by Max Henry
“I’m sure you’ll blow them away, dear.”
He disconnects, leaving me reeling as my cab arrives. I need to hustle if I’m going to make it in time.
My Uber Black pulls up with barely three minutes to spare. I opted to pay a little extra for the benefit of having an unmarked car drop me off. If the address had been for some stately house, or upper-class townhouse, it would have looked tacky as all hell rocking up in a Yellow Cab.
Yet as my driver double-checks the number on his GPS, I realize why I’d been asked to dress casual. The hotel gives me flashbacks to the first night with Rey. All glass and brass, and far too much class for a girl like me.
“I think you must be after one of the residences,” Suresh, my driver, says with a frown. “You want me to stick around?”
Bless him. “No. I’ll be okay. Thank you.”
I slide out of his car, violin case in hand, and check the blouse I’ve borrowed from Kendall. She made me pinky promise to message her in an hour so that she knows I haven’t been chopped into tiny pieces.
Seems everybody is as skeptical of people who book private sessions with violinists as I am.
I make my way into the lobby, overwhelmed by what I’m about to do. Reassuring myself that I’m just as likely to find myself playing to an upmarket birthday party in a large apartment as I am serenading some creepy guy in his small room goes some way toward calming my heart.
But only a little.
“Good evening. How many I help you?” The woman behind the front desk has the most immaculate hair.
I feel as though I just rolled out of bed in comparison.
“Hi. I’ve been booked to play for somebody at number 2/1078?” I lift my violin case for her, as though she needs proof that I’m legit.
“Yes. We have a note to let you up when you arrive.” She glides to the far end of the desk and then returns with a key card. “You’ve been instructed to let yourself in.”
“Thank you.” I take the slip of plastic from her. “I don’t need anything special to reach the right floor?”
She shakes her head ever so gently. “Only that. You’ll see the directory next to the lifts.”
“Thank you.”
I count my steps on the way over, hoping the forced focus will settle my nerves. My phone vibrates against my thigh as I step before the brass-framed directory. I decipher which floor I need as I pull the device out, using the end of my violin case to nudge the call button.
The light above the lifts illuminates as I switch my phone to silent, and then slide it back in my pocket. It feels unprofessional having it on me, but if this had turned out to be some whacko, I wanted the option of calling for help.
The ride to the right floor breezes by, helped out by the fact I keep busy running the songs I’ve chosen to play through my mind. I chant the names in my head as I walk the hall, searching for the number.
It’s disturbingly quiet up here. I half expected the spill of chatter from the apartment when I reached it, or at least some indication of what goes on inside. Yet there’s nothing.
Overthinking again, Tab. Don wouldn’t have sent me here if the details didn’t check out. Hell, I doubt crazy murderers are the kind to spring several hundred on a rent-a-musician just to get their kicks.
The lock beeps with the swipe of the card, the solid clunk of the rod disengaging announcing my arrival. I push the door open, not at all surprised to find a wide-open expanse of a place on the other side. The room appears to extend to the left, all the way to the end of the building, large windows on two sides showcasing the city at night.
Aside from a floor lamp at the intersection of the two cream sofas, there aren’t any lights on.
“Hello?”
I take a step forward, and still again when my boot makes a strange sound. An envelope sits under my toe, wrinkled where I’ve stood on it. I give the place another sweep, and then stoop to retrieve it.
- Read me.
What in the ever-loving hell?
I set my violin next to the entrance table, and slide out the card in the envelope.
- Days sober: 94. Your next card is in the same place as where we first kissed at your apartment.
Oh, hell to the no. “Rey?”
Cold, empty silence answers me. I cross the living space to the spot on the carpet next to the sofa. Sure enough, another glossy envelope sits waiting.
- Suicidal thoughts before you left: almost daily.
- Suicidal thoughts after you left: 7.
- Next card is where I told you I love you.
Jesus. My heart echoes my footsteps as I rush through to the bathroom. Still no sign of Rey.
- Songs written before you left: all about hate and despair.
- Songs written after you left: about you, the future, and ultimately overcoming adversity.
- Next card is where you told me you’d stay.
I stack the three cards I have in my hands, taking four short steps to see that yes, I did walk past one on the way in here. My hand shakes as I reach for the envelope propped against the wall.
- You might think I haven’t changed, but not all progress can be seen by the naked eye, kitty. You wanted to know why I wasn’t still angry at you after you left. Because after I lost my shit, after I cursed you out for lying to me, I realized something pretty fucking important…
I flip the card over, looking for the rest.
“You left because you love me.”
Sweet baby Jesus.… “I did.” I turn to face him, the rush of my heartbeat a roar in my ears.
How ironic it is that when I know the guy intimately, he makes me this nervous. I couldn’t have cared less about his status the first time we met, but now… I care about everything to do with him. The stakes are that much higher now that I know what I have to lose.
“You know why I did the rehab?” Rey steps forward, dark and foreboding all kitted out in his signature black.
“Because your manager said you had to?”
