by Lizzie Fox
A year ago, just before I’d come to Independence Point to join Night Addiction, I’d been completely in the dumps. Fever Pitch broke up, and the outlet that I had to channel my energy, my feelings, my anger was suddenly gone, and I felt lost. Again. Music and songwriting had helped take me out of my head, and even helped me stop the cutting. Or at least, cut down on it. Instead of daily, I only did it every couple of weeks. The high I would get from cutting—of feeling something, of taking control of my pain—was replaced with the high of performing.
Then, it was over. I spent a week in bed. Wes—who I lived with at the time—would knock on my bedroom door sometimes five times a day, offering food, or a drink, or just an ear. But I’d been catatonic and refused, until one morning I woke up from a ten hour “nap” and desperately—suddenly—wanted to feel. I pulled out my blades again and began to cut my arm. Over, and over. And over. It worked, I felt something—finally, and managed to nick an artery. If Wes hadn’t found me when he did—I could have bled to death.
After two weeks in a psychiatric rehabilitation facility, I’d learned just how bad off I’d been. I remembered the horrified look on Wes’ face when he found me, slumped to the ground, in a pool of my own blood. And that was Wes, who didn’t get emotional about anything unless it involved legs, breasts, and a round ass.
I didn’t ever, ever want to see that look in anyone’s face again. Fear. Helplessness.
The same feeling I felt many times when my father would beat the shit out of me. I vowed then and there I’d never be the reason to put that look on someone’s face again. Even if that face was Wes’. He was kind of a dick, but a loyal dick at least. Later, when I was better, he hooked me up with his cousin’s band and I met Quin, instantly clicked with the guys, and moved out of Wes’ place and into Anthony’s to join the band. Best decision of my life, though I left my most loyal friend behind. He had his full-time gig tattooing in Minneapolis and couldn’t leave for Wisconsin but occasionally. Me? I had nothing keeping me there.
That was about a year and a half ago, and I’d worked hard to put my past behind me. Or at least, learn from it. Aside from the lingering hospital bill, I thought I had. I went to my therapies without fail, and took my medication—as scary as fucking Lithium and Xanax were—at the same time daily, and never missed a dose.
I was determined to not end up like my parents; they were worthless and unkind, too mental to give two shits about their kids.
I was the lead singer of Night Addiction who just happened to have mental illness, but I refused to be defined by my diagnosis.
I didn’t want to be the reason I made someone afraid or lost. I didn’t want to bring anyone else down, least of all the new guys I’d just met that took me in without hesitation and treated me like family. I wasn’t going to be their downfall, or anyone else’s.
After so long of successful medication and therapy, and finally re-learning who I was again, aside from the diagnosis… I began to feel alone. Now, it was dragging on me and had been for some time. I wanted what Anthony had—even though his spouse was a guy. Shane was a devoted, loving husband that worshipped the ground Anthony walked on, even though they continually ragged on each other all the time. When they thought no one was looking they were affectionate and even a little mushy—not that either of them would admit it. But I saw it. And I wanted that.
Quin and his lady, Christi? Met at one of their first gigs together as Night Addiction before I joined the band; she was a waitress. Quin brought her home that night, and after that? They were inseparable. Married after two weeks, and she was pregnant in six months. Their daughter was two, and Christi was pregnant again. And while they were exhausted nearly all the time, the pride Quin had when Christi would waddle down the aisles or through the house, or when Bella would come screaming through the house for him was heart-wrenching.
Ian and Sabrina had been married for years, and had an eight-year-old son, as well as twin girls who were three.
And here I was… alone. I hadn’t had a girlfriend since I left Minneapolis, and even that wasn’t the best. My ex couldn’t handle my mood swings. I didn’t blame her though, there was nothing really there between us. And without meds, the mania from the bipolar was quite bad.
It was sort of a blow to the old pride, knowing that I basically couldn’t function without medication. But, unlike the rest of my family, I was at least functioning.
