Prologue
Bristol
March 26,2000
Nostalgia, by Greek definition, means ‘the pain of an old wound,’ and while it’s not painful anymore, the wound still exists. I heard once that when you create a memory, a little piece of your heart stays there, wherever the location is–good, bad, or otherwise–and we leave tiny pieces of our hearts everywhere, like fragmented glass.
The coffee warms my palms as I look out over the bay in Seattle. When I heard the news of what they were doing today, I knew I had to be here, had to watch a place that held so much be desecrated. The people surrounding me on the overlook all chat animatedly about their memories of this place. I smile lightly as they recount some of the same memories I have, just from a different vantage point.
“60 seconds.” Comes over the loudspeaker, and anxiety creeps up my spine. I’m getting my memories back today; I’m getting the pieces to the stained glass window that is my life back. From this high up, you can see the entire stadium, every entrance and exit, and the domed roof that held so many classic songs, looks decrepit against the new stadiums that surround it. That’s life though, out with the old and in with the new. Always progressing, always moving forward.
“5,4,3,2,1.” The announcer calls out.
There’s a moment before an explosion, or implosion, that everything goes completely silent, like the earth has to prepare for the aftermath of what’s to come. There’s a moment before every good or bad thing that happens in your life that everything goes still too–nothing happens instantaneously–but there’s always that moment when fate decides the aftermath of your decision.
The columns of the roof disappear in synchronization, one after another, and I watch with rapture as the rest of the building falls to the ground. A massive plume of dust and debris fills the air below us, covering everything in sight with memories and history.
Once the building has settled to the ground, I turn around and wander through the throng of people back to the stairway. When I reach the stairs, I turn around one last time to see the rubble, a feeling of completeness fills me, and I laugh as I take the stairs back down to the ground.
Chapter 1 Bristol
White lace falls over my eyes, and the view in front of me becomes hazy. My shoulders feel bare without my leather jacket, and the missing weight makes me itchy. I try to remember that this monstrosity of a dress is all the rage this year, and my label would have a shit fit if I walked down the aisle looking anything less than the drummer princess they signed. My tattoos are covered by the puffy sleeves of the dress, what I wouldn’t give to rip these sleeves off and show off the ink I paid good money for. I spot the reporters and paparazzi standing in the roped off corner of the lawn. Every news outlet in the country is going to be running this night for months to come. They’ll critique my dress and my music choices until my wedding is a dead carcass that even Seventeen won’t touch.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that John is waiting for me at the end of the aisle; tomorrow, we will be halfway to Hawaii for our honeymoon and one day closer to forever. Forever is a really long time, and I swore after my last failed relationship I wouldn’t count on forever, wouldn’t hold anyone to that promise. The funny thing about promises is they’re only as good as the person who held the promise. John came into my life at a time when I had sworn off men and relationships and focused solely on the music. He was sweet and patient and never made me question his intentions. Like a trickle of rain rolling down a gutter, I slowly fell in love with him. It wasn’t all at once and totally consuming, it was a drop here and a drop there until I finally caved under the weight and realized my feelings for him were more than friendly. John is a safe bet. He won’t break my heart; he won’t hurt me.
John is an accountant for my record label. We met at the release party for my band, Petals and Poison’s latest album. After all the pictures and schmoozing with men twice my age, I needed a break so I wandered out to the balcony overlooking Los Angeles. After I took off my shoes and perched myself on the railing thirty stories up, I just sat there. No noise, no people, no one but me and my thoughts. The last album was doing amazing already, and I was thankful for that. I’d poured every emotion I had into those lyrics, all the rage and heartbreak leaked out of me like toxic sludge. I’m still happy I don’t have to actually sing the lyrics, I don’t know if I could to be honest. I couldn’t replay every emotion I felt for months to come while we went on tour. With thousands of people staring at me every night, ripping that bandaid off and picking at the partially healed scab isn’t my idea of fun. It was difficult enough to sing the backup choruses. Julie, our lead singer, is happily married to the love of her life and has no problem belting out the lyrics to my emotional downfall.
I felt John’s presence before I heard him clear his throat. If I could describe him as a color it would be yellow, he’s warm and inviting, pulling happiness from you whether you want him to or not. We chatted for a bit about the album and agreed to have lunch the following day. The rest, as they say, is history. He doesn’t ask why I wrote the lyrics I did, he knows. Hell the whole world knows about the implosion. The reason I’m no longer with the band I started as a teenager.
