Page 72 of Down Beat
TWENTY-SEVEN
Rey
“Tear Down the Wall” – Art of Dying
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she cries, brow pinched tight.
I thumb in the direction Café Girl headed. “Like me to leave?”
“No.” Tabby shakes her head, finger and thumb pressed to her forehead. “Come in. Shit. I’m sorry.” Her hand drops as I step inside her apartment, and I’m graced with that smile I need so fucking much right now. “I mean, I didn’t expect to see you here, is all.”
I shrug. “Spur of the moment thing.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be wowing thousands?” She chews her thumbnail as she asks the question, leaning against the wall as though she’s unsure what to do.
Fuck. I don’t know what to do now I’m here either; that’s about where my plan ended. “Something like that.”
“Something like that?” she repeats with a raised eyebrow. “I think you better sit your ass down and tell me what the hell is going on, Rey.”
Her short hair bounces as she hotfoots it to the kitchen counter and slams her laptop closed. I edge further into the place as she points to their small sofa.
“Sit.”
I do as instructed, jamming myself against the rolled arm so that there’s plenty of room for her. She drags the stool over and sits on it in front of the TV. Huh.
“What happened?” She places her hands between her knees, face neutral as she waits on me to speak.
I feel as though I’m back at the shrink, and yet I’m more relaxed at the thought of opening up than I’ve ever been.
This is why I’m here: because she makes me feel like that.
“I told them I don’t want to tour anymore.”
“Who’s ‘them’?”
“The band. Management.” I stretch my arms out over the back of the sofa. “Told them yesterday.”
“What did they say?” Her brow pinches, and although she may not realize it, Tabby leans forward, eager to hear the answer.
She’s concerned for me—it’s cute.
“Told me to do the final eleven shows and hold off on making the decision until afterward, or I could kiss another album goodbye.”
Her head pulls back as she lifts both eyebrows. “Extreme.”
“Not really.” I shrug. “I’m fucking with their business by demanding this.”
“So why do it?”
I jerk my head to the sofa. “Come sit here and I’ll tell you.”
A fucking lump wedges in my throat as she slides off the stool and complies. I need her so bad it physically aches. Surely she can see that? Surely it’s written all over my fucking face how broken and desperate I am?
Tabby settles on the opposite end, one leg tucked up beneath her as she sits side-on to face me. “Why do it if it makes such an impact?”
Jesus. I’m not a crier. Really am not. But looking into those warm brown eyes of hers, I want to finally let go of all the anger, the frustration, and the despair. I want to let it out before it downright destroys me, and for the first time I feel as though I’m completely safe to do so.
This keeping a brave face gig is exhausting. I’m tired. I’m done. And yet, I shove that emotion down, like I always have, and swallow away the urge to let it all go.