I choke the last words out, the reality of what I’m doing smashing into me like a brick wall. I’m saying goodbye.
“I uh-” I stop again, tears starting to trail down my cheeks as the weight of this goodbye hangs heavily around my neck. I grip the microphone tighter as a tiny palm meets my free hand. I turn to see Bristol, tears well in her eyes, her expression conveying everything I can’t say right now. “I’m going to miss you.” I whisper in the mic, still holding Bristol’s eyes. And I don’t know if I meant to say it to her or to Alex, but tomorrow, I’ll be without both of them, and the thought hurts more than I can bear.
“Goodbyes aren’t supposed to be easy, I know this much is true. I didn’t think it would be so damn hard saying goodbye to you. I know they say it’ll get easier as the time passes by, but I’d kill for one more day with you by my side.” I sing into the microphone, the lyrics coming to me from the depth of my broken soul. “I know you’re in a better place, I know there were a lot of things you couldn’t take, but please know that down here, there isn’t a soul who could fill this space.” Bristol hand squeezes mine with a silent reassurance that it’s okay.
I’m breaking, and I hate that I’m breaking with an audience. I hate that I’m breaking in front of the whole goddamn world. My shoulders quake as I pull the microphone away from my mouth. A strangled sob leaves me, and a moment later, I’m pulled into an embrace. Large arms wrap around my shoulders as Boston pulls me in tighter. I feel Bristol’s body behind me as we stand together and cry for a life cut way too damn short.
The graveyard workers approach the casket as Bristol, Boston, and I stand near it. None of us have said a single word since the funeral ended, what is there to say? The paparazzi have all gone home or to Margie’s house for the wake, which is where we should be but watching our friend lowered into the ground felt like the last piece of this shitty puzzle. Bristol is the first of us to move, she takes the few steps that lead to the casket and places her hand against the top tentatively. This feels like a private moment, one I should be walking away from, giving her the space she deserves. But I don’t, the selfish part of me wants to be the one to console her when this is all over, the one to dry her tears and hold her broken pieces as we navigate this fucked up new normal together.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, her hand making small circles against the top of the casket. “I didn’t mean it. You have to know that. I didn’t mean it. I wanted you to grow old.” Her voice breaks as the grave diggers clear their throats, signaling that the time has come. I want to scream, to tell them we need more time, that we’re not ready yet. I can feel the scream, I hear it in my head, but nothing comes out. I guess that’s what grief is; a silent scream only you can hear and feel.
I know now that my life will be categorized into two segments, before this and after this.
Chapter 13 Bristol
Margie’s house is overflowing with family and friends, the small house splitting at the seams with the amount of people who came to give their condolences and food. I’ll never understand why people bring food to a mourning family, it’s a universal expression though. No matter where you go in the world, food is a currency for love. I stand in the kitchen, attempting to help Margie rearrange her fridge to fit all the casserole dishes.
“My goodness I will never eat all this food by myself. You should take some home, Bristol.” Margie says, her back turned towards me as she shoves the last chicken dish in her overflowing fridge.
“We’d love to.” My dad says from the entry of the kitchen. I shoot him a quick smile, thankful he and my mom are here. I hand him two large casserole dishes from the fridge and move out to the living room, chatting with everyone I can to keep myself away from Rhyit. I spot him and a few other guys on the back deck smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. I stare for a moment, watching him as he throws his head back and laughs at something one of the other guys says. Rhyit laughs with his whole body, it’s one of those characteristics that not many people have, one of the things I loved most about him. It’s hard to stay mad at someone when their laugh makes you laugh. The moment he’s done laughing his head turns like he can feel me staring at him, our eyes lock and the look he gives me tears me apart, it’s pain coated in sugar. I can see the hurt he’s carrying, but it’s not noticeable to the naked eye, no it’s taken years to decipher his emotions, and right now, he’s hurting just as much as I am.
Hours later, after the last paper plate is thrown away and Margie has gone to bed, I step out into the cool July air and take a deep breath. I’m physically and emotionally exhausted from the last few days. It doesn’t help that I barely slept last night after meeting Rhyit in the treehouse. A nice hot shower and my bed are calling my name. I can practically feel myself falling into bed.
