17. Emerson
EMERSON
It turns out it’s surprisingly easy to outrun yourself when you’re moving every few days.
A new city, a new hotel room, a new crowd screaming someone else’s name—it’s enough noise to drown out the thoughts that usually find me in the silence.
For the last month, I’ve let myself become part of this strange, temporary world, because pretending this is my life feels a lot easier than facing the one I left behind.
Tour should be exhausting—the constant moving, the late nights, the challenge of keeping Crew’s routine stable within all the chaos—but somehow it became the easiest I’ve ever breathed.
I’ve learned the rhythm of the bus, the personalities of the band, and exactly where to stand when the lights go down and the first note hits.
Maybe it’s not healthy how much I love disappearing into this life, but I don’t care.
There’s something addictive about living out of a suitcase when the suitcase is taking you somewhere new every morning. There’s no time to slow down and remember why I needed this distraction.
I know this isn’t real life, but right now, I’m not sure I want it to be.
Especially today.
Because today marks one month since my mom died.
And of course it’s the fucking day we head back to Milwaukee for a two-week break for the holidays before the band finishes this leg of the tour.
Crew’s mom and stepdad met us in Chicago last night, and while I love the kid, it was nice to sleep in this morning. But when I rolled over and checked the time on my phone to find a text from my brother, it felt like a realization that the last month had been just a dream.
And reality was here to slap me awake.
Jack
Can’t believe it’s been a month. Hope you’re doing okay.
I technically have today off since Crew is spending the day with his mom, but I’ve been dreading it since Talia arrived at the hotel last night.
Watching Crew run into his mom’s arms warmed my cold, dead heart—I know how much he’s missed her—but selfishly, the kid has been my lifeline since I started this job. His antics, his energy, his incessant questions have kept my mind off why I’m on this tour to begin with.
And all it took was the reminder from my brother of what today is to have it all come rushing back.
I could go to soundcheck, watch Sugarcoated Lies, and then hang out with Liam. He probably has some free time today.
I’ve been too busy with Crew to see him much, and he’s fully committed to the “sex” and “drugs” part of “sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll”, but I could always see what he’s up to.
The room is suddenly too quiet.
I shuffle a Cross My Heart playlist, turning the volume up before sliding my phone underneath my pillow. The music playing just loud enough to fill the silence.
I press my head into the pillow, the hotel comforter pulled up to my chin.
Sunlight spills through the curtains, just enough to outline the room around me—the suitcase I didn’t bother to unpack sitting open on the dresser, the room service dinner barely touched on the desk, the empty wrapper from a fun-size 3 Musketeers bar and a half-eaten bag of Cheetos Puffs abandoned beside the garbage can.
A few days into working for Mateo, he asked what my favorite snacks were. I didn’t think much of it when I answered, but ever since then, the tour bus has been stocked with the two things I mentioned.
So has every hotel room.
I know it’s not healthy to be living off of candy bars and processed food, but I take advantage of whatever appetite I can get these days. The clothes I’ve packed are already starting to fit looser, but I just can’t get myself to eat a full meal.
I turn onto my side, moving my arms slowly to start pushing myself up, but then I think to myself—why?
What’s the point?
Mateo is with the band. Crew is with his mom.
No one needs me.
Crew isn’t even coming with us to Milwaukee after Cross My Heart’s show tonight. He’s staying here in Chicago to spend Christmas with his stepdad’s family.
It’ll just be me and Mateo heading back home tonight.
I feel myself sinking into a consuming dread, guilt overwhelming me for even having the thought.
I hate myself for not wanting to go back home, to the home my mother made for me and Jack, to the place she’s buried.
Each thought is like oxygen to the fire, the grief engulfing me like flames. Threatening the foundation second by second until it all comes crumbling down on top of me, burying me in the debris.
Or, I could just stay here.
In this bed.
Where no one cares where I am.
Where nothing matters.
Where I can disappear without anyone noticing.
The numbness falls over me, like a familiar friend.
It’s like drugs to an addict, like a cigarette to someone who swore they’d quit, like a drink poured for someone who knows they should stop but can’t.
It’s like silence to someone tired of screaming, like sleep to someone who doesn’t want to wake up,
It’s everything I shouldn’t want, but everything I need.
My body sinks further into the mattress, searching for the darkness until I finally find it, welcoming it with open arms.
It’s dark when I wake up, but I don’t even care to check the time.
I shut my eyes again before they can even adjust to the dark, willing myself to fall back asleep.
Reaching to the bedside table, my hand finds the water bottle to ease the dryness in my throat. The movement has my hunger registering, my stomach cramping with how empty it is, but the thought of food makes me nauseous.
My pillow vibrates, one of the alarms I set when I was getting used to the tour schedule and creating a routine for Crew, stopping the music I had playing and echoing through the hotel room.
This alarm is for the tour bus—it’s set to leave in half an hour.
I slept the whole day away.
And it’s still not enough.
Exhaustion is settled so deep in my bones, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough rest.
Sliding my hand underneath my pillow to grab my phone, I swipe away the text I got from Jack this morning, ignoring the ones from the group chat with Ava and Rumi, my eye catching on Mateo’s name.
Mateo
I know you have the day off today, but Crew was wondering if you were going to be at tonight’s show?
No pressure.
He’s just asking where you are
These all were from before the show.
Guilt shoots through me, cutting through the numbness.
Crew was asking for me, and I wasn’t there.
“Fuck,” I whisper into the darkness, reminded that letting people get too close to me, to care about me, just leads to their disappointment.
Sorry, not feeling too hot and slept most of the day
Mateo’s response is almost instant. He must have just gotten off stage.
What do you need?
Have you had dinner? I know it’s late, but I can order something
His response confuses me, catching me off-guard.
I’m fine, no worries
Are you sure?
Are you on the bus? I’m headed there now.
No. Still in my hotel room
I need to either get on that bus or figure out my own way home.
Pushing myself up to a seated position, I swing my legs off the bed, pressing my bare feet into the carpeted floor. The movement makes me a little light-headed, so I’m careful as I stand. The tour bus is parked in the back parking lot of the hotel, so I have some time to refresh and pack up.
I quickly go through the motions, having just a minute or two to spare. Pulling the handle of my suitcase up, I loop my backpack over my shoulders just before I open the hotel door, finding none other than Mateo Lane.
I’m still in the process of coming back to myself, my mind moving more slowly than usual, so part of me thinks I’m hallucinating.
Why would he be here?
“Emerson?” Mateo’s voice sounds like it’s far away, even though he’s right in front of me. His lips keep moving, but the words drown out just as my vision begins to blur.
I catch fragments of his voice this time. “Are you okay?”
My body sways before I realize I'm falling, my legs giving out beneath me as something stops me just before I can hit the ground. Warm arms wrap around me, catching me against a solid chest.
Somewhere above me, I think I hear, "Careful, baby," so quiet I'm not even sure it's real.
Then there’s my name again, over and over again.
There’s panic. Like something’s wrong.
And this time, the darkness finds me first.