Jenson

 

Lindsey mostly distracted me from the alcohol for a while. Not all at once, but gradually. I didn’t want to be numb around her. I wanted to feel everything she had to offer, and not just the physical parts. She filled my world with passion when I’d lost it. She challenged me in ways that made me uncomfortable at times but initiated change. No one in my life has come close to doing that. But maybe nobody’s really seen me for me, and I know it’s my fault, my defensiveness and fear of not being enough, that’s to blame.

I blow off the band for the bottle, citing a sinus infection and a need to rest my voice. I turn my phone to “do not disturb” and miss rehearsals. I’m sure Brad’s shitting his pants right about now. Our comeback show is next week, the weekend of Thanksgiving, and he’s been up in arms about preparations. But I can play these songs in my sleep. It’s better I’m not there, anyway; they should be thanking me for being so attentive to my mental health.

So my apartment becomes my sanctum and my prison, and nobody comes knocking on the door.

As painful as it is to look at, I leave the Christmas tree just as it is. Maybe I’m a sadist, but I’ve done plenty of things worth punishing. Those photos are all I have as evidence that she even existed in my life. They make me angry and melancholic, introspective and insane. She wanted to make art that forced people to feel things, and I can personally testify that she succeeded. Her art invokes every emotion, from lust to hate. And when I’m sick of feeling everything, I drink.

I don’t expect her to apologize, or even to recite those words back. I understand her fear, I guess. Love isn’t easy. Falling is easy, but reconciling those feelings is near impossible, and making sense of something so pure amid a tainted world can be daunting. It’s hard to put something out there that most of modern society is built to attack.

So I drink, and I get angry at Lindsey for not having the balls to talk to me, to give this a chance. And then I regret that I ever felt anger toward her and I drink some more. Most of the time I pass out before it’s even dark out, and then I’m so consumed with the disgust I feel when I wake up on my couch, disheveled and unwashed, an empty bottle on the floor beside me, that I crack open another to drown it out once again.

My life is all about vicious cycles. Crawl out of one grave only to dive into the next. And still, I bury myself. Again and again.

 

I ignore all the notifications on my phone, pretending they don’t exist. Like the dark time after Lindsey left was a vortex that sucked down my purpose. I call Brad and tell him I’m recovered, and he orders me to “get my ass in the studio by noon today.” Being that he works for me, and therefore I can fire him, he’s being pretty bold. But I save the arrogant retorts and tell him I’ll get myself there.

I shower and tie my hair back—haircuts haven’t really been a priority since I haven’t done any official appearances lately—and drive myself to the rehearsal studio. It might be winter, but I’m sweating. I should’ve expected this. After a week-long binger, it’s difficult to get up and get moving without the liquor. I know I’m going to be hurting for however long this rehearsal takes, but that’s my cross to bear.

Not bothering to take off my sunglasses—it’s bright as hell outside, where the hell are the clouds?—I make it to Room A at fifteen after.

“You’re fifteen minutes late,” Brad tells me when I walk in.

I toss my jacket onto the couch and ignore all the looks I’m given by the guys. “Yeah, I had a thing.”

The silence is deafening, the stares are heated, and it’s pissing me off. Mostly because I know I deserve it. I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and chug half, then start warming up my voice by myself. If they’re determined to make a point, they can do it alone. I’m here, and I’m ready to go.

“Let’s start with ‘Hellion’,” our director suggests.

Goddamn this damn song. Naturally it’s about Lindsey, and naturally it’s one of our more emotionally charged tracks. But this is my job and it’s time to step up to the mic. I nod without looking at him and stalk over to the stage, Carter at my back. The rest of the guys—James, Travis, Korey, and Nick—take their places around me.

“Can I get a stool?” Thank God the sunglasses block some of the lighting, but I don’t trust my legs not to shake while I’m standing up here, sweating my ass off. One of the techs runs one over, and I take a seat, guitar in my lap. I play a few chords and feel the music sink in. I’ve carried this instrument with me since the early days, and it’s the only thing that feels natural anymore. The one thing I don’t have to force.

