Love Out Loud

by Aimee Salter

  I follow her all the way to the driveway to make sure she gets in her car and gets out of my property—with no way to get back in. And when those gates close over her car jerking backwards into the street and roaring away, it’s like a cloud that’s been following me for a year got burned off by the sun.

  I have to call Kelly.

  I sprint up the stairs, across the deck, and into the living room, swearing when I see the scattered pieces of my cell phone on the floor.

  She had to go and destroy my phone. Without it, how can I—

  There are footsteps on the deck. I whirl, expecting Amber. Which would be impossible.

  But it’s not Amber.

  It’s Kelly, standing at the slider, panting. “I ran through the gates when they opened and came up here. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

  My throat pinches. Don’t be a pussy.

  “Crash, why didn’t you tell me?!” Kelly rushes towards me. The grief on her face breaks the dam in my chest. I choke as I’m circled by warm arms that smell like sugar and sunflowers.

  We sink to the floor together. She’s shushing me and touching me, and crying. And I think I am too.

  I’m so sorry, Kelly.

  So fucking sorry.

  I’m not sure if I say it out loud, or she just knows.

  But she squeezes me hard, either way. And she doesn’t let go.

  Thank all that’s holy, she doesn’t let go.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Two Months Ago

  Kelly

  We never make it out of the living room. Eventually, Crash gets to his feet and takes my hands, leading me to the couch—the one on the side that has a wide, bed-like section at the end.

  He drops onto it, then tugs me down until we’re slumped together. He stared at me for a minute, bloodshot eyes breaking my heart all over again. I don’t know what to say. So I wrap my arms around his neck again.

  He starts slowly filling in all the details around the things I heard him and Amber say.

  The sickness, the fear, how everything was wrong.

  A hole opens in my chest and yawns wider with every story he relays, with every word about what happened. How it felt. How dead it made him inside. How angry. How it turned him off sex completely. How he hasn’t slept with anyone this entire time except for Amber and her “friends.”

  That part, in particular, makes me murderous. I’ve never in my life fantasized about killing someone. But then Crash described the first time he arrived in his dressing room at a concert and Amber had left a publicist friend waiting for him.

  I shake with the desire to go after her. To cause her harm. To kill her.

  The skin on my collarbone gets damp more than once. I let him talk and try not to get in the way, except to ask questions. But he’s got it out now and it took everything with it. He falls asleep.

  I’ve never felt more awake in my life.

  I shift my weight and he nuzzles at my neck, pulling me closer in his sleep.

  I bite my lip.

  Understanding never felt more confusing.

  Listening to Crash confront Amber, so many things clicked into place. Small details that now make sense—why Amber was always so territorial with Crash, why he was willing to meet with her on that day of all days. He thought Tommy was at risk, that the entire band might fall apart. I would have gone too.

  This all explains why he seemed so odd, so numb later that day when he broke up with me. Why we were thrown from the joy of that night, to the blackness I’ve slogged through ever since. I get it. And I can’t tell him he was wrong because I wasn’t there. I didn’t have to make those decisions.

  But, oh, I wish he’d told me.

  The way his voice broke when he described how alone he’s felt, how impossible it’s all seemed. How, once he gave in it became a constant roller coaster of trying to forget the last time, then having it thrown in his face when she ambushed him again.

  Because, he said, that’s what she’d do. She’d go weeks without so much as winking at him, and he’d relax. Let it go. Think about the future and me, and telling Tommy a version of the truth. Then he’d arrive back at the hotel to find her on the couch, naked. Or in his dressing room, in lingerie. Or with a friend.

  He shuddered and shook, and he wasn’t even describing the act. Just how Amber arranged for all the photos I saw of him with women in the different cities as they toured so no one would ask questions about me, or her, or anything else.

  You need to look like the sexy rock-god you are, she told him. Then did what it took to create that impression by forcing him to go into public with these girls he didn’t know, then tipping the paparazzi off about where they’d be.

  And he knew it would kill me. Said it killed him. That sometimes the girls would try to kiss him, or touch him, and all it did was remind him of Amber.

  He shoved one of them off who was persistent, he said. Then he hated himself so much he drank until he got alcohol poisoning and they had to cancel one of the concert dates.

  Amber didn’t like that. She agreed to stop lining the women up for him, as long as he said things in all the interviews that implied he was with different girls every night.

  So he did. Because it was one less time he had to be touched.

  I pulled back to look at him when he said that. “Do you want me to stop touching you?” I would have done it too. Even though it was wonderful to be in his arms, it was also burning me.

  He just pulled me closer, closer, closer, wrapped himself around me. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted close.”

  I squeezed him harder too, then let him keep talking, my head spinning.

  He babbled then, about how it wasn’t cheating because he didn’t want to do it. But he knew it was and couldn’t get the images out of his head. He tried for a long time to do it and just be separate from it. Forget it after. Walk away in his mind. But he never really got free of it. And the look of her, the sound or smell of her, haunted him.

