1. Phoenix

Phoenix

Isolated

J ohnny Depp once said in an interview that he prefers to keep his hair long because he can hide behind it. I can’t remember the details, but he'd said he would feel vulnerable in public—that having longer hair made him able to deal with people or something similar. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the video, but his words stuck with me.

I’ve always felt like people stare at me, even before I gave them a reason to. When I was in elementary school, the other kids used to call me Ghost. One time, this girl—Sammy, I think her name was—told me that I looked dead and that my eyes were creepy. My mom and dad thought it was weird that I’d always walk around with my hair over them. And, of course, in high school, I went through the emo hair phase because it covered my entire face if I wanted.

Dad hated it.

He hates most of the shit I do. The point is I always find a way to hide. Whether it's behind my hair, tattoos, resting bitch face, or whatever else I can use to my advantage. I don’t like being the center of attention. I don’t like taking pictures or catching my reflection in mirrors in department stores.So it’s shocking to me that I even agreed to do this.

I keep locking and unlocking my fingers together. My shield, aka my hair, is brushed back in a ponytail to keep my face on full display for the camera. Hunching over as far as possible while trying to appear casual isn’t easy, so I slip the familiar expression on my face to disguise how fucking uncomfortable I am right now. Beside me, Jorge leans back on the leather couch, spreading his legs and mentally stripping our interviewer. And on the other side are Michael and Devon. Kelly—our keyboardist—is sick as a dog, so she isn’t here.

I’ve never wanted the stomach flu so badly before.

“Are we good to start?” I forgot the interviewer’s name already. Not that I’m going to ask.

Glancing at Devon, I take in his giant green mohawk that looks sharp enough to impale something. Might not be strong enough to hold my body weight, though. He knows me pretty well, so he sighs when he sees me eyeing the long spikes.

“We’re ready,” Michael says.

That’s the thing about being a musician of any capacity. If you get the chance to talk about your music or band, you take it. Discomfort be damned, you suck it up and do it. We’ve done a few podcasts before, which was nice for me because I wasn’t recorded. All I had to do was be physically present and murmur an answer every so often. I’m the drummer—no one wants to talk to the drummer.

I swallow hard when the camera's red light kicks on, signaling that she’s recording us.

It brings back a slew of shit I don’t want to be thinking of right now, so I sink further into the couch, the leather creaking loudly under my jean-clad ass. Jorge is our frontman, and he’s the kind of guy that wakes up and shits rainbows. Sometimes, I wonder how the hell I ended up in a band with him, but then I remember he’s been my friend since I was seven. We grew up as neighbors, and his grandma used to force-feed me rice, beans, and menudo year-round because she said I was too skinny.

I’m thirty and still skinny. I hate to think what she’d say if she could see me now. Rosie was an awesome lady.

Shit.

The interviewer is already talking.

“---so your new album comes out on the 17th,” the interviewer starts. All I want is to dip the fuck out, go home and cuddle with Helios—my cat.

“Yeah. We’re really proud of it. Some of our best songs yet,” Jorge says enthusiastically and smiles widely.

Am I sweating?

I chew my cheek while she goes on. “Harrowed Avenger is the title of the twelve-track album,” she tells the camera and then twists back to face us, “with the release just days away and your tour starting next month, I suspect you’ll have your hands full.”

“We always do,” Michael teases, a lighthearted laugh bubbling free. “Always doing something.”

“And Jorge is always throwing new ideas at us. Squirrel brain.” Devon loves calling him that.

Shrugging, Jorge leans forward and, with absolutely zero humility, says, “I’m the idea guy. These assholes are the ones who make them come to life.” He slings his arm around my shoulder, and I tense.

The interviewer lady pans her attention on me. “Now that all the media has calmed down, the tour should be smooth sailing.”

Her passive dig at the shit that happened last year grates me like a raw nerve exposed to a rough surface. I knew it was a possibility that she’d bring it up. This is a huge reason why I didn’t want to do this interview in the first place. For someone who doesn’t like any sort of light being shined on them, I sure managed to get my face front and center all over the damned internet. My cheeks heat faster than I can help, and I nod slowly, with nothing to hide them. I don’t want to be here.

“It will be because everyone knows that Phoenix had no part in any of it. Wasn't his fault.” I did, and it kind of was, but I appreciate Jorge sticking up for me.

