It was hard explaining a panic attack to someone when you didn’t even understand it yourself.
I found my phone and decided to tell Miles what happened. Even though we met because of weed and started a friendship because we were both queer, our friendship deepened because of our anxiety. He got attacks more frequently than I did, so he was my rock when I had one. We made a promise to each other junior year that we would say anytime we had one because that meant we had pent-up anxiety we probably needed to talk about. I was still confused as to why I’d had one, but panic attacks came up over the smallest things. It was performing at the most famous arena in the world without my family that was the kerosene to the fire I kept suppressing for the last few months.
I texted Miles. Just had a panic attack. I’m fine now but still freaked out.
He responded right away. Seriously?! What’s wrong? How are you doing? Need to talk?
Me: I think performing at MSG tonight is making me miss my grandpa and my family even more. He always talked about MSG and how huge it is for any musician. Just wish he was here to see it.
Miles: I’m sorry, Blair. Where are you now?
Me: …Reagan’s bed.
Miles: As in finally naked in Reagan’s bed?!?
Me: Yes…which makes this so much worse. Like, how can I have a panic attack after the wonderful sex I just had? Wtf is wrong with me?
Miles: OMG I’m dying! I need all this info! Go drink water. Eat something. Take a few more deep breaths. Maybe lie down and close your eyes. And then give me ALL the details!
Since Miles knew all too well about panic attacks, I listened to his advice, needing some kind of food in my system to regulate my blood sugar. After I popped a Xanax, I went downstairs to fix up two plates of breakfast. When I got back to Reagan’s room, I found her in the exact same position as I left. Still passed out, curled in the fetal position, facing the indent of my body on the bed. I started the coffee and mindlessly ate a banana while staring out at Central Park waking up along with the rest of the city and feeling so empty that I couldn’t share this huge night with my family.
The sounds of stirring came from the bed. When I turned around, I watched Reagan sprawl out in a full body stretch with her eyes squinting from the morning sun and tiredness. Even the little grunt she made as she stretched tugged at the corners of my mouth.
“Oh, hey,” she said in her dream-drenched voice, so casual it made me laugh. “Do I smell coffee?”
“Oh, hey. Yes, you do. Want some?”
“Yes. Two creams and two sugars, please.”
I fixed her coffee exactly as the princess ordered, bringing her plate that consisted of a spoonful of a fruit salad, a banana, a hard-boiled egg, a scoop of scrambled eggs, and three sausage links.
“Coffee and breakfast,” I said.
Her eyes widened as she propped herself up. “Oh God. You treat all your girls to this the morning after?”
“Actually, no. You’re my first.”
“I feel so special. What a wonderful way to wake up. Hot coffee, hot breakfast, and a hot girl.” She accepted the cup and plate, and I grabbed my coffee and food to join her in bed. “Thanks for getting this for me. That was really sweet of you.”
“We have a big day, so I thought it should start off right.”
And, you know, make up for the panic attack.
“You sound stressed,” she said, swallowing her first bite of scrambled eggs as she reached for my knee. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” I lied. She didn’t need to know about my panic attack. She had a big day too, and the last thing she needed to worry about was me. “Just a little nervous. It’s Madison Square Garden.”
“I’m right with you. I’ve never headlined a show there, and my stomach is already starting to hurt. I was going to do some yoga and meditate after breakfast. You can join me if you want.”
“You’ll be wearing yoga pants, right?”
She winked. “Right.”
“Count me in.”
In the silence, the sounds of the city from twenty-two floors below vibrated between the steel giants outside. Angry cab drivers. Sirens from police cars and ambulances. The two of us nibbled on our breakfast and nursed our steaming coffee, and she gave me crap for drinking my coffee black. She said serial killers drank their coffee black, and I shouldn’t be trusted now. But once I finished everything on my plate, the Xanax started to kick in, bringing the nerves from a boil to a simmer. The things I would have done to bake something at that point. Something more difficult than chocolate chip cookies. I needed to make French macarons in five different flavors. I probably would have given up the opportunity to see Reagan in downward dog in tight yoga pants just so I could bake to ease my mind. It helped distract me. Sometimes, if I couldn’t sleep, no matter the time, I’d bake. I baked those lemon bars before the start of the tour because I couldn’t keep my thoughts still enough to go to sleep, and hey, they came in handy when I gifted them to Reagan.
“You know what we haven’t done yet on this tour that we need to do?” she said as she peeled the banana.
“If you asked me this question twenty-four hours ago, I would have thought of a few things, but since we accomplished that multiple times last night, I honestly have no idea.”
“Can we take two seconds to talk about last night?”
“And how amazing it was?”
She looked at me with a playful smirk. “Yes. Exactly that.”
“It was amazing.”
“So, the answer to your Nashville question is: yes. I would like to use you for that.”
“I think I finally got that when my mouth was on you.” This made her smirk grow even more coquettish. “And do we keep doing it until we verbally agree to end it?”
“Correct.”
“Man, I’m really liking this tour thing.”
