Last Things

by Jacqueline West

  They wouldn’t understand. They don’t understand.

  The guys are quiet. Patrick cracks his knuckles. Jezz combs one hand through his hair and looks away.

  At the same time, the crowd inside the Crow’s Nest is getting louder. I can hear the mass of voices pressing against the walls. The place must be packed.

  My chest starts to tighten.

  Patrick mutters something under his breath, something I can’t catch.

  Jezz nudges Patrick’s arm. His tone softens. “Dude.”

  “What?” Patrick turns to face him. “I’m serious. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  Panic hits the adrenaline in my bloodstream.

  “What?” I force the words out. “You’re not going to do the show?”

  Patrick finally turns his eyes on me. They’re so hard, I feel like I’ve been punched. “Why don’t you do it solo?” he says. “That’s how you do everything else.”

  There’s no way I’m doing the show alone. The songs need a band. That crowd, roiling and yelling and waiting—if we don’t get up there and play, play together, they’ll tear this place apart.

  Maybe I should apologize to the guys. Maybe I should beg. Tell them how much I need them, how the songs would be incomplete and lifeless without them. But suddenly I’m so angry at Patrick for even threatening to back out on Last Things that all I can imagine is punching him in the face. I might try it, if I didn’t know he could rip me apart with one hand.

  Jezz faces him. “I get it, dude,” he says placatingly. “I do. But everybody’s already here. They’re waiting for us.”

  Patrick stares back at him. His jaw flexes.

  “Come on,” Jezz says softly. “Maybe Last Things has run its course. But let’s at least do one last totally amazing show first.”

  Patrick’s eyes slash to me again.

  I glare back at him. Patrick, the pulse of this band, can’t just quit. I can barely fit my brain around the idea, it’s so impossible and selfish and ridiculous. It would be like your heart deciding it was sick of all this beating BS and climbing out of your chest and stomping away.

  You can’t do this, I think, staring into his eyes. You can’t do this to me.

  He’s probably thinking the exact same thing.

  There’s a burst of noise from inside. The crowd is yelling for us. Another jolt of adrenaline hits me. My hands twitch, hungry to hold the guitar, to feel Yvonne’s sleek neck slide through my palm, to feel the stage rumble under my boots with Patrick and Jezz’s rhythm. Maybe for the last time.

  Damn it. This could really be the last time. I want to grab it with both arms and dig my fingernails into it and hang on to it forever. I need this. I need my band. And I hate them both for how much I need them.

  “Fine,” says Patrick at last.

  He turns and walks away. Jezz follows him. They’re heading toward the back door, and I’m staggering a few steps behind, when I feel a soft touch on my arm.

  I whip around.

  Frankie.

  She’s wearing a dark top that curves down her chest, showing a slash of soft golden-brown skin. She looks amazing. And kind of unhappy. But I’m too full of rage and loss and hunger for this to really sink in.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “What?” It comes out harsh. Too loud.

  Frankie gives a tiny flinch. “So. I was just wondering,” she says. She smiles a little and touches her hair in a way that would normally make my skin get hot. “What happened to you last night?”

  The rage flares. She knows about the stupid meeting, too? Jesus. Is there anyone in this town who doesn’t think they know everything about my life?

  And then I remember. I was supposed to meet up with Frankie after the show last night.

  Oh, goddamn it.

  “I can’t—” I glance back. Jezz and Patrick are disappearing through the door. “I have to get set up. We’ll talk later.”

  Frankie’s voice stops me again. “Are we actually going to talk later this time? Or are you just going to mysteriously vanish again?”

  My fingers clench. I can feel the energy of the crowd blasting out from inside. “I said later.”

  “Okay,” says Frankie. Her smile is gone now. “Later. And if you ever want to speak to me again, maybe you’ll actually show up.”

  I don’t answer.

  I just slam through the back door, Yvonne’s case in my fist, the noise of the crowd stretching out to engulf me in its roar.

