More time.
But time was running out. I couldn’t speed it up anymore. Everything was grinding to a halt around me, leaving me with nothing to distract myself with. Nothing to bury myself under.
My head was above water again, and all I could think about was her.
“Maybe we need to forget about the title,” Ash said. “Just leave it as it is.” He was lying upside-down on the couch, his black-and-white Vans up on the wall. “Maybe we need to just move forward.”
“Agreed,” Xander said. He was splayed out in a rolling chair, tossing a foam basketball through a hoop on the wall.
I looked at Matt and Summer. Matt said nothing from his seat on the couch, just nodded. They were all in agreement. They’d all told me so, many times. I was the only one holding things up here.
“It’s done, sweetheart,” Summer told me gently. “The title is what it is.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m just not sure about it.”
Xander shot the basketball through the hoop again and Ash kinda groaned.
This was my latest excuse to stall: we still didn’t have a title for the album. We’d considered taking a title from one of the songs, but while “Panic Room” and “Up Your Sass” and “Fuck Me Two Times” worked as song titles, none of them felt right to encapsulate the whole album. We’d tossed around some other ideas, but nothing had stuck.
So far, officially, the album was simply called The Players, and unofficially, The Red Album, because of the mostly-red cover. Which actually slightly sucked because everyone from the Beatles to Stone Temple Pilots to Weezer to Grand Funk Railroad, among others, had an album known as The Red Album.
“What aren’t you sure about?” Matt asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said, and everyone exchanged a look I probably wasn’t supposed to notice.
At least they’d all stopped asking me how I was doing a couple of months back. I’d definitely noticed that.
Ever since I first set foot in the studio, they’d asked me pretty much daily, How you doing, man? And How’s it going? They always seemed to be looking for a progress report. Evidence that I was incrementally getting better, or at least feeling better. I’d tell them I was good, which seemed to make them happy. But after I’d kicked Taylor out of my life, I told them I was shitty and they’d stopped asking.
Good thing. I was still doing shitty. Better than I was on my birthday, when I flipped out on her and locked myself in the studio to have a panic attack. But still shitty.
Therapy was helping, maybe. It was hard to tell anymore, with all the lies I told myself.
Maybe that was how therapy was helping. Helping me to see all the lies I’d been telling myself over the years, to fool myself into believing that I was doing better whenever I really wasn’t. Now, I told myself I was living a normal life because I left my house a few days a week and I saw other humans regularly. But really, I’d just swapped the controlled one-man environment of my home studio for the controlled ten-or-so-man environment of Little Black Hole studio.
The album had kept me busy enough that I didn’t need to think much about that. So I could just keep deceiving myself. And the album had turned out incredible. But now that it was done, I kept second guessing if every little thing was perfect. Basically, I was driving everyone crazy—except Summer, maybe. She’d seemed to appreciate, and defend, my perfectionism, at first.
But now even she was telling me that I needed to let it go. That I was overdoing it.
The songs don’t need to be perfect, she’d say. They need to be authentic.
She was right.
The band members were anxious to get the album out to the world. Like yesterday. Brody had given it a thumbs up. And the band had brought in a few other close, trusted friends to listen to the album. A few days ago Summer’s best friend, Elle Delacroix, had come to listen with Seth Brothers. Earlier today we’d had Ash’s best friend, Dylan Cope, and Zane Traynor in here to hear it.
Everyone loved it.
At this point, we were actually ahead of schedule. Production on the album had gone smoothly, and everyone had brought their A game. I knew I was just trying to delay things because I was scared. Scared of the album release.
And of what would happen next.
Terrified of the release party that I knew everyone was silently expecting me to show up at.
It wasn’t the crowd that was the problem, exactly. It was being looked at, talked about. The reclusive freak. It was the fear of not being able to handle it. Of freaking out, losing control. Of having a meltdown like the one I’d had on my birthday—in front of so many people.
Taylor.
When she texted me, a couple of weeks ago, to say maybe she’d see me there, and I told her I wasn’t going… I’d never felt more like a failure.
Without her these last few months, I would’ve been a fucking mess if it weren’t for the Players. This album. Music had saved me, and not for the first time in my life.
And now it was over.
I hadn’t even lined up my next project yet, because I couldn’t stand to see an end to this one. This time, I didn’t want everyone to move on, without me.
I’d never felt this way before. Not once since Alive broke up.
I’d never wanted to continue on with the other bands I’d produced after we’d finished the album.
But here we were.
I was about to be alone again. The band would be leaving, on tour. And Taylor had left, because I’d asked her to.
It was the second worst thing I’d ever done.
I wanted to fix it. I really did. I fucking missed her, every hour of every day. I wanted her like I’d never wanted anyone before. But that just scared the shit out of me.
I was afraid, more than anything, of hurting her.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be with her again, wouldn’t even see her, until I could be sure I was better. So I wouldn’t ever do something like that to her again—like freak out on her like a psycho when she tried to throw me a birthday party.
I broke things off with her and let her go because I could see how I was going to hurt her.
