Hammers, Strings, and Beautiful Things

by Morgan Lee Miller

  I couldn’t go on the bus because Miles was getting some, and I couldn’t go to Reagan because we weren’t talking. God, we weren’t talking. She hated me. The woman I cared so much for couldn’t even look at me.

  I broke.

  The white powder flew up the rolled-up dollar bill and into my nose. I sank into the couch until my head rested against the back, feeling the cocaine drip down my throat and the warmth flow down my arms and legs. I loved how the drug promised euphoria for the next half hour or so. It was short but blissful, and I loved it when my limbs started tingling. The powder chomped away at the sadness like a game of Pac-Man in my bloodstream. Having those toxins in me brought the clarity I was desperate for, shutting out all those cacophonic voices and bringing me peace and silence. It reminded me of my pool hopping days when I loved sitting at the bottom of the pool so I didn’t hear anything. It felt like I immersed myself in another world for just a moment. A world of silence. Fucking goddamn silence from my own thoughts.

  For the next hour and a half while Reagan performed, and Miles and Ethan used that time wisely until Ethan was scheduled to work right after the show ended, I played with my Hummingbird, did a line, played again, did another line. It killed the time, and hey, I wrote a new song about being sexiled.

  And then there was a knock on the door. I shot straight up and glanced down at a rolled-up dollar bill, my ID, and the rest of the eight ball on the coffee table. The doorknob twisted, and as I processed that I needed to discard all the evidence, there was Reagan, her face shimmering from sweat, fresh off the stage and slightly out of breath.

  “Hey, Blair? Can we talk for a second—” She observed me and then looked down at the coffee table, staring straight at the evidence, and once that happened, her mouth dropped. “What the hell is—”

  “Get out!” I yelled as a reflex.

  “What are you…what’s that—”

  I jumped up and stood in front of the table to hide the evidence. “I said, get out!”

  She glanced over my shoulder. “Is that…is that—”

  “Reagan, Jesus Christ, get out! You can’t just barge in like—”

  Ignoring my demands, she lurched closer, but I stopped her with my hands on her shoulders and held her in place. I should have known better than to resist because that just made her body fight me to catch a glimpse of what was behind me. All of that yoga she did every morning paid off. She shifted me to the side to get a better view.

  Her eyes flicked back to me, and I could see the anger brewing.

  “Are you serious?” she yelled.

  Still hyped up on the last bump, it didn’t really take much for me to fire back. “I told you to get out—”

  “Is that coke?”

  “Reagan, seriously le—”

  “You’re doing fucking cocaine?” She lunged forward to inspect me. “Great. Your pupils are dilated.”

  “For the millionth time, you need to go—”

  “You realize there are fans coming back here, right? Or do you not care about that?”

  “Of course, I care—”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “It’s not really any of your—”

  She pointed a steady finger at me. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

  I threw my hands up in the air since that felt like the only defense I had. “You can’t just come barging in people’s rooms!”

  “Seriously, Blair? That’s your argument? Are you going to answer anything I asked, or are you gonna continue to yell at me to leave?”

  “It’s really not that big a deal.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Um, what?”

  “It’s not that big a deal,” I repeated slower.

  “You know, I wasn’t really into you guys pounding back shots and smoking weed before you went on stage, but I bit my tongue. Because you managed to kill it every night. But this? No, not after you can’t even remember the last four days and played the Indianapolis show completely plastered. No, this isn’t okay at all.”

  “Reagan, can you please—”

  “I’m not gonna have someone high on coke opening for me. That backfires on me. That affects my reputation just as much as it affects yours. Did you even think of that?” She waited for me to answer, but I had nothing. I was fucking miserable and depressed, and I needed an upper to help me get through the night. That was all I was focused on. “Of course you didn’t,” she finished.

  Miles appeared in the doorway with a smirk, like a nice hour and a half lay session should do to a person. But once he saw me, his grin washed away.

  “What?” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “You know she’s doing coke right now?” Reagan said, pointing at me as if he had no idea who I was.

  “Say it a little louder please,” I said.

  Miles checked out the coffee table. Just like Reagan, a frown contorted his face. “Blair, what the hell?”

  “Really? So, you didn’t know about this? You’re not doing this with her?”

  “God, no!”

  “Cool. So, she’s high right now, just so you know. Right before a bunch of fans are about to come back here.”

  “Oh my God, it wears off in, like, a half hour.”

  Reagan stepped around me and lunged toward the table. “No. You’re not doing this.” She snatched the eight ball.

  “Don’t you dare—”

  That was when she looked me straight in the eye and then opened the bag to pour the rest of the cocaine on the ground. Then she snatched the SoCo bottle and poured at least three shots’ worth over the powder. All I could do was watch the contents dissolve into the brown liquor on the dirty wooden floor.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” I howled and yanked the bottle out of her hands. I was so infuriated, I could feel it piling in my chest.

  She dug her boots into the puddle and wiped her feet on the mess as if it was a front doormat. I could feel the weight of pure anger building up in my hands, strong enough for me to want to chuck another shot glass across the room. All the money I spent, all the things I needed to numb the feelings itching at my skin like an army of bedbugs, completely wasted in absolute filth.

