▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️

▪️Phoenix, AZ▪️

The anger inside my chest is so real, it scares me. I don't want it in me, so close to the surface, the things I chose to forget are back, catching up with me. One of the pills in my hand will put a glass partition between the raging inferno and me. Two will block me from seeing or feeling the heat. Three will make me forget about its existence. I long for the mellow comfort of not feeling, not listening to Mike's words pound in my head.

I put the medicine on the counter by the sink and meet my eyes in the mirror.

I'm not a drug addict. I have a legitimate prescription. I have an injury. I didn't buy these on the black market or from a drug dealer. The couple of pills I took in the morning before the performance were to not let the throbbing ache that always rises in the morning cripple me. I avert my eyes because lying to myself became effortless.

Those pills were not about the pain in my hand. I took them after the conversation with Mike, before I knew the guys organized the flash-mob. I took them to block something all right. Not the pulsing ache in my fingers. Not the dull pain of the swollen wrist. But fear. The fear of what Mike makes me imagine. A future. A future with him. And the realization that I didn't hate it as I should've scared the shit out of me. I took the pills to guard myself against Mike. To guard myself against any potential future hurt.

Why am I doing this to us? I'm not a coward. That's the last thing I want to be. I sit on the ledge of the bathtub, the bed sheet bunched under my feet on the floor. The fury in me doesn't quiet. When was the last time I let it get this consuming? I don't remember. Not for years. I've been afraid of the full force of the bad side, doling the doubts and insecurities with a measuring spoon into my lyrics and chords.

The idea of not placing the barrier, of allowing the disaster to lick at the edges of my heart shallows my inhales. My lungs are about to lose their voice from screaming at me. I fail to breathe. Memories from years ago mix with the bile I spewed into Mike's ears earlier. I hurt him on purpose. I needed him to suffer like I was, to understand how unbearable life can be, why I was nothing like his college self. Unlocking the freedom to be myself is not what I'm after. Erasing is my choice, my need, my reason for the pills is only two steps away.

The orange bottle beckons.

The lack of oxygen helps slow the fire in my chest, but my refusal to let the air in isn't killing it. I run out of the bathroom and crouch on the floor by the case with my keyboard. I drag it out and plug it in without bothering to set the stand up. The keys under my fingers are an extension of me. I trust them more than anything in my life to understand, to accept, to absolve my inadequacies.

The melody, jagged and dissonant, sucks some of the strength out of the nemesis inside of me. A teaspoonful out of an ocean of pain. I play. The pinprick in my chest that drains the anguish drip by drip grows to the size of a bullet hole. The music repeats, rushing fuller and sturdier, changing the ocean into a sea, a lake, a pond.

The lyrics rise from the remaining acid tears. I find my phone and type lines into my note app. An incoherent stream of complaints and fears with a central theme that emerges dozens of lines after the initial mess.

Please don't ask me to remember

The bad

If I am living this life,

Instead

Of the people who are

Dead.

Please don't ask me to pretend

The bad

Will give me strength

To stand.

I'm not bullheaded or upset,

Dead.

I'm a dead person walking.

Rhyme after rhyme, the song sucks me dry. When I take the fingers off the keyboard for the second time, the room around me is dark. My calves and feet tingle as I get up, waking up from the long vigil. I wobble to the bed and turn on the last version I recorded. Off-key in places, the sound of my voice from the phone accompanied by the unsteady piano contains the bottomless anger and dread I held inside me when Mike tried to help.

What have I done? How am I going to fix this? Can I even fix the damage I caused?

I look for the connection between us. The strength I've become accustomed to. I search, readying myself to face the lack of it. But it's there. Banged up, but there.

The clock says 6 p.m. His flight isn't until 8. I can still make it there. I won't let him leave, thinking I'm the vile person who doesn't want him. I put my crumpled clothes back on, shove my feet into my sneakers, and open the door.

A dormant romantic part of me half-expects Mike to be sitting by my room in the hallway. He isn't. Why would he? Hours passed, and I got no texts or missed calls from him. If he were here, if he were waiting for me, he'd flood my phone with his words and voice, just as he did with his requests to talk earlier. He gave up, and I don't blame him. The tug in my chest sends me to the elevator. I hammer the button with the thumb of my uninjured hand while scrolling through the phone for the info on his flight. He always sends it to me.

I find none. This was a surprise visit. He sent nothing. I press the elevator button a million more times. How am I going to catch up with him?

We don't have a concert until tomorrow, but I won't have enough time to fly to Chicago and come back in time.

I open the group chat I have going with the band.

Me: Anyone knows Mike's flight to Chicago information?

Neil: Maybe.

Me: Don't mess with me @neil

Neil: I have so many comebacks to this, I could go on for at least a minute, maybe two.

Unlike my first encounters with Neil, I now know his sense of humor, and under different circumstances, he'd even get a chuckle out of me, but I care so little about Neil right now, my lips stay pressed together.

Me: What's his flight information.

Neil's next message appears in a private chat.

Neil: Get up to my room, and I'll show you what you need. Room 612.

I can hear the phrase play in my head. I've never seen Neil with a woman. Or a man. Or a person he seemed interested in. For the amount of flirting and his man-whore reputation, he either hides it well, or . . . I don't have the brain space to come up with options.

I storm out of the elevator on the sixth floor and knock on his door as if I need the entire floor to hear. I wouldn't put it past him to take his sweet time to answer, just to mess with me. The door opens on the third knock, and the space behind Neil has no light on.

"I didn't plan on you being in any shape to show up here. But I'm going to take it as a good sign."

"I don't need your riddles. Flight information. Now."

"So many pleases and thank yous from you. Impressive." Neil opens the door wide. Come in."

Neil pissed me off the first time we met, and sometimes, I still find his behavior infuriating, but after our songwriting sessions, something shifted, I thought. I can't say Neil is my friend, but even though 90% of the time he's a variation on a jerk, with an admonishing variety of ways to make everything about him, he's not my enemy. I step inside.

"This way," he says.

My eyes take a moment to adjust, and I follow him into the bedroom.

"I believe this is what you are looking for." He vaguely gestures to the bedside table.

I stalk to it, paw around the lampshade, only to find the on-off switch on the top of the base. The light blinds me. When I open my eyes beyond the slits, I see nothing but a phone on the surface by the lamp. "Where is-"

"The bed," Neil whispers.

The dark hair on the snowy pillow I'd recognize anywhere. "He stayed?" I whisper back.

"I gave him Tylenol, and he crashed while I was ordering him a taxi. It arrives in fifteen. I have an alarm set to wake him up."

"He stayed."

"You aren't making it easy for the poor bastard."

Mike stirs. I turn off the light and wait for a beat. I don't hear him move. I set my mind on sprinting to the airport and figuring out what to tell him on the way there. With him right here in front of me, I don't know what to say. How do I explain my life story in fifteen minutes? I don't know where to start or end this conversation. One we very much need to have, but . . . now?

"Outside." I tiptoe into the hallway. "I don't want him to think I don't need him, but I don't want him to drop his life and become my babysitter. I won't ruin Mike's life because I'm a mess. What do I do? How do I tell him to leave me alone, because I must figure this out on my own? How do you tell a person to leave you when it's the last thing you want?"

"You need time. I told him that. He's a smart guy. He'll understand."

"Not if I can't explain to him."

If my life were a musical, and I could sing the explanations instead of scrounging for dry words and sentences to express how gutted I am, I'd be belting right now. Instead, I hope I'm able to unscramble my brain enough to not ruin this chance.