Shake Chapter 2

-Garret-

I wrapped my guitar cables around my hand and slid them onto my shoulder, some of Harper’s lyrics replaying in my mind. I didn’t mean it when I told him to get out, it’s just that I get so mad sometimes I feel like I’m going to explode and end up saying things I don’t even mean. In that moment, I did want him to leave but I didn’t want him to leave for good. He’s the love of my life. I don’t even know why I was such an asshole about the song.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Lake Jensen, our resident band dad (a.k.a. the responsible one) who was fond of saying ‘I don’t want to get involved… but I’m [begrudgingly] going to anyway because you need help’ asked in a tired voice that somehow still made me jump.

I turned and looked down to face the short drummer, whose black liberty spikes had wilted from the heat of the studio lights.

“The hell is wrong with me?! He’s the one who just Taylor Swifted me on national TV.”

“You didn’t really give him a choice, you know---”

“You’re defending him?!”

“I’m not doing anything, I’m just saying maybe you should be the one to talk to him… without being a jackass for five minutes maybe. We can’t keep going like we did tonight and you know it.”

I glared at him, mumbling, “You’re the jackass.”

Lake smirked, knowing he’d gotten to me. I hate it when he does that.

“Go. Talk to your boyfriend.”

“Fine.” I said, deciding to let the last part of that sentence slide.

“Thank you.” he said, hands folded in a mock prayer pose, before going to finish breaking down his drums.

I fiddled with the St. Jude medallion around my neck for a few seconds before digging my phone out to order a Lyft, pretty sure Harper’d gone back to the hotel. Which was in Brooklyn. Which was 45 minutes away with traffic, if I was lucky. I didn’t feel very lucky. What if he’s not even there and I took this long, expensive-ass ride for no reason? I sighed. Lake was right, as usual. I have to try. I ran out as the screen flashed two minutes and as the icy Manhattan air slapped me in the face, my hands shook, but I suspect that had less to do with not grabbing my coat and more with my own anxiety.

***

Car horns honked impatiently as we moved five miles an hour, gridlocked. The Brooklyn Bridge loomed in front of us, so close yet so far. A surge of irritation knotted my body as I realized we were 15 minutes away from the hotel, though we’d been sitting in traffic for 30.

“Isn’t there another way you can go?” I asked desperately, biting my top lip, something I only did when my anxiety disorder was acting up.

“Nope. Brooklyn, right? Gotta go over the bridge. To go over that bridge, we gotta get through this traffic.” said my Lyft driver, sweeping an arm across the four lanes of traffic.

I hung my head. Fuck. Why does it feel like we’re never gonna get there?

***

We did finally get to the hotel another 30 minutes later and when I got to the lobby, where I had to swipe my key card to get to the rooms, the stupid thing wouldn’t read it. As I jabbed the card in a second time, it still didn’t work. I looked over my shoulder at the front desk, but no one was there.

“Come the fuck ON!” I yelled, resisting the urge to bang on the glass door.

I took a shaky breath and decided to try one more time. This time it worked and I sprinted up the five flights of stairs to the fifth floor and down the long, beige hallway to where our rooms were. When I got to Harper’s room, Real Friends’ “I’ve Given Up On You”, his sad music, was blasting through the door. Fuck. I banged on the door, hoping he’d hear it over the music.

Silence suddenly filled the long hallway and it all came out at once, “I need to talk to you. I know I’ve been horrible to you these past couple days and have no right to ask you to open this door, but I want to --- need to talk.”

A minute passed. Then two and three and four and the hall was still as silent as it was when I’d gotten there. I began noticing the stock art of flowers along the walls and my anxiety crawled along my skin, making my scalp, neck, and arms itch, my hands fidgety, and my thoughts race like they were prized Kentucky Derby horses. Then again, that last one might be the bipolar disorder I like to pretend doesn’t exist, ha. I know that’s not really funny, but twisted humor’s a coping mechanism for me, especially when I’m freaking out like this. Not always effective, but still better than nothing. The longer the time stretched, the more suffocating the silence of the hallway became. If he wants me to fuck off, why hasn’t he put his music back on? What kind of game is he playing? Another agonizing minute passed.

