Chapter 3
Chapter three
Wilder
Of all the times I’ve been sick, I now understand why people say you don’t want to get food poisoning.
At least when you have the flu and you yak, you get some relief after, but this is like getting clubbed over the head, run over by a bus, and having your midsection used by yellowjacket wasps as the new best building ground for a record-breaking-size nest.
There’s not a part of me that doesn’t ache and throb. I’m one big twisted, terrible, wretched cramp.
Now that the bus is moving, it’s both soothing and nauseating.
But it’s not just my body that I’m sick in.
Carissa just dropped the fact that she knows this is the last show, but it’s so obvious that’s not how she meant it, especially not when she just followed up with that last statement.
If she knows, then does everyone on this tour know?
She’s sensitive, quiet, and perceptive. I know she sees things that other people miss. That’s her gift.
Right now, it appears to be more like her curse.
She’s clearly appalled at herself, sitting on the edge of the bed, frozen and stiff, worried I’m going to take her head off. Have I ever done anything like that to anyone? It’s not in me to react that way. I’m not conventional in any sense.
Sure, I’ve been splashed on all sorts of magazine covers, articles, billboards, and other fucking media, and a big part of that is sex appeal.
I do a lot of work to keep my body in good shape, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t understand that most of our fanbase is women.
I’ve seen the thirsty comments that get bantered about.
It used to be overwhelming, and it reached a point where I was almost afraid of getting torn apart in a crowd.
Then came Alicia. She took a lot of heat for dating me, but she stuck with it.
She thought it was worth the boost it would give her own career, and when we got together and talked it out, we knew if the world thought we were dating, it would give us a level of freedom to focus on what we really wanted to focus on.
For her, it was modeling. For me, it was writing and performing music.
Our music is more alternative, but it’s got that edgy, heavier leaning.
We’re not exactly rock, but we do look something along the lines of rockstars with our jacked abs, leather pants and jackets, piercings and tattoos, metal jewelry, eyeliner, and long hair.
Our music and our shows are meant for adult audiences.
I throw my whole heart behind it and put on one hell of a show every single time I perform.
On stage, I’m wild. I curse. I sometimes strip off my shirt, and I get slicked up in sweat.
Every so often, I throw in a little racy dance move.
However, in real life, I’m actually quite a golden retriever.
I made a decision from day one to honor what my grandmother told me. No smoking, drinking, partying, drugs, or treating other people with disrespect. In her books, that meant avoiding having a lot of casual sex just because it was available.
Some people might think that’s unrealistic, but I took it to heart.
My grandma let me go out into the world after my mother put me out of her life for years.
She fought like the devil himself to find me and get me back.
She lost her own daughter, but even after all that, she didn’t tell me not to go and live my life.
She just wanted me to be the kind of person I could be proud of when I looked back on it all.
I don’t feel like I’ve missed out on experiences. I’ve created new ones to replace the ones I never wanted to have in the first place.
Carissa designs herself to disappear into a crowd. While I was made for the stage, she likes to blend in. She has no idea that she’d stand out anywhere, effortlessly, because she’s so beautiful.
Conventionally and uniquely.
Her hair is dark mahogany. It’s long, but she often braids it or wears it in a tight bun to keep it out of her face.
I’ve rarely seen it down. It’s wild and a little bit frizzy with some natural curl, and it frames a face that an entire song could be written about just to describe it.
If it were a pop song, it would probably compare her dark eyes to shining stars, her body to that of a goddess, and her unassuming grace to that of a still body of water.
But all those songs would fall short of the mark.
Words can’t do her justice. She’s not beautiful because of any single feature but because of her strength, her spirit, her compassion, and her kindness.
It’s taken me years of knowing her to gain even a small understanding of what goes on behind her eyes. She’s a tough person to get to truly know. She’s nice to everyone, and she’s kind, right down to her soul. She’s the kind of person who deflects rather than talks about herself, every single time.
