk, I love you. Do you love me too?
Keep chasin’, rock star.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RISK
I hummed to a tune that was stuck in my head and before I forgot it, I rolled up my sleeve, revealing one of my many tattoos. From my inner left forearm down to my wrist, I had blank sheet music paper on my arm. I often thought of music and had to write it down before I forgot it. I had been writing lyrics and music notes on my skin for years, a tattoo of sheet music just made it easier for me to keep track of it until I transferred it to actual paper. I jotted down the music notes on the tattooed staff on my skin, then I scribbled a couple of lyrics in small print on the back of my hand with my fine-tipped, permanent Sharpie.
I knew I could have easily used the notes app on my phone to write the words down, but writing them on my hands and forearms had sort of been a rite of passage. I never wrote full songs on my body, just words here and there, maybe a sentence or two, but every song that I eventually penned had stemmed from a word or phrase I had jotted down onto my skin. I couldn’t break that habit now.
It was sort of like a good luck charm, in its own way.
“Never enough,” May leaned over and read the words I had just written on my hand. “New song?”
I bobbed my head. “Beginning stages, I’m just brainstorming a little.”
May grabbed my arm and turned it slightly so he could see my inner forearm. He squinted his eyes and focused on the notes drawn on my arm. He mumbled the tune under his breath until he had it in his head. I ducked my head when he reached back into the boot and grabbed his guitar case. Hayes gave him a
tongue lashing for taking off his seat belt while we were driving but May ignored him.
When he turned forward, he opened his case and removed his Fender Jazzmaster that he brought along with him for the car ride to London. We had an interview at Rock Stop, a huge podcast show that every rock band wanted to be on. We had interviewed with them half a dozen times and each time, good press followed.
Instead of taking the train, we opted to drive. It was less of a hassle because it wasn’t public transport. I was glad we had decided on driving because unprompted writing sessions were what I lived for.
May grabbed a signed pick from his pocket, he kept a dozen on his person at all times. One for playing and spares for any fans we bumped into. He strummed the guitar, adjusted his hold, checked the tuning, then he played the notes I had written. In my head, I liked how they had sounded, but when May played them on the Fender, he brought them to life with a few simple flicks of his wrist. Hayes was driving the car, Angel was in the front seat but as soon as May began to play, he reached back into his bag that was at my feet, and grabbed his favourite pair of drum sticks.
He began doing his own improv based on what May was playing.
“Of course I’d have to be driving. I wanna play, too.”
I snorted at Hayes, but I understood how he felt. I was our lead vocalist and guitarist, May was our rhythmic guitarist, and Hayes was our bass, but May took up most of the slack on certain songs because I spent a shit load of time interacting with the audience and running around like a headless chicken when we performed. The only person who never switched instruments on stage was Angel, he could play guitar well, and was wicked on the keyboard, but drumming was his thing and he stuck to it. I reached into Angel’s bag and pulled out the different kinds of blank sheet music paper he always carried for times like this.
I uncapped my pen and wrote down what May was playing.
He started off with my notes, then improvised his own and one chord in the middle of the small set gave me chills. It changed everything about the set-up. I said nothing, I just let him go as he repeated the same chord layout a few times until he felt like adding something new.
