Chapter Twenty-Three
“When the fuck are you going to grow up, Remi?” Emerson had shouted at him.
“You’re a fucking disgrace. You look stupid with all that shit on your face.
And everyone knows you only dress like that to get a rise out of people.
We all know you’re going nowhere with your life.
You have no job. No plans. When are you going to stop being such a worthless piece of shit? ”
I’ll play my music. I’ll make it big. Everyone will know my band.
They’ll love us. They’ll love our music.
Then he’ll see. He’ll see that he was wrong.
He’ll be so proud of me. I just have to keep playing.
I just have to keep practicing. I just have to keep going.
I just have to keep trying. I just have to—
A vein pulsed in their mother’s temple as she stormed into the garage and ripped out the cord to the amp. A screeching whine pierced everyone’s ears. “You live under my roof,” she said, pointing her finger at her chest. “You’ll do what I say, and I’m telling you to knock it off.”
Remi had rolled his eyes at her.
“You little shit,” she said. “I gave birth to you. I work all day long to buy food for you. I keep a roof over your head. I pay the electric bill so your stupid little band can plug in and suck it all up. I’m the reason there is food in the fridge.
You should be grateful I let you live here at all.
The least you could do is care when your mother has a headache. ”
Why hadn’t I just cared about her feelings? Why was I such a shithead? Why couldn’t I have been more considerate?
Instead, he’d shrugged like the little punk he was. “I’m nineteen. I could move out. I’ll go live with West, and that way you won’t have to do all that hard work of parenting me. I’ll spare you, Mom. How’s that sound?”
Her jaw quivered. “I don’t understand why you’re so mean to me.” She turned and sobbed into Emerson’s chest.
Why was I so mean to her? Why couldn’t I comfort her like Emerson always did? Why did I treat everyone terrible? Why was I so fucking terrible? Why am I still so terrible?
But he’d trade the answers to all those questions if he could just get this one: Why did you have to go die and leave me?
Emerson’s final text message had come while Remi was at Liam’s house, helping him fit his drums into his car. West was already gone, setting up for their gig at a cabin their friend’s parents owned.
Remi and Liam had been fucking around, trying to figure out how to slot everything just right so they didn’t have to take Remi’s car up to the cabin too.
He didn’t read the message until twenty minutes later.
He remembered telling Liam—if only they had a van, they wouldn’t have had to play drum-kit Jenga.
Emerson: Stealing your car because I sold mine to buy you a van for your tour.
I know it doesn’t fix the last ten years, and it might not seem like it…
but I was always on your side, Remi. As much as I could be.
I’m sorry. I’m driving up to the cabin. I need to talk to you guys. I’ll explain when I get there.
But Emerson never got there. He never explained. And Remi would never know what he’d wanted to say.
Remi woke up drenched in sweat from the dream—the nightmarish memory—of his senior year. It was the first morning he didn’t immediately think of Skye in weeks.
He’d been dreading this day for 364 days, and after it was over, he’d start the cycle over, dreading the anniversary of Emerson’s death for the next year.
The sixth-year anniversary should have been easier than the fifth year, and the fifth easier than the fourth, and so on, but it wasn’t. Every year Remi thought the next would be easier to handle. That’s what they said. That time healed all wounds.
Every year he proved them wrong.
They’d gotten into Birmingham last night, but their next show wasn’t until tomorrow. Remi woke up before Liam and Ollie, who were both snoring in their bunks. He wasn’t sure where Jillian was. He hadn’t been paying much attention to her.
West’s bunk was tidy, the bed made, but the coffee pot was still on when Remi poured himself a cup, so he must have just missed him.
Remi didn’t text him to see where he was.
He always felt guilty unloading his bullshit on West, especially on the anniversary.
His best friend thought he was hiding it, but Remi knew he was only pretending to be unaffected.
Remi usually claimed he wanted to be alone so West wouldn’t have to babysit him and act like he didn’t love Emerson as much as Remi did.
Remi finished his coffee in silence and pulled on a hoodie, a baseball cap, and dark sunglasses. There was no way he could stay cooped up in the bus today. He pulled the hat low over his eyes and wandered out of the bus, through the venue, and onto the street.
