The Wreckage of Us

by Cherry, Brittainy

  “When they moved up my legs, I gave Mama a big smile and spun around in them. They were crushing my toes, but I didn’t want to tell her that. I wanted those shoes too much to pass them up. She bought me the boots, and I’ve worn them every day since then. That was over three years ago and the last thing Mama bought for me. Those boots stand for happiness to me, and now they are coated in pig manure, which seems like an appropriate metaphor for my life. Happiness is shit,” she joked.

  I gave her a lopsided smile. She probably didn’t even notice, because her eyes were fixated on those boots.

  Damn.

  That was a good enough reason to keep shitty boots around.

  I didn’t say anything. I left her room, collected a few items, and returned to her with a pile of things in my hands.

  “What is this?” Hazel asked.

  “Plug-in air fresheners and air freshener spray. If you’re going to have those in here, then you’re going to need all the help you can get.” I started plugging them in around her room, and then I gave the space a nice spritz of lavender air freshener. I left again and came back with two pairs of shoes.

  “You can go with the white or the black running shoes. I’m sure both pairs will be way too big for you, but it’s better than crap-covered shoes.” I smiled, and I think she noticed because her lips curved up, too, and who fucking knew? Hazel Stone had a beautiful smile.

  She reached for the black ones and took them.

  I chuckled. “I had a feeling you’d go for the black ones.”

  “I have an image to uphold,” she joked. “I can’t really be sporting white shoes when my soul is black.”

  Why did I get the feeling that there was nothing black about her soul? It felt more like her soul was simply battered and bruised—something else we had in common.

  I turned to leave her space and paused when she called after me. “Thank you, best friend,” she said with a hint of sarcasm and a dash of gratitude.

  Whenever the Wreckage held a concert at the barn house, everyone in town showed up. There weren’t many opportunities for people to get together and eat and drink for free, but this was one of them—thanks to Big Paw providing food and beverages. Before a show, I’d always get a stomach of nerves, and they wouldn’t go away until I set foot on the stage and fell into the character of Ian Parker—the rock star. There were so many days I felt like an imposter, and I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop before me.

  Eric finished setting up the livestream equipment, and right before the band went on stage, Grams came out and introduced us. I swore, there was no one in the world more adorable than my grandmother. She had a smile that could make the grumpiest men happy—Big Paw and I were living proof of that fact.

  “Now, I just want to say how proud I am of these boys right here. For the past few years, they haven’t missed one practice, and they show up day in and day out to make their music. Now, maybe I don’t get the music of today—I’m more of a Frank Sinatra kind of gal. Oh, and Billie Holiday. And, oh, let me tell you about this one time when I went and saw Elvis in Mississippi and—”

  “Grams,” I called from the side of the stage, knowing she was about to go into one of her big monologues that would last all night if possible.

  She smiled and smoothed her hands over her floral dress. “Right. As I was saying, please welcome the Wreckage!”

  The crowd went wild, and every fear I had evaporated as my bandmates and I rushed to the stage. Performing felt like the biggest high I’d ever chased. I wasn’t into the drug scene. I knew what they’d done to my parents, and I chose to not go down that line in life no matter what. But when I sang in front of a crowd, it felt like the best natural high I’d ever received.

  Watching people lose themselves in the music made me want to fucking cry like a damn baby. They were rocking side to side, singing my songs, and that blew my damn mind. I remembered a time when the only people showing up to that barn house to watch us perform were Grams and Big Paw. Now, all of Eres was standing in front of us, singing, dancing, and getting happy drunk. Also the fact that thousands of fans were tuning into Instagram Live was fucking insane.

  Every song we performed made the crowd excited. Watching them swallow up our performance should’ve made me the happiest man alive, and trust me, I was happy, but still, there was something sitting in the back of my mind that kept me from truly feeling completely euphoric.

  There was a spark that was missing from the performance, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. I needed to tap into it, though, if I’d ever be able to figure out the next steps of the Wreckage’s career. Something was missing, and I was going to do whatever it took to pinpoint that missing piece.

  “That was fucking amazing!” Marcus exclaimed, tapping his drumsticks against his thigh after we finished our final song for the night. Eric checked and rechecked all our social media accounts with a huge smile on his face, showing he was also pleased.

  James was already mingling to thank everyone for showing up, and still, I felt off.

  It was a good show, but it wasn’t great.

  Why wasn’t it great?

  “Ian, oh my gosh, you were sooo good,” a girl said, wandering over to me with her best friend’s arm looped through hers.

  “Yeah, like, you are sooo good and sooo hot,” the other girl giggled.

  I gave them a half smile, somewhat living in the moment, somewhat overthinking the performance that’d taken place. “Thanks, girls. Means a lot that you came out to see us.”

  “We’d love to see a little bit more of you on a one-on-one basis,” the first girl said.

  “Or even two on one,” the other added, giggling.

  On a regular night, I would’ve taken them up on the offer, but my mind was a bit more on the show than it was on the women. I wouldn’t be able to think about anything else until I pinpointed what had gone wrong. Unfortunately, that meant a sexless night for me.