  She was everywhere. He couldn’t get away. And he was so lonely, sometimes he didn’t even try to make them leave because at least someone was close. But then he’d hate himself even more.

  “Does Tommy know?” I asked.

  “No. And he won’t. You have to promise, Kel.”

  I promised. Of course I did. It’s not my story to tell. But I know it needs to come out. Crash can’t get free of this as long as it’s a secret—and as long as it stays secret he has to keep seeing her.

  Crash doesn’t want to say “rape.” I can understand that. But are the consequences of not talking worse?

  “Tommy knows something’s wrong. But he’d never guess this. And you know how he’d react,” Crash says quietly.

  It strikes me then: I’m holding him. He’s clinging to me. We’re in this together.

  How did that happen? Because even though I’m sick over what’s happened to him. I’m also hurt. So badly.

  I sit up to create some space.

  This whole situation obviously messed Crash up in ways I’ll never understand. And it has to be his choice when to talk about it, and with who. But the more he unloads the pain of the past year—his fear and shame—the more the arguments claw through my head.

  I know I can’t say them. But they’re still there.

  You could have said no.

  You could have told me.

  You could have told Tommy.

  You could have reported her.

  You could have let Tommy talk to me so I was still around because I would have seen it. You wouldn’t have had to carry it alone. I would have asked. I would have kept asking.

  You killed that.

  You killed us.

  My anger burns. I have to push those thoughts away.

  He’s been through trauma. We can deal with us later.

  I think he’s asleep when he suddenly clears his throat. “You know when it got really bad I used to pray you’d just show up. And I vowed that if you did, I’d tell you the truth.”

/>   I swallow. I don’t tell him how close I was to making that happen. Refuse to wonder what might have been if I’d pushed that buzzer and walked into this house. Because that was Amber with him that night. And I hate myself for not saving him from that, even for one night.

  I consider the midnight black of the past year and squirm.

  Crash’s breathing evens out again and his grip softens. His hands don’t feel cold anymore. His arms slip around me again, his head gets heavy on my shoulder.

  He looks young. Handsome. At peace.

  My body responds to his closeness and I hate it because it doesn’t let me think.

  I’m glad he’s peaceful for now. But suddenly, I need space.

  Watching his face, I slowly slide out of his arms. He shifts, but his breathing doesn’t catch. And when I’m free of him, kneeling on the carpet next to the couch, he rolls over, snuggling into a couch pillow behind him.

  I look at my phone. I’ve got to be out of here in fifteen minutes.

  For the first time, I’m a little grateful for Dan’s rules. I still love Crash. It isn’t hard to admit that. Especially now. But the darkness I’ve lived in for the past year is being consumed by confusion of a different sort. Because I do feel betrayed. I do wonder how this was possible.

  Crash is telling the truth. But what do I do with that kind of truth?

  And what does it mean for us?

  I look at his back, the places his hair curls because it’s sweaty. The way he’s wrapped around that pillow like a little kid with a teddy bear. I want to stroke his hair and ask him back. Never let him go.

  I also want to slap his face, shake him, and scream, how could you let this happen?

  Confusion. So intense, it makes my hands shake.

  Thirteen minutes until I have to go.

  I look over my shoulder, through the sliding door, to the deck outside where Crash’s guitar is abandoned. I think about the footage I’ve seen of the guys on tour—surrounded by people all the time. Security, crew, Amber, the fans.

  How could no one else have noticed?

  Is it possible he kind of liked it for a while? But then it got too much and he regretted it?

  It’s clear to me now that he hates what’s happened. That it’s harmed him. That he doesn’t ever want to be touched by her again.

  But was it always that way?

  There’s no way to know because he didn’t talk to me when he had the chance.

  He walked away and let me think it was my fault. That I wasn’t enough.

  Rage. Searing, roiling rage.

  I hurt for him. I want to help him. I wish this wasn’t true in his life.

  But I’m more angry at him than I’ve ever been at anyone.

  Because when he gave Amber control over his body, he stole my control over my heart.

  And I’m not sure I can forgive him for that.

  Does that make me a horrible person? Probably.

  All I know is, when it’s time for me to leave, it isn’t hard to do.

  I scratch him a quick note and sneak out without looking back.

  Because, no matter how much I love him, a part of me hates him too.

  I’m so preoccupied with everything turning over in my head that I don’t pay close enough attention to the time.

  When I get back to the hospital, Dan’s out of bed, Coke balancing on the arm of the beige recliner I sleep in, a baseball game on the TV. The lamp over the bed is the only light in the room, his eyes narrow at me as I walk in the door.

  “So, this is how it’s going to be, is it?”

  I freeze, look at the clock on my phone. It’s 8:02.

  Oh no.

  “I—”

  “When I said you could go whoring with those boys, that didn’t mean you get to disrespect me.”

  “I wasn’t, Dan. Crash had a really bad night—”

  “I don’t give a shit about Crash. That boy’s got fucking millions, people at his beck and call—he’s probably got a harem in his basement. So you let those people help him when he’s got his panties in a twist. Or we’re going back to normal, you understand me?”

