A Song to Write

Crash

Kelly is fuming. "Why did you lie to Tommy?" She throws the words at me.

I sigh. "Because I knew I was losing you, and I couldn't lose him too."

"He was going with you on tour. You couldn't let him text me?"

"It wasn't like that—"

"Then how was it, Crash? Because the last thing I knew you wanted to marry me. Then and there. If I'd said yes we'd be married now." She shakes her head. "What changed in eight hours?"

Without realizing it I've sat back on the bed. This is what I was afraid of. The whole reason I've kept myself away from her. Because I can't answer that question. For both our sakes.

"I told you, things got complicated."

She doesn't respond. Doesn't move. So I grow a pair and meet her eyes. Her brow's furrowed. She shakes her head like she can't believe I'm this much of an asshole.

"Well, I'm glad we cleared that up," she says bitterly.

I drop my face in my hands. "I'm not trying to be an—"

"Was there something you needed, Crash?" she says in the tight, high voice that heralds tears. "You called for a nurse before I came in. Was there something you needed?"

I slump. I've lost her. I shake my head. "I couldn't find my call button is all."

"Dan had the same problem," she says. "If you look between your pillow and the rail of the bed, you'll find it. They safety-pin it to the sheet while you're sleeping so it doesn't fall. Okay, I hope you can get some rest. Bye." Her voice cracks on the last word.

"Kelly, please—" I reach for her, but she flees, pulling the door behind her. As it swings closed—and clicks shut this time—I hiss a curse. And then about fifty more for good measure.

Stupid, worthless sack of shit. You hurt her again.

I lay back on the pillows and stare at the ceiling. If only there was a way to let her see that I was protecting her without actually putting the images of the truth in her head. That I had to keep her away from that day—from me, after that day. Then she'd know she could trust me.

Her song comes back to me, running a loop in my head.

Bury me.

Dead and gone

Just bury me

Without you.

Bury me.

I'm all wrong

'Cause you buried me

Without you.

It suddenly becomes very clear: I have a new song to write.

*****

I'm hunched over my phone the next morning, embarrassed that they admitted me for nothing more than too much Scotch. But Amber says the press is on to the whole thing with Tommy being at Kelly's house, and we need a distraction. "Besides, what the hell were you thinking, driving drunk to your ex-girlfriend's house? Like the press wouldn't get wind of that in a heartbeat? You stay here until we get this whole mess sorted out. We've told everyone you're being treated for exhaustion. Deal with it."

Then, with a look of disgust that I actually earned this time, she stalked out the door on six-inch heels.

I've sat here, wallowing in self-loathing, playing with my phone ever since. My fingers itch for a guitar, but no one thought to bring me one. There's a quiet knock on my door. "Come in," I say, expecting one of the nurses; they keep taking my vitals despite the fact that I'm nothing more than hungover.

"Mr. Moretti, it's time for your sponge-bath," a high voice says.

I jerk my head up to find Tommy smirking from behind the privacy curtain.

"Good one." I go back to the app that plays guitar chords for me.

Unlike my best friend, I don't have perfect pitch. I have to find my way through a song. Which is fine when I have a guitar in my hands and can flip back and forth between chords without thinking. Much more frustrating when I have to tap them into a metronome counter, play them, then make changes, play them again. Just thinking about it makes me want to smack something.

"Still working on that song?" Tommy throws a bag from Darlings Doughnuts on my bed, then takes the chair next to the bed.

"New one," I say, tapping the last of the chords into the app and pressing play.

The tinny strum of the synthesized guitar chimes out of my phone for a few seconds before Tommy and I both wince. Definitely not D there. Maybe go back to G?

I flip through the chart, making the change, while Tommy bites his already-short nails and watches me.

I press play on the app, then stop it in the same place. Nope, not G, either.

"You want to resolve," Tommy says. He means to take the music back to the E where I started. But I play dumb and launch into damage control.

"I lied because I didn't know how to tell you the truth, and she didn't know the truth. And I was afraid if I told you, you'd tell her, and that would have been worse."

Tommy blinks. "You mean you told me Kelly broke up with you because she didn't know the real reason you broke up with her and you didn't want her to know?"

"Yeah. Sort of."

"And I stopped keeping your secrets when, exactly?"

I glare at him, but he just glares right back.

"No, seriously, Crash, name me a time?"

I scoff, but he's not budging, and I know that look. So I keep playing with the song, without looking at him, just to piss him off. But inside, I'm gathering my ammunition. Because I can answer that question.

Giving up on the song, I pick up the bag which smells amazing and mentally cheer. He got three cinnamon rolls. "You don't keep my secrets when you think you know better."

"Since when—"

"Beginning of eighth grade," I say around a mouthful of sweet, buttery cinnamon, "I told you my mom was doing meth and you told Principal Harrison."

Tommy scowls. "I won't apologize for making sure your mom didn't kill you in a meth rage."

"In ninth grade, you told my Dad about my rash."

"I thought you'd picked up crabs from that creepy goth chick at the SunDowner—"

"Junior year, you told Kelly I was in love with her."

"You were."

"Not the point." I go hard on the T sounds so I accidentally spit crumbs. Tommy brushes off his lap without even changing expression, then puts his boot up on the side of my bed.

"Still waiting to hear about how I don't keep your secrets."

"I just gave you three examples."

"Those weren't secrets, they were you being stupid and me looking out for you."

I grunt because he's not entirely wrong. But admitting that would be a mistake. I doubt he'd see this situation any differently. But that's because despite having been her friend first, he doesn't know her like I do. This would destroy her. I will not be responsible for that.

I sit back against the pillows, punching random chords into the app and letting it play just to be an ass. But a few seconds later, Tommy grabs it and smacks the stop button on it.

"Seriously, dude?"

I don't look at him.

"What is going on with you?"

"I believe Amber's official line is being treated for exhaustion."

"On my mother's life, Crash, if you don't—"

"I had your mother. She was great. Please pass on my compliments."

Tommy's eyes bulge, but he can't say anything because he's the uncrowned king of Your Mother burns. He stares at me for an uncomfortable dozen seconds. I don't crack.

I should have known he had the trump card.

Tommy glares, but that hard set to his jaw means he knows he's going to win. I tense as he opens his mouth. "I'm calling in my chip."

I gape. When I was twelve and Tommy was thirteen, his dad went to the casino and won big—back when "big" was defined as "enough to keep the electricity on all year." His dad gave us each a chip from the casino. They were only five dollars, but we didn't know that. We didn't even know what the chips were. We thought he gave us good luck charms.

Then he disappeared. And never came back.

After much discussion, we decided that we would hold each other's chips. And when the day came that we needed something the other didn't want to give, we could call it in.

No matter what, if Tommy calls in his chip, I have to do what he asks.

But over this?

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