  “What the fuck, Reagan! What the actual fuck?”

  I kicked my boots through the mess, and the concoction splattered up her bare legs. She observed it in utter disgust, as if I spat on her.

  “What the hell? Stop it, Blair!” Miles shouted while pulling my arm to prevent another splash.

  “She just wasted all of it.”

  “Good!” she shouted. “Now I don’t have to worry about you drinking it like a cat.”

  “Yeah, because that’s something I would have done—”

  “Yeah, it probably would have been since you don’t seem to give a shit about anything or anyone right now.” She tossed a glance at Miles over my shoulder. “She does coke, she’s off the tour. Plain and simple.” She gave me the nastiest look I’d ever seen on her. Reagan Moore, with her beautiful smile that first reeled me in, the smile all over the magazines and billboards, America’s Sweetheart. I guess I’d chased that Reagan Moore away. “You have until Milwaukee to decide what your priority is. In the meantime, I’m fucking done with you, you understand me? One hundred percent done with you.”

  Just as the burning sensation started in my chest, she swept past me, and I caught the scent of her wonderful perfume that used to comfort me in bed now reminding me of everything I just lost.

  And then there was silence. My body felt as if it was filled with cement instead of contaminated blood. The puddle of SoCoke taunted me, splatters scattered across the floor and coffee table. I could feel Miles’s burning glare on the side of my face, and when I turned to him, he appeared as disgusted as Reagan. And then I glanced at the white wall behind him, and my limbs felt so clogged with crap that I just wanted to ram my fist through the drywall to get it all out. I had no control over my body. Forget the drugs, the rage that brewed inside me from all these months was more
cogent than anything I’d taken in my life. Instead of the wall, I repeatedly punched the couch as dust billowed in the air. A punch for my grandma dying, a punch for Gramps dying, three punches for my fucking deadbeat dad crawling out of the pits of hell, two punches for Reagan’s fame sucking up the last bit of passion and romance from our relationship, another punch for the stress relievers Reagan turned into filth and probably a flesh-eating bacteria, and five punches for Reagan being one hundred percent done with me.

  As I wound up for another punch, Miles caught my wrist and brought it down to our sides. He spun me around, and that detailed scowl never flinched from his face.

  “What has gotten into you, huh?”

  I fought to break free. “Nothing.”

  He let me go, and I tossed myself on the couch, burying my face into my hands. “You better hope to God that Reagan doesn’t kick us off this tour, or you’re going to lose way more than just your girlfriend.”

  “Miles, I’m—”

  He raised his hand. “Apparently, you have until the morning to decide both our fates. So think really hard about that.”

  And he walked out the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The drive from Chicago to Milwaukee was so quiet and lonely. Miles’s and Corbin’s snoring seeped through the white noise machine and past my foam earplugs, but I reached the point of not caring about it anymore. I was more focused on Reagan screaming at me on repeat.

  God, did I want to text her how sorry I was, but I was so goddamn pissed at her. For everything. Not just the SoCoke, but for letting the amazing thing we had months ago just fade away. How quickly she discarded me rather than encouraging me to get better because she believed in me and the good person I had living deep down inside.

  She didn’t even try.

  Needless to say, I hardly got any sleep, and that coke Reagan destroyed would have been very beneficial for me in order to stay awake. When the sun invaded the windows, I heard Miles and Corbin on the other side of my curtain, going about their day, chatting in the back room with the door closed. I couldn’t make out their muffled words, but I knew they were probably about me and the looming decision I’d have to make once we arrived at the Milwaukee venue.

  I forced myself to sleep to waste time until we got there, and I woke up to Corbin yelling at me to get up so we could go to Reagan’s bus for an emergency meeting. Aka the meeting.

  Her bus door was open, and when I stepped in, I found Finn, Reagan, Miles, and Corbin sitting on the couch, waiting for me. I had flashbacks to the very first time I came on her bus with a bottle of rosé and lemon bars in exchange for her noise machine. All the nights we shared on the bus and in her room still lingered in the air, but even those seemed so distant. Reagan had her legs crossed, baggy sweatshirt keeping her warm when it should have been my arms, hair messy in a bun from probably a restless night’s sleep when it should have been from my hands, and her eyes drifted to the floor when they should have sparkled at mine.

  “Have a seat, Blair,” Finn said so professionally that his tone nauseated me.

  The great thing about this tour was that we all passed on the professional formalities and acted like a bunch of young people who didn’t have to work in an office, dress in business casual, or work nine to five. But now, everyone sat up straight—except for Reagan, the boss of everyone—and formally invited me to sit down. And once I did, Finn clasped his hands together, and I already hated so much where this was going.

  I took a cautious seat across from everyone, only resting half my butt against the kitchenette counter. My stare went right to Reagan. A smile didn’t brighten her face. It hurt so much seeing the shell of her, knowing it was my fault for making her so upset and angry.

  Please, look at me, I tried to tell her telepathically. Please, look at me. I’m so sorry.

  “Okay,” Finn said and exhaled. “Let’s talk about what happened last night. Blair, how about you give your account first?”

