But after Aspen seemed so offended by the fact that I assumed she was playing because I thought she was like everyone else in this city, that moment came back to me. Was she honestly just playing for fun? Because she liked it enough to do it after she’s done with her shift for the night?
We did lose the fun in it. All four of us did. The first couple of albums weren’t like that though. No force could pull us out of the studio. We would’ve all lived there if we could. The songwriting that poured out of me, Nikolai, and Walker, and the production that Hayden added to it was everflowing, easy, and at times seemed downright supernatural.
But then the business side started to get in the way. The label executives had stronger opinions, higher demands, and the focus shifted from what we all had to say through the music to what appealed to the radio. What could go viral and how we could always top the latest song on the charts.
It took away the spark, and slowly I watched it die in each of us.
Then once we took the break and tried to come back, there were no embers left to nurture anymore. Instead our bitterness, the fighting, the bullshit, it all got in the way. Everyday in the studio felt more like a punishment instead of a gift.
My muscles scream at me as I finish another round of sharp jabs at the bag, and I take a heavy step back, watching the bag swing before slowly going back to its restingposition. I’ve sufficiently worn out my body, now if only my fucking head could get the memo.
I grab a towel, my water bottle, and kill the lights in the basement as I head upstairs to make some dinner. As I ascend the large winding staircase that was once my favorite part of this house, I can’t help but peek at the guitars I have lining the walls as I walk up.
Most of the guys keep their instruments in their studios or tucked away behind lock and key just in case of a break-in. But I always liked having mine out on display like this with the memories of them allowed to float freely through the space.
But for the last year and some change, I’ve kept my gaze averted from them. Thought about taking them down on more than a few occasions, but then I can’t bring myself to touch them long enough to do that.
A thin layer of dust coats them, and anger burns in the pit of my stomach at the disrespect. They’re beautiful instruments, my most prized possessions, and they hang on the walls rotting away.
The younger version of myself would beat the shit out of current me for letting them get like this. For not playing them like they deserve.
It makes me think of the one I gave Aspen. The first guitar I ever owned, and the one she still has today. Despite the way our interaction went that night, it brought something like happiness over me at the knowledge that she still plays it.
The guitar was one of the only possessions I had when I entered that foster house. Not a home. Never a home. It brought me comfort when I had nothing, something to do when my hands grew idle that didn’t get me in trouble, and true joy when the days all seemed to be a dark void.
And yet looking back at the time when it was me and that guitar against the world, I was happier than I am now with a wall full of them, a fridge stocked with food, and a bank account all to myself.
I continue walking upstairs, ignoring the silent taunts from moments in time each of them hold, but it follows me. The sound of my failures, the loss of my friendships, the emptiness of my fucking life.
The sound of her voice, and the reminders of everything I want to forget.
Fuck her, fuck the people who birthed me but didn’t bother to parent me. Fuck my friends who chose other people and their career opportunities over me.
I don’t need any of them.
I stalk into my bedroom and straight to the attached bathroom, flipping on the shower. Steam quickly fills the room as I strip out of my clothes. The spray of the water burns my skin when I step under the showerhead, and I tilt my head back, relishing in the heat coating my body, and wait for it to drown out the noise in my mind.
6
Aspen
It’s times like these when I wish women weren’t expected to always be polite when men are bothering them. It’s almost 6 pm, time for my set tonight, and Hugh, our resident pale ale drinker, won’t leave me alone. He’s usually harmless, and if you let him talk to you enough, he leaves a nice tip.
But in the hour that we’ve been serving alcohol, he’s already three beers and one shot deep. A heavy glaze coats his eyes in a way that makes me think the drinks he got here weren’t the first of the day for him.
My knees crack as I squat down to pop open the locks on my guitar case and gently lift it out.
“That’s a beater,” Hugh muses from over my shoulder. “You need an upgrade.”
“I don’t,” I say, keeping my tone light despite my rising annoyance. “It works perfectly fine, just well-loved.”
“You need help lifting that?”
“I got it. I do this all the time, you know.” I laugh, which sounds fake to my ears but hopefully not to his.
One of his meaty hands cuts into my line of vision as he reaches for the neck of my guitar. “Let me just get that for you.”
I dodge out of his reach and pull the guitar closer to my body. “No really, I’m fine. Go ahead and enjoy your drink.” Even though he already finished off his last one before following me over here, the smell radiating off of him joins us too.
