Sweet Ache

“You built me up. You tore me down. Left me to wear your poisoned crown …” The lyrics I’ve been toying with come without warning, and I’m so in my own head that I don’t even realize I’ve said them aloud until I notice Rocket slow down his pace to keep with what I’ve belted out. I keep my head down, trying to avoid feeling vulnerable as I sing the words that come to mind and tell my story, but it’s no use. Putting my thoughts to words then penning words to paper before turning them into lyrics is equivalent to cutting open my soul to expose the dirty, dark, bloody secrets I hold close. Every fucking one of them.

And yet I continue the temporary purge of my misgivings.

“I am not weak. I am not strong. Just a man left walking in a world where you made sure I don’t belong.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I squeeze my eyes shut as my fingers still on the guitar. The room falls silent around me, Gizmo’s labored breathing from drumming the only sound of life.

“Holy fucking shit, dude!” Rocket says, surprise and admiration lacing through his voice. “Was that the shit you’ve been working on? Just … wow!”

He says something else that I don’t catch because I’m so busy trying to come to grips with the things I just said, the feelings I just scraped from the scars on my soul that now feel open and raw. The things everyone around me knows about already. But coming out this way, through the emotion of a song, is so much more real than a monotone blow by blow.

I sucked at school but I remember learning that Orwell said good writing is like a windowpane. Too bad my lyrics are more like tempered glass, reflecting how I’m so broken and shattered, the shards never falling because they’re being held up by invisible strings. Someday though all the pieces are going to come popping out one by one, till all that’s left is a gaping hole surrounded by irreparable shatters.

I feel hollow now, afraid to look up, afraid to keep my head down because more memories might come that I don’t want to think about. I feel more vulnerable than I have in a long fucking time and I know for a fact it has to do with Quinlan. I’ve let her in when I usually keep everyone at arm’s length unless it’s for that quick rocking in the sheets before I roll them out the door.

The realization hits me that maybe now after hearing my from-the-heart lyrics she’ll realize who I am, what I come from, and that I’m not enough for someone like her. Yes, I’ve told her about my past but something about music reinforces the damage within me.

The thought hits me hard because hell yes, we’re fucking good together but at the same time, she’s got her shit together, her life together, while my number one hits don’t mean shit when my life’s shadowed daily by the next phone call from Westbrook, the next request from Hunter, the continual demise of my mom.

When I pull myself from my thoughts and find the wherewithal to raise my head, Vince is making sure the recording is there and then I see him flick the switch turning the soundboard off. Rocket and Giz are nowhere to be found. He meets my eyes with a nod of his head, a shift of his eyes over to where Quinlan sits behind me, and then walks toward the door.

I track his movement, too chickenshit and embarrassed to meet her eyes just yet. Vince stops with his hand on the door and says, “You did good, man. Let’s hope it feels as good for you to get out as it did for us to hear.”

All I give him is a single nod in acknowledgement as I fiddle with the strap on my guitar before he closes the door. Sighing softly, I turn around on my stool, eyes still focused on my fingers as I rein in the needy bullshit I don’t want to deal with right now. Hell, right now? Who am I kidding? How about never want to deal with.

And I feel awkward for the first time ever with her but I know it’s only the mixture of alcohol and exhaustion and shit with Hunter that’s making me feel this way.

“So …” I say, trying to find my way through the minefield I’ve led us into. “I’m feeling a little …” My voice trails off as I find irony in the fact that I’ve just sung lyrics so honest and telling, and yet now I’m uncomfortable saying how I feel about it.

“Did you say something?” she asks, her tone chock-full of confusion that has me lifting my eyes to meet hers. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening. I was too damn busy thinking about having sex with you.”

The smile comes naturally to my lips, and it matches the desire that’s a constant when she’s around. “Is that so?” I rise from my seat, swing my guitar to rest against my back, and walk toward her, wondering how she can know a comment like that is just what I needed to break up my sudden discomfort.

Standing in front of her, I enjoy listening to her breath hitch when she runs her eyes up the length of my body. And then those eyes of hers—liquid amber—lock onto mine, her eyebrows lifting as if to say What are you waiting for?

And I don’t know why I’m waiting, but there is something about the moment, the lyrics, her being here that makes me want to stand here a minute and let it all sink in before I lose myself to her.

Because that’s what’s going to happen. I can deny it all I want, tell myself I’m a man who needs no one, let alone the same set of lips to kiss him before sleep each and every night, but I’d be lying to myself. And not very well either. Maybe it’s Quin, maybe it’s the idea that I’m finally so fed up with Hunter I know the last straw is about to break. Maybe it’s the realization that my mom may still be here but I really lost her all those years ago…. I’m not sure. What I do know is that I crave the normalcy of a relationship, a home life without the constant shadow of grief and weight of a promise that’s not mine to keep.