Page 31 of Take You Down

“I love you. Send some pics of Ruth, all right?”

She laughs, light and airy. “Of course,” she answers and I can hear how she lights up at the mention of her daughter.

Beth was born to be a mother.

I, on the other hand, was born to write music. And it wasn’t good enough for my family.

Hanging up the phone, I walk on numb legs back to my greenroom and toss my phone against the couch occupying half the space. I note the time from the digital clock on the wall, only ten minutes to showtime, and grab my oversized denim jacket off the chair I had previously laid it over, not planning to wear it onstage tonight. Between the lights, the movement, and thousands of bodies crammed into one space, I usually opt for lighter clothing, tanks or short sleeves. But tonight, I welcome the worn and well-loved fabric as I slip my arms into it, pulling it tightly across my chest, reveling in the layer of protection and comfort it gives me.

I walk back out toward the stage, passing the Whisper Me Nothings greenroom, noticing out of the corner of my eye that it sits empty. Peering inside quickly, I see their rider items splayed across a shitty folding table. Piles of protein bars, bowls of fruit, and more packs of gum than any single person could chew in their lifetime.

But what catches my eye are the bottles of beer lying open in an ice bucket, the glass bottles glistening with moisture and beckoning me to just feel the cool glass of them in my hand. Liquor bottles, along with tonic water and lime juice are lined up in a neat row, with a large stack of red cups just waiting to be poured.

My palms twitch, yearning to reach out and just feel the weight of the bottles in them, hear the glug of them being poured into the plastic cups. I can almost taste the tartness of the lime juice and the burn of the tequila in my mouth, tastebuds watering for it and my anxiety screaming for the sweet relief I know it will bring, dulling the edges of my worry and sadness.

With a pit in the bottom of my stomach, my head starts to override the desires that have taken over, logic fighting for its way back in the driver seat.

I don’t need a drink.

I don’t need alcohol.

I can deal with stress and anxiety on my own.

I don’t. Need. A. Drink.

My feet carry me backward, pulling me away from a temptation I haven’t felt this strong of a pull toward in months. My mind is exhausted, emotions drained, and I sink further into myself, allowing my muscle memory to take over and it’s as if I’m on autopilot, going through the motions of getting mic’d up and ready to take the stage.

I’m in a fog, sounds dulled, lights dimmed.

I’m aware people are talking to me, aware my intro is being queued up to begin the show, aware of the crowds screams of excitement.

But it’s all muted.

When I walk onstage, it’s as if someone else is in my body, taking over pulling my voice from my chest, singing songs without being fully aware.

My set passes in a blur, and all I can think about the entire time on stage is how much I long to be tucked away in bed, locking out everyone and everything in my head.

16

WALKER

I have a good buzz going tonight, not able to hide my excitement for the show the entire time we’re out at the bar and on our way back to the venue. The guys can tell I’m in a particularly good mood, and Nikolai can’t resist asking what’s up with me after he catches me zoning out with a smile plastered across my face.

“Did you take something? Cause whatever it is, I want some.” Nikolai leans forward from his spot in the backseat of the SUV. We’re almost at the arena and Arun keeps brake checking, the traffic heavy. My knee bounces anxiously, ready to get onstage, knowing that Scar is going to be watching tonight.

“Nope,” I answer. “Just excited for the show.”

Hayden eyes me suspiciously from his spot in the captain chair next to mine in the middle row, Reid riding shotgun with Arun at the head.

Arun picked up Hayden from the hotel before swinging by to get the rest of us.

“What? Suddenly got a problem with my sunny disposition?” I joke, using the description from the article that was released from our press junket earlier in the week. The reporter called me a bright young man, with a mature voice and sunny disposition that will serve me well for many more years in this industry.

Meanwhile, he called Reid a stereotypical jackass who gives artists a bad reputation for being short-tempered and ungrateful.

Honestly, not a bad read…

Nikolai huffs and falls back in his seat.

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