  Thea

  Friday night the Crow’s Nest was packed. Saturday night is explosive.

  Ike has brought in extra help for the kitchen, but even with two cooks and both Ike and Janos at the coffee counter, the lines are long and tangled, and the atmosphere is impatient. Charged. The darkness that entered yesterday is still here, and it’s hardened now, like something burned down to cinders.

  I thread my way around the edges of the room. No one glances at me. Janos and Ike are buried in backed-up orders for lattes, mochas, espresso shots. I check the space, body by body. The woman is not here. No one like her is here. Just the too-large, too-loud crowd of metalheads in battered denim and tour T-shirts, locals and outsiders.

  Frankie is here, of course. She’s with her entire court tonight, Sasha and Carson and Will and Mason and Gwynn. Mason and Gwynn are taking pictures of themselves and each other. Carson’s mustard-yellow letter jacket looks out of place. He stays between Frankie and Sasha, whispering in both of their ears. Sasha laughs dramatically every time he does, flipping her hair back over her shoulder, her mouth open wide. Frankie doesn’t seem to be listening. She’s as pretty as ever—delicate features, shiny dark hair. But she looks different tonight. It’s because she isn’t smiling.

  She and her friends encircle a table. Frankie’s back is toward the stage. When Last Things appears and everyone else in the room bursts into screams, Frankie doesn’t even turn around.

  I heard them talking from my spot on the patio, Anders arguing with the band, Anders confronted by Frankie. The anger against him is building up, his friends turning away. He’s more and more alone. Just how the dark things want it.

  Patrick takes his seat behind the drum set. Jezz clutches the bass. Anders strides up to the microphone, moving so fast that it looks like he’s going to attack it. Without a word to one another or the crowd, they launch into the first song.

  It’s “Dead Girl.” The screams get even louder.

  I take another look at Frankie. She turns a wooden stir stick in the foam on top of her drink. Her spine is stiff. Her eyes stay down.

  I glance from her to Anders. He’s got the same choppy brown hair, one of a dozen well-worn T-shirts, the usual thick-soled boots. But there’s a change in his face tonight, too. It’s hollower. Harder. The rock star might not be a mask anymore.

  Don’t say good night

  she says, she says

  Why don’t you come inside

  she says, she says

  I can change your mind

  or time can change your mind for you

  Anders flies into the guitar solo. His fingers tear at the strings. Fast. It’s always fast. But tonight the tempo feels a little higher, the motions more elaborate, the beat a little harder. It’s on the very edge of impossible.

  Patrick, behind the drums, already glitters with sweat.

  Just walk me home

  Just walk me home and I’ll be warm

  Just walk me home and I’ll be warm

  They move straight from “Dead Girl” to “Deep Water,” then to “Cutting Edge.” “Shadow Tag.” “Minotaur.” The songs fly like bullets aimed at something we can’t see. Jezz and Patrick look focused, taut, buried in the music. Anders looks like a burning fuse.

  The last strains of “Minotaur” rip through the room.

  The audience roars.

  Anders halts, swaying back and forth, both hands clenching the guitar. Patrick and Jezz watch him. They’re waiting for the signal, the title of the next song.

  But
Anders doesn’t speak to them.

  He speaks into the microphone instead.

  “Hey,” he says, deep and quiet.

  The crowd screams back.

  They never do this. He never does this.

  He goes on, over screams that don’t stop.

  “I’m going to try something,” Anders says, in that same slow, deep voice. “Something we haven’t done before. This is called ‘Devil’s Due.’”

  I see surprise flicker on Patrick’s face. He and Jezz trade a look. Then, like everyone else, they stare at Anders again.

  Anders positions his fingers on the guitar’s neck. He says something over his shoulder to Patrick. Patrick gives a nod. He starts a plain, rapid beat. Jezz backs up, taking his bass to the dark at the edge of the stage.

  Anders begins to play.

  I haven’t heard this intro before. It’s winding and quick, with a jagged, forward force, almost like staggering footsteps. I haven’t heard it during band practice or when Anders plays in his room late at night. In an instant I know why.

