Page 57 of It's Holy Matrimony, Baby

Mayhem is quiet. More of a bookstore today. There’s no band on the roster, though the stage is set up with a microphone stand, a drum kit, and amps. People are scattered through the room. A group of girls in summer dresses are giggling at the other end of the bar. A serious guy with a droopy moustache, a long face, and even longer feet is wading through a Tolkien novel on one of the couches.

Lou pushes one of those not so hideous Casey specials at me. This one is weaker than the first one she made me, and it’s actually not awful.

Nox cradles a beer glass in one hand. “You’re getting used to them.”

“I am. Plus I plan on working on a piece for the blog tonight. I need all the caffeine.”

He smirks at me. “Wore you out, did I?”

“You wish.” I take a sip of my drink.

A couple of young guys in flat caps with their pants hanging too low are crowded into one of the booths, headphones covering their ears. Alone at a table a tall girl with dreadlocks is writing in a spiral-bound notebook. Another girl who reminds me a little of Heidi Klum darts an unfriendly glance in my direction before she walks out. Poor dear probably hasn’t eaten in a million years. I’d be hangry too.

“I’m not the one who needed to take a nap.” Nox turns to face the bar. Rests his elbows on it. “About what happened before we got to Finn’s.”

“I really wasn’t trying to push you.” I swirl the straw through my drink. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Should have left it alone.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I think you’re right.”

“I am?”

“When I stopped playing it was because I needed to. I was wrung out and fucked up. I couldn’t be that guy anymore. I couldn’t handle the price tag that came with being famous. All the people who knew who I was, who glamorized me into something I wasn’t.”

I have no idea what to say to him. I don’t understand, because I’ve never walked in his shoes, but my heart aches for him. I wrap my palm around his bicep and squeeze as though I can convey my feelings through something so simple.

He places his hand over mine, holds it there. “When I got out of rehab I took off. I found the most remote quiet place I could, this little town in the Northern part of Australia, and I went there. It was all desert and sheep stations. Stayed there and threw myself into working an honest job, until I could look in the mirror and not see the guy everyone knew. I got better. Healthier. But I couldn’t change who I am that easily. I came home. Started writing again. Playing. Singing. Just for myself at first. Because I had to. Then I started playing gigs, small places like here.” He glances around Mayhem. “Not much. Just once or twice a month. Found a couple guys to jam with. That was a mistake. They weren’t at the same place I was. More into partying than their music.”

“You slid backwards?”

“No.” He glances at me, his brows raised into his shaggy hair. He shakes his head. “No. But it was a struggle. And I feared it. Would have been easy.” He slicks condensation from the bottom of his glass as it pools onto the bar top. “And then I met Lena. She was there at one of our gigs. Perched on a stool near the bar, drinking soda water. She was like me she said. Recovering. Always recovering. We hit it off.”

“Oranges?” I ask.

“Oranges,” he agrees. “She was... wasn’t what she said she was. Right down to the first lie. She wasn’t like me. She just had a good eye for the type of man I was.”

“What kind of man was that?”

“Persuadable. Couldn’t trust myself.” He glances at me before concentrating on emptying his glass. “She took over. I let her. Didn’t fight it when she suggested I let go of music. That it wasn’t good for us. That it wasn’t good for me and I would never be able to separate my addictions. Couldn’t conquer the doubts that came along with it anyway.”

“I’m so sorry, Nox. I didn’t know. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You’re right, you didn’t know. And I’m glad you said something. I’ve been wandering around for years on the fringes of something I love. Listening to bands play here at Mayhem. Teaching guitar without being willing to pick one up myself. Writing music in my mind because as much as I tell myself to shut it off I can’t shut it out. And all the while I’m letting my own demons run all over me. Letting what Lena told me about being unable to separate music from who I was keep me from even picking up a guitar. So you were right. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to jot down a few lines when the mood strikes or pick up an acoustic every now and again. Not go back to the way it was. Just stop denying something that’s so ingrained in me.”

“Did I just hear you say that you wanted to pick up a guitar again?” Dean leans over Nox’s shoulder, a grin plastered across his face before he yells out to Lou, “Nox wants to play again.”

“Play? Like an instrument?” Lou stops what she’s doing, staring at us with an owl-like expression.

“That’s what I said,” Dean slaps Nox on the back. “He wants to play.”

“How? Why?” she asks, moving up the bar to join us. “I thought—”

“I might have been wrong,” Nox slings his arm around my shoulder. “But I’m not talking about playing in front of crowds. Just for myself.”

“Attention.” As a unit we glance over to where Dean stands behind the microphone on stage. When did he walk away? “We have a real treat tonight. My brother has just decided for the first time in...” his brow pulls tight and he counts on his fingers. “Well, a lot of years, that he’s finally ready to pick up a guitar. So let’s get him on stage.”

“Fuck.” Nox growls under his breath.

“He’s excited. This is a good thing.” Lou reaches across the bar to squeeze his shoulder. “But if you don’t want to do it, don’t.”

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