Track 3: Side A

Ghosts of You and Me

 

Lincoln

The beat is all wrong. It’s not one of our songs. It almost sounds like…

I blink awake in confusion, with all kinds of wires and lines attached to me and an annoying beeping sound in the background.

“Welcome back, asshole.” I recognize Archer’s voice to my left as I try to get my bearings.

“Am I dead?” I ask.

“You’re not dead, but not for lack of trying on your part.”

I turn my head and find my normally stern band manager looking at me with concern.

“What happened, Archer?”

“You got wasted off your ass and passed out on your balcony in the middle of December when it was fifteen degrees outside.”

“Shit,” I mutter, flexing my fingers, glad to find them all still attached.

“That was a dumb fucking move for a guy who makes his living having all ten fingers,” Archer chides. “Not to mention, I had to call an ambulance, so of course it’s all over the gossip sites now.”

“I’m sorry.” I let my head fall back against the pillow, the weight of everything too much to hold up.

“Lincoln, I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I snap. “I just want to go home. Can you please go get the doctor or nurse, or whoever can sign me out, so I can get the hell out of here?”

Archer hesitates for a moment, and I can tell he’s thinking of pressing the issue. I breathe a sigh of relief when he turns and exits the room without further discussion.

I lean back against my pillow and close my eyes. A heavy weight settles in my chest and all I want is to go home, crawl into bed, and not come out for the next few days. I want my razor, a few bottles of Jack, and to be left the fuck alone.

“Mr. Miller, it’s good to see you awake and feeling better,” a young woman in scrubs says as she walks into the room with Archer on her heels.

“Yeah, I feel great. Can I go home?”

“I have to check your vitals and have a quick chat with the doctor, but as long as everything looks good, I don’t see why not.”

“Thank fuck,” I mutter, offering her my arm when she approaches with the blood pressure cuff.

“Do you want some privacy?” she asks, casting a glance in Archer’s direction.

I shrug and turn my head away from her to look out the window.

I can’t decide if I’m relieved Archer found me last night or not. If he hadn’t, the pain would be over now. Sure, my band mates would miss me for a little while, but they’d be better off without me in the long run. Hell, maybe they could find a lead singer who isn’t so fucked up.

“Your vitals look good,” the nurse informs me after a few minutes of prodding me. “I’m going to send you with some resources for programs that might help you.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I inform her in a bland voice, the exhaustion settling over me like a thick blanket. It’s a feeling I’ve become familiar with over the years. The type of bone deep exhaustion that keeps me in bed for days at a time, too tired to eat or drink, too tired to do anything other than sleep and think about what a fucking loser I am.

“Even if you’re not an alcoholic, it never hurts to have a support system.”

“Fine,” I sigh, not caring to continue arguing. She can give me all the pamphlets she wants; I’ll toss them out when I get home.

She pats my arm and offers me a reassuring smile.

“The doctor should be in shortly to get you all squared away.”

I nod and close my eyes. Maybe if I pretend to sleep, Archer will leave me be for the moment.

 

 

My eyelids are heavy as I force them open and glance around my bedroom for some indication of what time or day it is. I don’t see any light peeking through the blinds, which means it must be either late or early. As for what day it is? I couldn’t begin to guess. Over the past few days, waking and sleeping has blurred together. I’ve gotten up to piss a few times, but other than that, I’ve done nothing but lay here and think about all the ways I’ve taken wonderful things and turned them to shit. I’m like a reverse King Midas. A little tickle in the back of my mind tells me there’s a song in there somewhere, waiting to be realized. But I don’t bother to get up and write anything down.

Am I even still alive? Maybe I did die on my balcony the other night, and this is what hell is like. The vague thought is more horrifying than it has any right to be.

With a surge of more energy than I’ve had in days, I reach for the razor on my nightstand, and I run the pad of my thumb along the sharp edge. I gasp at the sting and watch in fascination as blood trickles from the fresh wound. If I was dead, I couldn’t bleed, right?

I stick my bloody thumb in my mouth and the salty, metallic taste hits my tongue. And then my eyelids drift closed again.

The next time I wake, it’s because someone is stomping around my penthouse. I register the sound of shattering glass, and I try to care that someone is here...but I don’t. Let someone come in and trash my place, steal my things, take pictures to sell to the media. I don’t give a shit.

