I pad down the narrow hallway and duck into the bathroom. The fluorescent light flickers once before humming to life. I wash my hands before opening the medicine cabinet to find band aids and over-the-counter medications. On the shelf behind the toilet is a bunch of hair products and perfumes. One bottle sits at the edge, the glass cool in my palm when I pick it up. I uncap it and breathe in. The scent is unmistakably her… Melanie. It’s sweet with a sharp edge, bergamot and vanilla maybe? It hits me in the chest, stirs something low in my gut.
For a second, all I can picture is her tangled up in sheets beside me. My stomach flips, heat curling under my skin. I carefully set the bottle back and remind myself I have to keep my head on straight. It would be so easy to fall into bed with Melanie. But there is so much left unsaid between us, apologies that get stuck in my throat every time I look her way. I move and yank open the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water and ignoring the beers tucked way in the back.
I don’t drink anymore. It’s new. I’ve only been sober for a year, but I’m already better than I’ve been the past two years. The music industry is hard, and I’ve made mistakes. There is a ton of professional pressure, peer pressure, late-night partying, and questionable decisions. I felt myself spiraling the past few years, and even though I didn’t abuse alcohol or drugs every day, when I did, it was always in excess. My creative energy was stifled by it. I’d lose days at a time from going on a bender and then needing to recover from it. And then one major mistake snapped me out of it all and back to reality.
Since giving up alcohol, the people close to me, who I thought I could always depend on, have decided I’m no longer fun. My band didn’t respect the boundaries I put in place for myself. Keira left me, saying some bullshit about wanting different things. But I have held strong. Iwantmy creativity back. I want myambitionback. Nothing seems worthwhile anymore. Did I make it? Sure. Did I achieve a lifelong goal of making music and going on tour? Yes. But at what cost? Now I’m washed up and alone.
I plop on the couch and rake a hand down my face with a loud groan. Then I see it, under the cushioned ottoman is a shelf, holding our high school yearbooks, and—I can’t believe it—several composition books, stacked on top of each other, much like the blank one sitting in front of me. I pull the stack out.
There are three. The first one has an inconspicuous cover, but our initials are on the front in the bottom right corner of the white frame. I flip it open. This is the first notebook we started passing back and forth in Mr. Herman’s study hall. I chuckle to myself as I read through it. The way we questioned if we should keep our jam sessions secret. The first lyrics we started brainstorming together. Meeting places. Random conversations and flirty innuendos. My chest constricts. What I wouldn’t give to go back and do it again. The right way. Make things better.
I can’t help myself as I read every page, drinking in these teenage memories like they were yesterday. I find a section about a party I wanted Melanie to go to and as I read, my mind goes back to that night.
“Josh, I can’t find Cara. Do you know where she is?” Melanie stumbles over to me. We’re at a party in a dark field in the middle of nowhere. There was a bonfire at one point, but I think Alex let it go out so as not to attract the cops. I’m talking to a few guys from school about summer plans.
“I don’t, I’m sorry.” I step closer to her—she looks wobbly on her feet. I place a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
Melanie’s eyes glaze over. She’s had too much to drink. I thought she said this wasn’t her scene. Maybe this is why. Her lip trembles. “I’m just ready to go,” she hugs herself, rubbing her upper arms.
I turn back to the guys I’m talking to. “Uh, guys, I’m gonna jet.” I tell them, cocking my head toward Melanie. I turn back to her, draping my arm over her shoulders. “Let’s get you home.”
“But I drove,” Melanie wails. “And I can’t drive now. I was hoping Liam or Cara could drive my car home.”
“I’ll drive your car home,” I tell her calmly, shifting her toward the dirt lot where everyone’s cars are parked.
“You don’t have a license!” Melanie snaps, looking angrier than she did a second ago. “God, they’re probably off having sex somewhere. I hate parties.”
I swallow the bile that rises at the image of my sister having sex right now. I clear my throat. “I have a learner’s permit, and I finished my behind-the-wheel classes,” I say when we reach her car. “And you have your license, so you can supervise me.”
Melanie snorts out a laugh. “I’m pretty sure there are laws against that, Josh. And clearly I’m in no shape to superviseanyone.” She frowns, and I can’t help but think she’s the cutest girl here, even drunk. I don’t ever drink more than one beer at these parties. When it gets warm, I top off the top so people think it’s a new one. It works like a charm, and I always have my wits about me. Call me a nerd if you want. I guess I kind of am.
Melanie sighs. “I really want to go home, so I guess you’ll have to do.” She reaches into her wristlet for the keys to her old white Buick that she calls White Lightning. She tosses them to me and with a scowl and a point of the index finger says, “Don’tcrash my car.”
I grin. “No promises.”
But we make it back to her place in exactly twelve minutes, unscathed. “How will you get home?” she asks, turning in her seat to face me.
“I can walk. It’s not that far.” I shrug. “Do you need me to walk you up?” I ask.
But Melanie doesn’t answer me. Before I can react, she puts her clammy palm on the back of my neck, yanking me closer to her, her lips hover over mine.
Ordinarily, I’d be psyched, but she’s drunk and I’m not. And this…thing between us has become so important to me.
“Josh,” her voice comes out as a whisper. Then her lips graze mine.
I pull back abruptly. “Mel, I can’t.”
She recoils as if I slapped her. “And just why the fuck not?” She frowns, crossing her arms over her chest, angrily.
“Melanie, you’re drunk. That would make me a complete asshole.” I growl, tugging at the collar of my T-shirt. It’s hot as fuck in her car.
“News flash, Josh. Youarean asshole.” Melanie scoffs. She holds out her open palm. “Give me my keys and get out of my car.”
I flip past the note of my groveling for forgiveness, the memory still fresh in my mind. I knew I had feelings for her that night. I went home and jerked off and then tried calling her private phone line at least three times. She ignored me.
The next entry in our notebook was our first completed song. The lyrics are so juvenile, but they make me smile. Under each line of lyrics, one of us wrote the chords. I pick up my guitar and start strumming it, quietly singing the lyrics. My heart swells from the memory. I can’t believe we wrote this when we were sixteen and seventeen, and it sits unappreciated in this notebook twenty-five years later. It’sgood. For teenagers anyway. I’d say it rivals a young Taylor Swift.
I’m so into the music, I don’t even hear the front door open and close.
