Holt

“How is he today?” I ask the nurse, hesitating with my hand on the door to Marcus’s room. Her expression isn’t promising.

“He threw a container of Jell-O at the physical therapist. Our psychologist will be up to meet with him today.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, and she smiles.

“You have to stop apologizing. You’re not responsible for his behavior. And it isn’t the first time we’ve had a patient react this way. It’ll get better.”

Her kind words give me a sliver of hope, and I thank her before entering the room. The last few weeks have been a nightmare. Marcus has been a nightmare. I try to keep in mind the turmoil and pain he’s going through, try to imagine how I’d feel if I suddenly woke in excruciating pain with a missing limb. I’d like to think I wouldn’t take it out on everyone around me, but that’s easy to say when I’m not the one suffering.

It kills me to see his pain, but he makes it hard to empathize or help when all he does is lash out at everyone. One second, I have tears in my eyes from watching him struggle and the next I want to punch him in the face, walk out the door, and never return. Every day I leave swearing to myself I won’t be back, but I promised Dad I’d take care of him. That day is coming. Once he’s well, once he has a prosthesis and can take care of himself again, I’m out of here.

Marcus sits in bed, a video game controller in his hand. He tosses a hateful look in my direction, then turns back to the TV screen to resume shooting people. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Sighing, I take a seat on the wide window ledge. “I told you I’d be here every day, Marc.”

“And I told you I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

“Your constant tantrums say otherwise. Seriously, dude, what grown man throws Jell-O?”

The corner of his lip twitches up before he shrugs, his gaze never leaving the screen. “They keep bringing me that green shit.”

“Oh, well,” I scoff. “I stand corrected. Want a second player?”

“No, if you want to do something for me, get them to up my meds. They’re stingy as fuck.”

I’m not responding to that. He doesn’t appear to be in pain. Tiny pupils dot his glassy eyes, making it clear he’s recently had a dose. That’s been another big concern of mine that the doctors explained can’t be helped at the moment. He’s a junkie, and opiates are his drug of choice. But he’s going to have to be on them for a while, at least through the physical therapy.

I’ve been warned some patients remain on a lower dose long term for phantom pains, but there’s no lower dose when it comes to Marc. If they hand him a bottle of pills, they’ll be gone in a day.

The doctors have told me his addiction is a problem for another day. After they get him healed and on his feet—literally—he can move to a program for pain management in addicts that will teach him coping techniques and offer alternate therapies. This is going to be a long road and we’re right at the beginning.

We’re incredibly fortunate not to have to worry about money. After the accident, all threats over an investigation to see who broke the NDA and told the media I was standing in for Marcus have been dropped. Sully visits often, as do others from his label, but not because they care. Their cash cow is hurt, and they need to know he’ll be back onstage eventually, whatever his condition.

Other than me, Sully is the only person Marcus will let in and actually talk with. He won’t speak to any of his band members, not that any of the Jilted crew have even tried to visit. They’re pissed, and I get it, because this is far from the first time he has cost them, but he almost died. They could at least pretend to give a shit.

“You didn’t do your physical therapy this morning.”

Ignoring me, he keeps playing the video game.

“They’re sending psych up to talk to you.”

“I’m not fucking crazy.”

“Refusing to cooperate with people who are only trying to make sure you get better isn’t exactly sane.”

“Get better,” he scoffs. “My leg is ash in some furnace and my head looks like a shark chomped on it.”

This is the first time I’ve heard him feel sorry for himself. Maybe it’s a step forward. It’s been explained there are stages to accepting a major injury like this, just as there are for grieving. Moving past anger to sorrow could be a step.

My voice is softer when I speak again. “Your hair will cover the scars, and they’ve come a long way with prosthetics. You’ll be able to do all the things you did before, Marc. Including your music.”

Suddenly, he throws the controller across the room, barely missing the TV. “Fuck you, Holt! You think I don’t know how happy you are right now? You did this to me! They could’ve saved my leg! But you saw your chance to get me back for me almost fucking your girl. Well, guess what? I’m still Marcus fucking Singleton and as soon as I get out of here, I’ll have her slobbing my knob like all the rest!”

