Hammers, Strings, and Beautiful Things

by Morgan Lee Miller

  That arsenal I had in my brain was depleted. I just sat there, staring at his scruffy beard, caramel eyes, and instead of thinking of something to say to him along the lines of “fuck off,” I continued searching for resemblance. I think I had his nose, his flat, narrow nose with narrow nostrils.

  My eyes fell back down on the glass of SoCo in front of me. “Do you want a glass?” I offered.

  “No, that’s fine. I don’t drink anymore.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You don’t drink?”

  “No. Went in and out of rehab a few times. Been clean for about seven years.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said and pounded the whole glass back for myself.

  More for me then.

  “You know, it’s hereditary. My father was an alcoholic; my grandpa was one. I don’t know about your mother’s family, but—”

  “What makes you think I’m anything like you?”

  “I see it in your eyes. They’re drained and glassy. I don’t think that’s only from alcohol. Your fingers haven’t stopped tapping your leg, either.”

  I noticed what he was talking about. I was completely unaware that I was doing it, and the fact that he noticed and had the nerve to call me out on it made me want to punch that scruffy beard off him.

  “You have a lot of fucking nerve coming back here and calling someone out on the things they may or may not do—”

  He raised his hands to surrender. “I, I didn’t mean it that way. I just know from experience—”

  “If it really bothers you, maybe you shouldn’t have abandoned me. Just because my life was fine without you doesn’t mean it didn’t mentally fuck me up. So, go pride yourself on that and get the hell out of my room.”

  He sat there for a moment before reaching into his wallet to pull out a business card. “Listen, I know this is a lot, and—”

  “Did you seriously not hear me? I said get the fuck out!”

  “I just wanted to say—”

  I jumped up on my feet, and when I did, the pathetic excuse of a man cowered, holding his hands up again. “Okay, okay.”

  He placed his white business card on the table.

  “Here’s my card in case you ever want to reach out again—”

  I gripped one of the shot glasses with my fidgety hands, raised it high in the air, and once Jason Hines computed that I was clenching a shot glass and aiming it at him, he beelined it to the door as I chucked the glass at the opposite wall. My heart rate pulsated through my neck. My vision zoomed out of the room like a camera lens. He was gone by the time I focused on the tiny brittle pieces all over the ground. It looked like a little collection of sparkling ice. I guess ruining things was the only control I had left because every other aspect of my life was far out of reach.

  I took another bump of coke and pounded back another shot until I finally felt one hundred percent numb to it all.

  Chapter Twelve

  The four days that followed in between our Louisville show and our Chicago show passed in an unmemorable blur. We’d had shows in Grand Rapids and Indianapolis, but I didn’t remember them when I first woke up in my Chicago hotel room.

  Last time I went on a bender was when I found out Gramps had stage 4 liver cancer. It happened over the span of four days. I was with three girlfriends I only turned to when I wanted to drink and party…so I guess they weren’t necessarily friends, more like three friendly drug connections. We did a lot of coke, Molly at night when we made it to the clubs, and when we went to our favorite lesbian bar, the bartender hooked us up with some free shots. And then we danced for hours, stayed up to at least seven a.m., crashed at one of the girls’ apartments, slept in until five, woke up doing more lines, and then repeated. Alanna had a key to my apartment, waited for me to come home the whole weekend, but I was too obliterated and preoccupied to call her back after the numerous missed phone calls. And when I finally returned home four days later, she screamed at me, sobbed, asked me if I did drugs, and I said no, but I knew she was smart enough to know I was lying. And then I collapsed in my bed and sobbed, feeling awful for scaring her the way I did, feeling awful because I got screamed at, feeling awful for what I did to my body, feeling awful about hearing that Gramps got his death sentence, and feeling awful from the withdrawal.

  I had no idea why Alanna didn’t break up with me then. I never gave her credit for all the shit she dealt with.

  Flash-forward a year, I was back at it again. I sort of just woke up in a hotel room, hearing the honking from cars outside. The sun burned my eyes, and I had no idea why the blinds were open when they could have easily been shut. I tossed a pillow over my face, trying to ignore the awful morning sun, while a pulsating pain throbbed in my head. The front, my temples, behind my eyes, the top of my head. Every part of my head hurt.

  “Blair?”

  I slowly removed the pillow and squinted to find Reagan getting up off the couch on the other side of the suite. She walked over to me in her pj’s with her hair in a loose messy bun, the sign she hadn’t yet showered.

  I wanted to ask her where we were. I had a few memories of the last four days, so slowly but surely, the memories of playing in Grand Rapids and Indianapolis resurfaced. Barely, though.

  “Hmm?” I moaned.

  “Are you feeling okay?”

  As I sat up, the headache grew worse. It felt as if it was ready to implode. “Fuck,” I muttered and held my head between my hands, falling back down to the pillows. “Are we in Chicago?”

  My question pulled her eyebrows closer together. “Seriously?”

  I hesitated. Crap, she was mad now. “No?”

