“Have you seen her?”
He looked at me with a confused stare. “Hmm?”
“Have you seen Reagan?”
“Ah,” he said and directed his gaze back at the hills. “I was wondering when you would ask.”
“So, that’s a yes?”
He took a sip from his Coke. “She invited me over about a month ago.”
“A month ago? Well, Jesus, where the hell was I?”
“Here with your mom.”
“And I’m just finding this out now?”
“I’m wasn’t gonna tell my best friend one month out of rehab that I was going to see her ex-girlfriend. I’m terrified of you relapsing, Blair. I just wanna protect you from shit. I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you.”
His eyes were soft, and I could see the residual hurt I’d left in him looking straight back at me. I was afraid of relapsing too. They kept drilling in my head that it was so common. And there were so many urges to drink more so than to do drugs. But two months in, I still stood firm, but also felt incredibly vulnerable.
“I’m scared too,” I said. “I just…well…did you guys talk?”
“No, we sat around in silence and stared at the walls.” He faced me, biting a smile. “Of course we talked.”
“You know what I mean.”
“We mostly talked about Meraki. Talked set lists, and then we talked about the rest of the tour—”
“And why Jessie Byrd was there?”
“If you want to know the answer to your question, it’s yes.”
“I haven’t even asked a question.”
“You don’t have to. I already know all of them.”
“Oh yeah? And what are they?”
He twisted around, tucking his knees into his chest and then looking skyward. “‘Did she ask about me? Does she miss me? Does she still think about me? Does she wonder how I’m doing? Does she still have feelings for me?’ The answer is yes.”
My heart raced, and all the questions and words that were going to follow vanished in my head because my brain couldn’t keep up with all this information. “How do you…how do you know?”
“Because she asked about you. She asked how you were doing, and I told her that you were doing amazing. That your spirits were high, that you’re so invested in the second album and staying sober, that you’re excited to record, like that’s all you want to do is record, and it’s sometimes annoying. That you’re so ready to get back on the stage for Meraki, and how I’m so fucking happy that I have my best friend back.”
“And what about the other questions? Did she mention those?”
“No, that’s all we talked about regarding you. But she didn’t have to say that she missed you or thought about you or still has feelings for you. I just know by how she asked.”
“Well, how did she ask?”
What was up with Miles and all his annoying cliffhangers?
“Like, how you’re asking me about her right now. With cautious hesitancy. It was like she was holding in that question all night, the same way I think you were holding it in. Am I right?”
I rolled my eyes because I hated so much when Miles knew me better than I knew myself. But the darkness shielded my eye roll from him, therefore not boosting his pride.
I glanced at the homes below us starting to twinkle in the glow of dusk and thought about her more. Picturing her playing with her fingers as she asked Miles about me with trepidation rattling her voice. I wished she told him more. I wished I knew the depths of how she felt about me because it felt like every day that progressed without her, the deeper my feelings for her became.
When I was sixteen, I asked Gramps how he knew he was in love with Grandma. He said it was when he was twenty-six, and he and Grandma had a falling-out because she wanted to get married and start a family when Gramps was at the peak of his performing career. The two broke up when Gramps continued on with his band, and during those two months, he said he really struggled. He drank a lot, he lost a lot of sleep, and he felt like a shell of himself, despite living out the dream he always imagined. On his drive to Memphis to play a show, he heard a brand-new song on the radio from one of his favorite singers, John Denver. The song was “Annie’s Song,” and the beautiful melody and lyrics captivated him. He bought the album and listened to it on repeat for the rest of the day. At that Memphis show, Gramps performed a cover of it, and the only person he could think about was Grandma and how John Denver’s lyrics described how he felt about Grandma to a T. Every time he heard the song, his stomach sank just remembering the woman he lost. So, a few weeks later, he told Grandma he wanted to start a family too. He took a break from his band, got married, had my mom a year later, and occasionally when he and Grandma had a night to themselves to enjoy a date, he’d put the B-side of Back Home Again on his record player so he could share a dance with Grandma to “Annie’s Song.”
“You’ll know you love someone when you listen to ‘Annie’s Song,’ and you feel the love for them in your chest and gut,” he said to me after telling me the story. I asked him how he knew he loved Grandma because I wondered if I was in love with Dana Bohlen. So, to put his theory to the test, we listened to the song on his record player in the living room, and I didn’t feel a single thing. The lyrics made me roll my eyes, I told him the song was lame, and he told me when I matured and found true love I would appreciate the song. I responded by saying he was full of it.
In rehab, I had a lot of time to listen to music, and the song popped up when my music was set to shuffle. I remembered Gramps’s story, and when I fully listened to the song as an adult who missed a woman so terribly, I realized the old man was right this whole time. I could only think about Reagan and all the feelings she injected in me when she kissed me, held me, slept next to me, smiled at me. I didn’t have the urge to roll my eyes or deem the song as “lame.” The lyrics John Denver wrote for his then-wife perfectly described all the feelings swirling inside me. I was in love with Reagan Moore, and admitting that wasn’t terrifying like I always thought it would. It was freeing if anything.