He starts throwing everything he can reach at me, and I grit my teeth, fighting back the urge to hurt him. I’ve had enough for now. Marching to the door, I turn to tell him. “You won’t do a goddamn thing but sit in this room and we both know it. You want to get back at me? Try to fuck up my relationships? Make my life hell? I’ll worry about that when you can get out of the damn bed on your own. Not going to happen without physical therapy.”

Something slams into the door after I close it behind me, and I sag against it. I’m so tired. I want to be here to speak with the psychologist, but in the meantime, I need a break. Halfway down the hall, I look up to see Sully, but he isn’t alone this time. Alicia Leath, Marcus’s on again off again fuck buddy and fake girlfriend walks beside him.

I despise them both. Alicia teamed up with Sully to make Kinley believe I’d cheated on her, and I’m not going to forget that. She flashes a bright smile like everything is normal. “Hi Holt.”

Ignoring her, I turn to Sully. “What the fuck?”

Sully grins and shrugs. “Thought she might cheer him up.”

A flash of Marcus throwing shit at me and screaming goes through my mind, and I force a smile. “Good idea. Go on in.” Once Marcus is worked up, his anger takes a long while to fade. The next few people who walk through that door will regret it. A genuine smile blooms on my face for the first time in weeks when I hear a bang, followed by Alicia yelling as the elevator doors close behind me. Let him torture someone who deserves it.

I’m barely in my car before I feel bad about leaving, but when he’s like this, there’s no point in sticking around. His anger is all consuming. I know it’s to be expected, but I also know he needs an outlet.

He needs his music.

I know the feeling.

I check in with Dad, and I’m relieved to hear he’s doing so much better. He adores Kinley, but that’s no surprise. Anyone would. It breaks my heart that she still has no desire to talk to me. It’s confusing. She rushes to my side after the accident, goes out of her way to help my family, but wants nothing to do with me.

Letting myself into Dad’s house, I grab Samilla—my guitar—and head for the back patio. The air is cold, but I don’t notice once I start to play. As it always does, the music takes me away. Music has always been my outlet. The hour I spend playing helps calm my anger, but it does nothing for the roiling confusion. I should be focused on Marcus and I am, but I can’t stop thinking about Kinley too.

I’ve never been so jealous of my father because he gets to talk to her and hang out with her. The ache inside me comes down to that. I miss her. I want to be with her, and know she forgives me for being so stupid and hurting her. Instead, I’m sitting alone in Dad’s living room, waiting until it’s time to go back to visit Marcus, another person who hates me right now.

Sitting on the edge of the couch, I lower my throbbing head into my hands. Things have to get better. I just need to be patient, but that’s never been one of my strengths. One decision is clear in my brain as I sit there. When this is over, I’m going to Kinley. And I’ll do whatever it takes to win her back.

The psychologist assigned to Marcus is an older guy, probably Dad’s age. I arrive just as he steps out of Marc’s room, and he smiles, sticking out his hand. “You must be Holt. I’m Dr. Raswell. You can call me Ken.” His grip is firm, and his smile is genuine as we shake.

“Well, he didn’t throw anything at the door as you left. I hope that’s a good sign.”

Ken laughs and takes a few steps down the hall where Marc can’t overhear. “He’s a very angry man, but far from the worst case I’ve seen.”

“He threw Jell-O at a nurse today and a video game controller at me,” I point out.

“Yes, he clearly has anger he needs to process, but that isn’t uncommon for someone in his situation. What I was glad to observe is he hasn’t had any issues with self-harm or suicidal ideations. That’s also very common in trauma cases such as this.”

My palm rasps across my cheek. “I don’t know how to help him.”

Ken glances back toward Marc’s door before regarding me. “The staff have told me about you. You’re here. And from what I can see, you’re the only one who is. There’s not one thing I can tell you to do to make things better. No magic fix I can offer, though I wish I could. What you’re doing, being here for him, even while he tries to push you away, is the best thing you can do for him now.”

