Page 10 of Take My Hand

My shoulders hang heavy, fists clenching and turning white. The words taste like dust coming out of my mouth. Words I didn’t think I’d ever say honestly.

We’ve been together for ten years. Before we became what we are today, we were high school best friends. We reached our dreams, and we did it together.

And to think about going our separate ways in a few months…it’s hard to stomach.

“What the fuck happened?” Lucas asks, and my mom immediately admonishes him for his language, but when I look at her, I know she’s wondering the same.

I could tell them that Reid has been a complete dick since we came back from hiatus. That he basically blamed me for losing my touch and taking time off impacted my performance, and therefore hurt the band.

I could tell them that Reid is the one who supplied extra dirt, untrue might I add, about Walker’s girlfriend to the press when she found herself in a bit of a shitstorm with some past stories of hers coming to light.

But I don’t. Because I don’t want to see Lucas’s face when he hears that Reid, one of the guys that he considers a bonus brother, isn’t the same guy that he remembers. And I don’t want to see my mom’s face when I tell her that Reid, who she considers a bonus son, blamed me for needing time off after a traumatic event that impacted her too.

I can’t shake the feeling that there just has to be something else. Some other reason for Reid’s behavior to change over the past two years.

“I don’t want to drag you two into it and I also know I don’t need to ask you both not to share anything outside of the family, but we’re not making a statement until after the shows are done. When you see Dad tonight, you can let him know.” Let them be the one to tell him, because I don’t want to repeat this conversation again so soon when I’m still not ready to fully process it.

“Was it because of Walker decking Reid?” Lucas asks.

“No,” I respond, then amend, “I mean that was a part of it, but there were things leading up to that and went into it.”

Lucas shakes his head. “Can’t believe he hit him.”

“You don’t know what happened so don’t judge him for it. He didn’t do it without cause.” I can’t help but defend Walker, knowing that he was only trying to protect Scar and he was provoked by Reid one too many times.

“Are you okay? I mean what are you going to do?” My mom's forehead is wrinkled with concern and I wish I was there to give her a hug and assure her everything will be alright.

“I’m fine,” I tell her, hoping that if I say the words enough times, they’ll ring true.

Because I don’t know if I’m fine. I have no idea what my future is going to look like at this time next year. And for the years before the incident, I always knew that I would either be writing an album or touring an album.

But now, what will I do?

I’m not worried about money. I have plenty of it and have been smart with investments over the years.

But I can’t sit around this big empty house all day.

I could write music for other artists maybe. But I’m not sure I would enjoy the songwriting process without Walker, Nikolai, and hell, even Reid.

I would never go off and try a solo artist career. My vocals just don’t cut it. That’s why I always stuck to the bass.

Maybe I need to find a hobby. I never had time for them over the years and I’m not sure where to even start.

But as I wrap up the call with my mom and brother, promising her I’ll check in with Will to see how he’s doing, I walk into my kitchen to pull a drink from the fridge and feel a sense of emptiness.

Standing in the middle of the kitchen, I look around and see stark white and black cabinets, white marble, sleek appliances. It all looks modern and fancy and cohesive, but it feels so goddamn cold.

It doesn’t feel like a home. Or feel like me.

I walk around and each new room I enter, I wait to be hit with a sense of comfort, that intangible thing that just makes a space feel like home.

The beautiful art on the walls is nice to look at, but it evokes nothing in me. The curtains and fabrics and rugs are expensive and luxurious, but they fall flat.

The lighting seems too bright, too harsh in places and too low in others.

I can’t even remember why I liked this house to begin with. It doesn’t feel like me at all. And maybe it once did back when I first bought it, but who I am today, not a chance.

Returning to my living room and flicking on the TV, I begin scrolling through channels until I come across a home renovation show.

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