Perhaps someday I could have the family I never had before.
And maybe Jessie could, too.
W hy the fuck was I thinking that?
“Fuck, Archer. What’s your problem?”
As I spaced out, thinking about—well everything—apparently, I missed my cue. We’d done two songs already, and I’d waited after for Quin and Ian to work out some tempo issues. I penned the lyrics to most of the songs, but Quin and Ian were generally in charge of writing the music portions.
“Archer?” Quin shouted again, and I felt something hard flung at my neck.
“Shit!” I bent over and picked up one of Quin’s wooden drumsticks and flung it back at him deftly. “You’re such a dick, anyone ever tell you that?”
“My wife tells me that all the time,” Quin replied with a devious smile, and I rolled my eyes.
“Go easy on him, Greenway,” Anthony said from the side of me, giving his bass a few quick strums to tune it. “He’s hard up because he hasn’t scored with his roommate yet.”
I released the guitar hanging around my neck by a strap and slapped my forehead with my palm. “Really, fucker? You had to go there?” I stretched out my arm, flicking him off. Besides Anthony and Shane, no one really had the details on who I was living with now. This was why, because I was about to get all the shit for it.
“And, to make matters worse, she’s some chick he met the first time he ever performed—with Fever Pitch, remember?” Anthony grinned mischievously. And here it comes…
“Wait—that was—what?” Quin scrubbed a hand over his face. I knew he’d heard the story many, many times. And got just as annoyed with it as his cousin, Wes, did. “And you kept this a secret for a week now? This is like, a big deal, man!”
“That’s why you’ve been so broody the past week?” Ian demanded. “I don’t think we’ve ever seen you this distracted over a girl before.”
“Just stop.” I rolled my eyes and groaned. “Can we just play, instead of dissecting my love life?”
“Nah, I’d rather dissect,” Quin said, gently tapping at the metallic edges of his snare. “Was my favorite thing to do in school.”
“Four hundred years ago,” I quipped, and he immediately stood, glowering. As the youngest, I loved to remind them and taunt them with that. I was the lone twenty-something. They never let me forget it.
“Can it, fuckers,” Ian threatened. “We don’t have much time. Sabrina threatened my balls if I was late. The twins have been sick and uggggh…”
“Doesn’t she always have your balls, Mitchell?” Quin joked, and Ian raised both his middle fingers.
“Okay, okay. Can we just get on with it?” I had to be the reasonable one and cut off everyone’s arguing.
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s do this, guys,” Ian agreed with a grumble.
We did another five songs and decided to call it. Quin said my heart just wasn’t in it today, and I supposed it wasn’t.
Like usual, we went to the tavern in town for dinner afterward and to discuss the weekend’s playlist. We generally had about one gig a week, and near the holidays sometimes two. This week we played at the B and B Bowl in Menomonie, which was a fairly large town nearby. It was a decent sized venue but nothing too crazy. At least we were at the point now where people came to see us on purpose, usually. We weren’t just in the background filling the dead space with noise.
I ordered a monstrous sized burger and a huge pop; Anthony always scolded me for eating like crap. It’s not like it mattered; no matter what I did I didn’t gain weight. To some degree, the medication helped that along too, b
ut I just had one of those metabolisms. Sucked a bit in a society that favorited buff guys with six pack abs, and the best I could do was a hint of them on a good day. Most days I was just all long, flat lines.
“So I have a bit of news,” Anthony said with a big, triumphant smile.
“Oh! Let me guess!” Ian pretended to jump up and down in his seat. He was taller than I was, with broader shoulders and a sleeve of tattoos. He was blond, with brown eyes and his hair was generally brightly colored with whatever he wanted that month. This week, he was green. Last month, blue.
Anthony just snorted. “You’ll never guess.”
“Shane decided to leave you for someone talented?” He quipped, and Anthony glowered at him. He picked a fry off of my plate and flung it at him.
“Dude. I was gonna eat that, you damn bastard,” I slugged him in the arm and pretended to scowl.
