Flying commercial airlines is never any fun for me. The fact is I’m spoiled. Not by the luxury of private planes, but by the anonymity of them. I’m struggling with what happened in the hospital. Or, hell, what happened in Ibiza in general. The last thing I want to be dealing with right now is smiling for the camera or being nice to people I don’t know. If my mother were here, I’d have a hard time talking to her, too.

All I want to do is crawl in my cave and hole up until I can figure out what to do.

But that’s not possible for me, not anymore. I try never to be ungrateful. Playing music is a great gift. I don’t take credit for my talent or even the prose or melody I write onto the page. I believe in the Muse. That I am a conduit for something outside of me to speak through me. For some unknown reason, my soul or someone outside of it, signed me up to be a musician and there is nothing I can do but play. It’s in my blood. When I’m inspired, the words come when I’m holding a beautiful woman in my arms, or sitting on a toilet. It doesn’t matter where I am. She whispers into my mind like they’re my own thoughts, but I know they’re not mine because when I want to ignore her and rest for a change, she nags at me until I get them down on paper, or on my phone, or on a napkin. I can believe it that J.K. Rowling wrote most or all of the first Harry Potter on a napkin… because she really didn’t have a choice.

The Muse will be heard and you must listen.

If you don’t, you’ll pay the price, whatever that price is for you.

Addiction.

Overeating.

Sex.

Infidelity.

Violence.

Lethargy.

Those are only several.

It comes in all forms.

If you don’t do what you’re meant to, what drives your soul to rise up and sing, metaphorically speaking, then you will succumb to your baser instincts because you’re not following your purpose. When we’re not following our purpose, life, like a pair of pants we grew out of, never quite fits.

I get it. Believe me, I fucking get it. I know what music does to people, so my gift is particularly beguiling. I can’t blame people for wanting to touch it through me. I can’t blame them at all. I’m like that with the bands I love. But today, I’ve been flying for fifteen hours. We had to stop down in Miami. The last five hours to Los Angeles felt like the longest of my life. All I want to do is be alone.

De-boarding the plane, I force myself to thank the flight attendants and pilots for a safe flight. They all stand stationed to wish us a goodbye, and they tip heads to me with smiles they really mean. “You have a good visit!” “Thank you for choosing United.”

Heading to baggage claim, I tuck my head under my Irish cap and keep my sunglasses on, trying to blend into the crowd. But of course my trademark jeans, white t-shirt, leather bracelets, and walk, all give me away.

Gritting my teeth, I force a smile at two teenage girls who squeal when they see me, crying out as they run up, “Oh my God! You’re ALIVE!”

Taken aback by such an odd statement, I frown. “Yeah. Walking and breathing, ladies. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

The brunette one with the blue eyes grabs my arm and says something I can’t grasp the meaning of: “You weren’t on the plane!”

Growing impatient, I assert myself, taking her hand off my arm and releasing it back to her possession. “Yes, I was. I just got off the plane. Now I really have to get my luggage. If you’ll excuse me.”

They look at each other in a silent exchange, and the blonde’s clear braces flash briefly into view as she explains, “No… the plane with Sean and Jack! We thought for sure you would be with them when it went down, because you’re always with them, but you’re here! You’re alive!”

Someone just kicked me in the chest with a steel-toed boot. I reach out and grab the blonde’s shoulders. “What did you just say?”

She stutters under my grip. “Their plane went d-down in the-the OCEAN!”

Almost yelling, the brunette adds, “They can’t find them anywhere!”

I take off running, leaping around passengers and over rolling suitcases that block my way. A sports bar is ahead on my left and I race straight up to the bar, shouting at the female bartender, “Turn on the news!”

She cocks her head back, appalled. “Who are you?”

Of all the times, now is when I don’t get recognized. “Just turn on the fucking news!”

She grimaces like she’s about to throw me out. I search for the remote and almost jump over the bar to grab it, but a younger male, a fan, intervenes. “He’s Alec Gabriel. The Stone Brother’s best friend.”

Recognition lights her eyes and others in the bar turn to stare at me. From their somber looks and the hush that falls over the room, they already heard the news.

They know before I do. That is so fucking wrong, I can’t even get my head around it.

As the bartender grabs the remote, my anger melts into denial.

Their plane can’t have gone down.

All four of them gone, just like that.

It’s not fucking possible.

Why wasn’t I with them?!

“Someone tell me this isn’t happening,” I mutter under my breath, so gone I don’t even know I said it. On CNN, an anchorman appears center shot. Embedded is a square at the top left of the screen with a two-shot of Sean and Jack, split down the middle. “There! There!” I yell.

She stops, gulps, and lays the remote on the bar. The guy who recognized me picks it up and turns up the sound before I even have to ask.

The anchorman’s voice rises as he says, “It seems the pilot called in the emergency landing but since then, there’s been no communication with the plane. The report from satellite had them located somewhere off the coast of Florida. The search party is looking for the Stone brothers now and we’ll keep you informed as we learn more. In other news…”

No mention of Rue and Jenna. They didn’t mention the pilot or co-pilot either. The brothers of course would get the airtime since the whole world has watched them grow up.

“I was supposed to be on that plane,” I mumble, staring miles away.

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know.”

“He said he was supposed to be on the plane.”

“No! He was? Oh my God, can you imagine?”

“Shhhh!”

Numb, I walk toward the exit without looking back, drifting in with the people who are coming and going to their flights, their luggage, their friends, their families, their loves.

Tears hover in my eyes. When people spot me, they move out of the way. The sea of nameless bodies parts, creating a passageway for me to trudge through. I have never known this much pain. I have never felt this separate from my body as it simultaneously wracks with agony from its core.

When the electric doors slide open, I walk outside, and the familiar smell of Los Angeles hits me.

Home. Our home.

I fall, boneless, to my knees on the mat as confused doors slide open and closed behind me. Staring ahead, I unlock my jaw and howl. I crumble with my hands over my face, sobbing. Strangers rush at me, trying to help. But I’m not able to tell the difference between help and attack, so I fight them off, yelling at the top of my lungs a guttural wail I’ve never heard before. A large, soft woman grabs onto me from where she’s fallen to her knees, too, squeezing me hard in a bear hug and cooing in my ear, “Shhh. There now. It’s going to be okay.” She rocks me and says it one more time. “It’s going to be okay, child.”

Bending my head into her neck, I croak, “No. It’s not.”