Love Out Loud

by Aimee Salter

  And I knew exactly why Crash had dropped the guitar.

  I reeled. The edges of my vision black, I stumbled back to my car.

  How could I have been so naïve? Had I really thought he’d left me for money? That he’d betrayed me because he preferred the screaming fans?

  Tears blurred my vision as I threw myself back into my car and twisted the key with a shaking hand. The street—full of celebrity and executive mansions—remained virtually deserted. I have no memory of how—or where—I drove until my sight began to dim from lack of oxygen and I was forced to pull over.

  I leaned my forehead on the steering wheel and bit back tears, reaching blindly into my bag for my inhaler.

  Then and there I resolved I would never reach for Crash again.

  Chapter Three

  Three months ago

  Crash

  On Tommy’s phone, I watch as Kelly lets the guitar stop singing before she self-consciously flips her blonde hair over her shoulder, looks at the camera and tells me, “Thanks for watching!”

  I almost believe it. Almost peg her as the bitter ex-girlfriend. Except, as she turns off the camera, there’s a split second where she’s in close-up.

  “She’s been practicing,” Tommy says, but from the way he says it, I know he saw what I did: she’s fighting tears.

  I grunt and, with an unsteady finger, tell the app to replay. As it starts again, one side of my brain analyzes her fingering and strum, drinks in her voice. The other is silent with shock.

  . . . Bury me.

  Dead and gone.

  Just bury me

  Without you.

  Bury me.

  I’m all wrong.

  ’Cause you buried me

  Without you . . .

  She wrote a song for me. A heartbreak ballad.

  And she nailed it.

  “So who’s the asshole now?” Tommy says, and suddenly the extra slack in his shoulders, the quiet voice, take on a new meaning. I curse the sunglasses that make him impossible to read.

  “Tommy . . .” We have a thing. We don’t lie to each other. Ever. Except I did.

  “You said she dumped you because you went on tour. She was my other best friend and you said I couldn’t even talk to her because she broke you.”

  I lick my lips, scramble for an excuse when there isn’t one. “I couldn’t lose both of you.”

  “I fucking blocked her!”

  “I was messed up—”

  Tommy explodes out of his chair, grabs my shirt with both hands, and yanks me around to slam my back against the wall.

  The world lurches. I must have had more of the Scotch than I thought. I put my hands up. Tommy’s rages are rare, but his father sent him to a boxing gym in middle school when he was getting bullied, and he’s kept up with his training. He’ll kick my ass. And for this, I’ll let him. But I can’t afford to break a finger or sprain my wrist. Rehearsals for our next tour start in a month and I’ve got an album to finish.

  The callousness of that thought sickens me.

  Tommy’s right in my face, lips pulled back from his teeth, his long, black hair swinging.

  “Her mom died! Left her with her prick stepfather! Then you bail on her and let her think I did, too!” He pulls me far enough off the wall to slam me back onto it and my skull bounces. Everything spins. “She was my friend first. I told you if you ever hurt her I would kill you.”

  Yank. Slam. Yank. Slam. Until my vision blurs and I get a shot of adrenaline because he might actually kill me.

  “You’re a coward, Crash. A fucking pussy.”

  “She told us never to use girl parts as an insult—”

  Tommy’s fist connects with my jaw with a smack that I feel in my toes. When I can focus again, I’m on the boards of the deck with him bent over me.

  “You deserve to rot in your own juice. I hope she’s after revenge. I hope she sells maps to your house. Gets pregnant and tells the magazines it’s yours—they’d eat that shit up and make sure everyone could see what an asshole you are!”

  “She’d never do that!”

  “Just like you’d never lie to me, right?”

  I rub my hands over my face. “Tommy—”

  “Shut up, asshole.”

  He storms back into the house. Coda, ears down, fixes his ice-blue eyes on Tommy, then back on me. Then, with a huff, my dog gets up and pads after Tommy.

  I push myself up to sit, spitting expletives and gripping my head, which pounds like Tommy’s inside trying to punch his way out. Keys jingle as he grabs them off the breakfast bar.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To tell her to sell you out.”