I can see why she became a nurse. She’s naturally nurturing, intelligent, strong, and capable.
I’ve seen her put others ahead of herself, time and time again.
There’s not a single person on this tour who doesn’t like her or doesn’t think they can talk to her.
Her mom is a therapist, not the physical kind but the mind kind, although there’s obviously an overlap.
Despite that, Carissa never tries to analyze anyone, but she does have a unique perspective on most situations.
She doesn’t see the world like other people.
So when she sits there and tells me that I can change if I want to, I listen.
She tucks a curling strand of hair behind her ear.
I notice the way her hand trembles, but even as sick as I am, my gaze goes straight to her earlobe.
She wears little crescent studs, two in each ear, that look like tiny twinkling moons.
Carissa doesn’t wear any perfume, but she always smells good.
Fresh. Like laundry soap, floral shampoo, and fresh air, even when we haven’t been outside.
She’s a nurse, but she doesn’t work out of a clinic or hospital, so there aren’t antiseptic smells that cling to her. Nothing carbolic.
Nothing like how he used to smell when he’d come over to see my mom.
Usually, I can push those memories to the dark corners of my mind. I’ve given them their time, and I can’t let them take over.
But my mind conjures the smell like it’s real. My stomach rebels, cramping and surging up my throat.
Carissa has the trash can there for me to bend over. I gag repeatedly, straining until my muscles all lock up and I feel like my head is going to explode and my throat is going to tear open, but nothing comes up. Just a few strands of saliva that hang from my mouth, foul and sticky.
I collapse back onto the bed, curling into myself the same way I used to curl up under my bed, behind the couch, and in the dark and dank closet. Anywhere I could hide.
Fuck.
It hurts.
My body. My head. My heart.
Carissa sets the trash can down. She has a cold cloth that she bathes my face with, wiping my mouth like I’m a kid.
Except my mother never did that for me when I was sick. I had to take care of myself. I was nine years old before I went to live with my grandma and knew what a caring, selfless touch was.
Carissa shakes a piece of gum out of one of those plastic containers. It tastes glorious when it hits my tongue. The mint takes over, eliminating the foul bitterness coating my mouth.
If I were going to write a song about this experience, I’d compare myself to a cretin. Something slimy, sweaty, and completely disgusting. Oh, and a total class A dumbass.
Carissa’s hands are warm, soft, and capable. She finger combs my hair away from my face, stroking my forehead and then smoothing the damp strands back. I want to weep when her fingertips brush over my pounding temples and circle the shell of my ear.
It’s been a very long time since anyone held me.
Back when I’d have a nightmare, my grandma would come into my room.
She wouldn’t switch on the light. Even as a malnourished nine-year-old, I was almost taller than she was, but she’d curl her body around mine.
She smelled like a grandma. Like cookies and knitting, powders and strong perfume, and even a little bit like mothballs.
She’d just hold me, just be there. In the morning, she’d still be right behind me, keeping guard while I slept.
She’d tell me that I could let the dark take me, or I could acknowledge it and turn it into something beautiful.
She told me there was nothing wrong with me, that nothing that happened was my fault.
She said the most beautiful art comes from the darkest places.
I didn’t have to be afraid of being up in my head.
She helped me believe the world had a lot of beauty, and if I didn’t ever go out in it and open my eyes to it, I’d miss the best parts of living.
She was the reason I made it through. She promised me there were other people out there just like me, struggling, even if they hadn’t lived the same life.
She was right about all of it.
The impulse to ask Carissa to take the space behind me on the bed and put her arms around me is so strong that I have to clench my teeth against letting it out.
It would not be work-appropriate. There has to be a line somewhere, but fuck me if I know where it starts and ends. I’m not in any sort of right headspace at the moment. Not when my head is aching so badly and the rest of me resembles a twisted-up towel right before it’s wrung out.
Her hand travels up my arm and over my shoulder before smoothing a small circle on my back. It’s so good that I close my eyes and just let myself fall into her touch.