“Our father was injured in the crash. He’s still recovering, or he’d be here.”

Ken smiles. “I’m aware of the story. It’s been in the national headlines, which I know doesn’t help. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he’s glad you’ve stuck by him. I believe most of his anger is a reflection of the guilt he feels for the accident and your father’s injuries. Once your father is able to visit, I think his support would go a long way toward his emotional recovery, but don’t expect big changes overnight.

“Marcus is a unique case because he’s famous and used to the love and accolades. Which means he fears the response from the crowd that may no longer see him as the same. In his words, ‘Now I’m just a lopsided junkie.’”

Leaning against the wall, I sigh. “The Jilted members are pissed, and I can’t even blame them. They’ve taken multiple breaks because of his addiction, waited six months for him to come out of rehab, and now they’re forced onto hiatus, with no idea when or if they’ll play again.”

“Understandable,” Ken says. “I’m going to talk with Marcus every morning and try to help him work through the underlying emotions that are contributing to his anger. It’s not just losing his leg. He’s convinced that means he’s lost everything.”

Pity swells within me. I know that feeling well.

“I’ll get Dad here and try to get some of the Jilted guys in as well.” I glance down the hall to the nurse’s station. “If the nurses will allow it, maybe I could bring our guitars in. Music has always been his outlet, and a good distraction.”

Ken smiles and claps a hand on my shoulder. “That’s a fine idea. There’s an auditorium downstairs that’s only used a few times a week for medical presentations, classes, and such. They may permit you to use it. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, take care of yourself also, young man. Being a caregiver is exhausting work.”

We say goodbye, and he heads down the hall.

There hasn’t been a peep from Marcus’s room, and when I peek in, I see he’s asleep.

Instead of camping by his bed as usual, I head home to get a night’s sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll make the phone calls necessary to try to get his band members to come and visit. And Dad if he’s well enough. Maybe Kinley will come with him.

As much as I despise him, my first call the next morning is to Sully. He’s the best way to get in touch with the other Jilted band members, and he agrees to talk to them to try to arrange a visit.

If they do show, I can’t imagine it’ll go well, since Marcus doesn’t really want to see anyone, or for anyone to see him, but what he wants doesn’t matter. What he needs does. And I’m going with the therapist’s advice here. He needs to see there are people who care about him, even after everything he’s done, and that a missing leg isn’t going to change that.

Dad is happy to hear from me. In fact, he sounds happier than I ever remember him sounding. Foxhaven seems to have worked its magic on him, but I have a feeling it’s more than that.

“You’re getting laid,” I laugh into the phone.

There’s a momentary pause before he chuckles. “I’ve met someone. I think you’d like her. In fact, you probably know her. Kinley said she was the one who cleaned your room while you were here.”

I rack my brain for a name and finally come up with it. “Harriet? I only spoke to her a couple of times. She seemed like a ball breaker.”

His laughter makes me pull the phone away from my ear a little. “She takes no shit, that’s for sure. And she’s amazing in bed.”

“Gross, Dad, stop. I don’t want to picture it.”

“She likes to be on top.” Laughter bursts out of me at his teasing. “It’s good to hear you laugh again. Now, how is your brother?”

“That’s why I’m calling. Physically, he’s improving by the day, and the doctors seem impressed by the speed of his progress, but mentally, he’s even more of an asshole than usual.”

“He’s been through a lot,” Dad sighs.

“Yeah, they have a psychiatrist meeting with him now, and he says a lot of the anger is just a disguise for the emotions he doesn’t want to deal with. Like guilt. He thinks it’d be good for you to come and visit when you’re up to it, even if Marcus doesn’t want you to.”

He pauses for a few seconds. “I’m feeling fine. I can drive, so I’ll get a rental car.”

The chair scoots back a few inches, I flop into it so hard. “I thought maybe Kinley could bring you.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

There are so many questions I want to ask. I want to know everything she’s said and done since we’ve been apart, but I manage to swallow back the urge. “How is she?”

