Contents
Title
Dedication
Copyright
Acknowledgments
You can do this.
It might be nothing.
Well, what did she have to lose?
I know what it's like.
That was almost nothing.
What the hell just happened?
That's what I thought.
Don't let her break down when I'm gone.
Be happy.
Mama...
I can't do this, not today.
Will you stay with me tonight?
Don't you think he deserves to know?
This is your dream.
It's not that simple.
Anyway...call me.
What had she done?
Why, then, didn't he feel happier?
That's good. Good for them.
I can do this.
I missed you, you know.
I have to know for sure.
So...thank you.
About the Author
Title
The Days
Without You
a story of love, loss, and grief
Skylar Wilson
Dedication
To anyone fighting a battle:
Stay strong. I believe in you. You can get through this.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by A.M. Williford/Winter Night Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.
First ebook edition August 2020.
ISBN: 978-0-578-74928-0
Acknowledgments
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my husband, for sticking with me through all the ups and downs, for all his unconditional love and support, for always encouraging me to follow my dreams.
To my dad, for nurturing my love of music and for all the father-daughter dates to see Yo-Yo Ma and Joshua Bell.
To all the nurses, psychiatrists, and therapists in my life, without whom I wouldn’t have a fighting chance.
To my friends, for seeing me at my worst and never giving up on me, for all the laughs, jokes, and memories.
And to myself, for deciding to live.
You can do this.
Kylie Lewis trudged the stairs to her downtown apartment, murmuring calming words with every thump of her feet on the steps. You’ll do fine. Remember to breathe. Focus on the music. Breathe. Excited was how she wished she felt, knowing she would be seeing her favorite band in just a few short hours. Instead, nauseating dread filled her stomach as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, directly into the small, dark kitchen. Just as she slung the door shut behind her and flicked on the lights, the cellular phone in her back pocket chirped its bright, irritatingly happy melody.
“Hi, Cat,” answered Kylie, plunking her purse on the table and kicking off her shoes.
“Are you home yet? I’m about to be at your place, less than ten minutes. Are you ready? We have to go as soon as I get there.”
“I just got home from Mama’s house.” Weariness weighed on Kylie’s voice. Her bed and quilt called her name, imploring her to stay home. She wanted nothing more than to curl up alone and process everything her mother had told her. “Do we have to go? I know it’s The Relief, but I’m tired and I haven’t even eaten or changed yet.”
“Oh, come on, Kylie, you said you’d go!”
Closing her eyes, she knocked her forehead against the black refrigerator door several times. Yes, she had agreed to attend the concert. Damn.
“All right, all right.”
“Good. Be ready in five. I’m almost there. Won’t come upstairs so we can roll.”
The line went silent before Kylie could reply.
She buzzed through the apartment, wolfing down a granola bar, scrambling to change into jeans, brushing her teeth, all while continuing her rote mantra.
You can do this. Remember to breathe. Stay calm. You can do this.
Just as she replaced the toothpaste cap, a horn blared from the street below, and Kylie peeked through the blinds to see Cat’s tired old pickup truck along the curb. She yanked on a sweatshirt, grabbed her wallet, and before Cat could completely upset her neighbors, rushed outside and down the steps. With a shiver, she dashed across the street and hurled herself into the small cab.
“Hi,” greeted Kylie, holding her grateful hands up to the hot air blowing from the vents.
“About time.” Cat flashed a bright smile as she hit the clutch and changed gears, pulling out into the street.
Kylie’s stomach turned, and she was now torn between excitement and anxiety.
The vast lake of vehicles glinting beneath the lampposts of the Coliseum’s parking lot stretched out before Kylie and Cat, and the line simply to get through the front door already wrapped around the building. Somehow, North Charleston’s Coliseum & Performing Arts Center, colloquially called the Coliseum, seemed bigger, more daunting as Kylie stared at it. Its tall, white concrete and glass façade glared back at her. She inhaled sharply, feeling the cold air in her throat and wishing she were home still.
Cat’s keys jingled as she shoved them into her pocket then brushed her fingers through her long, shiny black hair, tying it into a mop of a bun at the crown of her head. The chirping sound of Cat’s voice broke into Kylie’s reverie.
“We’re going into the pit, by the way. Gen admish tickets,” she said, standing on her toes to see the back of the line before heading toward it.
Kylie froze, her hands poised at the hem of her sweatshirt. “What? No! Aren’t there seats we can find or something?”
It was bad enough having been guilt-tripped into coming to a concert, even if it was her favorite band headlining the show, but to be stuck in the center of it all, where all the sweaty bodies would be packed in? Crowds had never been her forte.
Cat did not stop to answer, and Kylie, groaning, jogged to catch up. Not until Kylie was walking beside her did Cat answer, “Nope, you’re going to experience this concert the right way: in the crowd, in the pit.”
“I better not get pickpocketed.” Her grip tightened around her cash, license, and her phone in the pouch of her gray sweatshirt.
“Put your stuff in your bra. That’s what I do.”