  Because it didn’t exist before.

  Anders has never played it, never even imagined it, until this moment. It’s coming out of him. Coming through him. Coming straight at us.

  Holding on

  Holding on to the only sound

  the sound of your heartbeat

  Breathing in

  Breathing in before everything

  everything crashes down

  And you are not

  You are not who I’m waiting for

  I can’t lie to you anymore

  Should have gotten to me before

  before it was too late for

  Afterthoughts

  That’s all I’ve got

  A fistful of regret

  But regret is not a reckoning

  Don’t forgive me

  Don’t forget

  Falling in

  Falling into the dark again

  again I am lost and

  Getting close

  Getting close to the end of it

  the end of it all

  And this is not

  This is not what I meant to say

  but who’s listening anyway

  Who’s hearing the songs you play

  beneath all the noise and

  Apologies

  don’t mean a thing

  when the injuries don’t end

  Weigh my heart, tear it apart

  Don’t forgive me

  Don’t forget

  There’s another guitar solo, this one so piercing and fast that the crowd’s thrashing can’t keep up with it. I see Jezz staring from the corner, his bass dangling on its strap. I see something like panic on Patrick’s face. I see Frankie turn to watch the stage over her shoulder. And I see Anders’s hands become a blur. They move so fast, so viciously, they look more like claws.

  As he plays, something presses in against the walls of the Crow’s Nest. It’s huge and dark and hungry. It could crush us all.

  The woods have moved in.

  The chorus lashes back, Anders screaming the last words into the microphone.

  Weigh my heart, tear it apart

  Don’t forgive me

  Don’t forget

  It ends.

  Anders lets go of the guitar. It swings against him on his strap. He’s breathing hard. His arms are slack. There are blue hollows under his eyes.

  I watch him. I breathe with him. I stand still, my back pressed to the trembling wall.

  For a few seconds Anders simply wavers there. If it weren’t for the look on his face, he could be basking in the applause, which is long and loud and frenzied. But he looks sick. He looks stunned, like he’s just woken up and he can’t remember where he’s supposed to be.

  Jezz strides across the stage. He nudges Anders’s arm. Anders seems to jerk awake.

  “‘Frozen’?” Jezz’s lips murmur.

  Anders nods.

  Another few heartbeats and they are back on, back into their usual polished rhythm.

  But Anders is shaken. I can see it. And the woods press in.

  They finish with “Superhero.” By the end of the song, the energy is raging so hard that the air could ignite. The last notes scream through the room.

  “We have been Last Things,” says Anders, into the microphone. “Thank you. Good night.”

  The band exits through the stage door. Even though the screaming goes on and on, as on every night but the last one, there is no encore.

  The crowd is slow to leave. There’s an edge in the air, something rough and fierce. Ike scans the room, his eyes sharp, his big arms folded, ready. A fight breaks out somewhere near the doors, and Ike moves so fast I lose sight of him for a second. Then there he is, side by side with Janos, hauling three stubbly-headed guys out the door by the backs of their T-shirts.

  Frankie’s circle is still at their table, talking, sharing something on their phones. Frankie keeps quiet. Finally, when half the room has emptied, I see her whisper something to Sasha. Then she turns and heads outside.

  I follow.

  The band is in the parking lot. Patrick, Jezz, and Anders have been cornered by a bunch of people I don’t recognize, fans who might have driven hours to get here. The woods have crept in so far that the air is black. Even the moon looks like it has been rubbed with a lead pencil.

  I watch Frankie approach the crowd.

  Anders spots her. Something freezes on his face. I see him glance at the others, then move away from the group, following Frankie into the thicker darkness at the edge of the parking lot.

  Nobody looks my way as I drift across the patio, between the rusty sculptures and the bathtub full of weeds.

  At first I’m too far off to hear their voices. I see Frankie gesturing, the smooth skin of her bare arms catching what little light there is. I can see the V of Anders’s back, the broad line of his shoulders. The way he hangs his head.