“She’s good. She works too much and spends too much time fussing over me.”

Her smile flashes in my head. “Sounds about right.”

“I’ll let you know when I’m on my way. And son…don’t give up on Kinley. She’s hurt, but she still cares for you.”

Hope and despair war in my chest. “Okay. See you soon.”

I want to believe I still have a chance, but she won’t even talk to me. If she agrees to bring Dad, maybe I’ll get an opportunity. I was so torn up and stressed last time she was here, I never got to really apologize. I’m doing the best I can for Marcus, and I’ll keep on doing it, but I need to know if there’s any hope waiting on the other side of this tunnel, that’s only gone from dark to dim.

She’s the light, and I’m running toward her, but she could also be the train that runs me over and flattens the future into something I have to face alone.

Kinley is bringing Dad back in a couple of days, and I can barely hold a thought in my head for a second before it turns to her. It’s been about a month since the accident and I’ve only spoken to her a couple of times since she took Dad to Foxhaven. I miss her. Since she hasn’t been answering my calls, I send a text.

Not the answer I want, but not a hard no.

I think I have about three heart attacks in the time it takes her to respond.

I don’t know if she agrees for the sake of closure or what, but I don’t care. I have an opportunity and I won’t waste it.

Marcus lies in bed with his eyes closed when I push open his door. He doesn’t open them or look to see who came in before he snaps, “Get the fuck out.”

“No, get the fuck up. I’m getting you out of this room for a while.”

His eyes pop open, and his curious expression changes to a glare when he sees me standing there with my guitar slung across my back, and his in my hand. “I don’t want it.”

“Fine. But I know you want to get the fuck away from these four walls. So, get up and in the damn wheelchair.”

He doesn’t hesitate too long. As pissed at the world as he is, he’s also brimming with cabin fever. Who wouldn’t be? He doesn’t resist when I shove his guitar into his lap and order, “Carry this.”

The nurses give us a smile and wave as we exit the room, and I push him down to the elevator. He shouts at one of them. “Hey, I need a pain pill.”

Her smile never waivers as she shakes her head. “Not until four o’clock, you don’t.”

He mumbles something that sounds like Nurse Ratched as the elevator doors close behind us. “Where are we going? Titty bar?”

“Auditorium,” I snort. “We’ll have it to ourselves.”

He doesn’t speak again until we push through the double doors of the auditorium. I’m glad to see the stage is wheelchair accessible and there are a few chairs scattered around. “What’s the point of this?” he sighs, his lips pressed together so hard they’re turning white. He’s angry, but it isn’t anger I see in his eyes when he looks out at the rows of empty seats. It’s longing and despair.

Of course, this reminds him of performing, of being under the hot lights with thousands of people screaming his name while he belts out the lyrics and makes his guitar sing along. It hurts him, but according to his therapist, he needs to let himself feel that to work through it.

And I know how to help him.

“I’ve got a song I need to work on, and you can do whatever you like. Play, sing, scream, smash your guitar into a thousand pieces. This place is soundproof. Make as much noise as you want.”

For a long minute, I think he’s just going to try to wheel himself back to his room, but he finally leans the guitar against his chair. “This some kind of music therapy bullshit from the doctor?”

“Nope. Completely my idea. We don’t talk about shit like this, Marc, but the way we deal with things is the same.” I pick the guitar up and hand it back to him. “You’re pissed and scared and devastated like anyone would be. Use the pain. Make it into something you control.”

He takes the guitar and strums, then glares at me. “Fine. Leave me alone.”

I point to the back section of the auditorium where there are buffet tables and chairs set against the wall. “I’ll be down there, working on my own shit.”

My footsteps echo a little through the empty place, and I find a seat in the back. I’m far enough away from him that we’d have to shout to hear one another, but he isn’t out of my sight in case he needs help.

Samilla sits comfortably on my lap as always, and I lay my notebook on the table beside me. I’ve been working on this song off and on for a week, but I need to get the music right. Because for the first time I have plans to play something in public. I’m going to totally humiliate myself, but for a good cause.

