by Max Henry
“Ugh. Diva.”
“It was worse than that, hon. He seemed like he doesn’t even want to be here. Totally different from how he was at our place, that’s for sure.” The people and cars on the street below are merely ants from this height.
Kendall sighs down the line. “He did warn you that he was difficult.”
“I know.”
“And I did tell you that he’s asking too much of you. He needs a shrink, not a bed buddy.”
I frown at her comment, annoyed that she doesn’t think I could do anything worthwhile for him. “I think I might use the time to work on some music for myself. Not every day you get some swanky hotel room to yourself, right?”
“Send me pictures. I want to see what lavishness I’m missing out on.”
“Deal.” I cast my eye around the place, at the things the guys have left lying around, at the strange homeliness of it. “I might have to tidy up a bit, first.”
“Men are such pigs.”
“Sometimes.” I chuckle. “Talk later, hon.”
“Miss you.”
“I’ll be back before you know it.”
I disconnect, feeling a little better after hearing a friendly voice. Fuck knows the way Rey spoke to me cut me down, as much as I tried not to show it.
I get as far as tidying away the rubbish, and then condensing the guys’ clothes to one of the sofas, before my phone chimes with a new message.
R: I’m sorry, kitty.
Sure. It’s nice that he’s apologized, and maybe I’m being petty, but I would have loved to hear that face-to-face.
I stare at the notification, unsure how to respond. As it stands, he doesn’t know I’ve received it. I haven’t actually opened the thread, so for all he knows I haven’t seen it.
I choose ignorance until my head’s in better order, and leave my phone on the table while I set up to play.
I saw this with my parents: my father would blow up and my mother would spend all her time reassuring him everything was okay. But he never apologized. He never looked my mother in the eye and told her how much he appreciated her support. Instead he searched for what he’d never find somewhere else.
Will that be me here? Am I walking down the same path; stroking the ego of a man who doesn’t care, or see, what I give up to be his reassurance? Will he end up holding these arguments against me and move on to the next shiny thing?
The real question is, why after only a couple of weeks knowing each other would I care so much if he did?
I forgo using the time to compose; my head in too much of a jumbled mess to be able to focus. Instead, I take my violin to the balcony to let the mood guide me. My bow pulls across the strings, the notes lost on the breeze, yet the familiar movements, the positions that are second nature, allow me to take the concerns I have and set them into a rational order.
He needs to be clear on what he expects from this.
He needs to respect the fact that I have no obligation to be here.
And he needs to let me in.
Not simply tell me intimacies about his past. Not just explain the issues behind the outbursts.
But to take me on that journey with him.
If Rey wants me here to help him, he has to believe that he has it in him to help himself.
Until he does, there isn’t a damn thing I can do that will make an ounce of change.
Not a damn thing.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Rey
“Let Me Live My Life” – Saint Asonia
Rick sighs as we head past security and into the venue. “Do I need to buy her a ticket home?”
The play is broken and disjointed as we walk toward the stage. We caught a cab over here. A goddamn cab. Wallace really doesn’t fuck around when it comes to punishment for the lost revenue.
I stare at his son beside me, realizing I actually don’t know a fucking thing about Rick other than what he does here. “You might need to ask her that.”
“How about you ask her yourself,” he levels. “And while you’re at it, you can apologize to the poor girl. I know saying sorry isn’t your thing, but maybe just this once you can try something a little different with Tabitha.” He leans forward to catch my eye before he pushes the envelope a little harder. “You might find she’s worth the energy, Rey. After all, why bother flying her all the way out here if you’re not going to put in any effort?”
“Just make sure you do what I asked you to, okay? She’s doing this for me, so it’s only fair I do something in return.”
“Yeah. Okay. But don’t get up my ass about it if I can’t get the okay to put her onstage.”
“Don’t give me reason to.”
Kris stands to the side of the stage as I walk on; arms resting casually on his guitar while he watches Toby and Emery bitch over who comes in first. Fuck me. We’ve only been performing the song they were playing for close to a year.
“You both cut in together, you idiots,” I call out.
“We decided to change it,” Emery states flatly.
Meanwhile Toby damn near knocks his fucking kit over in his haste to get off the stool. “What the fuck, you dumb cunt!”
I take a step back as he comes at me, both his palms facing outward. They connect strong and sharp with my collarbones.
“Don’t you dare fucking take off like that again.”
“Or what?” I taunt. “You’ll do what? Fill me in here.”
His mouth twists as he glares at me. “I was this close to calling Mom.” He holds his forefinger and thumb an inch apart while he whispers the words. “This fucking close.”
“So call her.” I push past him and head for where my guitar rests on its stand.
“You know why I didn’t?” he shouts across the stage. “Because I didn’t know how I’d explain to her that I couldn’t stop you if you had fucking topped yourself.”
Emery takes a seat on the front of Toby’s platform with a sigh.
I spin on my brother and shrug, both palms held up at my sides. “Maybe I didn’t want you to stop me?”
“You fucker.” He charges across the stage too quick for Emery to cut him off.
