“Why?” I couldn’t if I wanted to.
It was there again, the unbelievable static. My whole body trembled in anticipation. I felt sick and alive as my hair stood on end, warmth everywhere—so much warmth. He towered over me as I looked up at him with permission and fear. “You don’t want me there?”
His voice was laced with an edge. “No.”
I pushed.
“Do you want me here?” I asked as I stood flush to him, my eyes pleading, my lips begging. “Kiss me, Reid. Once. Just kiss me. If you don’t like it, you never have to do it again.”
His head slowly bent, our eyes locked, and he leaned in. “No.”
“Yes,” I urged then licked my bottom lip. His eyes followed and his lips turned into a smug smirk.
“What about your boyfriend at the restaurant?”
“Reid,” I said on a whimper. We were so close, the lines crossed and my breathing heavy. My lungs filled, and I was dying to exhale into him. My heart thudded so hard I could swear he could hear it. I was completely immersed in his eyes, drunk on temptation, done.
Pissed at his hesitation, I took a step back with a forced and defiant grin. “I won’t offer again.” I shouldered past him, blocking the door. My breath caught when he gripped my arm and his head bent so that our lips brushed as he spoke. “This can’t happen.”
“If you say so,” I bit out before I ripped my arm away and pushed through the hot air of the apartment laced with alcohol and bodies before walking out the front door. I needed more air. I needed to stop drinking tequila, or anything for that matter. I’d made a fool of myself. If Paige knew, she would accuse me, as usual, of being overly dramatic.
Because I’d always been an emotional person. I cringed when I heard the words “calm down,” and got highly offended when they were directed toward me. They were like battery acid being thrown at the overly sensitive.
It was hard for me to keep them bottled, a problem for me through most of my life. That was the thing about musicians that I envied most. They could bleed at the top of their lungs for a few hours a day on stage, pouring out their hearts, hurts, or anger into the crowd, and they were worshiped for it. It was not such an epic affair when your emotions bleed into everyday life and have an overabundance of them bubbling to the surface.
One of the most powerful pictures in music history wasn’t on the cover of a magazine. It was a candid snapshot of Kurt Cobain crying backstage. I remember staring at the picture for hours. He was sitting on the floor in ripped jeans and a flannel shirt, one elbow braced on his knee, while he fisted his hair with his other hand, his face twisted in agony, crying freely. Even with his warranted success, his emotions ruled him. That picture should never have been taken. It was a moment of weakness and he deserved to have it alone. But at the same time, that powerful snapshot made me feel like I wasn’t alone in my struggle to keep my emotions at bay. I understood his inability to keep them in check even in the public eye, and especially when it hurt.
I was the crier and puker in the family and constantly scolded by my mother not to take things so seriously. When I got overly excited, I would often throw up, especially at Christmas. It was my mother’s worst nightmare. “Oh, Mommy, Mommy, Santa got me a new doll.” Bleh. “Oh, Mommy, it’s the first day of school!” Bleh. And so forth and so on.
I wasn’t happy about it. I often felt uncomfortable in my own skin, especially as time marched on. It made for euphorically charged, angry periods and days where I had to walk myself stupid to get the aggression out. It was never a pendulum swing of daily emotions type of deal, though I was tested for bipolar and every disorder under the sun. And the verdict always came back the same. “Stella just seems to be an emotionally charged kid. She’s passionate.”
My father put an end to my mother’s scrutiny, telling her she was very much the same way when they were younger. My mother had taken serious offense, and that was one of the biggest fights they had in their marriage, which only proved my dad’s point. He still pokes fun at her about it to this day. I still remember his words to me when I got into a fight at school. I was crying in his lap.
“Boo, listen. You can’t go beating up everyone that pisses you off. Use your words, I promise you they are much better weapons. But be careful with them because bruises heal.”
It was the typical sitcom, father/daughter talk, except his next words resonated the most.
“You are so much like your mother. She doesn’t see it, but I do. Just remember when you’re yelling, you’re hurt. And whoever hurt you probably loves you just as much.”
I was an emotionally charged woman as well—passionate—just with a little better grasp on how to deal with it, and music was my outlet. It was my sanctuary where I could bleed, get angry, or hurt, without consequence.
Everyone, at some point in their life, breathes and grieves through song, but for me, it was daily therapy.
When a certain song plucked those strings in my chest, I felt it all, and it was freedom. Those songs didn’t judge or tell me I was a fool for feeling the way I did. They told me they were with me. It was how I balanced my life and my passion.
Sometimes I envied those girls who had a better hold on their emotions and could reel them in and keep it together. But I wasn’t them, and so I found my solution in sound, and in that, I found my calm.
I ended up walking around the park across the street, drunk and muttering to myself like a lunatic. I heard Paige call my name and ignored her. After several miles of an alcohol-driven nature walk, I went back to the apartment and was met with the furious eyes of Reid Crowne. He glared up at me from the bottom step, stood, and then took off toward his place. Paige was just as pissed off inside. “Where the hell have you been? You’ve been gone for two hours!”
“I took a walk,” I defended as she shut the door behind me.
“In the middle of the night?”
“Stop worrying about me!”
“Reid walked the complex the whole time. He has a shift in four hours!”
Guilt surfaced as I stood staring at her. “I was at the park across the street. I’ll apologize.”
“No, you stay away from him. His life is complicated enough without bringing in your drama.”
I bared my teeth. “My drama? I took a walk.”
“Stella,” she said on a long breath, “just stay away from him.”
“Who the hell are you to tell me that?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your sister and his best friend. I know you both. This is the last thing either of you needs.”
I pushed, exhausted. “What thing?”
“Look,” she said, ignoring me as she began collecting beer bottles, “we talked about it and we both agree it’s for the best.”
“You talked about it?” I felt my body tense with anger and humiliation. “You had a conversation with Reid about whether or not we can . . . What in the hell, Paige?”
“It’s for your own good and his.”
“Are you kidding me?” I said with my arms crossed, cringing and fuming. “Let’s get one thing straight. No one, not even you, dear sister, gets to make those decisions for me. I’ll be out of here in a few weeks, and after that, your job is done. You get to be there for me, but not govern me. I don’t do well with authority, and you have crossed the fucking line.”
Paige gawked at me. “You hated him.”
“I still do,” I said as I snatched the trash from her hands. “Just go to bed, and thanks for humiliating me.”
“I’m just trying to keep you from getting hurt.”
“The only one that hurt me tonight was you,” I lied. Reid’s rejection stung, but the whole thing was already disastrous and apparently had been decided. “And for someone who speaks so highly of him, you sure are changing your tune.”