Page 11 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

My legs wobble as I slip off the stool, the alcohol sloshing in a foreboding way in my stomach. There’s been a pain in my back all day, so I took some medicine. I probably shouldn’t be drinking while on the stuff, though. There’s a ball of anticipation lodged in my throat. I don’t know what is going to happen, if anything, but for the first time in a while, I’m fucking excited.

Some big dude bumps into me, damn near knocking me to the ground.

“Sorry,” he chirps and keeps going.

I don’t know that this crowd was ever really my scene before Phoenix. I guess I look the part, but more times than not, there’s a sense of not belonging here. Glancing down at my single band t-shirt, I try to recall any Metallica songs that aren’tEnter Sandman.I don’t even like Metallica. The first time I met Phoenix, I was wearing this shirt. Maybe that’s why I packed it. Another kick to his broken heart.

I don’t need you anymore.That’s what this shirt represents. Did I ever really need him? Maybe. Maybe I needed him more than I needed anything or anyone.

Flicking my eyes up to the stage as the lights dim and the crowd goes nuts, I bite the inside of my cheek. He was so shy when we met—totally out of his element. I remember catching him staring at me with his unusual eyes. I have never met anyone else with eyes like his. Butterflies form in my stomach when shadows cast over the stage from the side door. His band is through it, waiting to come out. I’ve seen them play a few times, but I don’t remember those shows. The noise in my head had been too loud, so I had to snuff it out.

It feels like I’m seeing them for the very first time.

I take in his drumset, the silver sparkles accentuating his bass drums. It’s not the biggest kit out there, so I’ll be able to see his face when he sits behind it. Then, I glance up at the backdrop with their band logo. I rise on my toes, peering over the heads of people way taller than me, and focus on the side door. A track plays through the stage speakers, ambient and ominous music setting the mood. I’ve heard the song it’ll eventually transform into. Chills burst out over my arms.

I feel…present. Drunk, a little nauseous, but present. I inhale deeply, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds. Cheers explode around me as they snap open again.

Fuck. There he is.

The air stills in my lungs while Phoenix quickly waves at the crowd before taking his seat behind the drums. I wet my lips, dizzy. His hair is down, not quite dirty blonde, but not quite brown either. Constantly shifting in the right lighting. It’s longer than it was last year, brushing his elbows. The giant plugs in his ears jiggle as he gets his sticks from the floor tom. I can’t see his feet. I move through people, not caring if I elbow sides or step on toes. I need to get closer.

More hoots ‘n hollers sound off when the rest of the band comes out and I’m half way to the stage. People pack in like sardines, closing all gaps to get as close as possible. Jorge, Phoenix’s best friend, grabs the microphone and greets the fans. I spot Michael, Devon, and Kelly sliding behind her keyboard. There’s a shift in the recorded track, building in intensity.

It feels like I’m clawing through quicksand, desperate to reach the surface. Several annoyed grunts come from the people I’m shoving through, but no one stops me. I get about three rows away from the stage and stop.

Phoenix raises his arms, taps his drumsticks three times, and the song begins.

God damn, he’s still as beautiful as ever.

Phoenix

Hanging On

Five songs.

We’ve played four already.

For an opening band, it’s a decent amount of time. I’m not tired, but I’m sweaty. This venue is smaller than the others so far. I quickly chug some water from the bottle I keep behind my stool, sneaking glances at my bandmates, who do the same.

Jorge works the crowd after he’s done, getting them hyped for the song I know they came to hear. Isolated keeps gaining more traction. Even some of those people on YouTube who do reactions are making videos with the song. I hated making that music video, but thankfully, the director, Trent, was kind enough to have only minimal shots of me. And even those only showcased my hair.

I glance at Kelly, who is observing the crowd and tweaking her keyboard in preparation. Her eyes round briefly, and then she glances at Michael next to her. He pivots his face back at me, and I mouthwhat’s up?Both he and Kelly say nothing but quickly whisper to each other. My gut bubbles uncomfortably, but I ignore it. I’m sure whatever it is, they’ll tell me when we’re done. It's probably that Jorge’s mic isn’t loud enough or something. Quickly wiping my face and pushing my hair off my arms, I grab my sticks, adrenaline fueling me.

Last song.

Devon’s mohawk is drooping a little from the humidity, so it flops forward when he bends to check his peddles. I’ll be sure to tease him about it tonight when he’s cursing his hairspray. The smallest of smiles forms on my lips while I think about it, and then—like fucking lightning—my heart jackhammers in my chest.

Between my cymbal and high tom, I catch movement in the front of the crowd. Bodies part as someone presses through. The lights shining on us cast most of their faces in shadows, but I see a flash of pink on a pale neck.

I interrupt Jorge, who announces the song, beat down on my kit, and kick off the song. The rest of my band catches on fast, Michael’s fingers gliding over the fretboard. Jorge flips around to study me for a second or two then starts singing. The crowd goes nuts, singing along. I keep my eyes glued to my kit while my throat seizes shut.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

I hammer the bass drum, alternating through each drum and cymbal while holding the beat with perfect timing, fueling my emotions into the best I’ve ever played.

What thefuckis he doing here? He’s had a week of shows to come and burst my bubble but hasn’t. Why now? Keenly aware my lucky socks are dirty, I curse myself and keep playing. It doesn’t matter. Let him watch. Let him see howgreatI’m doing without him.

I’m perfect.

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