Chapter 52

I tossand turn for hours, until I finally give up, and throw the covers off.

A quick glance at my phone shows it's just after three in the morning.

No new messages, but I pull up my most recent conversation.

Jeremy The Wicked ??

Jer Bear cant come 2 the phone right now

But dont worry boo thang, i got him ??

And just below that, there's a blurry, awkwardly angled pic of what looks to be Jeremy passed out, head slumped against what I imagine is Gabe's shoulder. I can barely even make out his face, but his hair stands out glaringly white against the shadows, lending no doubt as to who it is.

Time-stamped: 11:20

I squint, bringing the phone closer.

It looks like there's a seatbelt. Didn't notice that earlier.

My thumbs hover over the screen, just like earlier, as I once again debate if I should respond to that.

I close my eyes, shake my head, and mutter, "Just let it go."

Easier said than done…

Locking the phone, I toss it on the mattress, and climb to a stand. I throw on a pair of sweats, but forgo a shirt, and quietly crack the door open to slip into the hall.

Being mindful of the creaky spots in the floor, I pad my way to the door leading downstairs, our only exit and entrance all in one, save for the fire escape connected to the primary bedroom: aka Waylon's room.

Downstairs, it's dark. Quiet.

The bar calls to me—rows and rows of bottles taunting me.

Just a taste.

Just a glass.

Just enough to ease my nerves and help me sleep.

Just for tonight.

Fists and teeth clenched, I cut across the room like the hounds of Hell are nipping at my heels, and make my way to the door that leads to the basement.

I tug on the chain attached to a single bulb, lighting the old, decrepit stairwell.

I blink a couple times, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

The uneven boards that make up the steps creak beneath my feet. When I hit solid ground, I reach up, feeling around, flipping the switch.

A low humming fills the open space, and a second later, the fluorescent lights stretched out across the exposed ceiling flicker on, illuminating the basement. It's the only sound to be heard other than my bare feet thudding softly over the chilly concrete flooring as I make my way toward our makeshift gym.

As usual when I get like this—when I can't sleep, or need to let off some steam, or feel two seconds away from breaking my sobriety—I head straight for the heavy bag hanging from the ceiling in the corner.

Only when I get halfway there, my steps slow to a stop, and I find myself turning and gazing through the dark threshold separating this room from our attached studio.

My guitar is upstairs, in my room. I keep it up there for nights I can't sleep and feel a different kind of urge.

Music and fighting—my only vices left.

Not that I fight anyone anymore, not really. Now, it's just me and whoever I'm pretending the bag is as I lay into it until I can no longer stand straight.

It's more often than not myself I imagine. The version of me I was the last couple years, before I cleaned up my act. The me I still am sometimes—selfish and panic-driven, clinging to a delusion I refuse to even risk skimming a finger over, lest I fucking pop the seal.

But the alternative…

Swallowing thickly, I find myself abandoning the bag, and stepping into the studio instead.

I flip on the light, and look around, taking in the empty mic stands and cords strewn about.

What we call a studio is really just a small enclosure with blankets hung up along the walls to preserve sound quality for when we do actually play down here. We mostly practice upstairs now, seeing as it's easier versus lugging everything back and forth.

Now this little space is used mostly for when we feel like holing up and writing.

One day, when we've saved up enough, we plan to build an actual sound booth to record. Maybe post them online. I don't know, we'll see.

For now, though…

This is where we come to hide and purge our demons.

Chewing my lip ring, I close the door behind me, and slowly make my way across the room to the wooden studio piano Gavin had brought down here when we first moved in.

It used to be in his and Linda's living room. I used to practice on it, before he bought me my keyboard—the one I shattered.

My chest aches at the reminder, and rather than turn away from it like I normally would, and pretend it's not there…I pull out the bench and take a seat.

I run my hands over the smooth fallboard, and nod to myself. "You can do this."

Curling my fingers under the lip, I push it back, revealing the keys beneath.

I wet my lips, and skim my fingers over the smooth plastic.

Only reason I know it's in tune is because I know Waylon comes down here sometimes. He doesn't play it when I'm around, but I know he uses it when he's trying to get a feel for a song that he's struggling with on the drums.

