by Aimee Salter
An image comes to me of Crash’s eyes if I were to tell him the words. How they would narrow, then cloud. Confusion turns to shock . . . then rage.
How every hard, guarded, broken thing in his heart would swim into his gaze whenever he looked at me after that.
My lungs stop working, encased in steel ribs. My knees wobble. I sink to the couch, head in my hands, pleading with God to inject oxygen back into the air. Ignore the wetness on my lashes.
This make-up is indestructible—it has to be. I’ll sweat like a pig under those lights.
Inhale. Exhale.
The monster doesn’t care anymore. I tell myself. Or, if he does, he’ll lose interest in me once the world does. He has to. Because I won’t survive if he doesn’t.
I barely register the tap on the door over the thunder from above.
“Come in,” I croak into my own lap.
A creak and the rush of the pounding, the voices, the echo. I shiver.
Then the door closes, pushing it all back, holding the slavering crowd-beast at bay for a minute longer.
“Can I get you something, Ms. Berkstram? It’s almost time.” The PA’s voice is quiet, but unconcerned. Apparently, she’s accustomed to neurotic artists losing their shit.
I shake my head.
Inhale through the nose. Exhale through the mouth.
Sitting up straight, I grab for the arm of the couch while my head spins. Wait for it to clear.
Inhale healing. Exhale pain.
“Are you ready?”
“Not even a little bit.”
She chuckles like I was joking, offers me a hand to my feet, and uses the other to push a button on the little black box at her waist. “Artist Two is on the move,” she says into the microphone of her headset.
Another voice crackles, “Roger. Five minutes until cue.”
It’s time.
I take her hand and let her lead me out of my cave. My security wall—four guys personally selected by Merv, each big enough to have to maneuver through standard doorways—appear around us as we step into the fluorescent maze of the cement hallways, wide enough to drive golf carts, ceilings vaulted to allow equipment movers easy passage. I am engulfed by them, steadied by their presence.
Even if he’s here, they won’t let him near me. They won’t. I squeeze my hands so hard, my nails—grown out so I can pick guitar strings, just like Crash—almost pierce my palms.
I go rigid when a roar, a tidal wave of demand, beats at the foundations of the arena around us.
Then the answering pulse begins, Tommy on the drums. The heartbeat of this life.
The beast stamps its feet in time, howls when Crash croons to it, the gravel of his voice soars, grinding through my skin and bone to the heart underneath.
I stumble. Oh, Crash, why did they do this to us?
“Don’t worry,” one side of the wall says, patting my shoulder with a palm the size of a Christmas ham. He has a kind smile. “He can’t wait to see you.”
He means Crash.
But I’m more concerned about the other he.
Chapter One
Three months ago
Crash
I’m on the deck with my guitar, messing with a new chord progression. Next to me, my old chocolate Labrador mix, Coda, rests his graying muzzle on his paws, soaking up the sun like a sixty-pound cat. The vet says he has arthritis now. Whenever mom asks about him I pretend he’s fine.
It’s not lunchtime yet, but there’s a tumbler of Scotch on the table next to me. The tiny sips I take whenever I write down a chord aren’t enough to get me drunk. That’s what I tell anyone who asks, anyway.
Turning from the uncomfortable thought, I run my hand through my hair and my fingers get caught in knots. The sides are still shaved, but the top is long enough to tangle when I don’t comb it.
The front door lock clicks and Tommy throws a set of keys on the breakfast bar. Coda perks his ears and his tail thumps.
A year ago, Coda would have leaped up to meet Tommy before he’d crossed the entryway.
“Crash?”
“Out here.” If I carry C to D and sustain to . . . E minor? Or G? I try both. Neither sticks. But I like E minor better. I write it down, cursing when the notebook paper flutters up under my hand in the light breeze.
Another sip.
“Hey.” Tommy’s in a Thirty Seconds to Mars muscle shirt that shows off the new tattoo on his ribs and bringing the smell of potpourri with him. His mom, who he refuses to kick out of his house, must be sober again.
He eyes my glass. “We celebrating something?”
Doesn’t he know what day it is? Isn’t that why he’s here?
“When did I invite you over?”
“Yesterday when I was in bed with your mom. She says hi, by the way.”
Forcing myself not to laugh, I concentrate on my left hand sliding from C to D to E minor and back to C, waiting for inspiration to hit because I’m missing something. But is it a chord, or the timing?
Tommy points at the fretboard. “You’re rushing it. If you’re holding D, you need to hold the E minor, too. I’m hungry.”
I cut him a look because he doesn’t even know what I’m trying to write. But he has a knack for hearing my songs before I do, so I don’t say anything. Anyway, he’s already walked back inside, tap-drumming his way up the breakfast bar and into my kitchen which is bigger than my living room was growing up.
While he’s out of sight, I try what he suggested.
Prick is right. Dammit.
Sip. The smoky tang burns the taste of gall out of my throat. “If you’re just here to make me feel inadequate, you can go eat someone else’s food,” I say, loud enough for him to hear me.
“Dude, I’ve been making you feel inadequate since puberty.”
I snort.