He ducks his head, taking a deep breath as he slings his hands in his pockets. “Because I owed you that much. You told me you wanted me to prove that I could love myself, but you forgot something, kitty.” He tilts his head, eyes critical. “I couldn’t love myself when I remained the reason why you weren’t there. It was a catch-22.”
I guess it was. “I never saw it like that.”
“You’re an essential part of me, babe. I’m never as happy as I am when you’re with me. And you know what? That doesn’t show how dependent I am on you, it shows how fucking valuable you are.” He edges forward again, slow as though to give me time to protest. “Is that such a bad thing, to mean so much to someone?”
The lump in my throat won’t ease, no matter how many times I swallow. “No. It’s not.”
“So why are you running?”
Damn him. He stands before me, a simple man asking for the truth. Yet he may as well be there with a freaking mirror propped between his hands.
This whole thing, my reasons for doing this… they were always about me.
“Do you remember what you said to me when I asked you why you kept pushing me away?” I ask.
“I said that I’d rather you left me angry, than broken.”
I nod, the hurt I’ve buried these past months free-falling from my jaw in tiny droplets of truth. “You know what happened when you said that?”
He shrugs, another step closer.
“It struck me how much I cared about you, what I’d give up for you. And I told myself that it wasn’t healthy having that kind of connection with somebody. That I needed some level of independence. But you know what? I lied to myself that day, right before I lied to you.” He’s so close now, close enough to touch. Yet still I can’t. “I’m afraid, Rey.”
“Afraid of what, kitty?” His breath ghosts my face as he leans in close enough to kiss me if he wanted.
“Afraid that you would break me. I wanted to leave before you broke me, too, but not because I was angry. I wante
d to leave heartbroken knowing you were alive and living without me, before I had to leave heartbroken because you weren’t.”
“You were afraid of staying in case I took my life?”
I nod, too ashamed to meet his eyes. “It’s selfish, I know. But it would have ruined me, Rey.”
“Was it better?” he asks gently. “Living with your heart in pieces to avoid it being broken?”
I stare at him, mouth slightly parted while I try to formulate an answer. But as his lips kick up on the side I realize what he does: he’s got me.
I did exactly as he said. I broke my damn heart to avoid the possibility of it being broken in the future. I gave up on what I could have now, for what I might miss out on later.
“I told you I was no good for this,” I say with a slight hint of humor.
His cheek brushes mine, and yet I don’t miss the fact he keeps his hands to himself. It’s deliberate, I’m sure. “No good when it came to helping me get better, sure.”
I tilt my head to press it against his, frustrated when he moves away. “But?”
“I discovered that you’re so much better at something else.” A shiver rips through me when he drags the corner of his mouth along my temple.
“What?” His physical connection, so slight, is so damn erotic.
“Loving me for me.” He places a chaste kiss to my forehead before tilting his head to rest his in the same spot. “Throughout the whole thing, kitty, you never once treated me as anyone but Rey.”
I long to reach out touch him, to grab hold and force him to me. But as much as the tease drives me wild, I enjoy this. It means so much more than the rush of lust if we were to amp things up. It’s so much more intimate, meaningful.
“Because that’s all you are to me,” I say. “That’s all I need you to be.”
“I promise I won’t leave you.” His fingers finally find my chin, tilting my face to his. “And I promise if that ever changed, if I ever found myself back there, that you’d be the first to know.”
“Promise me one more thing?”
“Anything.” He whispers the word against my mouth.
I try to kiss him properly, yet he pulls back.
“Promise that you’ll never give up again. Promise that no matter how hard things get, how dark, you’ll keep trying.”
I choose my words carefully, wanting him aware that all I seek is his commitment to bettering himself. Because it was never about changing who he was, it was about shuffling the order of what parts of him got most prevalence. Accepting who he is didn’t mean allowing the worst parts of him to take over. He can make peace with his illness without making it everything he is. Dark and angry Rey can be relegated to the back while I enjoy the loving man who hasn’t had enough stage time.
“We’ll talk about it more tomorrow. You can ask me anything.” That smile I love so much graces his lips. “But tonight, I’ve got lost time to make up for.”
“Have you now?”
He pulls back, turning his head slightly to the side as he looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you dare fucking tell me after all this you’ll walk again.”
I shake my head, making a promise to myself that no matter how hard it is at times, I’ll make it work.
If I have to suffer a few bad days to get twenty of the best, then so be it.
If I learned anything from the break I enforced, it’s that I’d rather get my time with Rey any way it comes than miss out on any more searching for the perfect mix.
“Thank fuck for that,” he says with a laugh as I give him a smile. “Because I didn’t have a backup plan if this hadn’t worked.”
“It worked,” I reassure him. “It definitely worked.”
“Good. Now get your sexy ass over here and kiss me, woman, because watching those lips work while you talk makes me all kinds of crazy.”
I step into him when he holds out an arm, letting him take my weight as he crushes his mouth to mine.
Our legs tangle in an awkward mess as he steers us to the bed, my hands making light work of his shirt.