“Can I confess something?” I asked and let out a long, heavy sigh that came from the deepest part of my gut.
“Is it juicy?” Miles asked.
“It’s pretty juicy.”
He sat straight up in his chair eagerly. “Go for it.”
“I think I’m in love with her. Actually, I know I’m in love her.”
“Whoa.”
“I know.”
“Have you ever been in love with anyone before?”
“No.”
His eyes rounded. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”
I thought about it for a moment. “I have an idea.” I bolted out of my seat as an idea formed in my head.
“Hey! Wait! You have to run your ideas by your best friend!”
I ran inside to my room, shut the door, and grabbed a pen. Flipping to the next blank page in my journal, I stared at the empty lines ready to capture all my words I imagined myself saying the next time I saw her. Without putting too much thought in it, I decided that the most heartfelt apology was one that wasn’t heavily edited with too much time, too much doubt, or too much thinking. So, I wrote the first words that came to mind. I wrote as if Reagan stood right in front of me, and I wanted her to hear everything I had to say to her since the last time I saw her.
Reagan,
I have no idea what I’m about to write, but I’m just going to write down everything I feel because it’s all coming out at once.
I owe you an apology that’s beyond the words I can write right now. I put all the hard work you invested in building your career at risk because of my stupid actions, and it wasn’t until I was already off the tour that I was able to fully see the scope of my damage. Hurting you was the last thing I ever wanted to do, and I would take back all the things I said and did in a heartbeat if I could. I want you to know that.
I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I left the tour. You won’t lea
ve my mind, and the ache I have in my stomach keeps getting stronger the more time that passes without you. I know I said and did enough to make you not want to forgive me, and if you don’t forgive me, I understand. But I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if I didn’t give you the proper apology that you deserve and if I didn’t confess all the things I feel about you.
I could go on and on about how I feel about you. Like how you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met in my life. How you were the reason I wanted to get out of bed. How every time we kissed, you were able to still give me butterflies. And you still do, Reagan. None of that has changed.
You once asked to look at my journal, and I only showed you one song because it was my most prized possession, and I only gave it to Miles when I wanted him to look over a lyric. But as I finished this book in rehab and I reread all the pages, I realized that ever since last June, you were the theme of all my lyrics. I think my journal can better show you the impact you made on my life better than this letter can.
You might think I threw us away, but I hope this journal proves to you how much you mean to me. No one else has made me feel this way but you.
Blair
P.S. Since this is my most prized possession, I’ll need it back eventually.
I folded the paper and pulled out the finished journal.
Here went nothing.
* * *
A few weeks had passed since I asked Finn to deliver my letter and my journal to Reagan, and now Miles and I were ready to do our first show at the Meraki Music and Arts Festival in the open fields of Tennessee.
I loved taking the stage. It was like walking into a room knowing you had a surprise party waiting for you, and everyone jumped and cheered as they emerged from the darkness, all ecstatic to see you. It never got old. I loved every time Miles kicked the bass drum, and I felt the rhythm in my throat. I loved hearing the chords I created with my fingers—whether on guitar, piano, bass, violin, or whatever instrument—burst through the speakers and elicit another outbreak of cheers.
The stage was my home. And I was so happy to be back.
Once the stage lights flickered off, the crowd grew together in a solid “Woo.” Miles was already behind his drums and started kicking quarter notes on his bass drum as the stage lights flashed for every thump. I stood on the side stage, waiting for my cue, taking one last, deep breath. As much as I was excited for our performance, I was also nervous. This was our first performance since the Minneapolis show back in March. Now here we were in late June, and I wanted our first ever music festival performance to be epic.
Four measures into Miles’s bass drum kicks, I clutched the neck of my Fender and walked out on stage as the red lights flickered upward to each bass drum beat. Our very own concert sonic boom evoked screams that pierced through my in-ears. A clamor of cheers all for Miles and me. We didn’t have to share it. We weren’t opening for anyone. I couldn’t tell how many people showed up to our stage to hear us perform, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more than twenty thousand. All of them came out for us. The crowd mingled with the sunset quickly encompassing us as the sky turned a light orange and pink. Inflatable killer whales, dolphins, and unicorns bounced up and down, and beach balls frolicked over the canopy of raised hands. Most of the bodies that made up the crowd were cloaked in a sparkling layer of sweat and humidity. Some wore headbands around their foreheads. Many of them wearing colorful mismatched outfits, but matching didn’t matter at musical festivals. You could get away with anything.
I waved as I positioned myself behind my looping pedals and the other nine instruments.
“Meraki, how are we doing tonight?” I said into the microphone at center stage, and the audience responded with the same applause that erupted when I walked out. “We’re Midnight Konfusion. Let’s have some fun together.”
After hearing they were ready, I started playing our fun, upbeat, soulful rock song, “1969,” and a smile tugged my lips as I sank into the comfort and familiarity of the thing I loved the most: performing.
