Brayden has the gall to laugh, until I stop fighting him and yank him so he nearly falls into the tub with me. "You're gonna get me wet, and we don't have time for me to change!" he squeals, thrashing. "Okay, okay!"
"Make it hot, you asshole. And get me some clothes."
He turns the knob so the water goes hot, and I sigh in relief. The cold water did wake me up a little, though. I'm far from sober, but I'm awake enough to function, at least. And god knows I've got plenty of experience functioning while wasted.
I just don't know how to deal, otherwise, especially now.
I get clean, holding on to the wall most of the time. When I'm out, Brayden has my favorite pair of holey jeans and my favorite T-shirt, and my favorite boots. He knows me. Kind of like a sister, in a lot of ways. Only, he's a he, and we fucked once. So not like a sister. But still.
Drunk thoughts don't make any sense.
Bray hustles me out the door and into his Jeep, and he hauls ass across Nashville to the bar where we're supposed to be playing...ten minutes ago, by the time we arrive. The bar manager is pissed, the rest of the band is pissed, and the crowd is pissed. At least I'm not the only drunk one, now, though.
I weave carefully onto stage, grab the mic and lean into it. Stare out at the crowd, which goes quiet when I appear. Being on stage centers me, calms me. The alcohol buzzes and burns in my blood, boils in my stomach.
"So, I'm kind of wasted," I admit into the microphone. "Like really hammered. But don't worry, I can still sing my ass off."
The crowded bar shakes with the howls of the audience. We've built a cult following in the last year or so, which has a lot to do with YouTube and social media--all Brayden's work--and our kick-ass live shows.
But this, the moment before the lyrics pour out of me, this is where I live.
And it's something Mom never understood. It's the cause of our fight. She didn't want me to start a band, especially because my studies at school do suffer a bit. I'm dedicated to this band, to this life. She wanted me to focus on classical music. Go a more "elegant" route than gigging in dingy bars and honky-tonks in Nashville. She wanted me to...I don't even know. Sing opera? Go to Broadway? I don't know. She liked the "classical" thing, and I don't think she really understood what that meant, or what she really wanted for me. When I started gigging with Echo the Stars, she was livid. She didn't even want me to go to Belmont. She wanted me to try out for Juilliard or a conservatory. Or go to a university closer to home. Anything but Nashville, anything but a band. I think she knew if I started a band, I'd be less likely to finish school. And damn it if she wasn't right. The more gigs we book, the more we get paid, the more attention we garner, the less relevant class seems. I just want to sing. I love being on stage with Brayden and Mim and the guys. Nothing matters when I've got the mic.
Like now.
The only thing that can numb the pain and the guilt more than booze is performing. So I cup the mic and hold the stand for balance, and I let Bray's masterful mandolin playing wash over me, tap my toe when Will comes in with the banjo, and weave a swaying dance when Atticus taps the bongos with the heels of his palms and fingertips, creating a quick, driving rhythm. Vance and Mim are quiet for this number, sitting off to the side until we're ready for them. For now, it's just Bray, Atticus, Will, and me.
I dive into the music, letting it take me away.
"I don't need to love, you know,
Don't need the heartache,
Don't need the high or the low,
Don't need anyone but me,
I don't need to cling to you
Late at night, through the stars as they sing, Don't need love, old or new.
I just need me.
Because I'm all there is,
I'm all right,
I'm all right,
And I don't need love.
I've ached and I've hurt and I've cried, I've loved and lost and love has died, I've learned the lessons, and now I know, I don't need to love,
Don't need the high or the low,
Don't need anyone but me
Because I'm all there is,
And I'm all right,
I'm all right."
There's an instrumental break, and then I repeat the last few lines, Mim harmonizing.
