Page 4 of Three Months Yesterday

There’s no one to blame but myself. Instead of handling the situation like a healthy adult—even if I was only twenty years old—I buried everything and focused only on the things I could control.

Eighteen years later and I still haven’t spoken to a single person about that accident. Not that I need to with Ryan. He may not know all the details, but he was there every step of the way after. From the hospital, to the rehab center, and back home again.

“You’re right,” I concede finally. “But I still don’t want to talk about it.”

Ryan stares for a minute, probably thinking about if he should push me or not, but we both know he won’t. It’s become an unspoken understanding between us—the accident is off-limits.

“Okay, then tell me what’s stressing you.”

The words get stuck in my throat, as if by saying them out loud, they’ll become true. But that’s a fallacy. My team is already well aware of what’s keeping me from writing, so holding this truth back from Ryan does nothing for me.

Taking a deep breath, I let the words free. “I haven’t written anything new in over six months.”

It’s almost comical how quickly Ryan straightens in his seat. He doesn’t need anything else to know just how serious those words are. Since I started writing music, there hasn’t been a day when I haven’t at least made a note or voice memo with an idea for a song.

Music has been the thing I’ve carried with me through every stage of life. It’s been my saving grace and the thing that pulled me through the accident. It’s a piece of me the same way my DNA is.

“That’s pretty big for you,” Ryan whispers.

“I know.”

“Six months?” he clarifies, but doesn’t wait for my response. “It’s not just the anniversary keeping you from writing if it’s been six months.”

“No. It’s not,” I mumble.

His eyes narrow and I know he’s caught on that I’m keeping something else from him. Yet another reminder of how I’m holding people at arm’s length.

“What are you hiding?” His tone brooks no argument. He won’t be backing down from this one.

“I’ve received some concerning letters to my PO box.”

“What?”

“At first it wasn’t that serious. Normal fan mail like any other, but when they didn’t get a response, the letters escalated.”

“Are you in danger?” Ryan asks when I don’t continue voluntarily.

“I honestly don’t know. My security says I don’t need to worry, they have it covered.”

“But that’s not enough for you?”

“Would it be enough for you?” I counter.

As far as I know, Ryan hasn’t received threatening letters, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t dealt with some uncomfortable fan situations. Until last year, he was the star pitcher for the Boston Wraiths.

“I don’t know,” Ryan answers. “I want to say I’d be able to trust the people around me who are trained to handle situations like these, but it’d be hard having absolutely no control.”

“Exactly.”

Ryan’s words aren’t wrong, my lack of control on the situation contributes to my stress, but it’s not just threatening letters to my PO box. About a month ago, those letters started showing up directly to my apartment building.

They haven’t made it up to my door yet—the building’s security is proving to be exactly what they claim—but they’ve been left with the front desk. It’s safe to say this person has escalated to full-blown stalker at this point.

The hum of the heater turning on is the only sound in the apartment. I don’t know why Ryan’s gone quiet, but I can’t help my thoughts from drifting to the meeting I had with my team yesterday.

Not only was there no real update on my stalker, but my label has become impatient waiting for the next record. They’ve scheduled a tour to start in the spring, and booked me some time in the studio.

Apparently—in their mind—if they force me to record, inspiration will strike and I’ll be able to write new music.