I roll over and pull my blanket more securely around my shoulders. Light is creeping through the blinds now, but it doesn’t give me any real indication of how long I’ve slept or what day it is. I wonder how many more days until our tour starts? Surely someone will come wake me up for that. They can’t exactly do it without me.

My eyes begin to drift closed again, when the sound of my bedroom door slamming open against the wall jolts me. I turn over sluggishly, my brain fog keeping me from quickly processing the situation.

“Jesus Christ, Lincoln.” Archer stands in the doorway with judgmental eyes and slumped shoulders. “I’ve been calling for over an hour. I thought…”

“I’m still alive,” I say in a rough voice. I can’t decide if it’s a statement or a question, but Archer seems to take it as a statement.

“If you call this being alive.” He gestures at me, tucked into bed. After a few seconds of staring at me, he strides over to the window and pulls the blinds open. I wince as bright light floods my room. “You’ve got to get out of this room.”

“Mmm,” I hum a non-committal response, and Archer survey’s the room. His eyes land on the bottle on my nightstand and his frown deepens.

“You’ve been drinking.”

I can’t remember if I have or not. I glance at the bottle as well and find it only half empty. If I have been drinking, it clearly hasn’t been much. My dry mouth tells me I likely haven’t had any liquids in a day or so.

“We have to get you out of this room,” Archer says again. “What about a vacation? I bet a nice Caribbean vacation would perk you right up.”

“Don’t we have a tour in like…” I try again to come up with how much time has passed and fail.

“Lincoln, look in a goddamn mirror. I already canceled the tour, got my ass chewed by the higher ups, too. But you can’t go on like this. You’ll be dead within a year at this rate, and the label will like that even less.”

“Mm.” Yeah, there’s someone who cares if I’m alive—the people making millions off me. “I’m sure album sales will soar when I kick it. They should be salivating for that.”

Archer ignores my comment, yanking my blanket away.

“Get your ass out of bed and into a shower, or I’ll drag you out of this room by your hair.”

“You used to be nice to me,” I mutter, climbing out of bed.

“Yeah and your destructive streak used to just be a charming quirk of your personality.”

I shuffle to the bathroom and turn on the water. As I wait for it to warm up, my gaze settles on the white marble tiles on the floor. They had to be replaced after I cut myself because they couldn’t get the red-brown stains out of the grouting.

Dropping my briefs, I step under the hot spray and let out a little groan. Archer will take credit for this, but I can feel the weariness has eased a bit. I would’ve gotten out of bed today anyway. Or tomorrow.

I close my eyes and try to picture myself on a beach somewhere like Archer suggested, the sun bathing my skin and a drink in my hand. It doesn’t feel right.

I take my time washing the days of sweat and grime off my body, ignoring my growling stomach. I could use a big greasy burger.

When I finally step out of the bathroom with a towel around my waist, the smell of meat and cheese tickles my nose.

“Did you order me food?” I call out to Archer.

“Of course. I doubt you’ve eaten since at least Saturday.”

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday. Now get dressed and come have something to eat and drink.”

I do as he suggests, pulling on a pair of pajama pants and a plain t-shirt that probably cost two-hundred dollars because there’s a designer name on the tag.

I head to the kitchen and slide onto one of the stools along the counter. Archer is already digging into his own burger, and I waste no time devouring mine. We eat in companionable silence, but once the food is gone, Archer fixes me with a look that tells me I’m about to get a lecture.

“Now that you’re washed and fed, we need to get back to a sorely needed conversation,” Archer says, and I wave my hand for him to proceed with telling me what a fuck-up I am. “I’m worried about you, Linc.”

I wince at his tone and the use of a nickname I never allow.

“If I don’t care, why do you?”

“That’s exactly why I have to care. If you’re not going to bother giving a shit if you live or die, someone has to.”

“I don’t know what you want from me, Archer.”

“I’ve tried to do everything in my power to keep you happy and too distracted to get inside your head, but none of that seems to be working. I think it’s time we all take some time away. I hate to say this, but you guys are falling apart, and that’s not good for any of us. Benji is the only one of you who isn’t in a downward spiral—no pun intended. Jude is running wild, Lando hasn’t written a new song in almost a year, and you…”

I nod in understanding, unable to meet his gaze. I feel like I’m being scolded by my father. Not that Archer is that much older than me. He’s maybe fifteen years my senior, but he has his shit so much more together, he might as well be in a different stratosphere than I am.