And then we play "Only the Moon" which nearly makes me cry, so we do a cover of "Broussard's Lament" by Sarah Jarosz, and then "Henry Lee" by Crooked Still, with Mim playing the cello rather than the bass and Vance on the fiddle. I'm lucky as hell to have these talented multi-instrumentalists in Will, Mim, Vance and Atticus; Bray and I both only do one thing, but we do that one thing really well. I mean, when you come across insane talent like those four, musicians who can seamlessly switch from instrument to instrument like they do, you go with it. You hang on to 'em and you make beautiful music with them. You do not waste it sitting in class learning shit you'll never use. I learned composition by composing; I learned harmony by harmonizing.
I find my pace, find the groove where the music pulls me away.
We do "Undone in Sorrow" by Crooked Still, which really showcases Vance's show-stopping fiddle skills, and then we take a break. I take a bottle of Sam Adams and sit out back behind the bar, drinking and thinking.
And of course, Bray joins me. "From an artistic perspective, I should appreciate this funk you're in. Even piss-drunk, you sing your guts out up there. Better, even, maybe. And the songs you've written? Amazing. But...as your friend, I'm worried for you, hon." He shakes his head to toss a hank of brown hair out of his eyes. "You're drinking all the time, and you won't talk about what happened."
"My fucking mother died, Bray. That's what fucking happened." I take a long swig.
"I know, but...I know you. I've sweat and bled on stage with you. I've held your hair while you puked your guts out, and I held you through that pregnancy scare you had our freshman year, and I stood by you through that whole shit with fucking Marcus. And now, suddenly, whatever this is you have going on, you've shut me out of it." He leans toward me, rests his head on my shoulder as he digs a cigarette out of his hip pocket. "And that scares me."
"I'm just fucked up, Bray. That's all."
He blows a stream of smoke. "Bullshit. That's total bullshit, and you know it. I mean, yeah, you're mega fucked up, I get that. So am I. But it's not just about your mom dying. I mean, I know you two weren't on the best terms lately, and--"
"Bray-bay, I love you, buddy, but shut up. Just...shut up." I hate the way I sound, and the way he pulls away from me and smokes in silence. "I'm sorry, Bray. I really am. I just...it all hurts too much, and you can't help. The last time I talked to her, we screamed at each other. I called her a meddling bitch, and she called me an ungrateful spawn, and--that was the last time I talked to her."
"Shit, honey. I had no idea."
"And it's not just that. It's also that...that all I ever wanted was for her to see how much I love doing this--" I wave toward the bar, the stage, the rest of the band, "and she couldn't just be happy to see me using my talent. She was jealous that I get to follow my dreams when hers was--was taken from her."
Bray stares at me with compassion in his eyes. "Echo, I--"
"She's gone, Bray!" I shout. "She's dead, and I'll never get to fix any of it. I'll never get to tell her how much she--she meant to me, that I loved her so...so much. She was all I had. Well, except for Grandma and Grandpa, and thank god for them, but...she was my mom...and she's--she's dead."
"God, Echo. Just...god. I'm so sorry." He wraps his arm around me, and he accepts the truth I gave him.
It's the truth, sure, but it doesn't touch on the rest of what has me fucked up. It doesn't touch Ben, or my regret, or my heartbreak, or my guilt. But he accepts it, and we go back on stage.
We play more covers, another few original songs, and then the rest of the band leaves the stage and only Brayden and I remain.
"Okay, we're gonna take ya'll back to when it was just Brayden and me. This is a song I wrote during a...a very painful
time in my life. And to be totally honest, I'm in a very similar place right now, so this song is really appropriate, I guess. Just don't get too mad if I have a hard time near the end, okay?"
The crowd goes quiet. Bray stands at my side, mandolin cradled in his delicate hands, his expressive dark blue eyes on me, waiting, encouraging. Finally, he nods at me, and starts the melody. It's slow, mournful.
"Oh god, it's like a hole,
Ripped into my chest,
And I can see my bones,
Each and every one.
My bones, they prick and stab,
Poke and slash,
And I wish sometimes
That I was dead,
Laying on a slab.
If I was dead, I wouldn't have to feel this, I wouldn't have to know this pain,
Wouldn't have to bear it,
Because this kind of pain,
You can't help but wear it,
When it cuts you deep,
Slashes at your heart, and tears it.