Kylie nodded vaguely, holding back a grimace, and reached down the neck of her sweatshirt to secure her cash and license against her breast, praying nobody was watching her. Her cheeks flushed at the thought, but she pushed it aside and slid her phone into her back pocket, shoving it as deep as it would go.
The pair tacked themselves onto the end of the queue of people huddling together in pairs or groups, and Kylie shoved her hands into her pouch as her teeth chattered. Cat rubbed her own arms and bounced on her toes. January, so far, had been particularly chilly for South Carolina. Kylie’s breath rose in mists, and she thought longingly of her closet full of sweaters, her oversized blanket, a cup of steaming tea, all to be enjoyed after a long, hot bath. She ran her fingers through her hair—a deep, dark blond, the same color of the hard, wet sand left to dry by the outgoing tide—draping it around her shoulders to cover her neck from the chill.
A burly man in black uniform checked their identification—Kylie had to reach back down her shirt and into her undergarment again, blushing and fumbling as she did so—
and slapped pink wristbands with OVER 21 on their arms.
“We’ll be at the back of the pit at this rate,” Cat grumbled. “I was hoping to see Kevin Appleton up close.”
Kylie shrugged one shoulder. Better to be closer to the exit. “You never know,” she offered, unhopeful.
Slowly but surely, the minutes passed as they approached the front entrance, where another man in black scanned their tickets. Inside the doors, warm air blasting from the vents above welcomed them, opening to a sea of vendors flooding the hall, all selling shirts with The Relief’s logo and tour dates or selling alcohol. Women in tight, cheek-length shorts and low-cut t-shirts stepped through the crowds, carrying trays of plastic one-ounce cups filled to the brim with various alcohols and drinks—Kylie paid for two shots and drank them herself. Nearly every table of swag held crowds of people at its front.
Cat, after waiting in line at a table for several minutes, handed a red plastic cup to Kylie, who took a small sip and fought down her urge to sputter and spit it out; the beer was bitter and watery. Choking down a few more sips, Kylie braced herself to follow her friend into the arena.
A solid mass of bodies awaited them, filling most of the pit. Rows of seats loomed above, towering over the dark space. Kylie swallowed hard as a splash of cold panic dowsed her, starting at the crown of her head and trickling down to her fingertips. No, I can’t do this. I was wrong. Her breath grew shallow. Someone crashed into her from behind, muttering a few choice words under their breath, and half of Kylie’s drink spilled down her shirt.
“Come on, you’re in the way,” said Cat, grabbing her hand, dragging her down the steps and into the crowd.
The mass of people was more a solid wall of heat and noise. Bodies and elbows and shoulders jostled them from every side as the crowd closed in on them, more concertgoers piling in by the minute. Already, Kylie began to sweat as nausea threatened her. Cat, meanwhile, stood on her toes, still several inches shorter than Kylie, for a better glimpse of the stage that seemed miles away.
Jittery, Cat squealed, “Are you excited? We’re finally about to see The Relief!”
“Sure, I guess.”
Even her own voice sounded hardly audible over the din of the crowd. Listening to the noise and constantly growing buzz of anticipation, her nausea rose up her throat; she swallowed down her fear and clenched her teeth. How out of control would the show get? Even the surrounding seats were filling in, towering over her. The whole scene was dizzyingly overwhelming, and her head spun. Perhaps the mixture of alcohol and music would envelop her and make her forget everything.
Cat hopped on her toes for a better photograph of the stage.
Finally, to Kylie’s relief, the overhead lights dimmed, and the bright, colorful stage lights flashed. They offered an alternative focus over the crowd around her. The thunder of screaming, cheering fans filled the arena as the opening band strolled onto the stage. Cat whistled, deafeningly loud, with her fingers between her lips, while Kylie peered around the heads in front of her for a glimpse of the stage.
“What’s goin’ on, Charleston!” the singer called, his voice amplified by the microphone. The crowd roared its battle-worthy cry back at him. “We’re Hadley, and we’re stoked to be touring with the awesome guys of The Relief!” The stage lights pulsed as the drummer began to pound out a beat. “This first song is called Run.”
At the first shrill note of the screaming guitar, energy rolled through the pit. Afraid the mass might swallow her, Kylie clamped onto Cat’s hand as people around them bumped and crashed into each other, their hands up. As the music continued, the taut tension began to melt from her muscles with each song. Perhaps, she thought, it was simply the alcohol taking effect. The concert was turning out to be better than she had expected, and she even dared to believe she was having fun. With every new song that Hadley performed, the tumult of the pit grew around her. Bodies collided, sweat transferring from one person to the next. Kylie’s sandy hair clung to her forehead and the nape of her neck with perspiration.
“Remind me to buy their album!” Cat yelled into her ear.
Kylie nodded before ducking her head as a crowd surfer passed over them.