  “Tommy, don’t. You can’t—”

  “Watch me.”

  Ignoring the threat of nausea, I leap up. I trip where the hardwood meets the carpet, but manage to catch up with him as he reaches the front door. I grab his shoulder. “There’s stuff you need to know before—”

  One second I’m holding onto him, the next my head’s cracking again, this time against the frame of the original Banksy in my entryway. I slide down the wall. “If you touch me again,” he growls, “I will stomp your throat, and to hell with the tour.”

  I don’t know if my head is spinning from the Scotch or the hit. Can’t let him go. “I get it, okay? But there’s stuff, Tommy. You can’t talk to her when you don’t know why—”

  “Tell someone who gives a shit.”

  “Tommy—” But my fingers close on air. He’s gone, slamming the door so hard the sound is a knife in my skull. I see stars. Have to stop him. Dig through my pockets for my phone, but all I get is his voice mail.

  “For fuck’s sake!”

  I stumble to my feet, but the floor slides to the right and I tumble back down. Shit. How much did I drink? Eventually, I make it to the living room where I collapse on the couch, heart pounding, hands clawing into my hair. I’m fighting nausea, and I want to hit something. Or someone. I want to tell Tommy the truth. I need to. I’ve been carrying this lie for over a year. I should have manned up and begged him to listen. Now Kelly’ll believe him when he doesn’t know the whole story, and she’ll hate me even more.

  My breath shudders. He’ll see her, talk to her. He might get to touch her. I’ve spent the past year fighting the ever-increasing urge to tell them both the truth. I thought yesterday’s anniversary would be the hardest, then it would get easier, but it isn’t.

  I can’t tell her.

  But I have to.

  That’s when I realize what’s circling my head to the beat of my pounding headache.

  . . . Bury me.

  Dead and gone.

  Just bury me

  Without you.

  Bury me.

  I’m all wrong.

  ’Cause you buried me

  Without you . . .

  Chapter Four

  Three months ago

  Kelly

  After school, I park my old Escort as far to the left on the driveway as possible. With Dan’s voice echoing in my head I check to make sure the tires haven’t slipped off the cement onto the grass, but they’re right on the lip. Then I head inside through the immaculate garage, to the door where I stand on the rug to take off my shoes and place them, heels out, in the shoe cubby on the wall. Scanning from the car to the shoes, I nod. Tell myself there’s nothing for Dan to get upset about.

  Is there?

  Upstairs, I dump my stuff in my room before turning on my ancient laptop, then head down to the kitchen to grab a snack while it boots up.

  The laptops at school are years old and even they get running in about ten seconds. Mine takes minutes, and it whines the whole time. I’m terrified it’ll die before I can afford to replace it. I guess it would give me an excuse to stay late at school, though. So there’s that.

  At 4:05 on the dot, as it does every day, my phone rings. I answer without looking at it.

  “Kelly speaking.”

  “You home?”

  “Yes, Dan.�
��

  “Good. Chicken for dinner.”

  “Okay. Which kind—” But he’s already hung up. Spit on a stick. Now I have to decide whether to call him at work and piss him off to find out which one he wants me to make, or risk getting it wrong and maybe making him even madder.

  My thumb’s hovering over my phone when the doorbell rings. The last delivery guy dropped a dusty box next to the mat that left a brown square on the cement, infuriating Dan, so I abandon my phone and duck downstairs.

  But the silhouette on the other side of the screen door isn’t the UPS guy.

  Hands shoved deep in the pockets of jeans that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Black hair falling to his shoulders. Green eyes that watch me warily.

  Holy shark tank.

  “Hi,” Tommy says carefully. “Look, I know this is unexpected.” He flips his hair back over his shoulder, hands opening and closing at his sides so I only get glimpses of the chipped black polish on his nails. “But can I come in?”

  I blink, but he’s still there. Tommy. At my door. Looking scared. Has something happened to Crash?

  “W-what are you doing here?” My voice sounds like a pinched balloon.

