Page 8 of Take My Hand

“Hayden—” I start to protest again, but he cuts me off.

“Listen, if that is the only way you will accept it, then that’s what we’ll do. It’s your choice. The camera’s yours to do whatever you’d like with it. Use it, smash it, whatever you want. And while I’d obviously love it if you'd use it to stay on the rest of the tour and continue doing an amazing job, I’d still let you take it and run. It’s yours.”

And when I see him backstage at the show that night, my decision is evident by showing up, camera in hand and ready to go. He simply walks past me, shooting me a smile as he says, “Make sure you get the best pictures of me, and all of Reid’s from his bad side.”

I chuckle, ensuring I get all the best shots of him that night. And every night from there on out.

4

HAYDEN

Present

Who the hell talked me into buying a white velvet couch? In what world is that practical for anyone?

I’ve been bent over this cushion for the last ten minutes with a rag and a bottle of cleaner, trying to remove all traces of my spilled salsa from it. Sitting back and surveying my work, I toss the rag aside and say fuck it. It’s not going to come out.

This is what I get for letting a designer pick out all of my furniture years ago when I bought this house over three years ago. The boys and I had just gotten another huge paycheck, so we all decided it was finally time for an upgrade. Each of us bought homes in the hills of LA, and I closed on mine shortly before we were headed off to Europe for a stretch of shows.

Without much time at home at all, I hired a designer to decorate the place for me and at the time I wasn’t thinking about the practicality of having white furniture.

And now I’m paying for it. I should honestly take this thing to the curb. I’ve hated it for as long as I’ve had it and it’s littered with half removed stains.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table and I pick it up with a smile, seeing a photo of my mom and I on the screen.

I swipe accept and see her face come into view, still dressed in her scrubs from work.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says, her voice instantly brightening my mood. “What are you up to today?”

I sit down on the cushion next to the one I was just trying to clean and kick my feet up. “Not much. I got home late last night from Kansas City so just took the day to get settled back in. How was work?”

My mom props her phone up and angles it so she stays in the frame as she goes over to the fridge to pull out food to start cooking dinner. “Busy as usual, but fine. All went relatively smoothly so that’s all I can hope for.”

She’s a labor and delivery nurse, so days like today where everything went good are reasons to smile. Especially with a looming anniversary ahead of us. Which speaking of…

“Have you talked to Will at all? He said he has plans on campus this weekend, but I’m not an idiot. I know classes are over and his summer break has started.” She pauses cutting up the chicken and looks at me.

It’s then that I see the lines of exhaustion around her eyes, a renewed hollowness that has taken residence behind them as the two-year anniversary of the shooting we all lived through approaches tomorrow.

“I worry about him, if he’s by himself tomorrow. He says he’s fine, and when I’ve tried to broach the subject with him to see how he’s feeling, he rushes me off the phone. I guess I was just hoping that maybe he’s called you.”

Will is the younger of my two brothers, and the one whose high school graduation we were attending when one of his classmates opened fire, killing three people and wounding several others before turning the gun on himself.

Everyone in my family has struggled since then. Both of my parents went to therapy for a time after, along with Lucas, my other brother. I did for a while as well, but fell off when I went on tour earlier this year.

I’ve struggled heavily with panic attacks and anxiety since the shooting; only just starting to emerge back into the world this year because of work.

But Will has always insisted that he’s fine. He doesn’t need to talk about it, doesn’t need help, doesn’t have nightmares, nothing.

I don’t buy it.

I see the way he’s taken partying to a whole other level than myself or Lucas ever did. While I found comfort in holing up, playing old basslines for hours on end, finding ways to exert control wherever I could, specifically with the company of a woman, he found comfort in keg stands. And friends who encouraged him to jump off the roof of his frat into a pong table on the lawn, or chug a drink out of his shoe on a livestream at a tailgate.

He reminds me of Nikolai in a way. Nikolai was also in the gym that day with his family, watching his little brother graduate too. And ever since then, he’s always maintained that he’s fine, but he’s become reckless, more so than he’s ever been. Trying to free-solo mountains, getting his motorcycle license, going through women at an astronomical speed. Anything to chase a bit of a high and not thinking twice about it.

But I also know I can’t push Will to talk about it if he’s not ready to. So, I’ve been waiting him out. I’ll send him texts here and there to check in, extending my hand without making him feel suffocated by it.

And I know my mom has been trying to do the same. But as he’s wrapping up his sophomore year of college and apparently decided not to come home for the summer, she’s obviously worried about him.

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