Oh god, it's like a hole,
Tearing me in two,
And from that wound
Bleeds my life,
Bleeds my heart,
Bleeds the last of my innocence.
From that hole bleeds my soul,
Bleeds my soul,
Thus bleeds my soul.
You see it, all this blood?
Of course you don't,
Because it only bleeds within,
It's not the blood that's red,
The blood that's hot and wet.
It's the blood of will,
Blood of peace,
Blood of innocence.
You can't see this blood,
Can you?
Because it's only on my soul.
I wish, I wish, I wish,
Oh god I wish I could show it to you, So you could see the hole you left,
When you forced me to the floor.
So you could see what perfect pain you wrought, Such perfect pain,
Created by your drunken hands,
By your brutal breath,
Hot on me in that dark,
You caused such agony,
Such perfect pain,
That perfect pain,
That awful, perfect pain."
I'm fighting sobs by the time the last note of the mandolin fades, and Brayden is holding me up with one arm, mandolin slung around his back, and the crowd isn't cheering or clapping, only silent, so still and quiet and watching me. I can't collapse now. I can't.
"That was called 'Perfect Pain'. But don't--ahem--" I have to pause and collect myself, swallow past the knot in my throat, try a deep breath and start over. "Don't worry. I won't leave you hanging with something that dark. How about one more?"
This time it's Atticus who starts us off with a single huge hand-drum between his thighs, sitting on a stool to my left, Bray to my right picking a quick lilting tune, Atticus thumping steadily like a dancing heartbeat, Mim on his left with a mic and a stand, ready to sing harmony.
"I don't know you,
But that's okay.
I don't know you,
But I will, soon enough.
There's just the beat of the music,
And the beat of my heart,
And the touch of your hands,
And the spark on our tongues.
That's all we need,
If only for tonight,
If only till the hot sun rises,
If only till you see my flaws,
And you see my makeup
Streaked and smeared,
Only till you see me fix my skirt
And forget to write your number down.
It's enough for tonight,
If only till the buzz wears off,
Till the whiskey all runs out.
I don't need tomorrow,
I don't need to know you,
I don't need your name,
Or even one of your secrets,
I only need you for tonight.
I only need the beat of my heart,
And the touch of your hands,
I only need the spark on our tongues.
I only need the whiskey of your kiss
And the silence as we fumble our way to sunrise.
It's enough, it's enough,
It's got to be enough,
Because honey, it's all we'll ever get, It's all I have to give,
If only for tonight.
You get me till the hot sun rises,
Till the whiskey runs dry,
Till I fix my skirt,
And forget to write your number down, Till I wash the makeup off,
Till I change my skirt,
If only until I go out tomorrow night, And sing this song again.
Because honey, I only need tonight,
And I don't need your name,
I just need the spark on our tongues
And the beat of the music,
And the whiskey of your kiss,
Only for tonight."
That's the song that has the most views on YouTube, the song that everyone knows the words to. Like tonight, it erases the ache of the song that came before, leaving the crowd cheering and carrying on, identifying with me somehow.
Only now, it feels cheap. It feels like all my justifications for how I've lived my life up till now have been empty and vain. Like I should have known better. Because all this time Ben was a few miles away.
I let the applause wash over me and keep a smile on my face and wait until Bray gives the cue for us to leave the stage. We pack up quickly and stuff our gear into Bray's Jeep, Atticus's pickup, and Vance's full-size van. We split our pay, and everyone goes their own way. Usually we'd party afterward, but the rest of the band is pissed at me for being late and showing up drunk, even though we fucking killed it...like always. They don't get it, I decide. Fuck 'em. At least for now. I love them, normally. But they don't get it.
Brayden drives me home, and thank god my roommates are gone again, at some sorority function, I think. I don't know, and I don't care. My roommates are nice enough girls, but they're vapid at best.
I kick off my boots and peel my shirt off before I'm even in my bedroom, and then I grab the half-empty bottle of Jim Beam from under my bed and take a long chugging swig straight from the bottle as I unbutton my jeans.
"Jesus, Echo. Can't you give it a rest?"