Carter counts us off and we begin. And every word of the chorus is like a knife to my chest.

 

Hellion, where have you been

You’ve wreaked hell on my heart

Yeah, you did me in

Now I’ll follow you down

Into an ocean of sin

Hellion, Hellion

Where have you been

 

Hellion, where have you been

You resurrected me

Brought me to life again

Now I kneel before your lips

Find salvation in your skin

Hellion, Hellion

I’m alive again   

 

The last riff of the fiddle is low and haunting and reverberates in my marrow, and when it’s all silent, I feel myself physically sag. It would’ve taken everything I had not to perform it like Lindsey wasn’t the only thing on my mind, so I didn’t even try to push her out. I pictured her right in front of me and sang those words like a man exorcising his demons.

And our director claps. The motherfucker claps.

“Where the hell did that come from? You sang the hell out of that song! James, that last bit, that was phenomenal. Jenson, I’d like to see that kind of raw strain during the show. You’re going to bring them all to their knees.”

I block out the rest of his praise and criticisms, not acknowledging his remark but not protesting it, either. I’d rather not throw my bloody, beating heart onto the stage in front of fifty thousand fans like I did just now, but whatever keeps them all off my back. If my suffering is what it takes to earn my listeners’ forgiveness, then suffering is what I’ll do.

The rest of the rehearsal is less eventful—if you call the director trying like hell to keep his cool while turning cherry-red uneventful. Our faster songs don’t have enough “energy,” he says. No “wow factor.” I’ll be just fine if I never hear the words “wow factor” ever again.

When the rehearsal is called and we’re dismissed, I do as I’ve been doing and get the hell out of there. I know I’m doing a piss-poor job at being a leader, but I can’t handle any more than what I’m doing right now. I’m digging for the Coke bottle in my console when I hear Carter call out to me. “Hey man, wait up.”

I pretend I can’t find what I’m looking for and slam down the console. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“You tell me. How’s the sinus infection?”

God, I’m not in the mood for a confrontation, and Carter is the one guy my lies don’t fool. “Better, but I’ve gotta take off. You did awesome today, man.”

His hand catches the door when I go to shut it. “Thanks for the half-assed compliment, but you and I both know it’s bullshit. What’s going on? Thought we were on a roll until you dipped on us and disappeared for a week.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and the thought to answer it crosses my mind for half a second until I look back at Carter. He’s a couple words away from pummeling me in the face, and he could do it. The guy’s spent more time in the gym and out of the bars since he started seeing his girlfriend. Impending ass-kicking aside, the guy’s my best friend, the closest thing I have to a brother. Giving him the runaround is as hard on me as it is on him.

“I’m gonna be straight with you. After that,” I gesture toward the metal building behind us, “I need a drink. So I’m going to take my ass home and pass out. You’re welcome to come, but I can’t promise to be good company.”

He just looks back at me, eyes as hard and unflinching as stone, and finally nods. “I’ll follow you there.”

I shut the door after he releases it. I didn’t plan on having company, but Carter won’t be happy with anything I do, whether I blow him off or tell him what I’ve been dealing with. I might as well not drink alone.

My hope that he was joking is short-lived. Carter’s truck stays in my rear-view mirror the entire drive home, and when we reach my complex, I point out the visitor parking on the ground floor before driving up to my usual spot. He meets me in front of my apartment door, and I let him in. Stale air and the smell of old takeout containers stacked by the trash can assault us without warning when I open the door.

“Bro,” he says when we walk in.

“Yeah,” is my only response.

“It smells like a Chinese restaurant in here.”

“It’s Thai, and thanks.” I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter and pour two glasses of Maker’s from a fresh bottle. I hand one to Carter, who accepts it without hesitation. “Cheers to the comeback,” I say, and I down it in two gulps.

Carter’s focus moves elsewhere, and he wanders around my apartment rather than grilling me. “You decorated,” he says from the living room.