She set her plate and banana aside and then cuddled up to me. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders as she sank into my body. As I rubbed her arm, goose bumps popped up on her skin, and I grinned knowing that I was able to give them to her.
“But really,” she said, “something we haven’t done that we definitely should do: play together. That would be fun, right? At Madison Square Garden? Merge our love for covers on the most famous stage in the world?”
“Um, definitely.”
“We can quickly whip something up this afternoon at sound check, right?”
“Absolutely!” I said. “We’re professionals.”
She shifted so she could face me. I loved how raw her face looked in the morning sun. Free from makeup and showing the perfect light blemishes that speckled across her face. A good night’s sleep glowing on her skin. She was so beautiful. She could have asked me to sing some 1970s disco song right then and there, and I would have agreed to it in a heartbeat.
And I hated 1970s disco, for the record.
“We’ll need something really fun,” she said, luckily not noticing me saving every beautiful detail of her face in my mind. “A song everyone knows and can sing along to. A song that will just get you, me, the guys, and the audience all on the same page in one giant bonding moment.”
“I already know the song.”
“Well, that was fast. What is it?”
“‘Piano Man.’”
People loved singing the song. It swept you up into a cloud of happiness. People went to dueling piano bars, holding their breath as they sat on the edge of their seats so they could hear the pianist finally play the song.
She grinned. “Perfect, Ms. Piano Girl.”
* * *
My stomach really brewed the nerves that night the more I thought about how significant this show was for all of us and how I desperately wished my family was here to see it. No one was even on stage to entertain them yet, and we could already hear the roaring of the crowd through the cinderblock walls.
As Miles ran in and out of the bathroom, I downed my third tequila shot because my nerves were so strong, SoCo wouldn’t tame them
, and I seriously debated smoking a second joint. The last time I felt like I wanted to vomit before a show was my first piano recital when I was seven, and then about five minutes later, I butchered Pachelbel’s “Canon,” and refused to play in front of anyone until high school. If tonight was going to be a repeat of that, my music career would be over, and I would be a laughingstock at Madison Square Garden.
From the corner of my eye, Reagan popped in the doorway, in full concert attire and makeup, looking the same kind of beautiful she had always looked on tour but with an extra glow tonight. Maybe because a memory of her naked under me the night before swept through my mind, or because I knew someone like me was able to get a beauty like her, or maybe her face still glowed from sex.
“Hey, where’s Miles?” she asked, leaning against the doorway all confidently and sexy; it made me blush.
“Where do you think?”
“He really gets that nervous before shows?”
“Yup. It’s even worse today. He’s got the gits.”
“The gits?”
“The Garden shits. And my stomach is ready to implode.”
“You doing okay?”
“No, I’m completely mortified. My hands just started shaking.” I held out my right hand to show the proof.
God, here it was again, the same feeling from the morning. The choking in my lungs. The shortness of my breath. The warmth blanketing my body, and not the good warmth that should have been there with Reagan showing off those legs and cleavage in her black, sparkly bodysuit. This was a suffocating kind of warmth.
She took a seat next to me and clasped my shaking hands. Something settling ran through me just a little bit. The same kind of settling the tequila I downed a few moments before gave me.
“Oh, Blair, you’re really that nervous?” she said, her eyes giving me sympathy.
“I had three shots of Patrón.”
“Okay, maybe you shouldn’t drink before you perform.”
I could feel Reagan’s eyes quizzing me but in a different way than before. Before, she looked at me as if she was stripping off my clothes in her head. Now, she looked at me as if she knew something was wrong with me, and I tried everything to keep from crying out how badly I wanted my grandparents—or even my mom—at this show. It would have meant so much to me for them to be there. Gramps always told me that one of the biggest moments in a musician’s career was playing at the Garden. And here I was without the fans that meant the most to me: my family.
It didn’t seem as thrilling as he made it seem. Probably because when I envisioned myself performing here, he, Grandma, and Mom were always somewhere in the audience.
The way Reagan looked at me, so concerned, free from that impish grin that she always wore, officially cracked me. I let out a long, deep grunt and ran my hands down my face, keeping them there so I could hide my stinging eyes.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” she said, rubbing my back with her gentle hand. “Blair?”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. Talk to me.”
“I just really wish my family was here tonight, that’s all. My mom couldn’t get off work, and my grandparents…”
I couldn’t and refused to let myself cry in front of the girl I just slept with for the first time. It was way too soon in our hookup for me to cry on her shoulder, even though that was all I wanted to do.
She put her arm around my shoulders. “Aw, Blair, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. You have a reason to be upset. But you know that your grandparents would be so proud of you.”
“I know. That’s why I wish they were here to witness it.” I lifted my head out of my hands and stared at the cinderblock wall. “My grandpa always talked about Madison Square Garden, and how he would throw parties for his friends when they had their first Garden show. And here I am, about to perform in front of a sold-out Garden, and he’s not here.”
Her arm rubbing my back pulled me into her body for a half hug, and I accepted, resting against her. She smelled so good. The very faint smell of the familiar hotel shampoo and bodywash I spent hours rolling around in during the very early hours of the night mixed with a splash of whatever designer perfume she spritzed onto her neck.
