My mother had always called me the reckless one. “He’s a wild child,” she would tell her friends who would watch me barrel through the park as though it was my job to concuss myself before the afternoon was out.
My brother was and always would be more cautious, the pulse in his neck almost visible with his frantic heartbeat as he watched me take my life into my own hands for no other reason than it sounded like fun.
That wasn’t me anymore, of course. That was a stranger—a memory—and that wasn’t the face that looked back at me in the mirror now. I had no idea how long it had taken before Raleigh destroyed those parts of me, but I wanted them back, damn it.
Christmas was officially over as of three days ago. There was no evidence the relationship had existed at all. All of Raleigh’s things were out of the apartment, and they’d only filled about four boxes and two suitcases. There were no empty corners or bare walls after removing his things. Just a couple of drawers, a rack in the closet, and half the main bathroom cabinet.
It was in that moment I had become painfully, profoundly aware of how little he’d existed in my life.
The boxes downstairs held loungewear, several pair of shoes that had never been worn, some mugs, some overpriced skincare he rarely used, and an old plate with John fucking Wayne that had been hanging above the kitchen cabinet—a relic his grandmother had left him.
The only reason he even put it up was because he genuinely loved her, and it was evidence there was some kind of human emotion in him somewhere. But he was not a whole person. He was shattered pieces put together to resemble a person who had empathy and kindness in him.
The band name we eventually took on, Tender Fracture, felt very apropos right now. It was almost like I could see the end, even right at the beginning. My only regret was waiting until I felt flayed raw and so tired I never wanted to get out of bed again.
I felt tender now—a sort of quiet ache in my bones that was impossible to get rid of. And part of it was knowing he’d wanted to inflict this kind of pain. When he walked his side piece into my dressing room three nights ago with that smile, knowing it was going to wreck what little stability we had.
But the joke was on him. It was too fucking late for anything to truly break.
If he’d wanted to fracture me, he should have done this years ago when I still had hope that whatever was fundamentally wrong inside of him could still be fixed. That the heart he claimed he possessed just needed some TLC. But I’d lost hope for that years ago.
All I had now was the echo of what was—or what I thought we were meant to be.
I’d seen what the band was doing now. How they filled in the last shows after my departure. They’d gotten a substitute lead singer who knew all my songs and sang into the mic like theywere a parrot. A sad mimic of the person I was who cut himself and bled those words onto the starving crowd.
There were some complaints online, but in reality, most people didn’t care that I was gone.
To them, music was music. My songs didn’t have meaning to them the way they did for me, and that was something I had to accept. To live with. To process because there was grief in that too. It wasn’t just leaving Raleigh, or the band, or the road. It was leaving a life I’d helped create because it was the sacrifice I had to make in order to get free.
It didn’t help that I was also fielding phone calls and emails from nameless cogs at our label, and my agent, who was busy freaking the fuck out because the only thing she knew was that I wasn’t on the road anymore.
But I would answer all their questions after the new year. After I had time to gather myself and decide what I wanted to happen next.
My phone buzzed again, and I looked down to see my brother’s name on the screen. I wasn’t used to Tollin calling me. He usually sent messages through my PA telling me about big life events—Mom’s birthday, Dad’s retirement dinner, the birth of a child, the death of a great-aunt.
I tried to be there for him as often as I could, but every time I seemed even remotely distracted from work, Raleigh would invent some crisis that demanded my attention, and all I’d be able to think about for days on end was him and managing his…mood.
God, I really had let my life spiral into a total shit pile, at the base of shit mountain, on the eve of a shit show.
A lot of it was Raleigh’s fault, but blame rested on my shoulders too. I could have done better, prioritized people who deserved it, opened my eyes a little wider to see who Raleigh was, and?—
Shit.
I needed to fucking answer my phone. “Hey.”
Tollin sounded surprised. “Atlas. I caught you. Where are you right now?”
I knew he knew. I could hear it in his voice. Everyone knew that I was MIA, but Tollin had clearly caught on to why. “I’m at my loft.”
“It still kills me you call it a fucking loft, you pretentious prick.”
“What would I call it?”
“I don’t know? Home?”
Home had never sounded right because nothing about this life ever seemed to feel like it was where I belonged. It was like a suit that was half a size too large—not impossible to wear, but never comfortable. But I didn’t expect him to understand that. He was a well-paid accountant with an amazing wife, two kids, stress like anyone else had, but the support around him to deal with whatever fell in his lap.
Thatsounded like home.