I trade my glass for the bottle and look around the cabinets, noticing he’s studying the Christmas tree. I’m surprised the bulbs haven’t burnt out yet. Damn tree and its damn lights.

“Lindsey decorated. She dumped me, by the way.”

Carter nods, unsurprised, one hand in his pocket and the other around his glass. He hasn’t taken more than a sip of his beverage, but that’s fine. More for me. “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“We weren’t. Does that make the breakup more or less fucked up?”

He shrugs, and when I drop down onto the couch, he joins me. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“Not really.” Why would I when he’s heard it all before? Still, I haven’t talked to anyone about Lindsey, and when I open my mouth, everything that’s happened over the last few months spills out. The way she became a facet in my life when neither of us meant for her to and the gaping hole she left when she walked out the door.

“Anyway, maybe she was playing me,” I finish, toasting the bottle like it’s news worth toasting for.

“Nah.”

I frown at him, but under the influence of liquor, even my facial features seem to move in slow motion. “You can admit you were all thinking it. She wanted to be a music photographer, so she latched onto the first musician who paid attention to her. That guy just happened to be this guy.” I point to myself, sloshing the whiskey.

“We saw how she was when she came up to the studio. She was all about you. What happened between then and now?”

I raise the bottle and proclaim, “I told her I was falling in love with her.”

“Then what?”

“She left. She said that’s not how it was supposed to happen, or . . . hell, I don’t even remember. She left, and she hasn’t come back. Hasn’t tried to call. And that’s it.”

Carter winces. “You scared her off. She wasn’t ready for all that.”

“Then what was I supposed to do? You tell me. Was I supposed to just play along? Act like I didn’t care about her when it was clear that was a lie? She led me on, dude.”

“I don’t think she meant to. She was probably just as surprised by her feelings as she was by what you said.”

If things were normal, we’d hardly get through a conversation about feelings without laughing our asses off. But they’re not, and all I can say is, “Well, she doesn’t love me back. She proved that.”

“That’s where I think you’ve got it wrong, my man. She loves you.”

I don’t know what his desired reaction was, but the words anger me. I scoff bitterly. “I don’t think so.”

Carter pushes off the couch and goes over to the Christmas tree, looking closer at the photos before holding one up between two fingers. “You’re gonna show me this tree and tell me she didn’t love you?”

There’s probably a picture of my dick in there, but I can’t bring myself to care. The photos mean nothing. The months I spent with Lindsey mean nothing. It all means nothing. I gesture around the room. “Do you see her anywhere? No. She was clearly feeling some other vibe, and that’s why she left.”

He tosses the photo onto the window seat and selects another one, holding it up. “If she didn’t love you, it’d be easier to shut you down so you wouldn’t bother her anymore. But she didn’t do that. She left because she feels the same way. Who knows, maybe it’s not love yet. Maybe it’s something else. But it’s something.”

“It’s not anything.”

Carter sighs, dropping his arms. “Look around you. Look at this damn tree. She was showing you how she felt about you with her art. You and I have been in this business for over a decade, we all know that means something.” He strides back over to the couch and bends over, getting right in my line of sight. “She didn’t have to hang out with you, but what did she do? She took photos of you, she spent all her time with you, she decorated your tree with both of you, she surrounded herself with you. People only do that with things that are meaningful, whether it’s a conscious choice or not. Whatever you did, you made an impression on her. So don’t think it’s nothing.”

What he’s saying might make sense if I wasn’t already halfway to being wasted, but instead I’m in the mood to fight, reject, turn down anything that sounds halfway reasonable. But Carter is relentless and so I say, “What am I supposed to do, then? I fought for Raven and it wasn’t enough.”

The couch dips when he sits beside me again, facing me. “That’s because you were fighting for yourself. If you want Lindsey, fight for Lindsey.”

“Well I don’t know how to fight for someone who’s dead set on running.” I tip the bottle back and drain a swig of amber, holding it in my mouth and savoring it like the last pieces of Lindsey I have left.

“You let her go. Set her free.”