“A break would be good,” I agree.

“Is there somewhere you’d like to go? Barbados? St. Johns? Jamaica? I can arrange everything.”

The image of my parent’s lake house flashes through my mind. I haven’t been there in a decade, but suddenly it’s the only place I can think of going. It’s like it’s beckoning me home, part of myself I forgot too long ago.

“Mount Pleasant,” I blurt.

“Where?”

“Wisconsin. I want you to buy my parents summer cabin; I’m going to go there,” I declare, the idea sounding better the more I think about it.

“You want to go wallow by yourself in the woods for Christmas?”

“Just buy the damn cabin. Offer them whatever they want.”

 

 

Jace

I read the note in my hands over for a fifth time, unable to believe it’s real.

I didn’t have the slightest inkling Amanda wasn’t happy. And to come home to find our apartment cleaned out and a Dear John letter…

There’s a hollow ache in my chest as I read her harsh words again.

You and I both know you never loved me, at least not the way I needed you to. I kept hoping one day I’d wake up and would magically see it in your eyes. I’m not the love of your life, Jace. And I deserve to be that to whoever I end up with. We’ve wasted enough time on a relationship that isn’t going anywhere.

I think what hurts the most is realizing that I wasn’t good enough at hiding it from her. She was right, the love of my life left me ten years ago without so much as a goodbye. And as much as I’d love to have his balls as a trophy, I can’t deny he was the one.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love Amanda. True, I didn’t love her like I loved Lincoln, but that’s not even a fair comparison. I loved Linc with all the reckless abandon of a first love. I loved Linc in a way only kids who’ve never had a broken heart can love. And then he broke me, and I learned a valuable lesson.

Amanda has been a great companion to me. We shared similar values, and I think she’d make a great mother. I don’t understand where I went wrong. I suppose there could’ve been more heat and passion between us. Don’t get me wrong, our first year together we were burning up the sheets, but the last three years…maybe not so much.

I put the letter down and bury my face in my hands. God, Amanda was right. I’m trying to remember the last time sex was anything but cursory. I can’t even remember the last time I kissed her. We were roommates not lovers.

I pull out my phone and call my brother Joel.

“Hey little bro, what’s up?” He answers on the second ring.

“Amanda’s gone.” My voice sounds empty and robotic to my own ears, I can only imagine how it sounds to my brother.

“Like gone gone. Like took her shit and moved out, or like you guys had a fight and she left to cool off?”

“Gone, as in she left me a letter, her engagement ring, and her key to the apartment.”

“Did you have a fight? Or, is it possible this is an ultimatum type thing? You have been engaged a long time, maybe she’s trying to get you to set a date?” Joel suggests.

“Nah.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and tilt my head back. “We didn’t fight, ever. I think that was the problem.”
“You lost me,” Joel admits.

“Fighting is passionate. Not that you want to fight all the time or anything, but you should fight sometimes in a relationship. I’m realizing that maybe neither of us cared enough to make this work.”

“Are you going to be all right?” Joel asks.

“Yeah. I feel like I need some time away to wrap my head around everything, though.” It’s kind of perfect timing; this was the last day of the semester before winter break, and I was going to start my new bacterial cultures tomorrow. If I put that off, I can take the next four weeks off and start my new experiment right before the spring semester starts.

“Go to the lake house. Have you ever been in the winter? It’s great this time of year.”

“I haven’t been to the lake house in years,” I muse mostly to myself.

After the last summer I spent there with Lincoln—another lifetime ago—I refused to return. There were too many ghosts of happy memories haunting me there. But maybe it’s time I faced them once and for all. Maybe it’s time I exorcised myself of those memories so when the next man or woman comes along I’ll be able to give them more than a roommate.

“Oh shit, I forgot…” Joel says apologetically. “There are a million places you could take a vacation. I’d invite you to my place, but I won’t be home for Christmas, so it doesn’t make much sense.”

“No, I’m going to go to the lake house,” I say resolutely. I need to do this. And I really do miss the old place.

“Okay, you remember where the key is hidden and everything?”

“Of course. Thanks for listening to me bitch. Do you mind if I call you on Christmas, even if you’ll be halfway around the world?”

“You know you can call me anytime, no matter where I am. Love you, bro.”

“You too.”