  The girls huffed and puffed but finally headed off to get more drinks. The party in the barn would keep going on for a few more hours until Big Paw shooed everyone away. People would get drunk, hook up, and make bad decisions that felt good.

  A typical Eres Saturday night.

  I wandered the ranch with a notebook and pen in my hand. I kept scribbling down lyrics and crossing them out before trying again to create something better, stronger—realer. I ached to unlock the pieces that I was missing. As I paced back and forth, a voice broke me away from my mind.

  “It’s the words.”

  I looked up to see Hazel sitting in the rocking chair that Big Paw built for my mother years ago. I used to sit in Mom’s lap as she read me stories before bedtime all those years back.

  There’d been times I’d thought about getting rid of the chair in order to forget that memory, but I hadn’t found the strength to let go just yet.

  “What do you mean, it’s the words?” I asked, walking up the steps of the porch. I leaned against the railing facing her.

  She blinked and tilted her head in my direction. “Your words are trash.”

  “What?”

  “The lyrics to your songs. They are complete garbage, filled with clichés and bubble gum. Don’t get me wrong, the music style and tempos are brilliant. And even though it pains me to admit, your voice is so solid and soulful that you could be a star in a heartbeat. But your lyrics? They are pig shit.”

  “I think the saying is horseshit.”

  “After spending weeks in a pigpen, pig shit seems to truly sum up my feelings about your music. But my gosh, your voice. It’s a good voice.”

  I tried to push off her insult and tried to ignore her compliment too. But it was hard. I had an ego that was easy to bruise, and Hazel was swinging her punches while also speaking words of praise. It was as if every bruise she made, she quickly covered with a soothing cream.

  Insult, compliment, insult, compliment. Wash, rinse, repeat.

  “Everyone else seemed to enjoy the performance,” I replied, ten
se with my words.

  “Yeah, well, ‘everyone else’ are morons who are drunk off their minds.”

  “Oh? And you think you could do better?”

  She laughed. “Without a doubt.”

  “Okay, Hazel Stone, master of lyrics, give me something to go with.”

  She gestured toward the other rocker beside her—the one Dad used to sit in.

  I sat down.

  She pressed her lips together. “Okay. Give me one of your songs. One that you know is crap but are pretending isn’t crap.”

  “They aren’t—”

  “Lying isn’t going to get us far tonight, Ian.”

  I narrowed my eyes and murmured a curse word before I began flipping through my notebook to find a song for Hazel to magically make better. “Fine. We can do ‘Possibilities.’”

  “Hmm . . . what is it about?”

  “A new relationship forming. I want to showcase those beginning feelings, you know? The fears and excitements. The nerves. The unknown. The—”

  “First chapters of love,” she finished my thoughts.

  “Yes, that.”

  She took the pencil from behind my ear and took the notebook from my grip. “May I?”

  “Please. Go for it.”

  She began scribbling, crossing things out, adding things in, doing whatever came to her mind. She worked like a madwoman, falling into a world of creativity that I hadn’t thought she held inside of her. The only thing I knew about Hazel Stone was where she came from and the clothes she wore. I hadn’t known anything else, but now she was pouring herself out on the page, and I couldn’t wait to see what the hell she was scribbling.

  She took a breath and handed the notebook back to me. “If you hate it, no harm, no foul,” she said.

  My eyes darted over the words. It’s possible this is forever ours. It’s possible we’ll reach the stars. We’ll fight for this; we’ll make it real. Is it possible, possible, to show you how I feel?

  “Shit.” I blew out a breath of air. “Hazel . . . that’s . . . fuck. It’s like you crawled into my head and read the thoughts I couldn’t decipher. That’s the chorus. That’s it.”

  “You really like it?”

  “It’s kind of perfect. Help me with the next verse? ‘Too late to go, too early to stay, just want to find out what brings a smile to your face. Is this fake, or is it real? The beating of my heart . . .’” I paused. “The beating of my heart . . .”

  “‘The beating of my heart and the shivers down my spine. Just let me know if you’ll be mine,’” she tossed out, as if it came easy as ever to her. She did it over and over again with my other lyrics too. Adding the missing pieces that I’d been in search of for years.

  What in the goddamn hell was happening? How had Hazel managed to tap into a source I hadn’t ever been able to find?

  “How do you do that?” I asked. “How do you just . . . get it?”

  “Easy.” She shrugged. “I’m not a brick wall like you.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means exactly that. You’re a brick wall. You don’t get in touch with your emotions, which means your lyrics come out bland and unauthentic. There’s no heart in them, because you don’t have any heart to give.”

  Those words felt like a personal attack.

  I tensed up. “Bullshit. I feel things.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Stop talking like you know me.”

  “I’m not talking like I know you, because I’m pretty sure I don’t know you. I doubt many people know you at all, because, again, you’re a brick wall. You don’t let people in, because you’re too afraid.”

