4 Fist, Meet Face

Crash

On Tommy's phone, I watch as Kelly lets the guitar stop singing before she self-consciously flips her blonde hair over her shoulder, looks at the camera and tells me, "Thanks for watching!"

I almost believe it. Almost peg her as the bitter ex-girlfriend. Except, as she turns off the camera, there's a split second where she's in close-up.

"She's been practicing," Tommy says, but from the way he says it, I know he saw what I did: she's fighting tears.

I grunt and, with an unsteady finger, tell the app to replay. As it starts again, one side of my brain analyzes her fingering and strum, drinks in her voice. The other is silent with shock.

. . . Bury me.

Dead and gone.

Just bury me

Without you.

Bury me.

I'm all wrong.

'Cause you buried me

Without you . . .

She wrote a song for me. A heartbreak ballad.

And she nailed it.

"So who's the asshole now?" Tommy says, and suddenly the extra slack in his shoulders, the quiet voice, take on a new meaning. I curse the sunglasses that make him impossible to read.

"Tommy . . ." We have a thing. We don't lie to each other. Ever. Except I did.

"You said she dumped you because you went on tour. She was my other best friend and you said I couldn't even talk to her because she broke you."

I lick my lips, scramble for an excuse when there isn't one. "I couldn't lose both of you."

"I fucking blocked her!"

"I was messed up—"

Tommy explodes out of his chair, grabs my shirt with both hands, and yanks me around to slam my back against the wall.

The world lurches. I must have had more of the Scotch than I thought. I put my hands up. Tommy's rages are rare, but his father sent him to a boxing gym in middle school when he was getting bullied, and he's kept up with his training. He'll kick my ass. And for this, I'll let him. But I can't afford to break a finger or sprain my wrist. Rehearsals for our next tour start in a month and I've got an album to finish.

The callousness of that thought sickens me.

Tommy's right in my face, lips pulled back from his teeth, his long, black hair swinging.

"Her mom died! Left her with her prick stepfather! Then you bail on her and let her think I did, too!" He pulls me far enough off the wall to slam me back onto it and my skull bounces. Everything spins. "She was my friend first. I told you if you ever hurt her I would kill you."

Yank. Slam. Yank. Slam. Until my vision blurs and I get a shot of adrenaline because he might actually kill me.

"You're a coward, Crash. A fucking pussy."

"She told us never to use girl parts as an insult—"

Tommy's fist connects with my jaw with a smack that I feel in my toes. When I can focus again, I'm on the boards of the deck with him bent over me.

"You deserve to rot in your own juice. I hope she's after revenge. I hope she sells maps to your house. Gets pregnant and tells the magazines it's yours—they'd eat that shit up and make sure everyone could see what an asshole you are!"

"She'd never do that!"

"Just like you'd never lie to me, right?"

I rub my hands over my face. "Tommy—"

"Shut up, asshole."

He storms back into the house. Coda, ears down, fixes his ice-blue eyes on Tommy, then back on me. Then, with a huff, my dog gets up and pads after Tommy.

I push myself up to sit, spitting expletives and gripping my head, which pounds like Tommy's inside trying to punch his way out. Keys jingle as he grabs them off the breakfast bar.

"Where are you going?"

"To tell her to sell you out."

"Tommy, don't. You can't—"

"Watch me."

Ignoring the threat of nausea, I leap up. I trip where the hardwood meets the carpet, but manage to catch up with him as he reaches the front door. I grab his shoulder. "There's stuff you need to know before—"

One second I'm holding onto him, the next my head's cracking again, this time against the frame of the original Banksy in my entryway. I slide down the wall. "If you touch me again," he growls, "I will stomp your throat, and to hell with the tour."

I don't know if my head is spinning from the Scotch or the hit. Can't let him go. "I get it, okay? But there's stuff, Tommy. You can't talk to her when you don't know why—"

"Tell someone who gives a shit."

"Tommy—" But my fingers close on air. He's gone, slamming the door so hard the sound is a knife in my skull. I see stars. Have to stop him. Dig through my pockets for my phone, but all I get is his voice mail.

"For fuck's sake!"

I stumble to my feet, but the floor slides to the right and I tumble back down. Shit. How much did I drink? Eventually, I make it to the living room where I collapse on the couch, heart pounding, hands clawing into my hair. I'm fighting nausea, and I want to hit something. Or someone. I want to tell Tommy the truth. I need to. I've been carrying this lie for over a year. I should have manned up and begged him to listen. Now Kelly'll believe him when he doesn't know the whole story, and she'll hate me even more.

My breath shudders. He'll see her, talk to her. He might get to touch her. I've spent the past year fighting the ever-increasing urge to tell them both the truth. I thought yesterday's anniversary would be the hardest, then it would get easier, but it isn't.

I can't tell her.

But I have to.

That's when I realize what's circling my head to the beat of my pounding headache.