Hadley finished their last song, which came to a reverberating end, thanked the crowd, and exited the stage. The dark pit breathed between babbling in the short lull between sets, with people catching their breath. Kylie’s excitement grew with everyone else, her core electrified at the thought that she was about to see her favorite band. She grinned at Cat just as the pandemonium peaked, screams louder now, as the five men of The Relief stepped onto the stage. Colored lights flashed everywhere—front, sides, back, all intermittently bright. Kylie focused on the stage, wanting to take in every detail she could. The deafening discord around her drowned out her own cheers, her hands cupped around her mouth.
The lead singer skipped any introduction, instead beginning with the band’s most recent radio release and delving into the music.
Still breathless, Kylie jumped and danced and sang to every song. The pit grew wilder than ever, nearly on the brink of breaking out into complete chaos. A fire display burst on stage, sending heat rolling over the crowd—as if she hadn’t perspired enough, yet she didn’t care. Sweat soaked the t-shirt beneath her sweatshirt, the fabric clinging to her warm golden skin. Another crowd surfer flew overhead, and a wave of uncontrolled energy washed through the crowd, sending Kylie toppling into the people in front of her. She stumbled, apologizing and turning just as the crowd closed around her, like water parting and flowing around a rock, and looked around for Cat, only to find unfamiliar faces. Her heart stuttered as she shoved her way through a group of screaming teenagers, her eyes darting all around in search of her friend. Reaching for her phone, Kylie felt nothing but an empty pocket. Oh no. Her breath quickened, and her hands fumbled, patting every pocket, sweatshirt pouch, even her brassiere. Nothing. Not even on the floor. Panic was ice in her veins, starting in her chest and quickly creeping its way to her fingers. Kylie shuffled and jostled her way through the tight crowd, rubbing against sweaty arms as she passed, but only found herself more lost, and the room began to spin in her anxiety. She turned on her heel, yelling for Cat, twirling and shoving her way through.
A man who reeked of stale beer collided into Kylie. He turned, spittle flying from his mouth as he cussed. Kylie’s lips parted, on the verge of spouting an apology until she glanced the man’s hand slipping a wallet from the pocket in front of him.
“Hey!”
The word escaped Kylie’s lips as a gasp, and she reached out to snatch the wallet from him. The drunk rushed her, attempting to shove his way through the throng, but Kylie shoved back at him, slamming her hands against his sweaty chest. The arena still spun around her, nauseatingly fast, and everything felt unreal, as if it were all a dream: the lights, the noise, the blaring music. Kylie’s hands moved faster than her brain, and she wrenched the wallet from him as he tripped in his drunken high, collapsing against the young man whose wallet he had stolen.
Upon regaining his footing, the young man spun around. “What the hell?”
The drunk, still spewing obscenities, charged her again, and once more, she shoved back, ramming her weight against his chest. Realization illuminated the young man’s eyes, and he snapped a fist back and swung wide at the drunk. But all at once, pain blinded Kylie. Blood spurted from her nose. A gasp escaped, one hand flew to her face, the other still clutching the wallet, and a metallic taste gushed into her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. Another fire display sent a wave of heat over them. Kylie pulled her hand away to see it covered in blood dripping down her fingers, and warmth oozed down her lips and chin. Oh no, here it comes were the last words to cross her mind before the faces around her blurred, and their screaming and cheering quickly grew faint. Sickening nausea turned her stomach, and she choked down bile as her knees betrayed her weight, blackness overtaking her vision. On the verge of collapse, a strong grip caught her arm. The grip was tight, almost pa
infully so, but she focused on that pain as she stumbled along, guided through the sea of bodies, fighting to remain conscious.
A blast of cool air blew against her face, and she gulped it down. The grip around her arm slackened, and she slumped against a wall, sliding to the floor, one hand still clamped onto her nose, her eyes scrunched closed. The regular chatter and background noise of the hall crept into her awareness as the ringing in her ears faded, although blood still tasted thick in her mouth and throat, and a gag threatened to escape.
A tenor voice sounded from above.
“Here.”
Kylie dared to glance up. In front of her kneeled the young man who had been pickpocketed, offering a wad of napkins from a nearby table. Several people around them stared, some wearing disgusted grimaces, and Kylie wanted to shout at them, What, have y’all never seen a bloody nose before! Instead, she took the napkins and pinched them onto her nose, leaning her head back against the wall.
“Are you okay?” the young man asked. “I meant to hit that guy.”
“I’ve had better days,” mumbled Kylie, wiping away a trickle of blood from her upper lip.
Finally, the room came to a complete halt, and she heaved the tiniest of sighs before carefully standing. She wiped away as much blood as she could from her face—smearing it mostly—but it still stained her hands, drying into the crevices of her fingerprints. She averted her gaze from it before her stomach rolled again; most people would have gone to the restroom to wash away the blood, but Kylie doubted she could bear to look at her reflection right now or risk vomiting.
“Here, by the way,” she said tartly, tossing his wallet at him.
Catching it, he laughed. “Let me make it up to you. Do you want a drink?” One hand ran through his dark blond hair, which stuck up in disarray at the crown of his head.
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