  A burning sensation swallowed my whole body just knowing how angry I made everyone. Finn, Corbin, and Miles waited for my pathetic excuse with dull looks. I felt awful. Seriously. I felt as if I’d been shredded like a useless document and had taken innocent people with me.

  “I don’t know what you guys want me to say,” I said as I gripped the counter. With two of the most important people in my life refusing to acknowledge my existence, it was hard to find words. Their silence squeezed everything out of me, and I was only left a shell of meaningless words. “I’m sorry I disappointed everyone.”

  Reagan shook her head, and her soft grunt informed me about the eye roll she just made.

  “How many times has this happened?” Corbin said.

  “In life or on tour?”

  I meant it as an honest question, not trying to be combative. But the three guys’ shocked expressions told me they didn’t at all take it that way.

  “I meant on tour, but we might as well find out now how many times you’ve done it in general.”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks, all right? I’m going through a rough time.”

  “Yeah, well, not to diminish what you’re going through, but we all go through rough patches, and I don’t think anyone has turned to self-destructive behavior like you have.” Finn turned to Reagan. “Reagan, how about you talk now?”

  “I’ve already said everything I needed to,” she muttered to the floor.

  “You have nothing to add?”

  She lifted her head and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, still refusing to make eye contact with me. “Nothing,” she said, quickly glancing at Finn and then back to her lap.

  “Okay, Miles?”

  “I had no idea. About last night or the other times.”

  “Okay…well…then, Blair.” Finn faced me again. “If this is the lifestyle you’re going to choose to live, we can’t have you join us. Reagan has a clean brand, and your doing drugs is a major liability. Imagine if it gets to the press that a hotel cleaning lady found cocaine in your hotel room or if a venue worker found it, or the VIP fans found out; it would be front-page news, and it would drag Reagan right through the mud. Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “And if you guys are sharing a room now, can you see how this is headline news? Cocaine found in Reagan Moore’s hotel room?”

  “We’re not sharing a room anymore,” Reagan clarified as her head snapped back up. “So, that won’t be happening.”

  Finn paused as if taking in another round of details of his client’s personal life. “Okay…we’ll go back to getting Blair her own room, then. That is if she decides to stay with us.”

  This was the lamest intervention. Miles did ecstasy in Honolulu, and it was also his idea to do ’shrooms in Amsterdam. What about all the times the two of us did Molly when we went to clubs? He was pretty excited when I got the new stash from the guy in Louisville. Where was his intervention?

  “I’m not gonna do it again,” I said, though I really didn’t even do a good job convincing myself of that.

  “You sound like this is a huge inconvenience for you,” Corbin said.

  “I think we’re being a little dramatic about this, yes.”

  “Oh my God, I can’t do this anymore,” Reagan said loudly. I once thought that her eyes were so soft that they didn’t have the capability of hurting anyone, but I was wrong. They pierced right through me and caused a burn to rumble through my gut, making me want to scurry out of the stuffy bus to avoid her. “You have no remorse, do you? About anything?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Blair,” Miles said, eyes on me too. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “You did ex in Hawaii, ’shrooms in Amsterdam, and you always want Molly when we go to the clubs, yet I’m the one getting in trouble?”

  “I didn’t do them on someone else’s tour!” Miles yelled, and he hardly ever yelled. The vein popped out in the middle of his forehead. It took me aback for a second. “I didn’t do them before we performed, and I also n
ever performed shitfaced and kicked a speaker in front of twenty thousand people.”

  “Yeah, because smoking the world’s strongest weed is much better. This whole thing is all because Reagan’s mad at me from a few days ago. We had an argument, so we might as well blow up the next mistake I do to kick me off the tour. Is that what it is?”

  Reagan crossed her arms. “You’re really something right now.”

  “If we were still together, we wouldn’t be having this talk. You and I could have easily had a civil conversation without getting Finn and Corbin in on this too. But you didn’t want something civilized. You wanted to be angry at me.”

  “You have a lot of nerve saying all of this right now,” Miles muttered through his tight jaw.

  “It’s the truth! We all know it!” I faced the two managers, who continued giving me this look as if I was crazy and would never climb out of the trench I dug myself. “Finn, I understand your concerns. I really do. And I’m really sorry it happened last night. I never meant to put Reagan’s reputation and Miles’s reputation in jeopardy. That’s the last thing I ever want to do. I’m going through a rough time right now.”

  “There are twelve shows left,” Finn said. “You need to decide what you want to do. Stay off drugs or get off the tour. Only you can make that decision.”

  “Aka fuck up again, you’re off this tour,” Reagan said when she got off the couch. “And I think that’s a pretty generous offer given the fact that all I want to do is fight.”

  She stormed into her room and slammed the door.

  * * *

  Fuck up again, you’re off this tour.

  The anger in her voice kept playing in my head over and over again.

  It started out as anger inside me, and then it simmered as I reminisced about the days she explored my eyes in depth. The days when both of us found every excuse in the book to be around each other.

  Now, she avoided me. She didn’t come out of her green room. I opened for her, got the crowd ready to see her, asked all those fans if they were ready for her show, only for us to stray to parallel paths. All those fans got to see her. I was on her tour and didn’t get the chance.