  “You had that much to drink last night?”

  “No?”

  “You puked again. On my bus.”

  I closed my eyes and felt her glare zeroing in on me. This is bad. God, this is so bad.

  “I’m sorry, Reagan—”

  “Miles, Ethan, and Charles had to drag you up here because you were so incoherent.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “And were you really that drunk when you were performing? Because you were acting like it.”

  I opened my eyes again. This knowledge had my heart racing. “How was I acting?”

  “You seriously don’t remember?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Can you just save the lecture right now and tell me?”

  “Slurring your words anytime you spoke to the audience. You kicked a speaker after you jumped on it. I don’t care if everyone was cheering for you. You know the average age of the girls in the audience?”

  “We’re adults. They know we drink.”

  “You don’t drink on the job, Blair! Oh my God!” She threw her hands in the air and let them land on her head. She got off the bed and paced around a little bit before snapping her scowl back at me. “My reputation is already on the line with this hacking. The last thing I need right now is for my opener to go out there wasted with a bunch of middle and high schoolers.” She paused as she gave me a quizzical look. “Have you been sober at all since Louisville?”

  The answer was no, but I still looked at the ceiling and thought about it anyway to lessen the blow.

  “Wow,” she said. “Just wow.”

  “You never had a problem with my drinking or smoking before.”

  “That’s because it didn’t knock you out for four days. You were still able to perform without kicking a goddamn speaker.”

  “My piece of shit father just showed up in my life. I think I’m allowed to be a little upset.”

  “Yeah? And my whole phone is out there for everyone to read, but I wasn’t incoherent for days. Blair, there was nothing behind your eyes. They were blank. You know how scary that is?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, you really sound like it,” she said sarcastically.

  I rolled out of bed. I wasn’t going to stay in the room to listen to her criticize me. I slipped my shoes on and snatched my phone from the nightstand.

  “You know what, I
’m gonna leave,” I said. “My head hurts way too much to hear you criticize me.”

  “Yeah, and where are you gonna go?”

  “Somewhere that doesn’t make me feel like I’m stuck in a prison.”

  “Um, excuse me?”

  I faced her and noticed her eyes blazing with fury. That once beautiful smile that instantly drew me to her was on the other side of the planet because what was in its place was a look I’d never seen on her before. I probably should have apologized or stopped talking right there, but the aching in my head and all throughout my body didn’t really help the anger that still remained in me.

  “We hide in a hotel room or a bus every night,” I said. “Now I can’t even drink, apparently—”

  “Did you just refer to me as a prison?”

  Wait, did I say that, rational me said. But the rational me wasn’t in control of my speaking ability at the moment. Hungover me was in charge, and she was irritable and mean.

  “I did because we can’t do anything—”

  “Because that’s what happens when you’re in this industry, Blair. That’s what happens when your phone gets hacked, and text messages and pictures and videos of your personal life are on the front page of gossip magazines for people to talk about at fucking happy hour. Now, if it feels like you’re trapped in a prison, by all means, let me snip you free.”

  “You used to be fun.”

  “Yeah? You used to be sober.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, Alanna.”

  “Alanna?” She belted out a mirthless cackle. “Okay, glad to know you’re not just this way with me. If you feel like you’re in a prison because I’m upset that you’ve been intoxicated for four straight days, performed on my tour completely drunk, and made a fool out of yourself, maybe you need to go find someone else.”

  “Or I need to find someone who can take risks instead of hiding all the fucking time.”

  “Wow! So, I’m boring because I’m aware that my actions have consequences?”

  I shouldn’t have said that.

  “No—”

  She took a step forward and pointed a sturdy finger. “I’m boring because I know that I have little girls looking up to me, and I want to be a good role model for them?”

  “Well—”

  “I’m boring because I don’t want to get shitfaced every night like you’ve been doing this whole week? Hell, this whole tour? I’m boring because I value my privacy and the close relationships that I have with the very few people I trust? I’m boring because I don’t want people intruding on that?”

  “No—”

  “I took a risk falling for you, my opening act. I took a risk falling for a girl who I knew had the power to completely destroy me because she doesn’t like relationships. I took a risk collaborating with someone who I was hooking up with, knowing full well that if it didn’t work out, I would forever be tied to that song and that person for the rest of my career. If all of that isn’t good enough for you, then leave me, and go find someone else worthier of your time.”

  “Reagan, I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  “Great. You can sleep with Miles tonight or get your own room.”

  “Seriously?”

  America’s Sweetheart really knew how to cut you with her glare. “Does it look like I’m joking?”

  I’d never seen her look more serious. Her beautiful warm eyes now darkened with a rage burning inside them.

  I raised my hands to surrender. “Fine, I’ll leave.”

  “Good. Bye.”

  I grabbed my book bag off the ground and stormed out of that room. Having nowhere else to go, I texted Miles to find out what room he was staying in. I waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. I wandered around the lobby and had to ask the front desk where the buses were, and when they escorted me to the sectioned off underground garage, I also had to text Tony to see if he could give me the keys so I could bunk up. But just like Miles, he didn’t respond as fast as I wanted him to.