Classical music plays in the yard signaling the start of the ceremony. The nail polish sitting on my fingernails doesn’t allow me to bite them like I’d like to. Instead, I pick at the rhinestones on the bodice of this ridiculous dress. My nails running over the tiny jewels does nothing to calm the storm brewing just beneath the surface of my skin. The house my record label owns is decorated to the nines, with a damn ice swan sitting in the middle of the lawn for no reason. It’s hot as hell in July in LA, it’s going to look like a sad duck by the end of the day, but just like every other piece of today, it wasn’t my choice. The record label took the reins on the wedding once they realized it would skyrocket publicity for Bristol “Pistol” Graham to marry someone so opposite of her previous love life. Everyone who’s anyone is here today, celebrities and musicians alike. Hell, even the President himself got an invitation.
I watch from my spot on the balcony as the flower girls make their way down the aisle in their cute dresses, giggling with each other as they toss petals on to the ground.
“Ready?” My dad asks from behind me, his voice startles me, and I pull back from the edge of the balcony. I turn slowly, taking in his sharp black tuxedo with a red rose pinned on the breast pocket. He’s a far cry from the mechanic covered in grease from Southern Oregon. Today, he looks the part, very old Hollywood with a combover and gold cufflinks.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I say, forcing a smile. It’s not that I’m not happy, I am, it’s just not what I envisioned for my wedding. As a little girl you dream of a big fairy tale wedding with roses and Disney animals singing in the background, but I don’t see a single animal today other than the swan that is slowly deconstructing. My father clears his throat bringing me back to the present.
“John’s a good man. He’ll take good care of ya, Tol.” He boops me on the nose with his index finger like he’s done since I was a child. “You look absolutely beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I say, wanting to touch my overly teased blonde hair. I have so much hairspray in my hair right now that if someone lit a match in the Hollywood Hills today, I’m going up in smoke. A full bottle of Aquanet and an hour of teasing achieved this look, and a half-pound of eyeshadow weighs down my lids. I look nothing like myself, and again, it’s making me itchy.
Chapter 2 Bristol
Taking slow, measured steps, I make my way down the stairs leading to the lawn outside. The white heels I’m wearing are not my normal choice of footwear, and if not for the death grip on my father’s elbow, I would look like a baby deer after birth right now–knees wobbling, ankles turning in odd directions. When my heels hit the bottom step of the stairs, the audience in front of me rises and turns slowly to watch my father and I amble down the aisle lined with rose petals. Don’t get me wrong, it’s absolutely beautiful, and any bride would be ecstatic to walk down such an elaborately decorated aisle, but it’s just not…me.
The music slowly changes from a soft symphony as we approach the rows of white fold-up chairs. My eyes find John standing at the altar in his black tux, his eyes skate appreciatively across my form before making eye contact with me. He smiles, causing his eyes to crinkle at the edges; I smile back. I cautiously take the steps leading towards my future, my forever. The speakers surrounding the venue boom with the opening verses of a song I prayed I’d never hear again. I jerk my head from John to the DJ as the voice I hear in my dreams croons about a hard-won love.
The days bleed into night
I know I’ll be fine with you right by my side
The city lights don’t hold a candle to your smile
Don’t worry baby, I’ll be waiting at the end of the aisle.
I stop mid stride, every emotion these lyrics hold pouring out of me like a faucet that won’t shut off. Anger, heartbreak, humiliation, and…longing. All the air feels sucked out of my lungs as the lyrics continue. Rhyit doesn’t deserve to hold this power over me, but he still does. He always will. He’s been my sunshine before I knew what it meant to need someone else’s warmth. I’ve been in his orbit for so long that I don’t even remember what my own solar system looks like.
I clutch my father’s arm tighter and wait for the panic rising up my body to subside, but it never comes. I close my eyes as my world tilts on its axis. My father grabs my chin, forcing my face to meet his. When I open my eyes, his soft expression makes my heart crack. This should not be the day that Rhyit burns brighter, if anything, he should be a snuffed out candle slowly dwindling until the smoke is the only remaining sign it was ever burning. I probably look like a lunatic having this much of a visceral reaction to a stupid song, sung by a stupid boy who broke my heart into a thousand tiny shards. Yet here I am, clinging to a memory of a man and what could have been. What will never be.