  The deep lines bracketing his mouth twitch, and I follow them up to find dark smudges under his eyes. He clears his throat and leans on the door frame. “Look, Kel, I know it’s been bad—”

  “You know nothing. You haven’t spoken to me in a year.” The burn of anger crowds out my shock. Tommy’s here. Part of me wants to fall into his much-broader-than-I-remember chest. The other part of me wants to show him the business end of Dan’s gun.

  “Crash lied to me,” Tommy says. “I need to talk to you. To apologize.”

  A pebble scritches across the sidewalk behind Tommy and we both freeze. I look over his shoulder—is Crash here too?—only to find Lacie Gerhausen’s younger brother, Tate, staring at Tommy, jaw slack, the skateboard in his hand completely forgotten.

  Crap in a sack.

  “Hey, Tommy,” the seventh-grader says, his voice cracking on Tommy’s name.

  “Shit,” Tommy mutters. “Uh, hi, Tate.” Then he fixes me with a pleading gaze.

  He doesn’t get to just come to my house!

  But even as I want to shake my head, I already know the battle is lost. I’ve never been able to resist Tommy’s puppy-dog eyes. And besides, Lacie’s a grade-A gossip. If Tommy doesn’t get out of sight, he’s screwed.

  Shoving the screen door open, I grab his arm and haul him inside, bothered by how much wider his upper arm is than it used to be, and how heavy he feels when I try to pull him in. But he comes willingly, and a few seconds later, I have the door closed and locked.

  Tommy’s in my house.

  He continues to watch me. He’s always been more action than words. When I don’t move away he lifts his arm and I realize he’s going to hug me. And I want him to. I want to hug my oldest, dearest friend so badly.

  As his hands move closer, I dodge around him and hurry over to the couch to pull the curtains so no one else will see that he’s here. When I turn back, I’m so busy avoiding meeting his gaze, I land on the TV Guide next to Dan’s chair.

  Dan. Shoot. If he realizes there was a guy here, he’ll have kittens. “We’ll wait for Tate to get down the road, then you can leave. Dan can’t find you here.”

  Tommy nods and scratches the back of his neck. He’s filled out in the year since I last saw him in person. I’d noticed in Crash Happy’s videos. But here, with his arm cocked up, his bicep is bigger than I expected. And the sliver of stomach that’s revealed above his jeans is giving away secrets that on anyone else would make me blush.

  But it’s Tommy.

  I should tell him to leave. He ghosted me. He’s not forgiven. And more immediately, if Dan finds out he was here when I was alone I’ll pay. But I have two holes in my heart. One shaped like Crash, the edges torn and bloodied. The other—the one that echoes more with sadness than anger—only fills up for Tommy. And right now that hole is pulsing, aching to hug him.

  “Kelly, please.”

  “Did you drive?”

  A shadow passes behind his eyes. “Yeah. But I left the car around the corner like I used to.”

  I pause. “That’s good.”

  The heavy silence smells like sweat.

  Tommy shifts his weight. “Still looks the same,” he says, flapping a hand at the room.

  You don’t. Even though he’s still in jeans and a t-shirt, the air of quality wafting off everything he wears, every piercing, is undeniable.

  Tommy was my closest friend from the fourth grade until he bailed on me the day Crash broke up with me. While they got to sit on a tour bus together, Crash never contacted me again, and Tommy ignored all my calls and texts. Then a few days later, he blocked my phone number—through the phone service so I’d get the message when I tried to call.

  So, I’m taking a running leap of logic that my sweet, thoughtful, humble friend—who was bullied in middle school and had a pet turtle named Harriet—has changed.

  Tommy puts his hands up. “Please, just hear me out for a few minutes, and then I’ll leave.” I can’t help noticing the subtle shift in him—how, despite his shame, he stands with his shoulders further back than he used to. He meets my gaze levelly.

  It’s so hard to stare at Tommy and not throw my arms around his waist that I step away to the couch and sit down, gesturing for him to join me. He sinks into the other corner of the three-seater, one ankle on the opposite knee. He doesn’t look away.