And she deserved so much better than that.
So did this band.
I looked around at them all, just waiting for me. They’d been more patient with me than I deserved. They respected me and my input too much.
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s move on. We’ll call it The Players for now, The Red Album, whatever. If we come up with something else before the official release, we can go with that. Let’s get this thing mastered and over to Brick House. And you guys can enjoy your party.”
The party for the album was happening next week, on the eve of the release of the lead single. And they all deserved to get on with it already. Release the album so they could finally reap the rewards of their hard work. Celebrate.
“Aren’t you coming to the party?” Matt asked, after they’d all exchanged another loaded look.
“I don’t think so,” I said. Which they all knew by now meant no.
Matt and Summer got up and gave me a quick hug before heading out. Summer thanked me, like she always did, like I was doing them some major favor by gracing them with my presence. She followed Matt out, but Xander and Ash didn’t budge from their seats.
I met Ash’s eyes. He was sitting up now, on the edge of the couch, and he was staring at me. “We should talk.”
“Okay.” I sat back down, facing him.
“It’s about Taylor.”
Oh.
“Right.”
“She doesn’t have a brother,” he said seriously. “Or a dad who gives a fuck, apparently.” His black eyebrows angled in that look of his that meant you either listened to what he had to say, or you were on his shit list. “So now I guess that shit is my job.”
I glanced at Xander, who looked away with a smirk and pretended to be absorbed in searching for splinters on a drumstick. Of course, I’d given him shit about putting his hands on my sister
, not so long ago. He was probably loving the hell out of this.
“Here’s what I know about Taylor,” Ash said, and I met his eyes again. “She’s strong. She’s got a huge heart. She’ll admit when she’s wrong. She doesn’t ask for much. And she’s been a hell of a friend to my wife. So I guess what I’m saying is it would be swell if you could get over your shit enough to talk to her. If you’re pissed at her—”
“I’m not pissed.”
“Well, whatever it is. Even if you just don’t want to be with her… Taylor can take it. If I know anything about having your heart stomped on…”
I looked away, and he got to his feet. He came over and stood in front of me.
I looked up at him.
“Trust me,” he said. “I know a thing or two. She’d rather hear it from you than not hear anything. Don’t leave her wondering what the fuck went wrong. I’ve been there. It sucks. And I know you’re better than that, man.” He tapped his fist to my shoulder. “Don’t leave her like that, adrift.”
I didn’t say anything.
He lifted his chin at Xander, who said, “See you tomorrow,” and Ash headed for the door. But then he stopped and turned back to me.
“And maybe while you’re at it,” he told me, “you make a decision on what you want to do here. Are you in our band, or are you out?”
Then he slipped a joint between his lips, lighting it as he shouldered through the door.
The door shut in his wake. I met Xander’s eyes across the room.
“How about you?” I said. “Got anything you need to unload in my direction?”
“I’m not Taylor’s daddy stand-in,” he said. “But I mean, if you’re asking for my opinion on the matter… You fucked up. You had a woman who not only helped you in the studio but somehow motivated your ass to walk in here. She’s the first woman I’ve seen you show any interest in in the last five years. Throwing that away because what, you’re scared? That seems like a douche move to me.” He got to his feet, stretching. “Ash is right. You’re better than that.”
I got up. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
He grinned. “Always here for support and advice.”
“Was there advice in there? I didn’t hear any.”
“The advice is simple. You fucked up. So, unfuck it.”
“And how do you suggest I do that?”
“You look her in the eye. Tell her the truth. Whatever the truth is.”
“Maybe she was right,” I said grudgingly. “You have matured.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, not really listening. “Or, you get down on your knees and beg. And while you’re down there, slip your tongue in her panties. There’s not much that can’t be fixed by a mouth-to-pussy apology—”
“Nope. Totally not hearing this from the man who’s engaged to my sister.”
He patted me on the back as I walked away. “Come on, aren’t you and Liam dropping me at home?”
“Only if you promise not to say another word.”
“I’m telling you, though,” he said, following me out. “Mouth-to-pussy. Works every time.”
“I’m calling you a cab.”
At home that night, I put on Taylor’s vortex playlist, like I did pretty much every night, just trying to soak up the essence of her while I flaked out on a couch in the studio.
According to Ash, she was hurting.
She was adrift.
I didn’t want that.
Imaging what she must’ve been thinking when she asked me about the release party, it killed me. I wanted to reach out to her, but the impending party was fucking with my head.
Are you in our band, or are you out?
I knew the Players had to be close to giving up on me. Maybe that was what I’d been waiting for.
When were they finally gonna give up on me? Make an offer to another guitarist and move on?
I kept waiting for them to do that. Maybe that was one of the reasons I’d been stalling the album. Just waiting on them to get tired of me and all the bullshit I brought along with me, and move the fuck on.
Like Taylor had.
I kept telling myself she’d moved on by now. Hooked up with some other guy. A Trey Jones. A Matt Brohmer. An actual catch. A normal guy with everything to give her.