The interviewer nods curtly and shifts subjects. Thank fuck.

She gets the guys talking about our song called Isolated . It’s the biggest hit we’ve ever had and our most popular on social media. I don’t bother mentioning I wrote it. That’s irrelevant because we are a collective whole. Yeah, the lyrics ‘n shit are important to me, but it wouldn’t be what it is without all of their input and tweaks. It shifts into how we came up with the name of our band, Dreadful. That makes Jorge go into the story about the first time his grandma heard us jamming in my garage and said it sounded dreadful . She’d said it in Spanish. Espantoso. We laughed so hard. The name just stuck.

“But that’s not the literal translation. Frightening is what it means. That didn’t sound as cool,” Jorge explains with a little shrug.

The interviewer seems less than interested in our origin story, which, fuck you lady.

I’m irritable over this damn interview, and I keep having unwelcome thoughts. I wish I could say that my antisocial behavior was a recent development. The truth is, I’ve always been this way. Most people who grow up with as many siblings as I have are pretty needy. I’ve got two brothers and two sisters, which makes me one of five kids. I’m also smack dab in the middle of everyone. I’m supposed to be desperate for attention, but I got comfortable being in the background because I don't have any other choice.

This one time, I dropped a rock on my pinky toe while playing in our backyard. I’m pretty sure I was about five or six when it happened. I remember looking down, seeing the nail dangling there and blood oozing out onto the concrete path that led to our pool. I don’t know how I dropped it or what I was doing holding such a heavy ass rock, but it annihilated my toe. I didn’t cry or call for help. I just stood there, watching it bleed. Eventually, I got hot or thirsty—something—and went inside. Mom saw it and freaked out because I guess I looked pale.

My pediatrician ran a series of tests on me because she deemed it abnormal that a kid that age wouldn’t cry over such a bad injury. I cried when they stuck the needle in my toe to numb it so they could remove the dangling nail. No one seemed to care about that. I learned early in life that being dramatic didn’t get me anything. Being quiet seemed to work fine on its own. Which later became a fucking nightmare because I like being quiet. I like keeping to myself. It’s just how I am.

Eli got that.

He got me.

I wince, forgetting where I am and that I should not be thinking about Eli right now.

“Anything you want to let the viewers know?”

Yeah, that we aren’t ever doing this again. I want to say that, but I don’t.

I let the guys wrap up. They tell her upcoming tour dates and where to find our merch. As soon as the camera shuts off, I jump to my feet. The woman gives me a strange look, but my bandmates aren’t phased. They know I hate this shit. With a mumbled thank you, I leave the studio's too-small room and jet outside. The air is cool and crisp, thanks to the fall weather finally rolling in. I breathe in deep, closing my eyes while tugging my hair free. I can smell my conditioner immediately, and a painful stab hits me in the chest.

I only started using the brand because Eli told me it was good and would keep my hair healthier. But all it does now is remind me of all I’ve lost. It reminds me that last year happened. No one’s forgotten, and neither have I.

I love you.

Gently brushing the tip of my finger over his thick eyelashes, he grins beneath me, knowing I’m a weirdo and I like the way it feels. I love you. I think it again. I kiss his eyes. I think I’m going to tell Eli tonight. Working up the courage to say it has taken me months because whenever we can be together, it’s usually spent enjoying our time. I hate that he’s always gone. Sometimes, the distance feels like too much. Sometimes, I wonder if we can make it. But when he’s here, and I can feel his heartbeat thumping into my bare chest, those fears quiet down.

I love you, Elijah. Tonight. Tonight, he’s going to know that I want this forever.

“This song sucks,” I mumble to Kelly while she dances in the kitchen.

I moved in with her about eight months ago after realizing that I was letting myself fall into a depression. She has a broad taste in music, but this song is kicking me in the balls at warp speed. For the past two days, she’s been playing it on repeat, driving me crazy. Some indie artist she found on TikTok. The words are hideously accurate, and I hate it.

Her highlighter yellow and green hair is up in twin messy buns. Wearing a pair of my boxers and Michael’s A Flock Of Seagulls shirt, she ignores me and flips pancakes. Kelly is a clothing thief. It doesn’t matter who you are; if she likes it, it’s hers.

