Chapter 5
Reid
It’s not the same beating the shit out of this new boxing bag as it is with the worn, abused ones at the gym. But I couldn’t trust myself to go there today. Or the past three days since I saw her. Not when I know she’s only down the street from it.
Aspen Andersen.
Assuming she didn’t change her last name when she turned eighteen. Maybe she did and wanted to get rid of anything attaching her to the mother who gave her up. It definitely crossed my mind when I was old enough to but ultimately decided against it.
Keely is my name, not the mother who chose getting high over me, or the piece of shit who fathered me and didn’t bother to stick around to even sign the birth certificate.
The clank of the heavy chain tethering the bag to the ceiling rings out over the blasting of heavy metal from the sound system in my basement.
When I first bought this house years ago, I filled it with enough weights and gym equipment that I never needed a gym membership and extra exposure outside of the house.
But once the band broke up and I had nowhere else to ever be, I got a membership at a boxing gym to get me out of the house. It became my haven the last year.
But after seeing Aspen the other night, I got this bag installed here until the resounding need to find her again goes away.
Especially since I know where she lives.
That makes me sound like a fucking creep, but I couldn’t stand the thought of her walking home by herself the other night. And since she was too stubborn to let me give her a ride, I did what I had to do.
But now that I know she’s in the city, so close that I can almost feel her now, I can’t get the thought out of my head.
I kick the bag with my right foot once, twice, three times before switching to the left side.
It’s like my past that has been lurking in the shadows of my mind is sneaking up on my present, colliding with it and creating a blur of the two that I can’t compartmentalize anymore.
Seeing her brought back memories of that house.
How I got there.
The relationship with my mother and how our last interaction ended.
The incident during the band’s break with my father. Prefer to block that one out the fucking most. I’d carve that from my brain with a hot, dull knife if I could.
The demise of the band and relationship with my friends.
It’s all too fucking much.
I hit the bag harder and harder, wanting to feel the skin of my knuckles split and watch them bleed. Sweat stings my eyes as it rolls down my face, and my breath comes in choppy bursts.
Ten more punches.
Maybe then it’ll quiet that voice in my head that sounds just like hers did when she sang that song I taught her.
“Unemployment boring for you?”
Who the hell does she think she is? I don’t remember her being a smart-ass, but who knows. A lot can change in one year, let alone ten.
But I didn’t expect her to get so offended when I pressed her about performing. I mean, it’s not like it was such a bold thing for me to expect that she was trying to get something from me.
The guys and I learned that lesson the hard way when we first moved here. And I had even learned that long before I was in the music industry.
No one plays for fun out here. Everybody is trying to be somebody and it’s easy to uncover ulterior motives if you have the right lens.
But then again, she seemed genuine in her outrage. Maybe I was wrong. Probably not, but there’s a chance.
It reminds me of something Arun, our manager throughout our entire career, said to me awhile back.
It was a few months prior to us officially calling it but when we were still trying to work on our next album.
I was sitting in his office one day after another session in the studio went completely south.
“You lost the fun in it.”
“What are you talking about? This is a fucking business.”
“Yes, but that shouldn’t be all it is. It’s an outlet. An art. You’ve all lost the fun in creating. It’s not supposed to be this serious all the time. You shouldn’t only play because it’s a job, you should play because it’s fun. Because you love it.”
At the time, I brushed him off and left for the night without a second thought to what he was saying.
But after Aspen seemed so offended by the fact that I assumed she was playing because I thought she was like everyone else in this city, that moment came back to me. Was she honestly just playing for fun? Because she liked it enough to do it after she’s done with her shift for the night?
We did lose the fun in it. All four of us did.
The first couple of albums weren’t like that though.
No force could pull us out of the studio.
We would’ve all lived there if we could.
The songwriting that poured out of me, Nikolai, and Walker, and the production that Hayden added to it was everflowing, easy, and at times seemed downright supernatural.
But then the business side started to get in the way. The label executives had stronger opinions, higher demands, and the focus shifted from what we all had to say through the music to what appealed to the radio. What could go viral and how we could always top the latest song on the charts.
It took away the spark, and slowly I watched it die in each of us.
Then once we took the break and tried to come back, there were no embers left to nurture anymore. Instead our bitterness, the fighting, the bullshit, it all got in the way. Everyday in the studio felt more like a punishment instead of a gift.
My muscles scream at me as I finish another round of sharp jabs at the bag, and I take a heavy step back, watching the bag swing before slowly going back to its resting position. I’ve sufficiently worn out my body, now if only my fucking head could get the memo.
I grab a towel, my water bottle, and kill the lights in the basement as I head upstairs to make some dinner. As I ascend the large winding staircase that was once my favorite part of this house, I can’t help but peek at the guitars I have lining the walls as I walk up.
Most of the guys keep their instruments in their studios or tucked away behind lock and key just in case of a break-in. But I always liked having mine out on display like this with the memories of them allowed to float freely through the space.
But for the last year and some change, I’ve kept my gaze averted from them. Thought about taking them down on more than a few occasions, but then I can’t bring myself to touch them long enough to do that.
A thin layer of dust coats them, and anger burns in the pit of my stomach at the disrespect. They’re beautiful instruments, my most prized possessions, and they hang on the walls rotting away.
The younger version of myself would beat the shit out of current me for letting them get like this. For not playing them like they deserve.
It makes me think of the one I gave Aspen. The first guitar I ever owned, and the one she still has today. Despite the way our interaction went that night, it brought something like happiness over me at the knowledge that she still plays it.
The guitar was one of the only possessions I had when I entered that foster house. Not a home. Never a home. It brought me comfort when I had nothing, something to do when my hands grew idle that didn’t get me in trouble, and true joy when the days all seemed to be a dark void.
And yet looking back at the time when it was me and that guitar against the world, I was happier than I am now with a wall full of them, a fridge stocked with food, and a bank account all to myself.
I continue walking upstairs, ignoring the silent taunts from moments in time each of them hold, but it follows me. The sound of my failures, the loss of my friendships, the emptiness of my fucking life.
The sound of her voice, and the reminders of everything I want to forget.
Fuck her, fuck the people who birthed me but didn’t bother to parent me. Fuck my friends who chose other people and their career opportunities over me.
I don’t need any of them.
I stalk into my bedroom and straight to the attached bathroom, flipping on the shower.
Steam quickly fills the room as I strip out of my clothes.
The spray of the water burns my skin when I step under the showerhead, and I tilt my head back, relishing in the heat coating my body, and wait for it to drown out the noise in my mind.