Revolt (Legends and Love)

I lose myself in the music. My notebooks are spread around me, my guitar sits to the side, and the piano is open. I drum my fingers over the keys, trying to work through the problem in the melody. I know what I want to sing, but I can’t seem to figure out the arrangement, and I don’t want to show it to Jack until I’m sure.

Sighing, I scribble through the line and stretch my arms above my head. My back aches and my eyes are blurry, which tells me it’s been hours. I have a tendency to lose myself in my work, sometimes for days at a time, barely eating or sleeping. It’s a bad habit, but if I stop, it breaks my creativity and I struggle to get back into it.

Humming the melody I want, I pick up the guitar and rest it on my thighs, my comfy shorts riding up as I bend one leg under me where I’m perched on the stool. I close my eyes as I strum the chords, trying to fix the composition, and words flow as I play. Sometimes, just throwing myself into it is how I get the best songs. There is no thinking or second-guessing this way, and I can always make tweaks after.

“I guess I fell in love with a lie, nothing was true. Just some pretty lies spread from the lips I craved more than air in my lungs . . .” I break off and try again.

“Such a pretty liar, love was just another game to you. I saw the future, immortality held in your arms only to be buried away in your past.”

Humming the next few notes, I strum more chords before turning to the notebook and scribbling down some rough lyrics with the melody.

I choke on your lies,

tears like fire tearing me apart,

devouring me with my mistakes.

With my regrets.

Wrap me in your arms, make it okay.

It’s then I sense eyes on me. I don’t know how long they have been here, but someone is watching me. Lifting my head, I spot Dal. He’s leaning against the doorway. His suit jacket and shirt are gone, leaving a rumpled tank covering his torso, and his hair is slightly out of place. It must be late.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says, his voice slightly rough as if from misuse. I’m already sure he doesn’t speak a lot unless he feels the need to, and when he does, it’s succinct and well thought out.

“No, it’s okay. I need a break anyway.” I carefully place the worn guitar away. It’s the one I’ve had since I first started. I saved up to buy it from a secondhand store when I should have been buying food. I went hungry for a week, but it was so worth it. This guitar has carried me throughout the years and become my safety net. It’s what I create every song on and always will. It’s one of the only possessions I have from my past. My name and his are scratched into it. I run my fingers over the etchings we did under a tree, the sun shining down on us.

“You’ll make it big, Rey. If anybody can, it’s you,” he promised solemnly.

My fingers catch on the uneven words—Rey and Kai.

“Hmm, sorry?” I ask, my head jerking up. He was speaking while I was lost in my past.

He watches me carefully, glancing from the guitar to me, and seems to hesitate. Smiling, I lift my knees and sit cross-legged, but instead of asking the questions in his eyes, he simply comments, “Your phone rang a million times.”

“Ignore it,” I tell him. “You want to ask me something, so ask.” I shrug, uncaring about the outside world but curious about what he’ll ask.

He hesitates a little more, looking over his shoulder before observing me and seeming to come to some sort of conclusion. “Where did you go for all those months?”

I want to offer something noncommittal, like exploring or traveling, but I know that would disappoint him. I don’t know why I care about what he thinks of me, but I realize I do. Something about him implores me to give him the truth, even just a sliver. He could report it back to my manager or sell it to the tabloids, but I have to give him something. “Someplace no one would ever find me,” I say, glancing back at the guitar before raising my eyes and meeting his cautious gaze once more. “I needed to find my peace again . . . to find myself again.” He blinks, and I laugh self-consciously, rubbing my tired eyes. “I suppose that doesn’t make much sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” he says, and I look up to smile at him. He smiles back. “There is food upstairs. You should eat before you get back into it. I liked the last song by the way. It was . . . raw.” He turns, and that’s when I see the scar from a bullet on his shoulder and his words come back to me.

It makes perfect sense.

Maybe I’m not the only one who ran away. Maybe I’m not the only one struggling with my past.

Now, I’m even more curious than I was before about the four men who barged into my life.

Who are they really?

More importantly, can I trust them?

I spend a few more hours in the studio, pouring over my lyrics until my brain can’t take anymore, and then I shut down the equipment, but I can’t bring myself to go upstairs. Instead, I curl up on the sofa and trace the scratched leather. So many memories are coming back, happy ones of rehearsing and writing in here with Tucker.

He infected every inch of my life, and every room of my house has memories of him, both good and bad. There was the time when I came back and he was drunk in the studio. He ended up throwing a glass bottle near my head. There is still a dent in the soundproofing to remember it by. There was also the time we made love on this sofa after writing a best-selling love song for him.

Always for him.

Sighing, I close my eyes and stretch out my legs, trying to forget the memories. It was easier when I was just mad at him, and I am, but part of my soul still misses the connection we had. I thought we were forever, which was probably naïve of me, but when that was shattered, it was easier to be in a place without memories of him. I don’t want him back. I don’t even want what we had back. I’m still mad and hurt over it, but it doesn’t mean part of me can’t still grieve.

I’ve had enough grief in my life, though, so I know how to handle it. My eyes open and lock on the guitar, pain clutching at my throat until I choke on it.

Lyrics form in my head, lyrics more familiar than my own voice. They are bitter and filled with so much pain, I can’t speak them out loud. They float around my head, filled with childish love and hope which is now nothing but dust.

Run, little one, the lost boys are coming.

No. I cover my face, refusing to sing those out loud ever again. I can’t. It hurts too much, yet as if by conjured by the words, his face floats in front of mine, and before I do something stupid like spiral like I used to, numbing myself with drugs and alcohol and earning the nicknames they call me, I close the studio and head upstairs, trying to outrun my past like I have been since the day the coffin was lowered into the ground.