Page 5 of I Do With You

Three weeks in the middle of small-town nowhere, in a resort cottage nestled smack in the center of all sorts of nature, should be an amazing reprieve after the stress of the last few months. A headlining tour of the United States had been my dream since I was a teenager fingering my first guitar instead of the girls I was too shy to talk to. Instead, it was a long run of late nights, dirty clubs with people literally trying to rip the clothes off my body, and so many hours with my bandmates that we’re all done with each other. If I see Sean’s face anytime soon, I might punch him and smile as he gets the bloodletting he deserves. I’m sure the feeling’s mutual too.

It wouldn’t be the first time. He was right by my side with that first guitar, drumming on everything from tables to his thighs, learning and dreaming right along with me, which led to some arguments and fights back then. I thought those times would be behind us when we made it, but that dream has become a nightmare.

It’s not all his fault.

It’s not. He’s as done with me as I am with him, but given that we’re two of the mainstays of our metal band, Midnight Destruction, we need to get our shit sorted or we’ll both get fucked in the end. The contract we’ve signed basically guarantees it.

Fucking AMM Records. We thought they were genies granting wishes with one swoop of a pen when we signed on with them. It’s been quite a bit messier than expected, though, with them demanding rewrites of my lyrics, taking huge percentages of our sales, and leaking reports of the difficulties between Sean and me because it’s good for press since everyone takes a side, choosing their favorite bandmate to rally behind like we’re Pokémon characters in a battle.

As much as I hate all that drama, being out here in the sticks with a complete and utter lack of a schedule, expectations, and my bandmates is ... boring. I mean, fuck, is today’s highlight reel gonna be maybe, possibly, sorta seeing a damn bird that I don’t give a shit about?

Annoyed, I reach into my pocket for my phone, but when I don’t find it, I remember that I left it at the cottage on purpose.Be present in the moment,I’d told myself. Fuck past me. He’s an idiot.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

That’s been my mantra for nearly a year while my whole world was basically roaring sky-high in flames. Literal onstage pyrotechnics every night but also internal fires. Some dark, like my fights with Sean; some light, like the smiles and sing-alongs with fans; and some a combination of both, like when I’m inspired to write the lines and phrases that become our song lyrics.

All flames, all the same. Destructive, constructive. Watch me burn, maybe then you’ll learn.

Not bad, but by the time I get back from my hike, I’ll have forgotten the simple words since I can’t jot them down anywhere.

I take a few more steps along the path, the potential lyrics already fading, when I hear a crashing sound coming through the forest. Stupidly, my first thought is that a rabid fan has found me, which really is ridiculous, considering we wear masks and body paint onstage, so I wouldn’t be recognizable anyway. That was one of Sean’s earliest and best strokes of genius, which has given us some degree of anonymity and helped with my performance nerves.

Thankfully, my very next quick thought is,Are there bears out here? Because that’s no tufted titmouse. Or even a flock of ... titmice?

I step off the trail, ducking behind a tree that’s nowhere near wide enough to cover even half my body, and rack my brain for tips and tricks on how to survive a bear attack. Seems like that should’ve been covered in the gas station book, but I flipped through the whole thing and there was nothing bear-specific. I’m left with snippets from old cartoons, internet memes, and bullshitting sessions with the guys after watchingCocaine Bear, in which we bragged about how we would’ve handled ourselves.

Play dead? Look bigger than you are? Stop, drop, and roll?

No, the last one is when you’re on fire. Not being stalked by a bear.

“Go, go, go ...,” I hear a voice panting.

Do bears talk? Is that something I’ve missed while I’ve been hibernating with a sole focus on music? Or maybe it was grunting I heard, and I imagined that it sounded humanesque.

“Shiiiit,” a definitely human—not ursine—voice hisses. In fact, it sounds rather like a feminine voice who’s in trouble.

So I step out and nearly run headfirst into ... a bride?

“Aaaahhh!”she screams in terror at my sudden appearance, her arms flailing wildly like she’s trying to fight off a bear attack herself. Her dress swirls around her noisily, trapping her legs, and her veil is hung up on a tree branch a good foot behind her. “Friend, not food!”she shouts, and I think she’s trying to tell a bear not to eat her. Which is sort of ironic, considering my thoughts three seconds ago.

When she swats at my face, I catch her arms in my hands, forcibly holding her still. Bending down to look her directly in her eyes, I try to keep my voice calm because Miss Bride is completely hysterical. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“You’re not a bear,” she says wonderingly, like she doesn’t quite believe what’s right in front of her. She’s still looking at me as if she’s not sure of her assessment, like maybe I’m hiding pointy teeth and a fur pelt under my skin. I know some women are into the whole shape-shifter thing, but I’m just me. Human.

I stare back at her in confusion. “Where did you come from? Are you okay?” I ask again. She doesn’t look it. I’d guess at some point today, her hair and makeup were professionally done, but now? She’s disheveled and messy, with sticks in her brown hair, mascara and eyeliner running under her eyes in telltale rivers of tears, and dirty smudges on her white gown.

I take a mental snapshot because whatever is happening with her, she’s an entire song.

Tear-soaked angel, vision in white. Wasted and washed away. Promised tomorrow slips into disarray.

I must have drifted off into my head for a moment, because she starts struggling in my hands, fighting to break free of my hold. “Who are you? Are you just creeping in the woods like a creepy creeper?” she demands, like I’m the one who obviously doesn’t belong here, with my jeans, T-shirt, and boots, while she’s wearing an actual wedding gown.

While her descriptive language leaves something to be desired, I answer her question anyway. With some of the truth. “Hiking. I’m taking a walk, supposed to be looking for tufted titmouses—titmice?—but instead got run over and attacked. By a bride.”

“Oh,” she says, startled by my framing of the last few moments. “Sorry. I’m ...” She smooths her dress, like that’s going to do a fucking thing for the mess it’s in, and then horror strikes her face. “Oh myGod! I ran away from my wedding!” she whisper-screams as she slaps her hands over her mouth.

“Okay,” I drawl out, not sure what to do with that information. I mean, it makes sense. Why else would she be out here in a wedding dress, running for her life? It’s not every day one gets dropped into the middle of a Hallmark-meets-horror movie. All I know is that if a secret prince or a motherfucker in a hockey mask shows up, I’m bailing faster than you can say,He always seemed so normal.“Is your fiancé an asshole or something? Are you in danger?”

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