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I used to run toward that feeling, live for the sound of a room of people all singing the same words, all feeling the beat the same way. Now, I never feel more alone than at a show. It’s soul-crushing; the memories fly in and suffocate me, and the panic builds and brews. The recent reminder that is Riggins coming to see me doesn’t make it any better.
But I can’t let him continue to control me. It’s unfair to me, unfair to my soul that used to love music so much, used to find it healing. When I used to sink in my ocean, through the pretty teal and to the blue and feeling the creeping tentacles of the dark blue sneaking in through my airways, I could listen to music and fight it back.
Now it’s barely a balm, barely a relief at all to grab my guitar, to hum out songs and write down words.
It’s fucked that I’ve let Riggins have that power over me.
So even though I hesitate as we step through the door, I force myself to straighten my shoulders, take a deep, fortifying breath, and move through the crowd, following Parker to the bar where we wait to get the attention of the bartender, then I see him.
Beckett James, drummer for Atlas Oaks. My entire body strings tight when I see him, even though he doesn’t see me.
“You know, I’m kind of tired, maybe we should—” I start, but then the band playing crescendos into a deafening interlude and my words drown in the noise. Parker pays the bartender for our drinks, (a beer for each of us, even though I definitely did not give him an order for one) before we move away from Beckett, and my spine starts to ease.
There are four members of Atlas Oaks, and there’s a good chance only Beckett is here. The oldest in the band, he was legal and able to drink long before the rest, so this might just be a hangout of his.
No one else is here, I tell myself, and it’s a small comfort when I watch Beckett grab his drink and walk in the opposite direction of us.
Then I start to enjoy myself. I watch the band, who isn’t great but isn’t terrible, and take in the music, letting it fill my veins and cloud my head the way it used to, the way it hasn’t in a long while.
My shoulders are finally starting to drop, the anxiety leaving my system when it happens.
“And now, we have the honor of welcoming a local celebrity to the stage!” My shoulders go up to my fucking ears, and my back goes ramrod straight. “If you’re from around here, you definitely know of these guys, and even if you’re not, you still definitely know of them.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” I murmur under my breath, but it's no use as I watch a familiar shape stand at the edge of the stage, more familiar shapes behind it.
“Welcome Atlas Oaks back to Ashford, you guys!” The crowd roars, the kind of noise that makes you know will leave permanent damage as Reed, Riggins, Beckett, and Wes walk on stage. Reed picks up his bass, Beckett sits behind the drums, and Wes and Riggins grab guitars, all three adjusting mics as they do.
“Hey, guys, it’s great to be home,” Riggins says, and something in me dies with the words. I can feel it.
Something I thought I had buried deep, something I thought I had cut out the addiction to Riggins from, it dies seeing this again.
I’ve spent seven years avoiding nearly every mention of them possible except for the few times my self-hatred won, and I’d spend a night in misery looking them up on the internet.
I do my best to avoid social media, where rumors and video clips run rampant. I rarely talk to old friends from high school because after I came back, all any of them wanted to ask was how tour went and how the guys were. I even avoid listening to the radio, where I might accidentally get ambushed by my past.
And then my mother sets me up on a date, and here I am, watching them live.
“Huge thanks to The Tailored Pigs for letting us steal a moment of your set. We haven’t played live in like, four months, and it’s killing us,” Reed says, and through the lump in my throat, I smile because at least nothing about him has changed.
Reed was once my best friend in the world after Riggins, my confidant in all things. And then I left.
“I want to leave,” I shout, trying to get Parker’s attention, but he’s as wrapped up in Atlas Oak as everyone else. I tug at his arm to try and get him to look at me, but his eyes stay on the stage while his arm wraps around my waist like we’re an item like I’m his.
Just when I thought this couldn’t get any worse…
“This is a song I wrote long, long ago with a girl from Ashford about being here and how it made us feel.”
The first chord start of the first song that got some recognition. It's not a top 40 radio hit like some of their other songs, but it’s definitely the song that got them off the ground.
I remember writing it, laying in the grass late at night, watching the stars as Riggins strummed the guitar, playing its different chords and progressions while I hummed out tunes and tried different words. It took less than an hour before we had a song that encompassed our emotions for this town, the way we loved it to our bones, but how it held so many complicated memories.
When I left the band and came back to town, I remember this song being stuck in my head on a loop for days and the way it caused me physical pain. I remember putting headphones in and blasting other music—any other music—to try and drown it out, but nothing worked.
Nothing at all.
And now it’s everywhere around me, my words and Riggins’ chords and our history swirling and swirling until I can’t breathe, until my knees go weak.
Then, his eyes find mine in the room, and I realize Beckett must have snitched.