“I’m so sorry, Blair. I know that must be upsetting for you, but you better believe he’d be so proud of you. I’m proud of you, if that means anything.” I could only shrug because of a lump restricting my ability to speak, but yes, it meant something to me. “Hey, I have an idea.”
“What’s that?” I choked back the cry hanging in my throat.
“How about we FaceTime your mom? I can get Finn to do it from the soundboard, or we can get him to go where the press is. Or I can do it from the side stage. So she can see your performance. So you have family here to enjoy the show with you. How about that?”
My heart felt as if it dropped into my stomach. The cry in my throat flew right out of me as I studied her to see if she was serious. “Seriously? You would do that?”
She gave me a kind smile. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“That…that would be really great.”
“Okay, then, it’s settled. Finn and I got you, don’t worry.”
My blink broke the seals, and I quickly wiped my face to preserve the fresh makeup and so Reagan wouldn’t notice. “Jesus, I’m so sorry for getting emotional on you.”
“Don’t apologize, Blair. Seriously. It’s okay, and you’re going to be okay, and you’re going to kick some ass tonight like you’ve been doing every show on this tour. Just take a few deep breaths, all right?”
I nodded and spent the remaining time with my eyes closed, practicing the deep breaths Reagan taught me before she left me alone to prepare. But as much as it was settling to know how much Reagan cared and went out of her way to do something so important to me, the feelings in me were too virulent to get rid of in a snap of a finger. My body craved something stronger to replenish the energy that had been depleted from me since the morning.
So, I did two bumps of the cocaine I had hidden in my book bag.
Just to get through this performance, I reassured myself, knowing I would feel guilty about it. You take shots to get you ready for the show. How is it that different?
Reagan’s manager, Finn, stood in the gated-off front row with the press photographers, holding up my phone while my mom watched all the way back in Los Feliz. She was able to witness how the Garden gave us the most hyped up, loudest crowd we’d ever sung to. Depending on how the crowd was, especially at the larger venues, determined if I would jump on the floor and be a part of the first-row audience or stay on the stage. But this New York crowd really showed up, singing along and head banging the whole time. Everyone on the floor pushed each other toward the stage throughout our set list, which I know annoyed some fans, but I loved it because it was a sign that our music got them hyped up. So, on our fourth song that had an upbeat, bluesy sound, I fully melted into the high and jumped to the ledge that ran along the front of the stage so I could only be about six inches taller than the first row.
They held their hands out, singing, chanting, spilling out all the excitement inside them with cheers and smiles. As I walked along the ledge to the other side of the floor, some of the fans tried grabbing my skinny jeans and shirt. Even though it was jarring to be yanked, I secretly loved it because I could feel their enthusiasm in that little tug. But security didn’t enjoy it because they sprinted over to shove the extending hands behind the metal railing. Once I made it safely to the stage, I thought the whole thing was fucking awesome.
When I did the usual, “Are you ready for Reagan Moore?” pump-up talk two songs from the end, I heard how loud twenty thousand eager Reagan Moore fans sounded, and it was even louder when Reagan took the stage with her opening song about Jessie Byrd. She always sang the first verse in total darkness underneath the stage, and then when the chorus came, the lights ignited with flamethrowers attached to the front, and she p
opped up from the elevator underneath the stage, and the crowd erupted in what I liked to call the concert sonic boom.
I always loved watching her opening song because I loved how hysterical the crowd was at the first couple of minutes of the show, still adjusting to the sight of her. The girls in the front row started crying, throwing their arms over the metal gates, their mouths open from screaming, which was drowned out by the sound of Reagan’s voice. She strutted around the stage as if she owned it in the same way we all owned the stage back when we were younger, locking ourselves in our bathrooms, lip-syncing our favorite songs into hairbrushes. Except she did exactly that inside Madison Square Garden, in front of twenty thousand screaming and crying fervent fans. Her confidence was so attractive, it had me glued to her during her whole performance of her angsty breakup song.
And Miles noticed.
“You’re smitten,” he said into my ear, over the music. I told him about what happened the night before while we got ready, when Corbin wasn’t in the room. I didn’t want to hear his lecture about how I should be careful. That would be another layer of anxiety I already didn’t need; plus, I wanted to feel good about it. “One lay and she has you completely smitten.”
I didn’t respond because there was no use in lying. He read me like a book from the very first day he met me. Plus, I knew I could trust Miles with any secret. He was the only person I allowed to read my songwriting journal. So, I gave him an answer by not really answering, just sucking in my lips to hide my grin.
“Knew it,” he said with an arm nudge.
Halfway into the show, Reagan told the Garden we were coming back on; they gave us the same kind of thunderous energy as before when we stepped back onto the stage. Once I took a seat at her black baby grand piano, I positioned the harmonica holder around my neck, placed my hands on the keys, and looked up at Reagan walking over to me as she adjusted her in-ear.
“I’m following your lead,” she said with her smile directed at me. “Whenever you’re ready, Piano Girl.”
Hammers, Strings, and Beautiful Things Page 11