  “I’m sorry, Kel. He lied. He said you broke up with him because we went on tour. He was screwed up. I was mad at you—I thought you broke him—so I listened when he asked me not to talk to you at all, that he wanted to be able to tell me anything and not worry about it getting back to you. And I just—”

  I raise a hand of warning. Between the shock and my fear of Dan discovering him, my ribs have locked down again. Any words I attempt will come out in a wheeze.

  “Kelly, if I’d known, I never would have bailed. I thought you dumped him. And he was a mess. And I knew you’d know what that would do to him right when everything else was happening, and I couldn’t believe you’d done it like that.”

  I shake my head. “Wait.” He leans toward me to speak again, but my hand stays up. “Tommy, wait. That makes no sense. I had no reason to . . .”

  Tommy runs a hand through his hair and sits forward, elbows on his knees. I realize he hasn’t just filled out, he’s grown a couple inches too. “I know, I found your video. That song. And when I showed it to him it was obvious he knew it was about him. You should have seen his face go gray—”

  “You showed the song to Crash?!”

  Crash saw the song. Heard the song. Heard me say I wrote it.

  Crash knows how much I’m still hurting.

  The thought sucks the last of the oxygen out of the air. I grip my skirt with clammy hands. I never should have posted it. I was wrong. I didn’t want him to see it. So wrong. I have to go take it down.

  Can’t breathe. Can’t freaking breathe.

  “Kel?” He looks around, alarmed. “Where’s your inhaler?”

  I’m already tottering across the living room into the kitchen. In a drawer next to the refrigerator, I pull out my inhaler and shake it frantically, before taking a puff that I pull in deep. Then another.

  “Kelly?”

  I shake my head and lean on the counter. But it’s still hard to inhale, so I let myself down to the floor, put my back to the cupboard, and close my eyes.

  “Kel? What can I do? What do you need?”

  I just need to focus on relaxing, breathing in through my nose, out through my mouth.

  “Kel—”

  In, out. In, out. “Gimme a sec.”

  Which is when Tommy Sandowsky, drummer for the arena-filling, platinum-selling band Crash Happy, lowers himself to the stained linoleum of my kitchen floor. He sits back to watch me. I ignore the laser-point of his gaze until I kno
w I can speak without my voice shaking. “Okay,” I say a couple minutes later. “You thought I broke up with Crash.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because he told you that?”

  “Yes.”

  Anger blisters in my chest, but I shove it down. That answered a question I’d had for over a year. Why did Tommy bail too? Had I somehow done something that hurt them both? Or did they both morph into prima donnas overnight?

  I’d have understood if Tommy got a little distant, or only wanted to talk on the phone. It was always awkward how close he was to me and Crash individually—protective of both of us, concerned about us getting together, but happy for us too. So in a way, his distance made sense. When he didn’t return my calls right away, I figured we’d have to set some rules. But as unanswered calls became unanswered texts—lots of them—and days became weeks and I knew they were on tour, and I knew they were talking to other people because Tommy’s mom got interviewed on the local news, then I tried to call again and the system message said the call couldn’t be connected, I realized he wasn’t just busy, or pissed, or trying to support Crash.

  He’d stopped caring about me.

  Knowing that Crash had lied to Tommy—made it sound like my fault—explained why Tommy ghosted. And it made me want to rage and cry and laugh, all at the same time. I didn’t piss my closest friend off so much that he couldn’t be bothered with me after he got famous. His asshole famous friend lied to him about me.

  “And all this time you’ve been watching my YouTube channel?”

  He scratches the back of his neck again, grimacing. “Sometimes. I mean, I knew you had it. And every few weeks I’d go check out your covers.” I shut my eyes, hard. With all of the reassurance of a childhood best friend, he says firmly, “You’re good, Kel. Seriously. But I hadn’t looked at it since, like, April, I think? We were traveling a lot, doing a lot of publicity. So I just hadn’t. Then this morning I went on there and I saw that it was an original. And, hell, I was proud as fuck, Kelly. Seriously. Before I even listened to it. So proud of you for putting yourself out there like that. I didn’t even bother with the other songs, just went straight to that one. And, yeah.”