“ I can feel your heartbeat while you’re kissing someone else, ” she sings loudly, and I want to strangle her.

Swallowing my bitterness, I shuffle over to the coffee pot, dodging a random suitcase in the middle of the floor. We’ve been packing up for the tour—well, I have—Kelly just started. Out of all of us, Kelly is the least organized, which I discovered rather painfully when I moved into her two-bedroom apartment. I’ve lost more things than I’ve found in this twilight zone. But living with her has been good for me. I have this thing where I isolate myself when shit is bad, and Kelly doesn’t know the meaning of the word. She’s removed my door handle a few times, so I can’t lock myself inside my room.

“Please,” I beg her when the song starts over. “It’s terrible.”

Holding the spatula mid-air, she narrows her eyes on me. “Do you really think so?” No. It’s a good song with a great hook. Sighing in defeat, I shake my head. “Then stop complaining and sing along. I made you chocolate pancakes.” She points at the plate of them.

“Thanks.” I offer her a small smile, which means a truce between us.

“The dudelettes want to meet up at the studio for a quick sesh later.”

I snort at her affectionate nickname for our bandmates. “Sure. I need to run by my parents' house in a bit to make sure they’re still okay with watching Helios.” Speak of the devil. He appears at my ankles, rubbing them affectionately in a figure-eight motion.

I squat down to scratch at his ears while sipping my coffee. “How’s your dad?” she asks, turning down the song.

“He has good days and bad days. My mom is a tough lady, though. I don’t know that I could put up with him.”

“You do what you need to when you love someone.”

I don’t say anything.

Sometimes Kelly spouts off shit that hurts far too much to acknowledge it, so I don’t. You’d think that was true about love, that you’d do what was needed. That you’d sacrifice and make compromises, give and take equally. That if your person needed you, you’d be there. Well, I hate to say it, that’s a fucking fantasy reserved for special people. And I’m not one of them.

My dad has always had a bad back, but now that he’s sixty, it’s taken a turn for the worse. He’s crankier than usual due to the pain, and this most recent surgery has him bedridden for a while. Mom is tasked with ensuring he doesn’t cuss out his physical therapist, who comes twice a week to the house. It’s not the most cheery of places lately, but my baby sister Nyx loves Helios and still lives at home. She will be the one watching my fur child while we’re gone. I still have to show my face and pretend to ask for the fifth time, though.

I feed my cat, plate some pancakes, and sit on the couch. Deciding to check my socials while I do so, I flip through the various apps I’m on kind of absently. Kelly’s pancakes are the shit , I swear. She smirks when I moan a little, catching some dripping syrup with my plate. I think she’s going easy on me because she puts on her “house cleaning” playlist, which is all rap.

She could put on Mozart for all I care as long as it isn’t that song.

Helios wanders to me, jumping beside me and cuddling into my hip. I balance my plate on my lap so I can pet him a bit while scrolling. He’s an all-white cat with big blue eyes. I almost called him Ghost, but the kid giving him away six years ago had already named him after this unicorn dude in Sailor Moon—or something. So, I kept the name. I have gotten a few side eyes from vets when they read his name on the chart over the years.

“Was that good breakfast?” I ask him.

“It’s strange that you check,” Kelly adds from the kitchen, where she hoovers in her food.

“It’s only polite. Isn’t that right, baby?” Helios purrs as I scratch his chin.

“That is unhealthy.” She stabs her fork in our direction.

“She’s wrong about us,” I whisper to him. “We’re forever.”

Ignoring her cackling, I glance at my phone. The smile falls off my face instantly—one of the bands we're touring with posted a picture of their tour bus getting loaded. The caption reads: Hire the pretty help. And there's a tag with a very familiar screen name attached. I choke on my spit, scrambling to close out of the app as fast as humanly possible. My eyes slam shut like that will help erase what I saw. It doesn't.

What is he doing with Headhunter?

“You alright over there?” Kelly's voice is muffled by my pulse beating against my eardrums.

I knew he was dating someone. A person like Elijah Hawthorne doesn't stay single. There's been teasers ‘n shit on his Instagram accounts, but I didn't know who or if they were an actual boyfriend or just a collaborator. But I should've known better.

Rockstars and Pornstars go together like Yin and Yang.

And now I know.

Eli moved on .