“You’re full of shit, you know. Just… go.” came Harper’s cracked, teary voice.

“What? No, I came here ‘cause I really wanted to try and talk. Lake talked some sense into me and on the way over---”

“I don’t believe you.” he said in the same cracked voice.

“You---you think I’d lie about this?” I asked in disbelief.

“Christ, Garret! Do you get that you made me feel like everything between us was a lie? Then in the studio… just… how am I supposed to believe anything you say now?” his words were coming between sniffles.

The words hit me like a tire iron to the knees and I slid down the wall to the floor, feeling tears fill my eyes. “I’ve Given Up On You” resumed and soon transitioned into “Somebody Else” by The 1975, another punch you in the heart, especially ifyou’re sad song. I angrily wiped the tears away, flinching at the memory of my dad’s voice telling 15-year-old me that only weak people cry… right before he’d kick or punch me in the side (couldn’t have a visit from CPS, now, could we?). I’m not weak, dammit. My insides twisted themselves into knots and it felt like there were hands squeezing all the air out of my lungs, a strong indicator that I was about to break down. I often tried to push this feeling away or even tell it to fuck off. Only works about half the time. I also have this thing about crying in public or in front of people because people take advantage of weak people and, like I said, crying makes you weak and I’m not weak. I need to be inside my own room, now, even if it’s next to Harper’s. I made my legs move the twelve steps to my room and it took two tries for my fuckup ass to get the door open because my stupid vision kept blurring. All I did and do is make things worse.

A line from “Polaris”, my favorite sad song, popped into my head and I knew it’d make me feel better or help me cry it out or whatever, at least for four minutes and 51 seconds and no one had to know or see if it was in the privacy of my room. I opened the Spotify app, put the phone on the dresser, and flopped, face down, on the bed. Jim Adkins’ voice started singing the first words, which I heavily related to on a good day, but tonight? Tonight I ugly cried, snot and all, like I knew I would.

***

The next morning, I was the first one waiting outside the hotel for the van that would take us to the recording studio the label had booked for us. I was barely caffeinated enough to open my eyes, let alone talk to anyone, yet that’s exactly what Lake and his hopeful demeanor wanted to do when he joined me.

“So, how’d it go?” he said.

Shame I’m gonna have to crush his spirits.

“Terribly. I’m going to get more coffee.” I said, my voice flat.

The last thing I was in the mood for was his commentary. Lake’s nose and forehead wrinkled in confusion while his mouth hung open, I imagine forming the word “how?”. I’m amazed I didn’t run back to the hotel’s breakfast spread for the coffee. I also hope I don’t have to spend too much time near Harper.
When I got back to the van five minutes later and looked inside, my coffee hand warmer with me, I saw Lake on one side of the three-seater van and Harper on the other.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I said as I looked between the two of them.

“Just get in.” said Lake in that tired voice I swore he only used with me.

I had to climb over Harper’s long legs because now he was apparently taking a page out of my book and being a dick for no reason. I squeezed in between the two of them, like the filling to the worst sandwich ever. This isn’t going to be awkward at all. Nope.

***

The only way you could have gotten a more silent atmosphere than the one in that van was if you’d gone to a cemetery. Despite all that, my eyes still wandered, like magnets, to Harper when we got to the studio. He bent over to untangle some cables on his mic stand and I may have taken a moment of appreciation: same nice ass. Blond curls I still wanted to pull and see spring back. My eyes clung to the defined muscles in his arms and I pictured the abs underneath his Henley, wondering if he’d been working out more. All I wanted to do was go over there, push him up against the wall, and make out with him long enough to go somewhere. But more than that, I missed the way he would try to make me laugh with this stupid robot voice he did whenever he could he see my depressive episodes were kicking my ass. I could have used that right now.

In an irritating reversal of last night, Harper's pained blue eyes caught me looking at him and I quickly looked away, pretending to be busy tuning my guitar. I tumbled further down the dark, mossy well I'd always sketched my depressive episodes as and my stomach gurgled with fear about what would happen when I finally reached the bottom of said “well”. I really am a fucking idiot and I wish I hadn't let it get this bad.