Page 67 of A Tragic Melody

I feel like I’m going to throw up as she glances my way. My eyes drop to the floor in front of me as I try not to lose my fucking mind.

“And I still carry that rhythm in everything I do…” Her voice sings out the last line.

“That was lovely as always, Tues,” I say into the mic in front of me. “I don’t think I’ve ever played that song live before.”

“Who did you write it for? Some girl who broke your heart?”

“Something like that.” I force myself to laugh.

“I’d hate to know what she did to lose you.”

“Maybe I lost them.”

She looks at me, raising her eyebrow at me as her face scrunches up. I shake my head, and she looks back to the crowd.

“Either way, it’s an honor to get to play a song you wrote, but I think I prefer playing my own. This next one is Cross My Heart, Hope You Die.”

When we walk off stage, I rip off my mic pack, quickly hang up my guitar, and head to the bathroom.

I hurl into the sink, dry-heaving as the dehydration from a whole set under stage lights and holding up a guitar sink in.

I would kill for a fucking drink to coat my stomach. To burn coming back up, to replicate the pain inside my head right now. Or worse, I’d die for the lull of heroin in my veins, drowning the memories that are dancing at the surface.

“Are you okay?” Derrick asks, stepping out of a stall.

“Yeah.” I grab a paper towel, wiping at my mouth.

“Did Tuesday break you?” He laughs.

“No.”

“Come on, it’s only a matter of time before she has you high again. That girl is nothing but trouble disguised as a slut.”

“Takes one to know one,” I counter, tossing the towel in the trash. I walk out of the bathroom to the dressing room.

Tuesday dances around the room as the guys pack up their things.

“Wyatt, you didn’t check all your guitars?” She laughs. “Come dance with me!” She walks up to me.

“Don’t touch me.” I take a step to the side, grabbing my bag. “Not when you are like that.”

“So mean.” She giggles. “You’ve seen me worse than this, haven’t you?”

“Not up close,” I counter, throwing my shit in my bag. “And not after you just sang a song about my dead family.” I spin just in time to watch her face drop.

“But…”

“It’s whatever,” I say. “See you back on the bus.” I march past her.

I have no desire to deal with her right now. I don’t even want to look at her. Not because I’m mad—she had no way of knowing who that song was about. It’s vague on purpose, but now I can’t look at her. Because if I do, I’ll beg her for a hit.

I head straight to my bunk, stripping off my jeans and sliding into a pair of sweats. Then I put in some earphones, turn up the volume, and will my brain to let me sleep.

I lay there for a bit, zoning in on the music and drowning out everything else until sleep finally takes over me.

The first thing I come to is a warmth against my chest. My brain processes that it’s a head, but not whose. I don’t care for a moment, instead I just enjoy it. Something about the weight is comforting. It isn’t heavy by any means, just warm and anchoring. It’s been a really long time since someone laid against me. I forgot what it feels like.

And then I realize no one’s head should be on me. My eyes open, reaching up to tug out a headphone.