“You’ll let it slide when you hear what I’m gonna tell you,” he said, shaking his fork at me, as he dove into his huge plate of pasta.
“What, man. Just spill already.” Quin rolled his eyes. He was the only other one that looked as “punk” or rock and roll as I did. He had piercings in his nose, and both sides of his mouth but he opted for clear plugs most of the time, because otherwise his kid would pull on them and he swore it hurt like a bitch. He had hair the color of sand that he generally wore gathered in a “man bun” and a scruffy beard at all times. He had tattoos up and down his arms and chest, and even one on his neck and wore ripped jeans and shirts like I did. He did it to look a certain way, I just did it because I was cheap as fuck.
“Guys, Shane is close to getting us booked for the Wisconsin Summerfest,” he said, with a huge grin.
I nearly choked on the bite of burger I was eating. Taking a quick swig of my pop, I gaped at him. “No shit?”
“No shit. It’s not the main stage, but the next most popular one. Can you believe that shit?” Anthony said, almost gleefully.
“That’s insane, man! Well fucking done.” Ian smacked Anthony affectionately in the shoulder.
“That said, you need to get your ass working on some louder things,” Anthony said, pointing at me. “We need to disrupt all their rib eating and beer drinking shit.”
I blew out a breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”
After Anthony’s announcement, we discussed various songs and a playlist for Saturday—this venue liked a lot of power ballads and the like, so we thought about toning down a couple that we already had. I started feeling impatient after about forty-five minutes; my mind kept wandering to Jessie. Yeah, I was eager to get home.
The fuck… I’m eager to get home to a girl I barely know. Why? Just so I could dream, and not act on, about roaming my hands over those damn curves and think about what they felt like under my fingers. I bet her breasts were soft, and her thighs would feel great clenched around my waist as I—
“Guys he’s gone again,” Ian said with a laugh, snapping his fingers in front of my face.
I glared at him scathingly. “Ha. You’re so funny, you know that?” Jumping lightly, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I pulled it out to see a text from Jessie.
Jessie: How’s band practice? Coming home anytime soon?
I flinched at the word. Home. I tried not to grin thinking about it. It sounded so… official and domestic. We won’t think about the fact that we weren’t technically anything but roommates, but… still.
It’s fine. Should be back soon.
Jessie: See you soon, then.
“Ignoring us now?” Quin kidded, and I just waved him off. “That’s her isn’t it? She’s texting you? Aw, that’s just adorable!”
I glared scathingly and flicked him off. “Eat shit, Greenway.”
“So, what is she like?” Ian questioned, and I shrugged indifferently.
The guys all just exchanged glances; Ian wiggled his brow. And I groaned. “Guys, whatever you’re thinking—just—no. Don’t even go there.”
“Oh come on. We’re all married saps. We need to live vicariously through you Archer!” Quin protested, and I frowned.
“No.”
“She’s fucking gorgeous, and that’s saying something coming from me,” Anthony interjected, flashing me a wink and I groaned, burying my face in my palms.
“Stop, we wanna know,” Ian protested. “I bet, knowing you, she has a hot, curvy body and long hair. Am I right?”
“Yep,” Anthony replied for me.
“Oh my god, just stop,” I said, my voice muffled by my hands.
“Whatever. Just tell us about her. What’s her story?” Ian inquired. “She not like you?”
I sighed, removing my hands from my face and clutching the roots of my hair, getting more than a little flustered by their session of twenty questions. “I think she does but it’s... complicated. She was married before. Guy died when they were twenty. She’s been sorta... conflicted I think.”
“Well… maybe she just feels guilty,” Anthony suggested. “How can you love someone new and still love someone you lost?”
“Did you fucking tell her you were into her, you dumbass?” Quin asked, with a quirk of his brow.