He doesn't feel compelled to write as much as Shawn and I do. At least, as far as I know. But occasionally, the mood will strike him, and he'll lock himself in here, rather than go off with his guitar somewhere.

Spreading my hands over the keys, I lightly curl my fingers, being careful not to add any pressure just yet.

My foot finds the peddle, and my muscles instantly start to relax at the same time my posture straightens, my body remembering exactly what to do, despite it having been over three years now.

Three years…

My finger twitches, and just like that I'm playing piano again. Just one long drawn out low C, that resounds deeply in the small enclosure.

My eyes fall shut, and I hang my head.

"Iz."

Her name cracks out of me, and emotion clogs my throat.

The note fades, and it's quiet once more. Nothing but my shaky breaths to be heard.

I inhale deeply, and let my fingers find their way across the keys, and next thing I know, a soft, sad melody fills the room. It's not one I've played on piano before, but I have played it on guitar. It's the one Shawn started over a year ago, the very first one we collaborated on.

I'm rusty as hell, and it takes me a second to transition from playing the chords on guitar to piano. When I screw up, I go back to the start—I can't help it. Old habits are hard to break.

Under my breath, I sing the lyrics we wrote—Shawn and I, and eventually Waylon contributed too.

"You've cast me into an indifferent sea, where passing ships are the memories…" my voice trails off, bleeding into more humming.

Tipping my head back, I tap the peddles, and sway with the music pouring out of me. My face bunches, and the lyrics take shape once more as I belt into the room.

"How did we get to the point, where we're swimming from what will save us? Oh, how did we get this far, how did we get this far…trading tear-soaked prayers for resignation. And spilled blood for absolution."

My fingers fly over the keys, and it doesn't even occur to me when I fall flat. This time, something gives inside my head, and I just keep going, surrendering to the words clawing their way from my lungs, and the melody crying out from my fingertips.

I'm vaguely aware of sweat building around my hairline, trickling down my temples and neck.

I don't know how long I play and belt it out, working through songs I know—ones that belong to me, and some that don't, some that just feel right…as if they plucked each thought and emotion from my mind.

Art breeding more art.

That's how I see it.

I let it feed my muse, and summon forth tangles of words I try to match to the melodies taking shape and giving way beneath my fingers.

Normally, I'd start and stall over and over again—jot shit down, go back, rework. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But tonight…

Tonight, I don't.

Tonight, I do what Izzy's always done. Imagining she's here, with me, guiding my fingers, mingling her sorrow with mine, filtering my lungs. Telling me, It's okay, it's okay now, let it out, just for tonight, be with me.

I give into the current rushing through me, mindless of where it might take me. Mindless of the jagged rocks and riptides that snag at me, dragging me under.

And I go willingly.

Leave it up to fate's hand.

Until I'm wrung dry by the music—by the storm of emotions I've spent so long running from.

And all that's left is a husk made up of heaving lungs and ragged sobs, bent over sweat and tear-soaked keys, face mashed against my trembling clenched fists.

"Izzy," I choke out."Why? Why the fuck did this happen? Where are you? Where are you?"

I slam my fists on the keys, discordant notes clashing, flooding the room.

And I scream through clenched teeth, the sound guttural, and chest-deep.

I break.

I splinter apart.

"I'm so sorry," I sob into my hands. "I'm so fucking sorry."

I don't even know what exactly I'm apologizing for.

That it's her birthday, and she's not here.

That it's her brother's birthday too, and he's not here either, but drowning his grief in alcohol two hours too far from me.

That their parents are thousands of miles away, living out of an RV.

That her best friend is off God knows where tonight, losing himself in whiskey and a warm body, pretending this day is just another day.

That I couldn't protect her…keep her safe…

Keep the world from going on without her.

"Anything," I whisper from numb, tear-stained lips to whatever god might take pity on me. "I'd do and give up anything to bring her back. Anything. It's not fair. It's not fucking fair."

I'm not sure how long I stay like that, cheek pressed to the top of the piano, staring blearily off at nothing, hands sliding across the keys, featherlight pressure giving way beneath my shaky fingers.

Slowly, but surely, reclaiming my love for piano…

Even if it means leaving Izzy behind.

No longer ours…

But mine.