For A While

Emily was mine. But I wasn't hers. Either she was oblivious or she chose not to care. When I was away on the road, she'd always call. Every night after I got off stage, drenched in sweat with my nerves on fire from all of the attention, there'd be a message waiting from her, “how'd it go?” or “thinking of you.”

When I would drag myself through the airport after the tiresome months touring some country, Emily would meet me with nothing but smiles. For a moment, she would ignore Alice standing right beside me with a glint in her eye and she'd pull me into a hug. We had a routine where she would press tight against me, run her hands through my stringy hair and inhale. She'd whisper “I miss you” in my ear. I would cut this short and walk out to the parking lot to find my car and Alice and I would embark on the journey of packing our many items of luggage and instrument cases while Emily wait in the drivers seat.

Some time on the ride home, I would smile. When Emily asked why – as she always did – I'd say, “you." It was another part of this welcome home routine and to break it was unfathomable. Even if sometimes I might be lying. Of course, sometimes it was the sight of her that made me happy and that alone. Mostly, it was because I liked just being reminded of this part of my life. Being away from what I called my home such a large chunk out of the year left me feeling like I was hovering. Like I didn't belong anywhere. Just a parcel, being passed from city to city to provide entertainment, no matter the cost. Seeing her reminded me that I had a home, one she made just for me, always with a smile.

Alice can't drive, so she was always there in the back seat, eyes trained on the road. Emily would start on her prattling about her time while I was away. She never expected me to say anything, so I never did.

For some terrible reason, I'd always find myself looking into the rear-view mirror at Alice. Her eyes were always glassy, expression void of any apparent emotion. Or maybe I just couldn't understand what went on inside of her head. I used to be able to curl up inside of there so easily, but that was lost long ago in her self-deprecation. Occasionally, she'd reach the back of her bony hand up to her face to drag it across her nose. Or, sometimes, she'd scratch at her arms and bite her lip as she closed her eyes and let her head tilt back to hit the seat. Soon after, she'd go back to peering out of the window and ask, “are we almost there?” voice cracking with urgency.

“Yes,” Emily would tiredly reply before continuing with a one-sided conversation.

I had taken note of all of these things, a checklist to go through in my mind. Emily never failed to disappoint, neither did Alice. I'd tortured myself checking to make sure Alice followed through with her usual routine. She hid everything so well. I'd have to pull at my skin and cast my gaze away from Alice eventually to keep from losing it. But her lies would still resurface in my brain, the ones she was so good at reciting back to me. “I'm fine" or "There's nothing to worry about." And I'd remember those nights when she'd stumble onto the tour bus late and crawl into the bunk across from mine. With dilated pupils and gnashing teeth, she would reach her clammy hand out to me and pat my hair. “I really love you. I'm so glad we're on tour together. I'd never want to do it with anyone else!” She'd continue on like this until I'd finally mumble, “me too.”

When Emily and I would get home, free of Alice, I'd find a smile on my face when I looked in the mirror. With Alice gone, it was possible to be free and happy. Without her, I had a chance. But how I'd miss her so. I'd think about all of these things, now. Sometimes I'd dream about them as I curled up next to Emily, my rock, my tie to the ground. Without Alice and touring making constant appearances in my life, her significance was fading. But I'd still sling my arm around her and cradle my head into the crook of her neck as Alice with her late nights and dropped promises filled my nightmares.