Put on a slow documentary-style show, and my brain doesn’t turn off.
I don’t waste anymore time before heading toward my drum kit.
The cushioned throne and drums almost make me cry when I sit behind it. My breathing steadies, hands feeling complete with the weight of the sticks settled within them. I close my eyes and hang my head for a beat, allowing the feral, yet balanced, creature to come to the surface, the animal I become on the stage, who lingers even after all is said and done.
They say home is where the kit is, right?
I pull out my phone and bring up the guitar line Mads sent over that he and Zeb worked, looping it so I can play around with what I’m hoping this song will sound like. I have a plan for the breakdown that I know is going to make people lose their minds.
And when I strike the snare, the knots in my shoulders loosen.
There she is.
One. Two. Three. Four.
I lose all sense of time and reality as I work.
It’s well past dark by the time I think about stopping, and the only reason I stop is because Gemma appears in the corner of my eye. I suddenly remember that she’s there, that I’m at my dad’s.I remember why we’re there, who she is, and everything we’ve been through.
On the drive here, I kept thinking that once all of it hit me, I’d want to run—at least initially. I was sure my mind would begin coming up with scenarios to put people away, to shut Gemma out completely with shouting and fighting back. I thought I’d hurt her, irrationally call Zeb or make a scene about her stalking me.
And yet, looking at her as she leans in the doorway, I feel the complete opposite.
My stomach flutters at the sight of her dark curly hair down, stray loops framing her face, her piercings glinting from the lights around us. She’s wearing the most comfortable looking thin, black, spaghetti-strap overalls with a cream-color bandeau bra beneath it. The cotton fabric gathers at her ankles, lines accentuating the curves of her hips, tank straps showing off her trim, light golden brown arms, the freckles on her shoulders.
I sigh as I look at her, barely able to think, let alone articulate anything that should be said.
I can’t run from her. Iwon’trun from this. I don’t know how long I’ll harbor this feeling of “what could have been” when it comes to the time we could have been together these last years. I’m also not delusional enough to think whatever we might have had back then would be as strong as what we have now.
I don’t know how to love her.
And I don’t know how she could ever love the dumpster fire that I am.
But dammit… I want to try.
“Hey,” she eventually says.
“Hey,” I manage.
Each inhale seems easier the more I look at her, and I feel my shoulders drooping, my insides withering with every second that I’m not telling her how I feel.
We can tackle this together.
The stalker and the thief—that’s how the fairytale goes, doesn’t it?
“You’re bleeding,” she notices.
I huff nervously and glance down at the blood on the snare and tom closest to me. “Ah… yeah,” I say, nail picking at the callus beneath my middle finger on the left that’s now broken open. “The curse of having a long break. My hands get soft.”
A breeze sweeps through the room, and I realize how sweaty I am.
“You were supposed to be resting,” she says, her tone mildly ticked. “Though, I should be used to you being stubborn by now.”
I laugh, reaching to the floor for my water bottle. “Playing is resting for me. It’s too quiet to sleep,” I say after the cool liquid coats my mouth. “My brain needs loud noises to turn off.”
She pushes off the door and closes it behind her. “I get that,” she says. “Are you hungry?”
“All I want right now is to shower this day off of me.Scrubit off, more like. I feel like I should keep washing until I peel back a new layer of skin.”