  Frankie steps closer to him. She throws her hands out.

  The trees rasp and groan.

  Then Anders speaks.

  I see Frankie lean back. She sways a little. As if the words physically hit her.

  A needle of excitement hits my lungs. But I can’t let it distract me.

  I creep closer, divided from them by one parked car.

  “I’m not pushing,” I hear Frankie say. “I’m just asking you a question.”

  “And I don’t have to answer it.” Anders’s voice is rough. “Maybe you’re so used to getting everything you want that you haven’t even noticed this. But I don’t belong to you.”

  Another needle. If he’s not hers, he’s a tiny bit more mine. Even if he doesn’t realize it.

  Frankie’s eyes widen. “What is wrong with you? Two nights ago you were a totally different person.”

  “This is me,” says Anders. “This has always been me.”

  Frankie shakes her head. “No, it hasn’t.”

  Anders lets out a little laugh. “And this is proof.”

  “Proof of what?”

  “How little you know me. You think you know me,” Anders goes on before she can speak. “Because you watch me play. You watch me perform. That’s it. You’ve never known anything else.”

  “That’s because you push people away!” Frankie lashes back. Her hands fly out again. “You won’t talk to me. You won’t come out with me and my friends. You won’t even answer me when I ask one stupid little question about where you went last night.”

  “Yeah,” Anders answers. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I don’t want to spend my time with your shallow poser friends.”

  “Right. Because you’d rather sit by yourself in your mildewy little bedroom, pretending to be some tortured rock star—”

  “Oh, fuck off, Frankie.”

  Frankie sucks in a breath.

  Across the parking lot, Jezz and Patrick and the clustered fans have gone quiet. Everyone is watching.

  The back of my neck prickles.

  He’s losing ev
erything. He’s doing it to himself.

  “You wanted the rock star,” Anders goes on. “Just like everybody else. You don’t know me. You just imagine that you do. And then you’re mad when what you imagine doesn’t match the truth.”

  Frankie’s eyes are huge and flashing. “I didn’t want the rock star,” she says, loudly and clearly. “I actually thought that I wanted you.” She leans back. Her shoulders straighten. “But you’re right, Anders. I didn’t know the real you. Because the real you is a piece of shit.”

  Then Frankie turns and strides away, toward the spot where her friends are waiting.

  Anders stares after her for a beat. He laughs, a short, ragged sound. “You have no idea.”

  Frankie doesn’t look back. I see her say something to her friends. Sasha looks worried. She reaches out with a skinny hand and touches Frankie’s arm. Frankie murmurs something back. Then she climbs, alone, into her car.

  Frankie Lynde, alone.

  Driving off into the woods.

  Alone.

  Anders is already striding back toward the Crow’s Nest. His face is a streak of moonlight on shadow. He slams through the door, toward all the loading and packing that’s left to do.

  And I’m already on my bike.

  Anders

  For the second night in a row, I barely sleep.

  I’m electric and furious and totally alone. My head is hot. My wrinkled old bedspread might as well be made of fiberglass. I thrash against it. My guts are a knot.

  The way that song came out of me—“Devil’s Due”—it felt like something had made an incision in my body and started removing parts of me, right up there on stage, in front of everyone. And all I could do was stand there and let it happen. I had to help it happen. I’ve never had a song come like that, in front of a live audience. I’m usually sick and dizzy after the songs come, but this—this was a thousand times worse.

  What the hell is wrong with me? What else can I screw up?

  I’ve lost my band. I’ve lost my sort-of girlfriend. Even my cat has abandoned me.

  And I deserve to lose them all.

  Everything I did. The way I talked. The way I acted. It’s like someone I don’t even recognize. Someone I’ve never even pretended to be.

  I pull Yvonne onto my chest. I don’t play. Just having her weight on me, the texture of her strings under my fingers, makes me the tiniest bit less alone. Sometime between three a.m. and dawn, I guess I finally pass out.