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His hand moves on his guitar as the melody moves to deeper chords, as the anxiety of coming home creeps into his words, but his eyes stay on mine.
“I don’t feel it when you’re with me,” I remember whispering, telling him that when we were together, the anxiety stayed away.
“You’re the only thing keeping me here, little star,” he had responded.
The vice on my chest loosens as our eyes stay locked.
Air comes back into my lungs, and I can feel my feet again.
It should be the opposite. It should get worse when he’s staring into my soul like this, reading me like a book only he knows the language of, but instead, it’s the same effect he’s always had on me.
He finishes the song like that, then shifts into another older song, one much less anxiety-inducing about wanting to make it big and leave this town, a reminder that he did just that, maybe.
He always loved to stand on stage and watch me, to tell me stories through whatever songs were on the set list that night, and I wonder what he’s trying to tell me tonight.
“Alright, guys, that’s it. Thank you so much!” Reed says, and the band gets down, the old band coming back up, but when they start playing, it sounds worse, like the reminder of who Atlas Oaks is makes everyone else seem… less.
Or that could just be me.
But the sweet lull of live music has worn off, the anxiety of knowing Riggins is here taking its place and I turn to Parker.
“I want to leave,” I say straightforwardly, tugging on his arm so I know I have his attention.
It’s an understatement, of course. I need to leave if I want to make it out of here alive.
“What?” He cups his hand to his ear, and I move to my tiptoes, speaking louder so there’s no chance he can’t hear.
“I want to leave,” I say, and then the band cuts out, allowing for a conversation.
“Come on, Stell, we just got here,” he says like we’re old friends instead of new acquaintances.
“I need to leave,” I say, and there’s no way he doesn’t hear the panic in my voice. I need fresh air; I need space. The walls are closing in and I can’t take in a good breath of air.
“I don’t want to, Stella. A couple more songs,” he says, then turns his head to look at the stage, essentially cutting me off.
Well.
It seems my gut instinct that he’s a fucking twat was right.
I grab his arm and tug him toward the hall, which leads to an emergency exit and the kitchen. I stare at him, a look of irritation on his face.
“I need to leave, Parker. I’m not feeling well. Thank you for agreeing to tell our mothers a good lie, but I don’t think we actually have to stay that long,” I say, trying to keep things copasetic between us and, I think, failing miserably.
Just like my mom, he turns his personality in a moment, his body shifting so my back is to the wall, his body in front of mine.
I’ve never been a big person, and though Parker isn’t tall, he’s taller than me. If I thought I felt locked in before, that I needed air and space, I can multiply the feeling by a hundred now.
My eyes shift left and right, and I know no one will see us in this corner should things go from bad to worse.
“Parker, please. I don’t feel well.” The music has started again, deafening in the main room but slightly damped in this hallway.
“Come on, you know we can have some fun,” he says, and my stomach aches, nausea creeping through me, acid burning at the back of my throat.
“Get the fuck back, Parker,” I say, all semblance of friendliness gone from my voice.
“I looked you up, you know. You had a wild time with him. Now you’re here with me, and what? Nothing?”Fuck, fuck, fuck.The good ol’ boy is gone from his eyes, leaving what my brain interprets as a monster in its place.
“Get off me,” I say, my voice growing louder, but it’s like I didn’t say anything at all. “Parker, get off me.” My mind goes into how to get out of this mode. I could knee him in the balls, but his legs are closed, and if I fail, it might anger him more. I know there’s no strength behind my fist, but don’t they say something about adrenaline making you strong? Mothers can lift buses off of babies, and people can run through burning buildings.