It was early enough in the morning that there were only a few paparazzi stationed outside, and none of them noticed him sneaking out the side entrance.
He didn’t have a plan as he walked downtown. There was coke in the tour bus and alcohol in the fridge, but he was trying to be responsible. Maybe fresh air would lighten the grief he trudged around with.
A chill blew through him, and he shivered, haunted by memories of his brother. Most days, Remi truly believed that Emerson hated him, but that surety was always chiseled away whenever he reread the text message sent exactly six years ago.
I know it doesn’t fix the last ten years, and it might not seem like it…but I was always on your side, Remi. As much as I could be. I’m sorry.
He was desperate to know what Emerson would have told him if he’d made it to the cabin and why he’d bought him that van.
He wished he could figure out when their relationship started going bad.
It’d been sometime in elementary school, sometime after their dad had left.
He wished he could remember what exactly he’d done to make Emerson hate him, but his childhood memories were a black hole.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He sighed as he checked the caller ID, but he couldn’t ignore her. Not today.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Remi,” she said, sniffing a little. “How are you?”
He couldn’t remember the last time she’d asked him that. He might as well be honest. “I’m not great actually—”
“Oh, well, I know,” she interrupted. “I’ve seen the pictures. Really, Remington? Heroin? You know most rock stars wait until they have a few million in the bank, and you know, bought their mother a big fancy mansion before they go and have an overdose.”
Remi shook his head. “I’m not—”
“But it’s just like you to be selfish like that,” she continued. “You were always selfish. And on today of all days? My friends from church sent the photos to me.”
“Those are old photos. It’s not like I planned for them—”
“What should I expect though?” Her voice thick and nasally with tears. “You never cared about me or your brother. You were constantly fighting with each other. You probably didn’t even remember today was the day he died.”
“Of course I did! I’m a mess. I’m—”
“Oh, please,” she said. “I’m the mess. My baby. My perfect baby is dead.” There was a sound of rustling over the line, and she blew her nose.
“He was my brother,” Remi said softly. He didn’t want to fight with his mom. She was just upset, and he wanted to comfort her and be there for her. “I miss him too. I miss him all the time.”
“You’re a liar,” she said. “You’ve always been. You lied all the time to get Emerson in trouble, but I always knew. A mother always knows. Like when you pushed him down the stairs—”
“For the last time, I never pushed him!” Remi said. “We were three years old, and we were playing. It was an accident.” Maybe you shouldn’t have let three-year-olds play by the stairs.
“—on some days, I’m sure that you did something to your car before Emerson borrowed it.”
“What?” Remi stopped walking. He’d made it to a park in the middle of the city. The entire journey was a blur to him.
“What’s the world going to think about that, huh?” She tsked. “You still going to have all your little fans when they find out that you killed your brother?”
She was just upset. She was hurting. “Mom—” he said, but she kept going.
“You cut the brakes or something,” she said.
“I just know it. I know it. Or you just didn’t take care of that piece of shit.
The car was always in bad shape because you never take care of anything!
Em was always so responsible. And he shouldn’t have been driving the car anyway.
He should have been in his car. But no, he sold his car to buy you that van.
And you repaid him by giving him the keys to that death machine. It should have been you who died.”
The words hit him square in the chest, and he was pretty sure he made an actual noise of distress, but everything was a little fuzzy. Remi blinked, once, twice. He pulled the phone away from his ear and stared down at it.
His mother’s voice continued through the speaker at a tinny volume, but all he could hear was the sound of whooshing, like putting his ear next to a seashell.
He didn’t bother to hang up the call. Taking a few steps to the large spurting water fountain, he dropped the device into it.
It splashed, bubbling as it sank.
It should have been you who died.
It really should have.
His world slowed down. His limbs felt heavy, like he was fighting to move through syrup. People sat on benches and played frisbee on the grass and walked down the winding paths. They were all just living their lives. They shouldn’t be able to live their lives.
Didn’t they know Emerson was gone?
Remi shouldn’t be able to live his life with the knowledge that his twin brother was dead. He shouldn’t be able to go on tour and sing and do drugs and party and torment demonesses who took his soul.
It should have been me.
His heart raced, and a pressure built in his head. A pulse of something dark and wicked threatened to tear him open.