I frowned, picking at my burger and avoiding his look. “Yes and no…” And more or less I really hadn’t, except for what I thought were pointed hints. I told her I wanted to ask her out, but that was in the beginning. She had no idea the actual connection I felt for her. “She seemed to be coming around this morning after a week of basically ignoring me, but… I don’t know. Maybe she’s right to do so.”
“What? The fuck outta here with that shit,” Quin scolded, tossing his dirty napkin at me. I cringed and gingerly picked up by the edge and tossed it back at him.
“That’s fucking sick, man. I don’t need your herpes.”
Ian let out a howl of laughter. “Oh shit that’s gross…”
Quin just grinned. “You realize that this is the best mood I’ve seen you in, in a very long time. I think this woman is good for you.”
My face heated like the blazing surface of the sun. “It’s not that simple…” I trailed off. “Sure I feel okay right now, but when I hit my lows…”
“So? We all have that, yours are just a bit more extreme,” Anthony insisted. I gave him a dirty look.
“You know it’s more than that.”
“But, you fucker, you’re doing so well now. That counts for a lot. You’ve been working really, really hard to not let it beat you. There’s no reason you should be afraid of getting into a relationship,” Ian insisted, and Anthony nodded.
“Seriously, would you tell a diabetic or someone in a wheelchair they shouldn’t be with someone because their disease was a pain in the butt?” Quin suggested, and I groaned.
“Yeah, I know. I know. It’s just…” I trailed off, as I finished off the last of my burger, pulled out a twenty from my wallet, and set it on the table.
“Just fucking tell her, okay?” Anthony said. “Maybe because she’s afraid, she’s waiting for something more concrete to allow her to feel again. Make a move on her—stop being so passive.”
I snorted loudly. “Me? Passive?”
Anthony cocked a brow. “Well you’re not normally but now you are. What gives?”
“Her husband… he had mental problems too. He shot himself. How could I put her through that?” I said, frowning.
“Oh fuck me that’s shit…” Ian shook his head, looking sympathetic.
“Yeah. So… she’s afraid you’re going to do the same, am I right?” Quin asked, and I gently shrugged.
“Maybe…”
“I figured. Dude… you’ve been working your ass off to keep your shit together. I’ve never seen someone work so hard. I mean—how do you battle your mind? And win? It’s your fucking mind and yet somehow—you are. Don’t sell yourself short, man.” Anthony patted my forearm in a sign of solidarity, and I cringed as I knew his fingers brushed over the scars. As if reading my mind, he lifted my arm. “This shit is in the past. Got it?”
<
br /> I cocked a brow. “But—”
“No buts. She’s probably insecure. Just fucking let her know she shouldn’t be.” Ian said with a casual shrug.
“You’ve been alone way too long.” Quin took my twenty and slapped it back in my hand. “Take that, go spoil her. We’ve got dinner tonight. Just so long as you tell her exactly how you feel.”
A slow grin spread over my lips, and he chuckled while pointing—he basically was kicking me out of the restaurant.
Tell her how I feel… right.
Because it’s just that simple. Hey, Jessie… you know what? I’ve been thinking about you for a long, long time. And we barely know each other, but for some fucking reason I’m so damned into you, I’ve not been able to even look at anyone else for a long time. It sounds pathetic, right? I feel pathetic.
All because she looked at me with those jade-colored eyes, smiled shyly, and told me I was “really good.” Even though like an awkward dick, I crashed into her because I was too nervous to look where I was going and spilled her drink all over her.
But I’ll never forget the look in her eyes. The look. The look someone gets when they see you and think you’re the best thing ever. The look that said, “out of an entire room full of people, I’d only see you.”
Basically, she was my first fan. And out of that entire bar full of people—I only saw her. She had no idea, but I watched her pretty much the entire time. I was riddled with stage fright, and her pleasant smile and intense sparkle in her eyes…and that goddamn way she kept touching her neck distracted me from being afraid. I sort of felt like I owed my musical career to her. Because if that gig had gone poorly because I’d humiliated myself or let my bipolar freak me out; it would have been over.