The last time we made love, it was laced with pain and betrayal, making it a slow and deliberate act.
Yet as he shunts me up the bed, his gaze positively wild as he yanks at my clothes, I know this is something much more passionate. Primal.
It’s Rey at his best. And that man? He’s complicated. But I wouldn’t have him any other way.
Rey has depression.
Rey has bipolar disorder.
But having those things doesn’t make him who he is.
Rey is beautiful in his chaos, awe-inspiring in his strength, and above all else, madly and deeply in love with me.
And I’m crazily and obsessively in love with him too. All of him. The good and the bad.
How could I not be when each of those things makes him who he is?
Perfectly imbalanced.
Still itching for more?
Rey and Tabitha will feature in the next book in the series (Kris’s - yet to be titled) due out July.
To make sure you don’t miss out on being notified when it’s live, sign up to my mailing list here: http://bit.ly/2mr9BUs
POSTFACE
(A word from me to you)
I want to share something with you—a word about the themes in this book.
This note from me isn’t light and heart warming, but it pertains to this story and I think it’s important you read this.
Are you ready? Okay.
When I was thirteen, I stared at a knife and wondered how it would feel to run the blade across my wrist. Nope. This isn’t some trick to grab your attention. I really did that.
I was diagnosed with a mental illness at around the same age. I put my mum through hell, I gave my family stress, and deep down I didn’t want to cause any of that.
But I didn’t know how to fight the feelings of hopelessness, of nothingness, alone anymore.
I stood in our family kitchen—fuck, I remember how it looked, the weather, everything—and I first wondered how that would feel to make yourself bleed, whether I’d actually mind the pain, before I then wondered what the people I loved would do afterward. See, nobody was home at the time. My mum, a single mum, was at work, and I can’t remember where my sister was. I think she wasn’t too far away from being home. Anyway—I digress. That thought, of what would happen after, was my light bulb moment.
I realized that I didn’t actually want to die; the thought scared me. I simply wanted to shock everyone enough that they saw how serious this was for me. How out of control of it all I really was. That being mentally ill wasn’t my choice. I wanted change, and I was sick of being told that a few counseling sessions would fix me.
Twenty-two years later, they still haven’t fixed me.
I’ve learnt how to deal with this myself. To welcome my depression as a part of me, yet not let it own me. Because as soon as you stop fighting the inevitable, life becomes a hell of a lot easier. A hell of a lot. There is no cure, and coming to terms with that, accepting that, was the greatest point in this journey for me.
Yet, for one in four life isn’t that simple.
For 800,000 families every year, there is no happy ending.
In case you haven’t guessed it by now, I’m telling you all this because the main theme (and potential trigger) in this book was not only mental illness, but suicide. There, I said it. That ugly word that makes people gasp and clutch at their pearls.
The topic is discussed in Down Beat, and I wasn’t afraid of to do that. For too long the subject has been treated as one of those icky taboos that only a few brave dare touch. Why, though? I’m tired of hearing “you can’t discuss suicide in case it causes somebody to consider it.”
What if not discussing suicide and alienating those who struggle with the thoughts that bring them there, makes somebody consider it? Ever wondered that?
Isolation can be a debilitating disease, all on its own.
There’s such a stigma around mental illness is its
vast and varying forms. It’s a topic glossed over at family get-togethers, it’s a subject avoided in the office break room. It’s an ugly fact of life that we seem so determined to eradicate through denial. Ssh—if you don’t talk about it, it’ll go away.
Ignorance may be easier, but it doesn’t help.
Talking about it helps. Allowing people who suffer from mental illnesses—because these disorders are an illness you suffer—feel okay, and accepted through understanding, helps.
I wrote a piece about my own experiences as a way to cope during one of my lows, titled “I don’t want your sympathy. I want your understanding.” (One day I might publish it). That’s what this book is.
Understanding. Education. Change.
I want to #endthestigma, and this, the story you’ve just read? That’s me doing my part.
That’s me sharing the most intimate pieces of who I am, and how I function, in the hopes that it helps people who are blessed enough never to go through this, understand. In the hopes that it lets somebody who does battle with this ailment know that they aren’t alone.
That they can learn to co-exist with the broken parts of their mind.
That there is hope.
That no matter how dark the day, there’s always another, and another after that, and somewhere down the line they do get easier.
You’ve just got to get to the next one, to eventually reach the rest.
If you want to know how you can help a loved one, or what to do about somebody who you suspect may not be coping, then I urge you to visit https://www.ruok.org.au
Max
xx
NEED HELP?
If you, or somebody you love, struggle with mental illness, remember:
It’s okay to say you’re not okay.
Reaching out for help isn’t a weakness, it’s one of the bravest things you can do to admit you have a problem that can’t be ignored. Illnesses such as depression and anxiety have a great way of making you feel as though your problems are inadequate, that nobody cares because they’ve got issues of their own to deal with (trust me, I know this first hand.)
But depression is a liar.
