Chapter 27
twenty-seven
I haven’t checked their social media accounts since yesterday morning, when I posted a brief apology to the fans for the abrupt end of the tour with promises of future announcements to come.
Most of the comments on the posts are supportive, but there are a few Ben Gatlin fans who are raging and placing the blame on Jesse and Ever. Thicker Than Water fans aren’t having it. It’s an all-out war that I’m doing my best to de-escalate.
Next, I search hashtags. The number of new videos emerging from Saturday night hasn’t increased, but the number of shares has grown exponentially.
Everyone has their hot take on what happened.
Most condemning Ben. There are videos of Ben’s rant, some long and others shortened to only capture his words directed at Hannah.
There are videos of the punch. One is grainy, and the caption questions whether he connected, accusing me of theater and taking a fall.
Another is edited and loops the contact in fast succession, so I look like a punching bag.
And then there’s the footage of Ever screaming threats at Ben and fighting the grip of the men holding him back.
The comments on these posts are all over the place, but I’m seeing a lot of fire emojis.
The things I’d let this man do to me.
Feral Ever? I. Am. Dead.
Every time an Ever screams, an angel gets her wings panties soaked.
Is it just me or is this video three hours long?
I’d know that scream anywhere. THIS IS RAVEN!
And that’s where I stop reading. The Raven?
From Treachery’s Riot? The logical part of me immediately dismisses it, but the curious bitch who can’t leave well enough alone scrolls until I find the next Ever video.
There are more Raven comments. But the one that really gets me is a comparison video of Ever’s scream side-by-side with a Raven scream.
This can’t be true.
Raven cannot be in my fucking house.
In my life.
In my bed.
I’m a massive Treachery’s Riot fan and have been since the first EP released.
I listen to their albums on repeat. I watch live concert videos like they’re porn because Raven, even masked and fully clothed, is undeniably sexy.
The raw emotion, the screams, the lyrics, the guitar, and his stage presence are a glimpse directly into his soul.
One minute vulnerable, the next vengeful—the push and pull elemental.
The performance isn’t gentle; it’s a battle.
And then there’s the sheer size of the man.
He towers over everyone else on stage. I know I’m not alone when I say the combination is erotic as hell.
He did say he was hiding something. Is this it?
I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about this.
I know we haven’t known each other long, and we don’t know much about each other, but this feels like something big to omit and not share.
Or trust me with. I wrestle that against the fact that Raven’s identity has never been revealed and has been closely guarded. No one knows who he is.
I hate confrontation, but if failed relationships have taught me anything, it’s that I need to communicate.
In the past, I either checked out when things got complicated or serious, or, like I did with Chance, I never opened myself up at all.
Confrontation leads to arguments, and arguments require compromise, and compromise requires self-awareness, and self-awareness requires a hard look at why I am the way I am. And…nope.
I type a text to Ever.
I’m going for a walk. We need to talk when I get back.
I hesitate. Erase the message. Re-type the message. Hesitate again. And then finally hit send.
I’m on the back patio, and everyone else is inside recording the baking video for Mabel and Lola’s channel, so I leave through the side gate.
It’s hot today, high eighties and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. It’s a weekday afternoon, so the neighborhood is quiet, except for the occasional sounds of kids playing in backyards I pass.
Without giving it much thought, I walk for what must be thirty minutes until I find myself standing in front of the house I grew up in.
I avoid this street and haven’t been here in almost fifteen years.
It looks different. Back then, the colors of the outside world muted the closer I got to home, until only black and white remained when I walked in the front door.
Two parents.
One angry, one sad.
Both hurting.
But trying to love their kids.
More than their parents did.
Mom combative, yelling.
Dad reticent, leaving.
Returning with a little less light in his eyes.
To a woman with a little less in hers.
More hurting.
More trying.
More yelling.
More leaving.
More returning.
Less,
And less,
And less
Light.
Two daughters.
One quiet, one loud.
Both strong.
Loving each other.
More than their parents did.
Hurting.
Trying.
Yelling.
Leaving.
But always returning with a little more fire in her eyes.
To a sister with a little more in hers too.
I don’t know how many people have lived here since we left years ago.
The peeling gray paint is gone, and the siding is buttery yellow.
Vibrant flowers in multiple pots on the stoop and a lavender front door add a whimsical flair.
The small patch of grass is green, not brown as I remember it.
It’s like the colors are turned up a notch to make up for the years they were absent.
The giant maple I fell out of and broke my arm when I was six is still here. I remember biting the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t cry, and by the time we got to the ER, my mouth was filled with blood and hurt almost as much as my arm did. Dad told me how proud he was of me for being so brave.
He told me the same thing when our dog died when I was ten. Mom held Lola while she cried. I tasted blood.
When I was sixteen, Mom got sick. “Be brave for her,” he told us. We did our best while he focused on earnestly ending short-lived sobriety. At the funeral, I held Lola while she cried. He sat in the back of the church and sobbed. My cheeks felt like raw hamburger.
The last time I saw Dad, I was standing in this yard.
I can still see the look on his face when he begged me to take Lola.
He was standing in front of me and my sixteen-year-old, pregnant, hysterical sister was behind me.
Both of them saying variations of “You’re a disappointment,” and “You never loved me,” and “I never want to see you again.” Lola’s words were directed at him.
So were his. He didn’t tell me to be brave; his lifeless eyes left no doubt I had to be.
I could only save one of them that day, and I chose her.
Standing here now, only a few years younger than he was at the time, the guilt is immense.
I spent so many years resenting him, while simultaneously trying to meet the expectations of his ghost. I hate him for leaving us.
But I hate myself more for not stopping it.
Some days, I miss him so much it hurts. And other days, I hurt because I don’t miss him at all.
I wish he’d been a better parent. And I wonder if he wished we’d been better kids.
I regret not telling him I loved him. Even though he never told us.
When the familiar metallic tang hits my tongue, I decide it’s time to turn around and go home.
Ever’s sitting on the front porch steps but stands when I approach.
He doesn’t say anything, but when he opens his arms and I walk into them, I unclench my jaw and turn myself inside out.
The sob that erupts begins in my belly and claws its way out like it’s been exorcised.
The tension in my muscles is painful. I can’t catch my breath, and my tears soak his T-shirt.
I’ve heard people describe crying as cathartic; this feels like drowning.
This is why I don’t cry. I’ve lost all control.
The harder I cry, the harder he hugs me.
“Breathe. I’m here. You’re not alone. Whatever it is, I’ve got you. Just breathe, baby. Please, breathe, and talk to me.” It’s not the calm voice he used when he coached Benji earlier. He’s trying, but he sounds scared.