Because I wasn’t that guy. I wasn’t sure I even knew what ‘normal’ was anymore.
Did I ever?
Fuck, I missed Gabe. The one person who made me feel normal even when I wasn’t.
Taylor made me feel that way too, but I just couldn’t stand to be the fucked-up guy who dragged her through the depths of this madness with me.
I could feel myself wanting to retreat. Just quit the band. Quit everything.
I thought if I quit Taylor, she’d give up on me.
But Ash’s words kept replaying in my head.
Don’t leave her like that, adrift.
So there I lay, for hours, blaming myself for fucking up. Like I always did. My guilt drove my anxiety and my claustrophobic need for control. I wasn’t just protecting myself from the world. Ever since Gabe died, I’d limited my relationships to protect other people from me.
Or so I told myself.
I didn’t even know anymore. I felt lost and so out of control… I didn’t know what was gonna happen tomorrow, and I hated this feeling. I’d never been able to handle it.
The unknown.
So instead, I held onto the past with a death grip, squeezing the life out of everything around me.
Let go of your ghosts.
How often had Gabe said that, or some version of that, to me? I’d written that line into one of the songs on the Players’ album, the only mellow, melancholy song, “(Can’t) Take It Back.” It was a song about regret, and I had a shit ton of those.
I really couldn’t afford any more.
I picked up my phone and opened Instagram, like I did on a daily basis. Just hoping Taylor had posted something new to give me a glimpse of her life, a hint at how she was doing. I kept reading the song titles she’d posted since we broke up, and trying to piece together what they meant.
Days Gone By
Low
Mister Asylum
Fool For Waiting
Things Ain’t Like They Used to Be
The only thing they all seemed to have in common was that they weren’t exactly upbeat, happy songs. If anything, they got more depressing as time wore on.
Today, when I pulled up her profile, she’d posted the single word: Apparitions.
I stared at the song title in bold, black script. She’d told me she loved Matthew Good Band, and I remembered I’d told her that Gabe loved them, too. And there it was.
Was it a message to me? Or did she just like the song?
I searched for the song and put it on, then fell back on the couch.
I wanted to talk to her. So badly. I wanted to see her. I’d replied to some of her texts, but it was never enough. I wanted to say more, but I wouldn’t let myself. I wouldn’t let myself hurt her. I wouldn’t talk to her until I knew I could be trusted. Until I was ready.
I didn’t feel ready. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel ready.
But this time, I couldn’t stop myself.
I picked up the phone and hit the first number on my Favorites list.
“Hey, Cary!” My little sister picked up, sounding breathless, like she’d just dove across the room to get the phone. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Shit. Had it really come to this? I called my sister and she thought someone was dying or something? “I was just thinking about that interview you asked me to do. You know, for your book about Gabe.”
There was a stunned pause. Then: “Oh. Okay.”
“Now that the album is done, I think I can make some time for it. How does this weekend sound?”
“Uh, that would be amazing. I can come to your place—”
“Actually, I’d rather not do it here. Can we do it at your place?”
“Yeah. Of course. You can come ov
er anytime.”
“Okay. Let me get back to you with a time that works.”
“Sure. And thank you. I promise, we don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”
“Yeah. I know. I’ll call you later.”
I hung up; my heart was pounding. I was in no way ready to do this interview, but maybe I’d actually started to accept that I never would be.
Courteney had told me, way back at the beginning of the year, that she was writing a biography about Gabe.
I wasn’t happy about it, at first.
But that didn’t stop her.
She’d already been working on it for a long time, and judging by the argument we’d gotten into about it and how she’d stood her ground with me, it was important to her. By now, she’d gone ahead and interviewed Xander and Dean for the book, as well as a bunch of other friends of Gabe’s, and even his parents, who’d read a draft and approved of the book. She’d forwarded me the email they’d sent to her about it, and they’d seemed so pleased with the book, I’d finally read it. Yesterday.
It had taken me all day to get through it, because I kept having to put it down. It was that good, which meant that for me it was bitter and it was sweet. I’d actually cried a bit, for the first time in a long fucking time. Partly because of the memories it brought up and partly because I was really fucking proud of my sister—and pissed at myself that I’d actually considered trying to stop her from writing and publishing the book.
A book that honored Gabe.
I knew mine was the last interview Courteney needed to finish the book, and one of the most important ones. And if I held it up any longer or cancelled on her, it would fuck with her getting the book done.
I hadn’t just been stalling the Players’ album. I’d been stalling my whole goddamn life, for years. And now I was stalling my sister’s book—her dream—and that was not fucking fair.
Courteney deserved better than that.
They all deserved better.
Better than what I’d given them.
I’d completely stalled out my relationship with Taylor, cut her loose and left her adrift, like Ash said. I’d promised her we’d talk after the album was done, and she had to know by now that the album was done.
If she hadn’t moved on… if she was really hurting like he said she was, I had to make it right.
Lovely Madness: A Players Rockstar Romance (Players, Book 4) Page 38