I brace for impact; we’re two ten-year-olds brawling all over again.
Kris steps out of the way as the two of us hit the deck, Toby’s arm around my neck, mine around his middle. My shoulder takes most of the impact, a whoosh of air escaping him as he hits the stage on his side.
“You’re selfish, Rey,” he grits out through a stiff jaw as we roll and grapple. “It’s all about you.”
I get the heel of my right hand under his jaw and push hard, forcing him back far enough to wedge my left arm between our chests. “Then let me finish for a goddamn change, big brother. It’d be all about you if I wasn’t around, wouldn’t it?”
He tucks a hand over his head and swings his elbow down to knock me in the side of the head. I use my legs to roll him over, force him to his back.
“Why don’t you get it?” he cries, grunting as I get an elbow into his guts. “It should be us, Rey. You and me. It should be us doing this shit together.”
“What the fuck do you mean?” I straddle him, blocking his fist as he tries to give me a last shot. “We are together, you dickhead.”
“He means,” Emery explains from a safe distance, “he’s tired of being left out of what goes on in that fucked-up head of yours.”
I turn to face Em, still on top of Toby. My brother goes lax beneath me while our bassist spells it out.
“He’s your blood, Rey, and you keep him in the dark.”
“Because none of you fuckers want to know about it,” I say, climbing to my feet. “You’ve all had it with me. Fuck. I’ve had it with me.”
“We haven’t had it with you,” Kris murmurs.
Asshole hasn’t moved an inch since this all started.
“We just don’t know what to do anymore,” he finishes.
I back up, looking at the guys with new eyes while Rick hangs back with the crew. They’ve
all seen us blow up from time to time, but this level of physical violence is new.
“What do you want me to say?” I shrug, still retreating. “I don’t have the answer, guys. I don’t know either.”
Toby pulls himself into a seated position, and then pushes to his feet. “Why her? Why go to Tabitha about it and not us?”
Because she’s new to this. As I look around at the tired faces of my bandmates, at the concerned look on Rick’s, I realize what it is that makes me feel safe around her.
It’s not just that she listens without prejudice. It’s that she doesn’t harbor this level of frustration toward me. She hasn’t been worn down by years of my shit. She hasn’t had her optimism snuffed out by my repeated disrespect for her attempts to help.
I like her because she gives me a fresh chance to try again.
To try again and get it right.
Can I even do that?
“Are we going to play, or what?” I stride over to my guitar and rip it off the stand.
The guys all take their positions, quiet, shoulders down. Resigned. I’ve done it again. Wound everyone up with my behavior, and then left them out to dry while I shut it all out and push on as though nothing’s amiss.
Emery wraps up the argument with Toby over how they were going to change the couple of bars in question while I pull out my phone and send a quick message to kitty.
I was a jackass, a complete and utter asshole. I can admit that. And yeah, Rick’s right, I need to apologize to her. But it can’t wait until we get back prior to the show, because if this is how far the guys are through rehearsal, I get the feeling there won’t be enough of a gap in between for us to go anywhere.
It’ll be a quick takeout meal backstage before we’re spun through wardrobe and left to get our shit together for the show tonight.
“All set?” Em asks as he wanders past to take his usual place to my left.
“Sure.” I pocket my phone and step up to kick things off.
Two taps on the mic to make sure its live and I’m right back where I should be.
Not necessarily where I want to be.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Tabitha
Help – Papa Roach
My sleep-addled brain takes a precious minute to register where I am as I blink away the remnants of my impromptu nap. The four disrupted hours I got on the airport floor with Rey didn’t exactly sate my need, so it wasn’t much of a surprise when I struggled to keep my eyes open watching television.
I gave in, figuring the guys would wake me up when they came back between the rehearsal and the show. Yet one look at the array of glittering lights out the darkened windows tells me that they never made it back.
I can’t deny the sense of deflation that has me sinking back into the sofa cushions.
I glance at my phone where it rests beside me on the sofa. I should message Rey and ask what’s going on, but that would make it seem as though I’ve accepted his apology and I’m already over his one-sided argument.
I guess I am, to some degree, but I’m not ready to let it blow over without talking it through first. Face-to-face.
My fingers beat a rhythm on the television remote. What to do? The time on the corner of the television screen says a little after ten, the evening news report broadcasting something about a gridlock on the highway. I guess the only logical thing to do is have a shower and head to bed.
Not as though I have any hot invites to go out for the night. Or do I? I roll to the front of the sofa cushions, balancing myself precariously on the edge as I stretch out to retrieve my phone. Two new messages from Rey sit on the lock screen, as well as one from Kendall.
I unlock the device and roll to my back to check hers first.
K: You haven’t sent me any updates, woman! I’m going to bed. Ring me tomorrow.
I frown, chewing on the inside of my cheek as I tap out of her thread and into Rey’s.
R: We ran over with rehearsal. Sticking around here before the show. Come down, kitty. Get a cab, and I’ll meet you when you get here to pay for it.