  So, I slid down the concrete wall, hiding behind the buses so I could cry. I wanted to call my mom and tell her what happened in Louisville, but there was only one bar of service in the garage, and I had no energy to aimlessly wander around the hotel again looking for a private spot to cry to her on the phone. I also had no energy to tell my mom that the man who abandoned her twenty-four years ago just popped up from the pits of hell.

  A half hour later, Miles finally responded and told me his room. When he let me in, I found him shirtless, in his flannel pj pants, his hair disheveled in every single direction, and Ethan in his bed. My eyes widened at the sight.

  “Hey, you’re alive,” he said, a neutral expression thinning his lips. I recognized the disappointment in his tone.

  “Do you think we can talk for a little bit? Privately?”

  * * *

  Admitting to my best friend that I didn’t remember the past four days was completely embarrassing. I hated it, and I hated it even more that all this worry detailed his face as I cried. I didn’t admit to the coke, and maybe he was a little confused as only a few memories slowly rushed back the more we talked about what happened. I remembered sleeping a lot, and then when I woke up, I started drinking and doing lines of coke. I had a few more shots than I usually did in Grand Rapids, but I remembered that show and the crowd and how a fan in the front row held up a sign, proposing to me, and after our third song, I accepted. Then after the show, I drank, did more lines, and couldn’t remember the rest. And Indianapolis got really hazy the second I stepped onto the stage. Miles said he didn’t realize how drunk I was until the middle of our set when I hopped off a speaker and kicked it while wailing on my Fender. I was so glad I didn’t remember Finn and Corbin lecturing me about my drinking habits once we finished our set. But knowing that it was bad enough for Reagan’s manager and our manager to band together to confront me really put things into perspective.

  But what really got to me was when Miles said that, despite all of that, Reagan insisted I stay on her bus and her hotel room.

  “She took care of you the whole time,” Miles said. “You don’t remember any of that?”

  If I had, would I have still made that awful comment to her? As if guilt didn’t already weigh me down. “No, I don’t,” I muttered.

  “You’ve got quite the girlfriend. Even after you puked on her bus and kicked one of her speakers.”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t know if she’s my girlfriend anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I filled him in, wincing when I had to tell him that idiotic prison comment, and he called me a moron, which I rightfully deserved. I told him I’d have to talk to Corbin about getting my own hotel room in Milwaukee, and he said since I was with Reagan, he’d been inviting Ethan to spend time on the bus in between trips. And I was glad he finally found a tour hookup even if mine was falling apart.

  Reagan avoided our green room like the plague at the Chicago venue. Our paths crossed once when we finished sound checking, and she was on her way to the stage. Our eyes locked for a brief moment, and then both of us darted away, not saying a word.

  “Apologize to her,” Miles said once we grabbed a plate of food and hid out in the green room.

  “I will. When she hates me less.”

  “The more you wait—”

  “I know, Miles. Just…I need some time.”

  I only opted for one shot before the show to help loosen the stress coiling inside me. But as I watched Miles take his second before grabbing his drumsticks so we could stand at the side stage, my skin wouldn’t stop itching. When was the last time I only had one shot? The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it. The thought of it took over my mind, and it was the only thing I could focus on. The urge to drink another was so powerful, I broke out in beads of sweat, forcing me to clutch my Fender’s neck to fight against it. I felt like if I didn’t give my mind and body the temporary elixir it begged for, it would be like leaving a snake bite untreated. The cravi
ng was such a virulent force that it made me uncomfortable in my own skin.

  Here I was, standing in front of twenty-three thousand people in Chicago, and my mind was programmed to think about drinking instead of soaking up the scene of thousands upon thousands of people staring up at me, swaying to the beat of the song. That didn’t matter anymore. Having a drink mattered.

  The more I told myself to stay away from it, the more my skin crawled with the need to have it. Taming the angel gave fuel to the devil inside me. Drinking was also second nature. Preshow shots were a thing ever since we started performing in high school. Drinking after the show. Drinking at dinner. Drinking on the bus to pass the time traveling. Every night, I’d start drinking around five after we sound checked, then I had shots and continued drinking after our set until I passed out. Then repeated. And since the hacking? Well, I kept the local liquor stores in business, that was for sure.

  After the show, I took a minute to collect myself in the green room, alternating between closing my eyes to resist the urge and then opening my eyes to see the bottles of Patrón and SoCo. Miles gave me the hint that he was going to fool around with Ethan for a bit in our bus, so I gave him space by staying in that green room, door closed, looking my demon square in the eye, challenging it.

  Then I remembered what I had in my book bag. Weed, cocaine, Ritalin, Xanax, and Molly. For the next five minutes, I told myself to ignore the book bag. Ignore the bottles. I used my pointer finger to dig half moons all up and down my thumb, hoping the pain and studying what resembled a path of footprints on the top of my thumb would distract me from the stifling thoughts.