C to D. D repeated. E minor. E minor repeated. G? Or B minor?
B minor.
“You want the B min—”
“I know, asshole. Why are you even here?”
“Because of the video.”
“What video?” C to D. D. E minor. E minor. B minor. Break. I pat the body of the guitar to keep the beat.
A sharp thunk on the tiles in my kitchen is followed by Tommy swearing because he dropped a bowl, and the sound of it circling its rim faster and faster before he slaps it to the floor.
I play the chords on a loop, waiting while a chip bag crinkles and my refrigerator hums as he gets himself a glass of water. He doesn’t answer until he’s back through the open slider to the deck and pulling on his sunglasses, Cool Ranch Doritos under one arm.
“Kel’s video,” he says, like mentioning her name isn’t a landmine.
Tommy catches my eye and I use the Scotch as an excuse to look away.
He knows.
I spent the entire day yesterday fighting the urge to find her and explain so she didn’t have to wake up this morning still believing a lie. But I can’t just show up. After a year it wouldn’t be fair to her. I know that.
So instead, I drink.
Like he doesn’t notice my tension, Tommy pulls out the chair on the other side of the table and drops into it, crunching a corn chip as he digs his phone out of his pocket and taps on it. Coda bumps the bottom of my chair getting up to beg Tommy for chips. I call him back— the vet told me human food isn’t good for his digestion.
Five years ago, he could eat anything.
When he doesn’t come right away, I snap, “Coda!” and he hurries back to me, ears down, tail low but wagging. I apologize by scratching behind his ears. He grins, panting, and I relax a bit. It’s the excuse I need to put the guitar down. I doubt I want to be holding it when I hear this.
But Tommy still hasn’t answered. I kick his foot. “What video?”
“Relax. I’m finding it.”
I keep scratching Coda to keep my hands busy while Tommy taps and waits, taps and scrolls.
I want to swear. He only said her name. It isn’t like she—
“Here.” Tommy hands me his phone. I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses. How bad is it? Did she post one of our music videos from junior high before my voice broke or something? Just how embarrassing will this be? Why do I feel like I just took a fist to the ballsack?
The phone’s open on YouTube. A channel called BrokenGirlSinging.
I freeze.
It can’t be.
I scroll the list of videos. The recent ones are all filmed in front of a light-green wall. She must have rearranged her room since I was last there…when? A year ago?
Holy shit. I haven’t touched Kelly in a year.
“So she’s singing?”
“And playing,” Tommy says.
“Playing what?”
If he hadn’t hesitated, I wouldn’t have been prepared.
“She’s learned the guitar.”
Tommy’s my best friend. My mom gave him his first box of condoms. He was there when my grandma died. My dog loves Tommy more than he loves me. I can tell Tommy anything and there’s no question he’ll have my back.
So why do I try to pretend that didn’t hurt? “Good for her.” More scotch.
Tommy stops mid-chew. “Was that supposed to sound like you meant it?”
“Shut up.”
“You’ll need to work on it. I can film you if you want. So you can see yourself and work on your micro-expressions.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s just that your lips are saying ‘good for her,’ but your face is saying ‘go to hell, Kelly’—”
“Shut the fuck up, Tommy!” My voice echoes across the hills behind my house. Coda leaps up and barks once, short and sharp, ears up, head snapping back and forth, looking for the threat because somehow I’m on my feet.
Tommy examines one of his chewed-off nails. “If you’re going to hit me, better wait for the last part, because I’ll put you on your ass after the first one lands and I don’t want you crying to me later about your repressed rage, or whatever.”
My rage deflates as quickly as it rose. I sink back into my chair and stare at my best friend, who stares back, his face utterly relaxed behind the sunglasses.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
Tommy picks up his phone that I must have dropped, taps the screen twice, then hands it back to me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Chapter Two
Five months ago
Kelly
I’ve dragged my desk away from the green wall—the only blank wall in my room—and propped my phone on top of it in the special holder Aunt Holly got me for Christmas last year. It lets me control the camera with a remote. I take a deep breath and press Record.
“Hey, guys,” I say to the phone, self-conscious. My blonde hair is so thin, I tuck it behind my ears so it’s less noticeable. “I know I usually do covers, but I hope you’ll humor me. This is the first song I wrote. It’s called Bury Me.”
And then I play, despite clammy hands that screech more than usual on the guitar strings. Despite knowing I can stop whenever I want and shoot a retake. Despite the fact it’s not live—it won’t even go on my channel unless I post it. But I know I will.
And I know Crash’ll never see it.
And that’s okay. I have to put it out there for me.
I’ve never written a complete song before. Not really. I used to help Crash and Tommy. But it was always their work. I just edited.
This one came to me in less than an hour—right after I made the mistake of Googling Crash, only to find pictures of him with girl after girl after girl on tour.
Right now I know I’d be less vulnerable ripping off my shirt and posting a video of that. But my voice teacher was right. Muscle memory is stronger than nerves.
So I play, and I sing, and while I do, I think of a boy with the long-on-top, short-on-the-sides tousled brown hair, ice-blue eyes, and smile lines bracketing his full lips. Of tattoos and black fingernails, ripped jeans, and a voice that grinds on your soul. Of love and betrayal and the warmth you get when you believe in someone.