Shit. As my eyes track the first text bubble it strikes me: he messaged me. No spontaneous Messenger video call. He knew I wouldn’t be up to much, yet he chose to send a text message instead.
Speaks volumes for how insecure he is underneath all that anger.
I continue on to the more recent message, sent an hour ago.
R: I’ve totally broken the no phones on stage rule by messaging you, but I’ve already fucked up my words twice because you didn’t turn up. I didn’t mean what I said, kitty. Don’t leave. Don’t go home.
His message brings relief—he gets how badly what he did hurt me. I’d call him, just to reassure him that I’m not going anywhere, but he’ll be in the thick of it now. If they’re not still on stage, they’re bound to be tied up with post-show commitments.
Panic flashes through me, hot and raw as it slices a path straight through my lungs and into my heart. What if he’s out drinking again? Who’s he with?
Get a grip, Tab. It’s none of my business who he spends his time with, or why. I’ve been in his life for all of a hot minute. As abandoned as I feel being here, alone, I shouldn’t lose sight of the fact I’ve been given one hell of a privilege.
Hopefully he can do what he promised and get me on stage with them. If not, there’s still the possibility that I could make some connections while I tag along on this tour. There might be something good yet to come out of it all for me.
I take the phone to Rey’s room and drop onto the bed to at least send him reassurance that I’m here for him.
T: I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m here. I’ll be here when you get back.
The phone falls from my hand as I throw my arms wide over the bed with a sigh. I need to get prepared. If I’m going to have all this time to myself while they’re busy doing what bands do while on the road, then I’d be wise to put the hours to good use and learn a bit more about what goes on in that brain of his.
A shower to clear my head, and then I’ll get started. The magic of a smartphone and free Wi-Fi at the hotel means I have endless resources available at the touch of a finger.
Maybe I can help him through music? Maybe I can’t? But if I’m going to try, I need to give it my all.
I make a mental list of questions as I shower, things to research about his condition and what I can do to support him. I know enough not to be ignorant, but I’m one of the lucky ones who’s never had anyone close in their life affected to this degree by a mental illness.
At least, not that I know of.
The hot water washes over my shoulders, easing the tension while I run through all the little tells he had leading up to that epic breakdown. With hindsight, I can see that he barely held on, but at the time I guess none of it seemed important.
I did what everyone else does and accepted it was all a part of who he is. But what if that’s just it? None of that has to be him.
How the hell am I going to do this? How on earth do I uncover the best parts of someone with music alone? You’re delusional, Tab. A woman with a Mother Theresa complex that’s going to get somebody hurt, or maybe everybody.
I dry off and tug my pajamas on, chuckling a little when I pull the polka-dot-covered fabric up my legs. A few strokes of the brush through my hair and I’m decent enough that I don’t think Rey will have a hernia when he catches sight of me in the morning.
I step out into the bedroom and immediately freeze. What the hell? Two men argue, far enough away that I can’t quite make out whom it is. Are they back? Have the band returned? Arms over my chest, I edge the door open a fraction and reel as I recognize Rick’s voice in the living area.
“I’m done with you blaming me for this shit. You brought it on yourself. Deal with it.”
“Fuck off, Rick.” Rey. “Just get the fuck out and leave me alone.” I catch distinct footfalls as they head for the door. “And tell those backstabbing cunts they can get fucked if they think I’m going to let them
in here.”
“Go throw your tantrum in your room if you must, Rey,” Rick scathes, “but this is everyone’s space. If you can’t deal with people right now, then get yourself another suite. The guys will be back here tonight whether you like it or not.”
“Just fuck off, already!”
The door slams shut—presumably behind Rick—with a resounding boom, Rey muttering under his breath as he crosses the living space.
I step back into his room, tiptoeing across to where my sweater lies on the bed. He needs a minute to cool off, a few precious seconds to get his blood pressure down before I walk out into that minefield.
I get my arms in the sleeves before deafening vocals fill the place, the opening of the song’s heartfelt lyrics sung almost solo before the music drops in. I fall to the side of the bed as the first verse resounds off the walls, my heart breaking when Rey joins in with the words at the top of his lungs.
My hands shake as I bring my phone to my lap and ask Siri, “What’s this song?”
I can’t hear her answer over the level of the music, but the result displays on my screen: “Help” by Papa Roach. It takes two tries, but I manage to open Google and bring up the lyrics, my chest growing tighter by the minute as Rey sings along with what is his most desperate cry for change yet.
I’m in too deep. I’m flailing, falling lower with him with every reminder that I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing. He’s on the edge, arms wind milling as he tries not to fall, and I don’t know if I’m strong enough to pull him back up if he does.
My throat grows tight, air too hard to breathe, when the song restarts. Rey’s voice grows hoarse as he yells the lyrics. I rise to my feet, unable to take his agony a second longer, and walk through to the living room to find him in a heap on the floor, eyes closed and pinched with pain.
The lines of the song whisper from the speakers and the man before me as the song reaches its lull, my approach hidden when the guitar and drums cut back in.
“Rey?” I step in front of him, unsure if I should encroach on his space.
