Chapter Eight
Ryder
Rachel’s name was stuck in my throat. I had every intention of telling Layla about my family, but the words wouldn’t come out. What would Layla think? I was still trying to make sense of everything she had told me. She was promiscuous, but she had been adamant she’d only done that only to survive. That’s why she’d asked me if there was anything I wanted for the room. It was the only thing she knew.
“It’s okay. My stuff was heavy enough for tonight. We’ll work everything else out soon.” Layla smiled, her small hand in mine. It was as close to contact as she would get. Her reaction to my hug from earlier made perfect sense now. We wouldn’t just be taking things slow. Things would almost be at a stand-still. And I was fine with that. I was just happy Layla was opening up to me.
“Sorry, I’m just a little tired. It’s been a long day.” I said, yawning. “Bedtime.”
“What, no songwriting tonight?” she teased. “I really wanted to hear a few songs.”
“A few Sundays every couple months, I preform at an open mic at the bar on Ash road. You’re welcome to come watch me.”
I felt a flutter of excitement in my chest as I waited for her response. “Sure, I can’t wait to see you perform.”
“Great, I’ll see you in the morning,”
“Good night,” she said, heading to her room. I stayed on the couch, my head swimming as I struggled to process everything.
When I offered her a place to stay, I’d had no idea Layla had that much baggage. It didn’t change how I felt about her. I was worried though. As a heavy drug user, it would be hard for her to quit. She would have a rough few months. She had assured me she had it under control when I’d suggested rehab. I wanted badly to believe her.
It was getting late. Being on my feet, cleaning up the messes made by cocky drunk teenagers as they combed the aisles for overpriced snacks, made me too tired to work on my songs or even practice my guitar some nights. I desperately wanted to quit. I’d been saying that for years.
I needed the steady income to pay rent and for my meds. The last time I was unmedicated, my mom found me in the basement with a gun against my head. It was a really dark time, before I was diagnosed. I had a problem with impulse control. I didn’t really want to die. I just didn’t know any other way to escape the war inside my head.
School hadn’t been going well. A group of boys picked on me daily. They thought it was funny how I got angry at the oddest things. When my first girlfriend in middle school broke up with me, I made a scene in the lunchroom. I threw my tray. I yelled. I was escorted to the principal’s office by two male teachers after they pinned my me to the wall, arms behind my back. I got suspended for three days. Apparently, I’d made threats to the girl that I had no recollection of saying.
A year later, I got expelled for fighting back against my bullies after school. They got suspension, despite them egging me on. I threw the first punch so it was seen as self-defense. My dad yelled at me for an hour that night after he got off the phone. My mom just cried. Rachel, in her elementary-school mind, tried to make me feel better by offering me her coloring book.
I locked myself in my bedroom and punched a hole in the wall. I spent the next weekend with spackle and plaster of Paris, patching up my wall. After that, I went to a different school to finish eighth grade and thankfully was able to start high school on time. In high school, I met an older kid who introduced me to the guitar. He had a Les Paul, passed down from his old man who used to be a roadie back in the sixties.
I saved up money for my own guitar, a cheap used one that cost me three weeks’ pay at my job as a library assistant after school. Using every library book available, I taught myself to play. My first time playing in front of an audience was in front of the entire school at the high school talent show. Rachel showed up with roses. Mom and Dad both had to work but Rachel had gotten a ride from a friend’s mom.
Rachel was normally very quiet and almost painfully shy, but she hooted and hollered when they announced I had won. She didn’t even go to that school, but she made sure everyone around her knew I was her brother. The look on her face was one I would never forget.
The one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar prize money got me a newer, nicer guitar. Playing the guitar got me through all four years of high school. I had a few friends that stuck with me, but most friendships I had destroyed because of my illness. I saw a therapist four times a week. She specialized in music therapy so we would play together a lot. She played bass.
I hadn’t thought of putting a gun to my head in a long time. I’d made a life for myself here in this house. Playing bars and the occasional county fair was fine, but I dreamed of saving up enough money for a professional recording session. It cost a lot and I’d been saving for nearly seven years, but affording rent and my meds, while neither on their own were outrageously expensive, together every month killed my savings.
My boss, a woman old enough to be my mother and who smoked enough cigarettes to sound like my father, was stingy with overtime. I got overtime once a year if I was lucky. Most of the overtime went to the workers with seniority. I’d only been working at the station for six months. Before that, I’d been a bagger at a local mom-and-pop grocery store. I’d gotten fired for having sex with the owner’s daughter a month in. She was worth it though. The sex was great.
Standing up, I went outside for a quick smoke before bed. It had crossed my mind to quit smoking as a way to save extra cash. I made it a month. My breaking point was when I dented a guy’s car after he almost ran me over at a stoplight. I spent a few nights in jail. He didn’t press charges. I decided that bail money was more expensive than a few packs of smokes. As a penance, I allowed myself three cigarettes a day, one in the morning, one on my smoke break when I worked or after lunch on the days I didn’t work, and one before bed. Cutting back saved me money so it was definitely worth it.
Stubbing it out under my shoe, I threw the cigarette butt in the outside ash tray and walked quietly past Layla’s room. Crawling into bed, I glanced at my guitar and smiled. One day, I would make it to that recording studio. It didn’t matter if I was old and gray by the time I did. I would make it.