While I work, I keep Marcus in the corner of my eye. He’s playing now, and I can hear him singing softly, tentatively, like he thinks maybe the accident took that from him too. He needs to see it didn’t.

My own work pulls me in, and I lose myself in the music as I always do. I don’t know how much time passes before Marcus’s scream pulls me out of the zone. My head jerks up, and I’m on my feet in a second before I realize he’s fine. Well, not fine, he won’t be fine for a long time, but he isn’t hurt.

He’s jamming on his guitar and screaming the lyrics the way he always has. He does have an amazing voice, higher than mine, and he can hold a note so long his lungs must be on fire.

The raw pain in his voice pierces me, but I resist going to him. He’s doing what I suggested, releasing it in his own way. If he thinks I’m paying any attention, he’ll feel self-conscious, so I turn back to my guitar, but he’s oblivious anyway. For the next hour, I listen to him sing and play, his lyrics occasionally broken by a sob.

It tears me open, but I don’t know how else to help him. It’s not just that he’s lost a leg. After all of his physical rehab, even if he completes it in record time and comes through with flying colors, he’s still going to face the original challenge that led him here. He’s still an addict.

He’s at the end of a song, and he screams the final line so loud, his voice cracks. Curses fly around him, and he picks up the chair beside him and throws it across the stage. The momentum pushes him back and tips the wheelchair, spilling him onto the floor.

It only takes me a few seconds to get to him, but he isn’t trying to get his chair or anything. Lying on his side, he’s curled into the fetal position, his body shaking with sobs. It’s the first time I’ve seen him cry since the accident. First time since we were kids, now that I think about it.

Sometimes, there’s no need for words. He’s feeling something other than anger and that was the point of all this, what his doctor says he needs, but it’s so hard to watch. Marcus has always been larger than life in my eyes. We may be identical, but he’s the talented one, the stronger one, the rock god that all the women—and men for that matter—worship.

Without a word, I grab his wheelchair and set it upright, then sit beside him on the floor. I don’t try to say comforting words I know he won’t hear. I just wait until his sobs turn to deep breaths as he regains control.

“Marc,” I murmur, laying my hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me it’s okay.”

“No, all of this is pretty fucking far from okay. It sucks, and I’d do anything to change it. But you’ll be okay. This year is going to be a dark spot in your memory when you’re back onstage, wading through women’s panties. I know things have changed, but you’re still the same asshole you were before the accident.”

A watery laugh fills the air, and he sits up, mopping his face with his shirt.

“Come on, it’s past dinner time and I’m starving. I’ll go get us a cheeseburger.”

He’s quiet, but he lets me help him into the chair and back into bed when we get to his room. His nurse comes in with his meds, and he looks at the clock in shock. His pain meds were due over two hours ago and he didn’t notice. There are some wounds only music can heal.

The little auditorium trip must’ve helped his appetite because he sucks down the cheeseburger and vanilla shake I bring him in record time.

“Do you want me to leave your guitar here or bring it back with me tomorrow?” I ask, preparing to leave for the night. “We can use the auditorium any time in the evenings.”

“Just put it in the closet.”

He seems a little better, calmer, until I mention Dad’s coming. “He’s all healed up and back to normal. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

A scowl returns to his face. “I told you I don’t want to see anyone.”

“You can’t avoid him forever. He’s worried about you. He’s only seen you for a second since the accident. And the Jilted guys, too. They’re waiting on you to say you’ll see them.”

That’s not exactly true, but I’d rather him think they’re more concerned for him than they appear to be.

“No! No fucking visitors!”

Sighing, I sling my guitar over my back. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

My hand barely touches the doorknob when he calls out, “Holt.” I look back into his haunted face. “I know this was my fault.”

It’s the first time he’s even let the subject of the accident come up.

“Then talk to Dad. He doesn’t blame you. He’s not angry.”

He turns his face away. “I don’t think I can face him,” he snaps.

“Then do what’s best for you, Marc. You always do.” My shoulders slump as the door falls shut behind me. Two steps forward, one step back.