  I couldn’t believe this girl. She was going on and on about how I was cold and closed off, but she didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. And to think I’d given her my black shoes! My chest tightened, and I pushed myself up from the rocking chair as I snatched the notebook from her grip. “I don’t need you telling me who I am or what I’m afraid of,” I snapped, feeling a bit unsettled at how she seemed to see me in a way no one else had.

  “You can be pissy about it, but I know you are just because I’m right.”

  “You’re not.”

  “Am too.”

  “I don’t even know why I’m wasting my breath with you,” I grumbled and released a weighted sigh. “I got better things to do.”

  “Like write worse lyrics?”

  “What the hell is your problem?” I asked, feeling a fire burning in my chest. It had been a long time since anyone had managed to get under my skin, yet there Hazel was, clawing her way into my irritations.

  “My problem is that you are talented enough to get out of this town but you’re too stubborn to reach deeper. I would kill to have the gift of music that you do. Your vocals are amazing, and you’re seconds away from your breakthrough, but you’re too afraid to push for it.”

  I didn’t want to listen to her anymore, because she was annoying and judgmental and fucking right.

  I turned on the soles of my shoes and headed toward the front door. As I opened the screen, Hazel called after me. I didn’t turn to face her, but I did pause for her words.

  “You can’t write the truth if you’re lying to yourself.”

  She was right, and I knew it, but I’d been lying to myself for a majority of my life. Over time the lies almost seemed real.

  7

  HAZEL

  Ian and I’d gone a few days staying out of one another’s way. Ever since I’d told him about his lyrics, he’d been doing his best to avoid me like the plague. I couldn’t blame him—I hadn’t been the nicest about it. But I’d listened to enough people blowing smoke up Ian’s butt after his performance that I’d figured he could use some tough love. It had been clear he wasn’t feeling fully confident about his performance, either, based on his pacing.

  On Tuesday evening, he came to my room, cranky as ever, and stood in my doorway. “So you’re telling me you’re able to write lyrics like that because you’re in touch with your damn feelings?”

  I nodded. “Yes, exactly.”

  “And you think I can’t because I’m closed off?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  His eyes were narrowed, and a crease ran across his nose as he stood there in deep thought. He scratched the back of his neck and murmured something under his breath before looking at me once more. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Yes, well, it’s also true.”

  He didn’t like that reply, so he continued to ignore me.

  It wasn’t until late the following Friday that Ian peeked into my bedroom. “Hey, are you awake?”

  He seemed much calmer than before. His eyes not as harsh and distant.

  “Oh yes, Ian. I am such a loser that I would go to bed at nine on a Friday night,” I responded sarcastically. Even though I was definitely about to go to bed at nine at night.

  He flipped me off in response to my sarcastic tone. I flipped him off in return. We were clearly becoming best friends.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Nothing. I was supposed to rehearse with the band, but Eric came down with the flu or a cold, or he was going out of town or something.”

  “We need you to work on your communication skills.”

  “You’re probably right. Anyway, I was going to invite another friend over if that’s okay . . . ?” He sounded timid, embarrassed even.

  “You’re asking me if you can have a friend over?” I laughed. “You do know this is your house, right? And wasn’t one of the ground rules that I wasn’t allowed to judge you for your manwhore ways?”

  He ran his hands through his hair and bit the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I know, but well, it’s your place right now, too, and I don’t want to, like . . . I just want you to feel comfortable.”

  “Ian . . .” I looked down at my attire, which was footie pajamas. “I’m wearing a onesie. I’ve never been more comfortable in my life, and if you a
re really asking if it’s okay for you to bring a woman back and have sexual intercourse with her, then yes. Balls to the wall, best friend.”

  He cringed. “Do you know how awkward you are?”

  “I am fully aware.”

  “We have to work on your communication skills,” he mocked. “Okay, well, have a good night. If you need anything”—he paused—“don’t need anything tonight, okay?”

  I chuckled and nodded. “Okay. Just make sure to not play her any of your music during sex. It’s like an instant turnoff,” I joked.

  He flipped me off with both middle fingers this time.

  I returned the gesture. Obviously.

  A few hours later, I was awakened by a panicked Ian standing over me, shaking my shoulders. “Hazel, get up!”

  I sat up straight in my bed and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Shh,” he whispered, placing his finger against my lips. My eyes moved to his finger, and his eyes moved to his finger. We stared at our touch for moments, which felt a little like eternity, before he slowly removed his finger from my mouth. “Sorry. But I need your help.”

  “It’s still dark outside, Ian,” I muttered, trying to push myself back to my pillow, but he wouldn’t let me.

  “I know, I know, but I need you. Please.” He sounded really desperate.

  I sighed and sat up straighter. “What is it?”

  “Remember I said I had a friend coming over?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I need her to leave.”

  I looked over to my clock. Four in the morning. I cocked an eyebrow. “You want me to scare her off? At four in the morning?” He nodded. “You do see that it’s a really crappy thing to kick a girl out of a house at four in the morning, right?” He nodded again. But he stopped making eye contact. I took the time to really wake up and stared at him. His hands were closed in fists, and his face was flushed. His foot nervously tapped against the floor nonstop.