Chapter 5 Wilder #2
I’m swamped as soon as I get back there, with at least ten different people demanding my attention.
I can’t just shake them off. I’ve never paid anyone lip service before.
I got as far as I did because I’m honest, and I more than wear my heart on my fucking sleeve.
I’m all heart. All sleeve. All the time.
It’s a good thirty minutes before I can detach myself from the crowd and get back to our dressing room.
The one person I was hoping to find is nowhere in sight.
I hurry through showering and getting changed, the other guys buzzing around me but keeping their distance.
The same palpable tension that’s been in the air between us for a while now is thick as sour milk.
And no one likes sour milk. Unless you’re a cook, or you’re creative and want to make some astonishing miracle cheese, because any cheese made from something that smells like old socks dipped in a septic tank and left out to cure for seven point eight six two years is a miracle.
Carissa is probably back on her bus.
I yank on a fresh set of jeans and pull on one of my favorite T-shirts.
The adrenaline still hasn’t worn off. I feel so much better than I did this morning.
I was old gym sock milk cheese last night, but this morning, I was just regular old socks.
By afternoon, I knew I’d be able to get myself up on stage.
I’m not good as new or anything, but I have more than enough energy to get back to the bus to talk to her.
I need to talk to her.
To see her.
To thank her properly.
Why haven’t I ever noticed how gorgeous she is? She’s not just beautiful but truly heart-deep, bone-deep, and soul-deep astonishing.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and am about to walk out of the room and head back to the buses when Matt stops me with a hand on my shoulder. It’s not a friendly touch, and I’m not imagining the hostility in it.
He silently shoves a folded-up piece of paper into my chest. “Good thing this is it anyway,” he sneers before shoving past me out of the room and letting the door bang shut right in my face.
All that rapid-fire adrenaline cruising my veins like it’s a sunset night in a classic car with the top down? It wears off just like that, and I feel like shit again.
Even worse than I did last night when I had my head over a bus bathroom toilet, hoping I wouldn’t poop myself at the same time. Yeah, major life low point right here.
How did it come to this?
The breakup of the band, but more so, the steady decline of a friendship that I thought would stand the test of goddamn time.
I’ve done everything I could to not turn into the stereotypical asshole, and things still turned out like this.
We’ve held it together for years in a fucked up industry, living a life that can be really hard and navigating the intricacies of fame and success.
Up until the cracks started showing, I really thought we were still just two kids, best friends forever through whatever was coming, even if we weren’t going to do this forever.
I unfold the piece of paper. It’s clearly been torn from a notebook, and it also clearly has been read.
I let out a groan to end all groans and sink down into the nearest chair. Bile surges up the back of my throat, coating my tongue with a bitter, foul taste. I’ve had enough of that last night, thank you very much. I don’t want to ever see another gas station or piece of chicken again.
My eyes scan the handwriting. It’s neat but hasty, and I recognize it immediately from the writings in her journal.
Who handwrites anymore? I love that she does. I love so many things about her.
All without even knowing just how much I did and do.
It’s a big reality check. I knew I appreciated Carissa, but I didn’t realize just how often I looked for her in a crowd.
How I notice her smile first thing, how the sound of her laughter never fails to make me want to laugh too, and how her eyes sparkle, her wit shines, and her kindness shines even brighter.
Also, just how all-around beautiful she is as a person, on the inside and out.
I know that.
I’m just knowing it in a different way now.
It’s hard not to when someone wraps their whole body around your whole body and holds you like their touch alone can heal you. Without even knowing it, she reached way down into my chest and held my soul.
I scan the page with bleary eyes. There’s something wrong with them. They’re hot, aching, and glistening.
You did the one thing I asked you not to do.
It wasn’t the song. It was the betrayal after it.
I know you didn’t mean it. You were just trying to do something good.
I’m taking a cab and heading back home. It’s unprofessional, but please let this serve as my resignation.
Though I’m not sure it’s needed, since we both know this is the end of more than just the tour.
Please don’t look me up. Don’t show up at my house.
People know you. They’ll follow. I don’t want that.
I’m only sort of annoyed, and I’ll get over it.
You’ve always told people that they’re perfect the way they are.
Dig down deep and find the roaring spirit that the rest of the world loves.
Find your fearlessness. Find your passion.
You think you’ve given the world everything already, but you’re wrong.
You have so much left. So much untapped talent and wonder.
No matter what changes, you’ll be fine. I made up your bunk even though you’re not going to be on the bus tonight.
I think you’ll find what you’re looking for there, if you’re looking for it at all. As I said, it’s yours.
It was always yours.
She didn’t sign it. She didn’t have to.
I barely resist tucking my head between my legs and doing the recovery breathing thing. I’m more of a rip off the bandage, stumble into the great unknown, face the world with my head forward and down, charge like a bull type.
It suddenly hits me how tired I am. Not just tired, but utterly exhausted.
I find just enough energy to fold the paper up into little squares and jam it into my pocket before I head out of the dressing room. Security flanks me from the hallway all the way back onto the bus.
I don’t know where everyone else is, but I’m the only one in the spacious tour bus. It’s actually quite shocking how huge the thing is. A home away from home.
Has home ever truly felt like home?
Have I put any effort into making it feel that way?
Was I always focused on leaving, focused on my next move, and focused on the outside because I didn’t truly want to venture into the inside?
The world says if you’re too much inside, you’re up in your head.
If you’re too sensitive, you need to grow a thicker skin.
Too honest and too yourself, you must be putting on a front because everyone lies and everyone hides.
If you’re energetic, you’re too much. If you’re hardworking, you’re too ambitious.
I adore what I do, and I love my life. I’m thankful for every single opportunity this has brought me, every single emotion I’ve felt, and every single person I’ve met.
But part of me understands why Carissa is so afraid of fame. Afraid? I don’t think it’s fear. It’s something else. Something deeper, wiser, more.
Logically, I know I didn’t out her. There’s zero chance of anyone looking her up.
But logistically, it doesn’t matter what’s right or wrong.
The thing is, I hurt her. I didn’t mean to, but I did, after everything she did to help me.
She cleaned me up, looked after me, cared for me, and fell asleep beside me like I meant something to her.
The amount of trust she placed in me was astronomical.
She made it seem easy. I felt safer than I have in years.
I felt seen. Like the me that I can’t let exist most days. I felt almost… loved.
I head straight for my bunk and pull back the covers.
Nothing.
I find it when I lift the pillows.
Her journal with all those… songs.
I don’t know what else to call them, but they’re not just lyrics. It’s not just music. It’s a way of communicating between two souls.
She left this for me.
Two souls. Hers and mine, the most intimate bond that could exist.
I grip the journal and squeeze myself into the bunk, facing the wall. The confined space is more like a cocoon than a coffin.
The hurt that stabs through me is so immense that it twists my stomach. But not in the way the chicken did. Gut-wrenching doesn’t even begin to describe the pain. Also? It’s not just located locally. My chest aches. My throat hurts. My head throbs.
I have to apologize. I have to make this right. I have her songs, and I know I can’t just leave it at that. I need to see her again.
She told me not to come as me because she didn’t want my world at her doorstep. She didn’t want Wilder.
Would she accept me if it wasn’t me but was technically still me?
That only makes my head pound harder. My fingers curl tighter around the journal, clutching it against my chest. Fuck the headache. I’ll think about this all night. I’ll find a way to make this right.
I have to.