Page 66 of Crash & Burn

“Ever since Nico died, music has never sounded the same.” It is the easiest way to explain something so complicated. I know how crazy it sounds that I drive myself insane trying to find Nico’s song in music that isn’t his, but I can’t help it.

“You said he was writing you a song before he died, right?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah, why?” I turn to look at him, almost seeing the wheels turning in his head. But, for once, I have no idea what he is thinking.

“Just wondering,” he answers. “Music has a way of pulling up feelings we try to keep down, almost like the lyrics find a way to speak to us, even when we don’t want to listen.”

I let out a sigh, “Wow.” That is all I can say. I know exactly what Eddie means, but it sounds so meaningful, so finite, when he says it. Like there is no other explanation for why music triggers memories that are so painful to remember.

I finally realize something in this moment.

Music isn’t the trigger to my anxiety or panic attacks.

It is the memories that come with it.

I wonder, since I feel like I have come so far with being able to think of Nico without feeling like my heart is being ripped out of my chest, maybe music won’t feel as painful either.

I pull my phone out from the pocket of my hoodie, plugging it back into the AUX cord. I tap on the Spotify app that hasn’t been touched in years, and I log into my account.

Once I’m in my account, so many memories, not just of Nico, come flooding back as I scroll through the playlist I used to listen to on rotation.

There is a playlist of songs for every mood I could ever be in, and one to fit any time of day. I smile to myself as I scroll through, seeing the playlist I would always listen to while I showered or the one I would blast in the car. I see the playlist I made for Nico, and the one we made together to see how aligned our music taste is—was.

I feel like I’m floating between a space of wishing I never opened the app and wishing I did it sooner. My eyes sting at the memory, but I can’t help but let out a breath of fresh air at the fact that I am in control. My mind isn’t taking over, tricking me into thinking that I’m not.

A hand on my leg grounds me, and I look down to see Eddie’s hand lightly grippingmythigh. Our eyes meet for a moment before he has to look back on the road, and something passes between us.

It is like he is telling me he’s here.

Here for me.

If I need him.

And I do.

I place my hand on his as I tap on my playlist titled “Songs to Scream in the Car” and the opening notes of “When I’m Alone” by Post Malone start. One of my favorite songs. The song my brother picked for Cross My Heart to cover at their shows.

I take my hand off Eddie’s to turn up the volume of the car speakers before taking his hand in mine, interlocking our fingers, and squeezing tight.

Then, I sing.

I sing at the top of my lungs, not caring how bad it sounds.

Tears run down my cheeks, but I haven’t felt this much like myself, thisalive,in months, and I never want to lose the feeling again.

The next song plays and it’s, “She Looks So Perfect” by 5 Seconds of Summer, and I sing even louder. I feel like I’m on top of the world as Eddie rolls the windows down, and I feel the warm summer air. I set my phone on my lap to reach my other arm out the window, and I turn to see Eddie, and the smile on his face makes my stomach jump because it is the same smile I see him with on stage.

Hisrealsmile.

The one where the skin next to his eyes crinkles and the green of his irises shine a little brighter, his one dimple on full display, causing the scar on his face to fade.

When Eddie talked about his dad, I knew the night where my brother, Theo, and Silas had to pull him off his father, is the night he got the scar.

The thought of Eddie having to carry a reminder of that night with him, everywhere he went, left me feeling like I couldn’t breathe. We all have scars from the shitty things that happened to us, but we can often hide them because they’re on the inside.

No wonder he feels like he always needs to be smiling, distracting others from the one thing he couldn’t get away from that night.

The memory.

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