Being at a music festival was quite the experience. When we graduated high school, Miles and I saved our graduation money to buy Coachella tickets. Everyone was so happy to be there. No one walked around with a frown. Everyone wanted to be friends. Even in the crowd, tall people made sure the shorter people could see the stage. One guy picked up a girl he didn’t know—who had to have been only five feet tall—and put her on his shoulders. People shared water, booze, drugs. For a very short time, differences didn’t exist. They just came for the music and a good time, and that was all that mattered to anyone. Performing for those people was no different. They projected their energy to the stage, which only inspired us to play with even more heart.
As the night swallowed the sunset and the crowded grass field, glow sticks of every neon color cut through the darkness. All the bodies morphed into a variety of light speckles from their phones, lighters, and glow sticks swaying in the air. I couldn’t see them anymore, but I heard them. Loud and clear. A solid thunderous roar from a drunk crowd pierced through my in-ears. I never heard our lyrics sung that loudly before, it was fucking awesome and addicting.
“Are we still doing okay out there? No one has overheated, right?” I asked, and the roar hit the stage like a wave. “Good.” I turned to my maroon digital piano and tickled the keys in broken chords. “So, we took some time off for the last few months. For personal reasons because sometimes you have to pause, take a break, and reflect to make sure you’re living your best life. And I wasn’t living mine. So, I fixed myself and wrote a lot of songs, and some of those songs are already on the album we’re recording right now. But there’s one I want to test out with you guys tonight. Are we cool with that?”
The masses wooed, and I pressed the pedal and recorded the first loop on the digital piano, playing those broken chords before switching the piano to sound like a synthesizer for the second loop. Then for the third loop, I strapped my Fender on, and moved my fingers up the neck of my guitar, letting individual strings cry out through the speakers. The song was one of the slowest ones I’d ever written. Most of the time, we kept our soulful rock in every song. But our new song took the form of something completely different, and maybe it was the start of a shift to a different kind of sound for our second album. We ditched the distorted electric guitars wailing out seventies rock and a bit of soul for the touch of synth, acoustic guitar, and the classic sounds of the piano.
The song was different because the girl who it was about was completely different. I had to sing this song for her. I hadn’t gotten a response to my journal despite the three weeks that passed by. But I knew Reagan was somewhere on the Meraki premises. I knew she would be watching me. I had to make sure she really knew how sorry I was for everything.
As the loop continued to play, I lowered my Fender so I could play a live layer of piano chords.
“I can feel myself fading from you
Just because I walked away didn’t mean I wanted to
The toxic pools I swam in at night
Remind me of all that went wrong
Searching for it all, just trying to belong
All those nights drinking
Now replaced with the thought of us
I’m sober, just not when it comes to my thoughts.”
Then the chorus came around, and I switched back to the Fender after a measure, strumming against the loop during the chorus. Miles’s drums crescendo was a tease to build up to the climax of the song.
“You’re the one thing I’ve done right in a long time
Now all I have is the memory of your skin on mine
I used to think you were too good to be true
I guess that’s just the feeling of falling for you.”
And then the drums hushed.
“I can see your smile fading from view
Just because I said those things doesn’t mean they’re true
All the songs we used to sing
Remind me
of how we begged for love
Searching for it all, just trying to belong
All our nights kissing
Replaced with an empty bed
Filled with all the thoughts that were left unsaid.”
The second time the chorus came, Miles didn’t mute the bass drum, toms, or cymbals. He let them ring out into the audience, who cheered on the progression of the song slowly building. Hearing them send me positive feedback through their cheers and raised hands gave me more courage to sing the rest of the song. If all the people in the crowd seemed hooked by the lyrics and the melody, maybe that meant Reagan would be too. If she was watching.
I hoped she was watching. I performed the song as if I knew for sure she was.
“My love, I regret all the things I did to you
But not for a second do I regret our love
I can still taste our last kiss
Just tell me how to be the girl you miss.”
Miles went all out on the drums, and I could picture his hair flipping back and forth as he got lost in the music. I improvised a few licks on the Fender after singing the chorus once more, playing whatever notes felt natural to how I felt in that moment. Hopeful but hurt. Nostalgic but disappointed. The song at its peak. An assortment of stage lights of reds, blues, and whites lambent toward the sky. I strummed the high notes of the guitar’s neck, and what started off as a soft song now cried in vibrant sounds with the thousands of people in front of me cheering, with their hands still swaying as if they felt all the feelings that comprised the song too.
And then the drums vanished, my cue to stop playing the guitar. I kicked my foot off the loop so the only thing playing was the piano, the simple chords I played during the first verse. I glanced into the audience that stretched throughout the fields as dusk was almost over, knowing that somewhere Reagan was out there in those Tennessee fields. I sang the last two lines softly, “I used to think you were too good to be true. I guess that’s just the feeling of falling for you.”
Hammers, Strings, and Beautiful Things Page 24