Black Raybans cover my bloodshot eyes as the limo pulls up alongside the jet, taking us back to LA. Of course today would be sunny. Seattle gets rain something like sixty percent of the year but today, today the sun shines. It feels like a giant fuck you from the universe, it should be gloomy and rainy with thunder and lightning. It’s been twenty four hours since Alex was pronounced dead, and I’ve spent the last twenty of them in a pendulum of crying and drinking. My blood, at this point, could probably fuel this plane with the amount of alcohol running through it. Whiskey is easier to swallow than the thought of him not coming back.
Heroin. I knew that Alex had been dabbling in drugs harder than the coke and quaaludes we’d become so accustomed to. I knew he was dabbling with heroin, but I had no fucking clue he was so wrapped up in it. How did I not see it? Have I become so selfish that I didn’t notice my best friend was on a downward spiral to junkieville? When did I become so diluted to think that he wouldn’t do anything like that without me?
The car comes to a stop, and my band mates start piling out the opposite door to the one I’m sitting against. I stay seated, not because I don’t want to get out and get the fuck out of here, but because I physically can’t leave the last place I saw Alex alive.
“You coming?” Denny asks as his blue eyes search my face. My frown pulls deeper against my lips. I need to get out of this car. Need to get on the plane. I grab the door handle and pull, opening the door fully as I take a deep breath before I place my feet on the tarmac. My band mates all stand at the bottom of the step, waiting for me to either freak the fuck out or destroy something. That’s been my MO for the past 24 hours, I go from breaking down emotionally to breaking anything in arms reach. My feet hit the tarmac with a decisive thud, and this is it. Alex is gone.
I should have hugged him longer-tighter the last I saw him. Now I have to remember him for longer than I’ve known him. They say hindsight is 20/20, but it feels like I’m looking at the past through dirty glasses. Everything seems smudged and dull.
“We’ll land in LA about noon. We have a press conference at one thirty at the record label. After that, you boys can go home.” Garrett says as I enter the plane. Home. I don’t want to go home; I don’t want to walk past Alex’s room in the condo Boston, Alex, and I share in Malibu. I’d rather burn that motherfucker to the ground than see his Fender sitting in the living room, knowing he will never play again. I take my seat in one of the recliners and shrink into my thoughts. The plane taxis towards the runway, and I watch the Seattle skyline start to shrink as the plane takes off.
“Did anyone call Pistol?” Boston asks from his seat behind me, his voice carrying throughout the confined space. Sudden alertness flanks me, and I sit up from my slouched position. Panic rises up my spine, I hadn’t even thought of how she’s going to take the news. Alex was like a brother to her. I can only imagine she’s feeling the grief as hard as I am right now. Or maybe she doesn’t know yet. Maybe the press conference will be the first time she hears that someone so close to us lost his life to a drug I tried so fucking hard to keep away from him.
Chapter 7 Bristol
Breaking News: Alex Simpson has died from a suspected overdose. Seattle PD has yet to comment, but The Plight will hold a press conference inside Paperweight Records this afternoon. This is a developing story.
The newscaster's voice wanes into the background as disbelief washes over me. Alex isn’t dead. I just saw him. He was fine. He is fine. He has to be.
I sit on the couch watching the blonde woman in front of me babble on about Alex’s accomplishments and a highlight reel of Alex with Rhyit and Boston and… me. Picture after picture slides past the screen like a sick time lapse. Us, the night we played at the Watering Hole in Seaside. Us, the day we signed with Paperweight Records. Us, on stage for our first arena show. Us. Us. Us. Tears roll down my cheeks as I watch the history of our time together play out in front of me.
The last picture is one of just Rhyit and Alex as teenagers. I have no idea how the press got the picture, but I can still feel my finger on the shutter as I told them to smile for the camera. They were both deep in thought, trying to perfect the riff that came after the chorus. They both turned towards me when I said smile, giving me the most authentic smiles I think they’ve given since that moment. My heart constricts at the memory. It feels like I’ve been transported back ten years, and I can still smell the incense burning in Alex’s garage. I can still hear the feedback from the amp, the static playing in my ears like I’m underwater. I could feel him in every picture, in every moment except the one happening right now, and it fucking hurts. A lead weight sits on my chest as I imagined The Plight taking stage without Alex, without his cheeky warm up quotes or the random shots we used to take of the best shittiest well vodka he could find. That’s how he ordered it, the best shittiest well vodka.
