Chapter Seventeen
Scarlett
“Light up the world like you left it, leave the world like you own it.”
Ryden’s just got this way –
This fucking way of pissing me off.
What’s new? I mean, honestly.
He practically flayed me dry with that little song, which by the way, he never ever showed me before.
So, what was that about? Since when are we hiding things from each other?
But also, you were close – so close to kissing me and you just stop?
Why would you stop? Why would you even try?
You know what this will do for us – why can’t you just let us be what we are?
Platonic, platonic soulmates. Just, friends.
Friends who want to hold each other in fear that we’d break.
Friends who want to hold each other to feel safe.
Friends… who just want to be held by each other, simply because –
(we’re not friends.)
But we’ll never admit to that, and we’ll never act on it so ta-ta. Ignorance is imagination, and that my friend, is bliss.
We stopped by a bagel cart just outside Timb’s, got one for him too because the crazy old fart is a hornet on strings. Love him, though. A catch if I were fifty years older and breathed classic rock.
“Your bagel order’s stupid weird,” Ryden said, taking a bite out of his standard, boring, sesame with chive cheese.
“Yeah, okay Mr. ‘I didn’t know what to get so I panicked and got the first pre-made on the menu’.”
He choked. “It’s a timeless bagel.”
“Tasteless, you mean.”
I bit into my blueberry bagel with strawberry cream cheese and a dash of red chili flakes, holding it out for him to try. He’s had it a million times.
“I’ve had it a million times,” he repeating my own thoughts.
See? Toddler tastebuds.
Ryden lead the way as we walked. “Want to go to a toy store?”
“No.”
“How about an antique boutique?”
“No.”
“Love shop?”
I quirked a brow. “Seriously?”
“What?” He laughed, tossing out his wrapper and mine.
“Are you bored or something?”
“It’s our day off!”
“No destination in mind, right? Just wandering like wolves?”
He nudged my shoulder. “Is that not the beauty of fucking New York City? We can be whoever we want to be.”
“RYDEN SPECTRE!!” Two girls screamed, rushing up to him. “Can we take a photo, oh my God, I love you!”
After two minutes of that debacle, we carried on our walk, only now Ryden’s hood was up with my sunnies secured atop his nose.
“Whoever we want, hm.”
He scoffed. “This is who I want to be, don’t get it twisted.”
“Yup,” I nodded. “Absolutely. Incognito, looking like a bank robber walking past –” I glanced up, “oh would you look at that! A Chase. You play the part so well.”
He grabbed my head, pulling me in roughly for a hug. “You tantalizing woman.”
Our surprise “day off” ended up becoming legit, and for the first time in years, I felt that youthful ecstasy take over me.
And I let it in.
We sat down at a boardgame lounge and played Monopoly. I beat him.
We bought matching beaded bracelets from an old antique dealer – his black, mine white. They were buy one get one free.
Then we went into a pottery shop, but walked right out before a table of fans swarmed us like honey to bees.
“Where to now? Home?” I asked.
“Nah, not yet.” We stopped pace in front of Radio City. “How ‘bout we check out the venue?”
I looked around. “No one’s inside?”
He shook his head. “Just me and you, Dove.”
Like always.
***
Our backs rested atop the stage, dim lights crackling in pulses.
There’s something to be said about an empty concert hall. There should be people, there would be, maximum capacity in fact. But here, alone, it felt like a cemetery of old musicians, a tribute to the greats who played before us – him. Him.
The concierge let us in, provided that we sign an EP of Ryden’s first album Burrows. “Happy to,” Ryden said. “Am I making it to one of your kids?”
“Uh,” the man’s blush reached his chin, “yeah, yes! To, a – Earl. My – my son!”
Both Ryden and I knew who it was really for, and I found it kind of sweet. Ryden autographed: To Earl, rock never ages.
And that’s how we found ourselves laying down in the centre stage of an empty music hall, our combined thoughts holding hands, our fingers inches apart.
“Are you nervous for Saturday?” I asked, looking up at the dark ceiling.
“Nope.”
“Do you ever get nervous?”
“Of course.”
I glanced at him. “Are you nervous now?”
He looked back. “Why would I be?”
“Because you aren’t saying anything.”
He paused, returning his gaze to the ceiling. “Just want to appreciate the calm before all the noise.”
I moved closer. “Music isn’t noise to you.”
“No, but the people are.” He corrected himself before I could say anything else. “Not my fans, that’s not what I’m talking about. Just… the industry is –”
“You don’t need to say anything.”
He squeezed my hand once. “I know.”
Ryden was the first person to touch me when we were kids, to grab my fingers when it was cold out, to hug me when I needed comfort. Every time he’d let go, I’d feel a link collapse – like a gig bag without its guitar – vacant, missing something that belonged.
“I had fun today,” I admitted, surprised at my sincerity. “It’s been a while.”
He tilted his head to meet my eyes. “Slow down, Scar.”
“What?”
He sighed. “Stop running.”
I frowned. “I’m not running.”
“You’re always running.” He stared at me longingly, then centred his head. “We both are.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Remember when I saw that therapist? Rachel?” he asked.
I nodded, fidgeting with my nails. “Didn’t last long.”
“No,” he scoffed, “but she told me something I’ll never forget. She said, ‘do you ever think you live too much in the past that you relive it in the present?’”
I swallowed. “And what did you say?”
“I laughed, said that’s ridiculous even though I knew I was lying.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said ‘what’s dead can’t hurt you.’”
What a na?ve woman. “Rachel’s got some friendly skeletons in her closet, then.”
“Do you think she’s right?” He asked, turning to me. “That the dead can’t hurt us?”
I thought back to that day.
The funeral.
Envisioning his spirit rising from the dirt, six feet under, telling me to scrub the toilet with my own shirt. The one I’d been wearing that day. The only one I had that was clean.
I thought about his palm swatting the back of my head, then my cheek, telling me we had no food left in the fridge. I was seven. How was I supposed to pay for anything?
Finally, I thought about how he pushed me up against the refrigerator, holding a needle to my neck, warning me against the world. ‘This is how you get through the day, Vi! This will keep you sane!’”
If only he could see me now.
In a world engulfed by speakers, singers and song lyrics.
A planet of noise, to help me drown his voice out.
I hardened my gaze, staring up into shadows. “The dead don’t hurt what they’re afraid of.”
And I made damn sure to exercise that fear.