Broken Girl Singing

Kelly (Earlier in the year)

I've dragged my desk away from the green wall—the only blank wall in my room—and propped my phone on top of it in the special holder Aunt Holly got me for Christmas last year. It lets me control the camera with a remote. I take a deep breath and press Record.

"Hey, guys," I say to the phone, self-conscious. My blonde hair is so thin, I tuck it behind my ears so it's less noticeable. "I know I usually do covers, but I hope you'll humor me. This is the first song I wrote. It's called Bury Me."

And then I play, despite clammy hands that screech more than usual on the guitar strings. Despite knowing I can stop whenever I want and shoot a retake. Despite the fact it's not live—it won't even go on my channel unless I post it. But I know I will.

And I know Crash'll never see it.

And that's okay. I have to put it out there for me.

I've never written a complete song before. Not really. I used to help Crash and Tommy. But it was always their work. I just edited.

This one came to me in less than an hour—right after I made the mistake of Googling Crash, only to find pictures of him with girl after girl after girl on tour.

Right now I know I'd be less vulnerable ripping off my shirt and posting a video of that. But my voice teacher was right. Muscle memory is stronger than nerves.

So I play, and I sing, and while I do, I think of a boy with the long-on-top, short-on-the-sides tousled brown hair, ice-blue eyes, and smile lines bracketing his full lips. Of tattoos and black fingernails, ripped jeans, and a voice that grinds on your soul. Of love and betrayal and the warmth you get when you believe in someone.

Lips that used to kiss me.

A face that brightened when I walked in the room.

A boy who told me I was his forever person. And made me believe it.

And then left when it turned out people only had to dangle money and fame in front of his nose for him to decide that I was insufficient.

The song is slow and lilting. It has to be because I'm still pretty new to the guitar. But the measured, folksy tone I've been using to shift rock songs into ballads works. Even if I had the skill to do more, I think I'd leave it like this.

Crash always said I had a knack for identifying what a song needed stripped away. I hope he was right. Because as I pick at the strings of the instrument he loves, I sing. And I break again. And I try to heal.

You had so many words that day

Promises, vows, words were stars

You had so many things to say

All I heard were lies.

There's a bridge between the verse and chorus, and it's the only part I still struggle to play. But when I woke up this morning, one year on, I knew if I didn't record it I'd lose my nerve.

I look away from the camera to watch my fingers on the frets. My heart's thumping, but not because I'm nervous. It's because I'm about to lay myself bare.

Bury me.

Dead and gone.

Just bury me

Without you.

Bury me.

I'm all wrong.

'Cause you buried me

Without you.

Since I wrote those words months ago they've been a drumbeat in my head. I even dreamed them last night. I dreamed Crash heard them and laughed. It was so real—easily as real as the words I wrote—that I wavered.

So, I'm recording today, putting this on my channel, and never thinking about this song again.

I walked past your house today

On the map of stars

Laughing windows, singing strings

I knew it was lies.

It's true. I did go to his house. His listed-in-the-name-of-his-manager, security-gated house. In the unlikely event Crash hears this song he'll take a protection order out against me. But he doesn't need to. I'll never be weak again. Because going there almost sent me over the edge.

I'd had a bad week, culminating in a terrible day. I missed my mother so much it left a hole in my throat. I was more alone that afternoon on the anniversary of her death than I'd been any day since Crash left. It brought back all the memories of Crash holding me, whispering reassurance, hovering, helping. I'd see him in my head and my body physically ached. I was so desperately, deeply alone. So I convinced myself if I showed up on his doorstep I could make him believe I wanted to let bygones be bygones. Just friends.

Brushing away tears, I'd practiced my speech in front of the mirror until I was sure it was right. Then I drove to the house I'd seen only once before, on one amazing, beautiful, horrific night.

And I traded that remembered nightmare for a new horror.

His mansion has a security fence, so you're practically on the street until they open the double gates wide enough to drive two trucks through. Or you can walk through the smaller, iron gate in the wall just off the driveway, with a path to the front door.

The day he showed me the house he said the security cameras covered every inch of the property. The house itself was utterly secure, and even if someone got over the wall they'd face bulletproof, tinted glass, and a house so solid they'd have to bomb it to break in.

I'd asked him if it felt like a cage. He just shrugged.

When I reached the gates, already reliving everything we'd said and done that night, I found there was nowhere for me to go. I couldn't bring myself to push the button on the little black box on the driveway that would call whoever was inside. What if Crash recognized my voice and ignored me? Or worse, didn't even care? If he couldn't see my face, I'd never know if I still affected him the way he affected me. It's the reason I didn't phone or text. I couldn't risk my one shot.

So I parked on the street and got out, just in case the garden gnomes were merciful and someone had left the gate unlocked. I was only a few steps from the car when I heard the guitar. Crash was there. Somewhere close. Far enough to make me strain to hear when the breeze blew and the leaves rustled, but close enough that I could follow the melody. And when the wind died, when he sang, my heart sang with him. I loved his voice even before I loved him—this rich combination of a soaring tenor with a gravel that makes it perfect for rock anthems. And hearing it—not on the TV, or the radio, or on my embarrassingly comprehensive iTunes collection—makes my skin tingle. For thirty seconds my hope soared higher than the chorus he repeated—which meant he was still writing it.

A sliding rumble sounded and his voice cut off. He said something low that I couldn't catch. His speaking voice was so much deeper than his singing voice—I'd always loved that. I took a faltering step forward, suddenly certain I could push the button in that black box if the gate was locked. Until a tinkling laugh broke the evening air.

When she spoke, her tone was unmistakable. A suggestion from someone who knows she won't be rejected.

My lungs froze up for the first time right there on his sidewalk. Chilled to ice. Cracked. Shattered. I couldn't move and couldn't breathe.

He rumbled something to her in a way that I could taste. I knew the exact timbre of that rumble under my fingers on his chest. I knew how it sounded against my ear. I knew how quickly it would climb if he had to raise his voice. But he didn't.

No. That rumble got impossibly deep.

The hollow clonk of the guitar being set on the ground without care shook me. Crash always treated his guitar like glass.

She laughed again, cutting off abruptly.

Something thumped on glass. Something heavy. Like, maybe a body got pushed up against a sliding door. I pleaded with my lungs to inflate. The cruel night stilled—no birds, no cicadas. Not a whisper of wind. And I heard a little cry. The good kind.

And I knew exactly why Crash had dropped the guitar.

I reeled. The edges of my vision black, I stumbled back to my car.

How could I have been so naïve? Had I really thought he'd left me for money? That he'd betrayed me because he preferred the screaming fans?

Tears blurred my vision as I threw myself back into my car and twisted the key with a shaking hand. The street—full of celebrity and executive mansions—remained virtually deserted. I have no memory of how—or where—I drove until my sight began to dim from lack of oxygen and I was forced to pull over.

I leaned my forehead on the steering wheel and bit back tears, reaching blindly into my bag for my inhaler.

Then and there I resolved I would never reach for Crash again.

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