  I make my shoulders slump, my entire body look penitent. “Yes. Of course. I’m really sorry, Dan. I didn’t realize I was running late.”

  “You think they won’t leave you again just as soon as they feel like it? Of course they will. They already did. You’re a toy to them, you know that? A fucking hole in a wall to put their dicks in.”

  I blanche. “I would never—”

  He points at me. He might be off his feet, but I feel the weight of his intimidation even from halfway across the room.

  “Don’t you talk back to me! Who knows how men think? Huh? Me or you? Because I can tell you, as soon as they’re done with your hole, they’ll find another one and you’ll be out. So you take what you can get, then you get home and clean up, and don’t tell yourself you’re better than me, because guess who’ll still be here, taking care of you when they decide they’re sick of you? Who’ll be the real man in this equation?”

  I swallow tears because I know what my line is, but I don’t want to say it. At all.

  “You.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You, Dan.”

  “That’s right. And don’t you forget it.” He backhands the empty Coke can. It flies across the room and hits the wall, clattering to the floor. It bounces harmlessly against his bed then stops just inches from my feet.

  I stare at it, as Dan growls about my disrespect, still cursing about Crash and my promiscuity, and whatever else he blames for my attitude.

  I know I should move. I can’t stand here all night. But my feet are nailed to the floor.

  He isn’t drunk. Dan doesn’t do drunk. He doesn’t do anything that loses him control. That’s why this whole situation makes him so mad—he wants me close to Crash Happy. He wants to tell his friends the little snippets the guys let me feed him to keep him happy. He wants to sound like he’s important in circles that he hasn’t even seen.

  They’re nothing but fame and money, to him. So he wants me there.

  But that means he has to let me enjoy something. Be somewhere else. Do fewer things for him. And it’s killing him.

  For a second I wonder if it’s worth it. Because I can see what’s happening. He’ll heal, then get more and more mad, less and less patient about all the changes. And he’ll take it out on me.

  He’ll keep calling me a whore.

  He’ll make accusations about the boys.

  He’ll feed my insecurities—he’s excellent at that.

  And when things go wrong again, because I can’t shake the feeling that they will, he’ll say I told you so and laugh in my face.

  “Stop being a sulky bitch and pick that up.”

  He’s staring at the game again. It’s an effort to force my limbs to move, but I manage it, stumbling two steps forward to pick up the can from the linoleum—almost falling over in the process—and taking it out to the trash it the hall.

  I realize my bag’s still on my back. I need to finish my homework. So I get myself a drink and some chips from the basket of snacks and trudge over to the small table against the wall, and chair, where I can work.

  But it’s hard to think. All I can see is Amber, and Dan, and Crash and they’re all mixed up in my head and I don’t know what to think or feel.

  Eventually, Dan gets the nurses to help him back into bed. He flirts and grins and they chuckle with him. Then they give him a pill and he falls asleep.

  Finally, I can relax.

  Around ten, my phone buzzes with a text from Crash.

  Just woke up. Sorry.

  You okay?

  Do I imagine the desperate tone?

  I try to type an answer three times, but I can’t figure out what to say that isn’t a lie. So I put my phone down without answering because the real truth is I don’t know.

  I stare at my phone trying to figure out what I’ll do until Crash decides I’m not replying. />
  You must be asleep.

  Sweet dreams, Kelly

  I turn the phone off.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Two Months Ago

  Crash

  Having it all off my chest is like lifting a cold fog I’ve been walking through for a year—only to find out the world is getting rained on.

  When I woke up my first thought was Kelly. But she’s gone.

  Laying here in the dark, her not texting back, all the fear and shame floods back.

  I get out my guitar and work on the song for a couple hours because I need my mind off all this—but I don’t want to stop thinking about Kelly.

  But I’m exhausted and can’t concentrate, so I’m in bed asleep by midnight, which never happens. And that means I’m up with the birds, my deck bathed in golden sunlight, but still chilly. I make coffee and drink it. Eat breakfast. Try to read some news. Walk around my house, restless and obsessing, wondering whether she’ll text me before she goes to school.

  Coda can sense my tension. When I feed him, he sniffs the bowl, then sits down and stares at me. When I give up and leave to go back to my guitar and the song, he pads after me, hugging my leg with his side until I sit down and he can lay at my feet.

  By ten o’clock I accept I won’t hear from her until after school. So I get to work. Except for a quick break to make a sandwich that dries out before I finish it, I’m still working on it at three when Tommy arrives.

  He grins and I’m surprised, until I remember he has no clue what happened yesterday.

  I say hi and look down at the guitar.

  Tommy’s wearing a different t-shirt, but the same ripped jeans as yesterday. He’s got his guitar and he takes the chair that’s always his when he’s here.

  “So you gonna tell me what’s happening, or do I have to give you another concussion?” Tommy says, plucking at his guitar.

  I stop working on the chord progression of the new chorus and look at him. “It’s nothing to do with you, man. I mean that in the good way.”

  “But it’s to do with Kelly?”