The slideshow ends, and I sit excruciatingly numb. That’s the best and worst thing about a picture, it’s a constant reminder that even if for only a moment, everything was perfect. There was no pain, no arguments, nothing but the moment captured by a lens held by someone who felt the need to document a single second in time to look back on.
The phone in the kitchen rings, pulling me from the emotional tsunami wall I feel approaching. I lift myself from the couch and float down the hallway of my parents house. I can’t feel the carpet under my feet. I don’t feel the cold linoleum under my toes as I pad through the kitchen. The phone mounted on the kitchen wall blares louder as I approach.
“Hello.” I say, my voice sounding miles away.
“Tol, it’s Boston. We just got back from Seattle, I don’t know if you’ve seen the news but-“ Boston’s voice cuts off before he can drop the invisible bomb.
“I saw.” I whisper, not trusting my voice to say anything more. Tears dam on my lower lashes, it doesn’t feel real. This whole scenario is normally written in drama movies, not real life. Not Alex’s life.
“I’m so sorry, Tol. I didn’t know he was that bad. I didn’t know he was-“ A strangled sob breaks through the phone, and the tears I’d been trying to hold back flow freely down my face. Boston and I sit on my phone, silently sobbing for what feels like hours. The question I have for him burns the tip of my tongue as I try to find the words.
“How is he?” I ask lowly. Boston knows exactly who I’m referring to, and why I can’t say his name aloud.
“Bad. He’s in rough shape.” He sighs loudly through the phone, his voice bringing me a sense of calm I didn’t know I needed. “He’s been on a tirade since he found out. I think he’s broken, Tol. He’s on a one way track to the same fucking fate if he doesn’t stop soon.”
The thought of losing Rhyit, too, sends a shot of pain through me that I can only equate to being hit by a semi-truck. I almost drop the phone as the imagery surrounds me.
“You need to get him to the studio. Get him a pen and paper and let him go.” Some of the most explosive lyrics The Plight has ever written were at the height of an emotional implosion. Rhyit is a mood writer, like most musicians, but he has the uncanny ability to word a song so that it makes you feel like you’re going through the emotion with him. It’s a remarkable talent…but it has to be caught. Almost caged like a butterfly. You know it needs to be set free, but you appreciate the beauty far more when it’s in your face. That’s Rhyit; a caged butterfly. Behind the eyeliner and the leather pants is a broken boy who sold his soul to the world for the chance of being heard.
“Can you talk to him?” Boston pleads, pulling me out of the Rhyit spiral I was falling into. Boston isn’t one to ask for help often. I’ve known him since third grade, before he had long blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, and a guitar. He was just Boston. The goofy kid who lived next door to Alex, who learned how to play because we did. He’s been like my brother since before I had boobs. In all those years, I can count on one hand the number of times he’s asked me for help.
“I can talk to him, but not today. I’m not in a good place, Bos. I won’t be much help to him, and you know what talking to him does to me. I just can’t today.” I concede. Damn, that sounded really freaking vulnerable.
“We’ll be home tomorrow. Can you talk to him then?” He pleads again. The begging in his tone is pulling on my already shredded heart strings. They’ll be home tomorrow. To bury our friend.
“Yeah.” I sigh, “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”
Commotion on the other end of the phone plays through the receiver. “Who are you talking to?” echoes through the handset, and at the sound of his voice, I pull the receiver away from my ear and hang up. At the definite clicking of the phone hanging up, I lean forward and place my face against the cool countertops. I can’t talk to him. Hell, I can’t even hear his voice without having a visceral reaction. Not after seeing our life splayed out across the TV screen, knowing that without Alex, nothing will ever be the same again. How am I going to tell him he needs to slow down?
Chapter 8 Bristol
PAST
Warm fingertips travel down my spine, pulling me out my sleepy haze. The small bed quakes from Andrew’s movement. He rolls to his side as his fingertips make small movements against my lower back. I open my eyes slowly, taking in the room around me before my eyes fall on the black-haired boy currently tracing my panty line. His green eyes hold mine as he gives me a crooked smile.