Unleashing my anger fully, I run the guitar up and down the solo and turn to address my mother just after, every lyric following the electric riff meant for her. Her lips part on an audible gasp I can’t hear before I turn back to address the swaying crowd, confessing the hell I’ve been forced to dwell in since Sedona. Fusing myself with the music, I allow those few minutes to break apart, for her, for myself, and for the man intent on keeping us both in purgatory.
My resentment now borders on hate for Nate Butler, because I haven’t seen my wife in forty-three fucking days.
So on stage, I rage against him.
Rage against the circumstances in which we found each other.
Rage against the way I feel daily about her continued absence.
Rage against her inability to wage a war she won’t allow me to fight.
Rage against the promises we’re breaking every day we remain divided.
I rage against it all until the lights go dark. Exhausted as the applause explodes throughout the club, I exit the stage without a single ounce of relief. Joel meets me at the side of the stage, reading my mood in silent support as we walk toward the back of the club. In the next second, a tropical scent wafts into my nose as I’m gripped by the neck, and lips that don’t belong to my wife smash into mine. Pushing the woman who accosted me away by the shoulders, I assess her and jerk my chin. “Not fucking cool.”
Clearly drunk, she stares back at me with wide blue eyes, on the verge of speaking before Joel gently takes her by the arm and away from me, handing her over to security.
Joel joins me again as I stalk toward the dressing room, bypassing everyone, including my mother. Slamming myself inside, I fume at the fact that my wife is no longer the last woman to kiss me and that security was stolen from me. In the next breath, I begin to wonder if she’d even fucking care.
You can always find me,
in your own story
Lost and found
Our whispered confessions
A thousand hours apart
For a few seconds longer
Found then lost,
Remember our story,
Our screaming secret
Every memory pushed inside you
A thousand hours apart
For a few seconds longer
Replay our past
To destroy seconds of theirs
Erase their memories
To consider our future
A thousand hours passed
To earn a few seconds longer
You could have found me
In those thousand hours
Waiting
for just a few seconds longer
choose me
I write out the last of the lyrics in my notebook as the band bustles around me. Feeling the burn of the last two words, I take a numbing swig of beer before staring at my phone screen in indecision. In the same time zone, a state away, I note it’s 1 a.m. in Austin, and all I want to do is talk to my wife, who is, no doubt, fast asleep. I pull up her last text.
Wife: I hope you have a good show. I love you.
Even though the message is sincere, it rings hollow for me. The chaos in the room quiets briefly, the sudden stillness in the air credited to my mother, who’s standing in the doorway. Throats clear as she makes a beeline for me. One of our roadies lifts his chin in question, and I nod. In fast response, he starts evacuating the room, as if her sudden appearance wasn’t enough to do so. In seconds, the noise outside the door is the only sound in the room as her presence batters me with hurt.
“Really fucking subtle, son,” she says, her voice shaking.
“Wasn’t meant to be,” I mutter, unsure of how to react to this new dynamic and exhausted from the struggle of trying to figure it out.
“I can’t believe you just walked past me,” she takes a seat next to me on a long, black leather couch. Turning toward her, I feel the same animosity that’s been brewing between us, which never existed before. “Hey, Mom, good to see you. What are you doing in New Orleans?” she snarks before continuing. “Good question. Well, the truth is I came to see my kid play,” she spouts sarcastically, “since he hasn’t answered a single call from me in a week.” She tilts her head in taunt. “Where’s your father, you ask? Well, he’s currently at the hotel because he packed a fucking bag and flew halfway across the country only to take a stand by not showing up, even though he’s dying to see you play. So, on principle alone, he’s refused to accompany me because you two fumbling idiots are determined to be the death of me. Enough of this shit,” she barks, “Easton, I’m serious.”
“What bothers you more now, Mom? That you can no longer order me around or that you can’t control my emotions?” I keep focused on the beer cap I’m flipping between my fingers.