“Pssst. Hey Pistol, you got a minute?” Rhyit says from the side of the house, the breezeway light casting a shadow around him. Fuck, I thought he left and I was in the clear. I take the concrete step off of the back porch and head in his direction. He opens the door to the garage, and I’m blasted back to our childhood. My old drum kit sits in the middle of the garage, a white tarp covering the set. Boston stands in the corner, his bass already slung over his shoulder, hanging loosely around his midsection. Rhyit walks to the center of the room and pulls the tarp off the drum kit. Dust flies through the air at the movement and I cover my mouth, 8 years of dust can’t be good for the pulmonary system.
“You want to play for a bit?” Rhyit asks, his eyes fixated on the drum set. A set of sticks with hot pink tips sits in the holder, no doubt they’ve been here as long as this thing has. Alex used to paint the tips of my drum sticks for me, it was his thing. Even now, I buy them with pink tips. It’s one of my signatures.
“I don’t know, Rhy.” I say, swallowing a lump in my throat. I want to get behind the kit. I want to smash my sticks against the plastic so badly I can taste it. I want to work out this anger I have coursing through me on the plastic heads of the drums, but playing with them without Alex sounds like taking two steps forward and a million steps backward. My internal battle is cut short when Boston plugs the bass into the amp and riffs. The scratching of the feedback reverberates through the room.
“We need this, babe. Please. For old time sake.” Rhyit’s eyes hold mine, and I wonder for a moment if I’ll ever be able to say no to this man. If he will always hold this power over me. I nod tentatively as I take the steps leading to the stool behind the kit. Once the sticks are in my hand, I feel the peace only the drums can bring wash through me. It’s been weeks since I played. I twirl the wood pieces through my fingers twice and tap out a familiar rhythm, the guys following suit, and Rhyit sings into the mic stand with no microphone. ‘Stairway to Heaven’ by Led Zepplin was one of the first songs we ever sang as a band, and as the sticks hit the drum heads, I feel fresh hot tears roll down my cheeks. The guitar is missing, drums and bass don’t make this song what it’s supposed to be. Rhyit stops singing, and I take a second to bow my head and wipe the tears, but as I look up, I notice tears staining both Rhyit and Boston’s cheeks. Neither one of them doing anything to stop the torment.
“Fuck.” Rhyit sniffles as he grabs the old Fender laying against the wall and plugs it in. He nods to me once the strap is over his shoulder. “Again.” He says, his voice breaking. I tap the sticks together counting us in, and the guitar wanes as Boston starts on his bass. Rhyit starts singing again and we play, for old times sake and for each other.
My arms are heavy from exertion, and my heart is heavy as we exit the garage we spent a major portion of our adolescence in. It feels final, like we may never do this again, never play together again. Boston shuts the light off as we stand awkwardly in the breezeway.
“I’m gonna head home.” Boston says, hooking a thumb in the direction of his house next door.
“Yeah, me too. Do you need a ride?” I ask Rhyit. He nods as his eyes stay trained on the garage we just exited. He closes the door, and the finality of that closed door sits weighted against me.
Chapter 14 Rhyit
Her bright red sports car sits against the curb outside the house. She hops to the driver's side as I approach the passenger. This thing is tiny, it’s a death trap, I’m not going to fit in this.
“When did you start driving a clown car?” I ask as I open the passenger door.
“It was a gift.” She blushes as she slides into the front seat. Ah, a gift from him. John.
“He got you a death trap. This thing is tiny, Bristol, if you got in a wreck you’d never win.” I spit, the thought of losing her in a car wreck plays in my head as I roll myself like an accordion into the seat.
“Thanks for the concern.” She quips as she presses the clutch to start the car. “Too little too late, though.”
“It’s not too late. You could easily trade this thing in for something bigger.” I nod, already preparing myself to buy her a new car when I get back to LA.
“You being concerned is too little too late. I love this car. It fits me.” She says, eyes training on the road as she weaves through Main Street. The hotel is only a few blocks away, and I panic, I’m not ready to say goodbye to her. I wasn’t ready the last time we said goodbye, and it’s haunted me nightly ever since. There are only two hotels in town, and they’re only a block apart.
“Will you come upstairs with me?” I ask, my voice pleading. I just need more time. I need to ask her about what she said at the funeral, I need to-
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” She asks, her voice softening. I think it’s a great fucking idea. If I could, I would throw her in my suitcase and never let her leave again. I imagine her body under mine for a moment, the sounds she used to make, the way she felt. I clear my throat, pushing those thoughts out until later. I can jack off in the shower, I don’t need to think about Bristol’s perfect tits against my lips right now. Dammit.