Lips that used to kiss me.
A face that brightened when I walked in the room.
A boy who told me I was his forever person. And made me believe it.
And then left when it turned out people only had to dangle money and fame in front of his nose for him to decide that I was insufficient.
The song is slow and lilting. It has to be because I’m still pretty new to the guitar. But the measured, folksy tone I’ve been using to shift rock songs into ballads works. Even if I had the skill to do more, I think I’d leave it like this.
Crash always said I had a knack for identifying what a song needed stripped away. I hope he was right. Because as I pick at the strings of the instrument he loves, I sing. And I break again. And I try to heal.
You had so many words that day
Promises, vows, words were stars
You had so many things to say
All I heard were lies.
There’s a bridge between the verse and chorus, and it’s the only part I still struggle to play. But when I woke up this morning, one year on, I knew if I didn’t record it I’d lose my nerve.
I look away from the camera to watch my fingers on the frets. My heart’s thumping, but not because I’m nervous. It’s because I’m about to lay myself bare.
Bury me.
Dead and gone.
Just bury me
Without you.
Bury me.
I’m all wrong.
’Cause you buried me
Without you.
Since I wrote those words months ago they’ve been a drumbeat in my head. I even dreamed them last night. I dreamed Crash heard them and laughed. It was so real—easily as real as the words I wrote—that I wavered.
So, I’m recording today, putting this on my channel, and never thinking about this song again.
I walked past your house today
On the map of stars
Laughing windows, singing strings
I knew it was lies.
It’s true. I did go to his house. His listed-in-the-name-of-his-manager, security-gated house. In the unlikely event Crash hears this song he’ll take a protection order out against me. But he doesn’t need to. I’ll never be weak again. Because going there almost sent me over the edge.
I’d had a bad week, culminating in a terrible day. I missed my mother so much it left a hole in my throat. I was more alone that afternoon on the anniversary of her death than I’d been any day since Crash left. It brought back all the memories of Crash holding me, whispering reassurance, hovering, helping. I’d see him in my head and my body physically ached. I was so desperately, deeply alone. So I convinced myself if I showed up on his doorstep I could make him believe I wanted to let bygones be bygones. Just friends.
Brushing away tears, I’d practiced my speech in front of the mirror until I was sure it was right. Then I drove to the house I’d seen only once before, on one amazing, beautiful, horrific night.
And I traded that remembered nightmare for a new horror.
His mansion has a security fence, so you’re practically on the street until they open the double gates wide enough to drive two trucks through. Or you can walk through the smaller, iron gate in the wall just off the driveway, with a path to the front door.
The day he showed me the house he said the security cameras covered every inch of the property. The house itself was utterly secure, and even if someone got over the wall they’d face bulletproof, tinted glass, and a house so solid they’d have to bomb it to break in.
I’d asked him if it felt like a cage. He just shrugged.
When I reached the gates, already reliving everything we’d said and done that night, I found there was nowhere for me to go. I couldn’t bring myself to push the button on the little black box on the driveway that would call whoever was inside. What if Crash recognized my voice and ignored me? Or worse, didn’t even care? If he couldn’t see my face, I’d never know if I st
ill affected him the way he affected me. It’s the reason I didn’t phone or text. I couldn’t risk my one shot.
So I parked on the street and got out, just in case the garden gnomes were merciful and someone had left the gate unlocked. I was only a few steps from the car when I heard the guitar. Crash was there. Somewhere close. Far enough to make me strain to hear when the breeze blew and the leaves rustled, but close enough that I could follow the melody. And when the wind died, when he sang, my heart sang with him. I loved his voice even before I loved him—this rich combination of a soaring tenor with a gravel that makes it perfect for rock anthems. And hearing it—not on the TV, or the radio, or on my embarrassingly comprehensive iTunes collection—makes my skin tingle. For thirty seconds my hope soared higher than the chorus he repeated—which meant he was still writing it.
A sliding rumble sounded and his voice cut off. He said something low that I couldn’t catch. His speaking voice was so much deeper than his singing voice—I’d always loved that. I took a faltering step forward, suddenly certain I could push the button in that black box if the gate was locked. Until a tinkling laugh broke the evening air.
When she spoke, her tone was unmistakable. A suggestion from someone who knows she won’t be rejected.
My lungs froze up for the first time right there on his sidewalk. Chilled to ice. Cracked. Shattered. I couldn’t move and couldn’t breathe.
He rumbled something to her in a way that I could taste. I knew the exact timbre of that rumble under my fingers on his chest. I knew how it sounded against my ear. I knew how quickly it would climb if he had to raise his voice. But he didn’t.
No. That rumble got impossibly deep.
The hollow clonk of the guitar being set on the ground without care shook me. Crash always treated his guitar like glass.
She laughed again, cutting off abruptly.
Something thumped on glass. Something heavy. Like, maybe a body got pushed up against a sliding door. I pleaded with my lungs to inflate. The cruel night stilled—no birds, no cicadas. Not a whisper of wind. And I heard a little cry. The good kind.
