Page 19 of Take My Hand

Nope. Instead of making any real progress this morning, I only succeeded in giving whoever watches the security cameras in my building a good laugh.

Calling my dad was out of the question. I didn’t want him to have to do the six-hour drive here for the second time this month just to help me move a couple things around.

Scar was the only one I could call in LA. I purged the rest of my contacts, clearing out all the people that I thought were my friends, but never truly were. Allegiances were decided and none of them were mine.

“We needed to get out of the house today. He’s been driving me crazy with all of his pent-up energy that he’s had stored up not working on any new music and without shows every night to purge it.” Scar rolls her eyes as she crosses the threshold and surveys my place.

Her eyes scan over the sparsely decorated area and I try not to cringe at what she must be thinking. I’ve lived here for two weeks now and there’s not too much to show for it. Granted, I’ve been waiting for some of the larger pieces of furniture to arrive or building up the energy to put some of the other things together. The box containing my bed frame is leaning against one wall in my bedroom, my new desk still needing assembly in a pile lying in a corner of the living room.

The walls are full at least. I hung up all of my photographs that I have framed, alongside part of my vinyl collection on floating shelves over what will be where my couch goes. Once it makes its way inside the building, that is.

I have a few plants scattered around as well and a rug rolled up in another corner, waiting to be unraveled once I get the rest of the big pieces in place.

It’s not much, but it’s starting to feel like home.

“I’m sure you don’t hate all of that pent-up energy,” I say, nudging her shoulder with a sly smile.

Scar looks up at me and relents. “Okay, I definitely don’t. But his constant tapping on every surface, including my laptop when I’m trying to work, has been grating on my last nerve. But no,” she says, eyes softening, “I don’t hate it.”

Jealousy zaps through me, and I immediately tamp it down. I’m happy for her. She deserves to be happy and it’s clear how much she loves Walker.

There’s just a part of me that feels lonely. I don’t allow the apartment to ever get silent in fear that it will take over my entire body and I’ll be crushed by it.

“Speaking of, did Walker come with you?”

“Yeah, he and Hayden were grabbing the couch to start.”

“Hayden’s here?”

She nods. “I knew I wouldn’t be much help trying to lift any of this, so I had Walker text him to see if he was free.”

I haven’t seen or heard from him since I ran into him at lunch a couple of weeks ago. The way he blew me off didn’t sit right with me. Not only because it was rude, but there was something else to it. Some shift that happened in him after he caught that person taking his photo and the way he seemed to shrink in on himself after it.

I saw the same reaction from Scar when we were on tour together, and she started to get recognized in public. It was a tough adjustment for her, feeling like people didn’t see her as a person anymore but instead as a product.

But Hayden has been in the game for a long time. It’s something he should be used to by now.

“Was that alright?” she asks, brow creased at my silence.

“Of course. I was going to try to help Walker with it, but I appreciate you thinking about that. It's nice of him to come help.”

“Please, those boys can be put to work. A couch and some boxes are nothing to them when they loaded and unloaded all their equipment up until this last tour.”

A loud thump, followed by what sounds like kicking against my door, startles us both, and I quickly open it to see Hayden and Walker there, faces strained and sweaty, holding opposite ends of my couch.

“Sorry about the kicking, but can’t exactly knock with hands full of this chunker,” Walker says, out of breath.

“Don’t worry about it. Come in.” I usher them inside, holding the door open as they angle it through. “Thank you for doing this. I tried to get it myself but…”

“No fucking way you could get this thing up here yourself, no offense.”

The burnt orange fabric is bright despite being covered by layers of plastic wrap, keeping the cushions tucked away safely in transport.

“I was just telling Carter that you boys can use a little manual labor. Gotta keep you both grounded amidst all your fame.” Scar leans against my kitchen counter and watches them huff and puff their way to my living room.

“I don’t see you doing any labor, and you’re famous now too,” Hayden grunts, forearms straining as he walks backward toward the spot I point to.

Scar shrugs. “I’m small. I’m not good at handling large objects.”

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