"Fuck no, Bray-bay. I've got demons to chase."
"You're gonna hurt yourself."
"Too late for that, buddy."
He sighs in frustration and disgust. "You haven't been sober since you got home. Not for one second. You're gonna fucking pickle yourself. By which I mean you're gonna end up in the hospital."
I kick my pants off and collapse onto my bed in my bra and underwear. Bray is just straight enough to run a glance over me as I sprawl on my bed. The whiskey hits me and I let it run my mouth for me.
"Fancy another go?" I say in a fake accent, leaning forward, propping myself up with both hands on the bottle. "For ol' time's sake?"
He looks hurt, and pissed. "Fuck you, Echo. We're friends, and I'm worried about you."
"Don't be. I'll be fine."
"We have another gig on Friday. Try to be reasonably sober, will you?"
"Not a chance. But good try." Brayden leaves in a huff of anger and worry, and I'm alone with my whiskey and my regret. I lift the bottle to my lips and speak a benediction into the whiskey: "I'm sorry, Mom. I miss you." A long swig, and another whispered admission: "I'm sorry, Benji-boy. I'm so sorry. I was stupid, and I let you go."
Before long, the bottle is empty, and the world is spinning, and I feel sick, but at least the ache of everything is gone.
THIRTEEN: O.D.
Ben
I've had her number this whole time, and she's had mine.
But I haven't called her, nor has she called me.
Nor have we texted.
Nothing.
For over a month.
In between finishing
the last few classes I need for my bachelor's, I've watched every Echo the Stars video there is, and I'm stunned breathless by Echo's talent. Kylie wasn't kidding: the girl can sing. But it's her lyrics that really push it over the edge, for me at least. I mean, the music is stunning. Complex, intricate, bursting with raw talent and passion and creativity. But Echo's lyrics...they're open and deep and aching with pain and meaning. She doesn't pull any punches. She writes from the heart, from the gut, from the soul, and some of the songs are almost embarrassingly personal in nature. She bares it all, leaves it all on stage. It's shocking, sometimes brutal and painful, and always mesmerizing.
Eventually, I decide to watch them play live. So I find their next date, a Saturday show in a packed bar. I show up early to drink, find a spot at the end of the bar where I'll be able to see the stage. They're supposed to go on at nine and I'm there at eight. I pace myself, drink slowly. 8:30 rolls around and band members show up to set up the equipment, plug in instruments and monitors and effects pedals, adjust mics and sound levels, but I don't see her. 8:59...and the band is milling around off-stage. I see the cellist/bassist on her cell phone, gesturing frantically, angrily.
Finally, she gets up on the stage and takes the center mic. "So we're supposed to be playing right now, and obviously we're not. Our vocalist is running late, but she'll be here any minute. Sorry."
There's grumbling, but no one leaves. The house technician turns on some music from the in-house system, "Anji" by Simon & Garfunkel.
9:30, and finally there's noise from the back of the house, a door opening then closing, followed by heavy steps. The mandolin player shows up, basically carrying Echo. She's wasted. He snags a stool on the way to the stage, sets it up front and center and deposits Echo on it. She sits unsteadily, pawing at her hair, pulling a strand out of her mouth. Her eyes are bleary, wild. She doesn't see me, yet.
"Sorry, sorry. Bad day." She drags the mic closer, lowers it, screws it tight once more. "No sense wasting time with preamble, right? I'm Echo Leveaux, and this is Brayden MacKellan, Vance Lawson, Mim Lang, Atticus Vaughn, and Will Wolf, and we are Echo the Stars. But then you know that, don't you?" She sounds surprisingly lucid for how clearly hammered she is. She points at the drummer. "Hit it, Atticus."
The drummer, Atticus Vaughn, lays a fast, intricate beat, joined by Mim Lang on an upright bass, picking and thumping and slapping, and then everyone is playing. The first half of the song is all instrumental, and I can see Echo composing herself, breathing and closing her eyes and swaying with the music, and then finally she unlatches the mic from the stand and brings it to her lips.
Falling Away Page 16
