Page 9 of Crash & Burn

Eddie’s green eyes.

Eddie’s worried expression.

Eddie’s clenched fists as I told Mateo what happened at the bar.

Eddie, my brother’s bandmate, roommate, and best friend.

Eddie who probably thinks I’m as fucked up as Mateo makes me out to be.

Without another thought, I put on a pair of leggings, a sports bra, and sneakers, careful to avoid irritating my right hand. It doesn’t hurt half as bad as I thought it would this morning, but I will need to be careful with it over the next few days so it can heal. Once I’ve brushed my teeth and pulled back my hair, I’m out the door to blow off some steam on this lovely Sunday morning that Mateo will inevitably ruin when he calls me to rehash last night’s fight.

Running is a form of self-care I try to implement, and it helps me get out of the house, which my therapist noted I should do more of. Just like I predicted, Mateo called me on my run, but I ignored the vibrating and kept going, telling myself I will call him when I get back to my apartment.

My true crime podcast isn’t as motivating as my old running playlists, but the voices retelling a case where an abused woman cuts off the penis of her abuser keeps my mind from spiraling.

When I get home, I shower and make a smoothie for breakfast before I sit down to call Mateo back. Sundays are the only days he doesn’t start band practice until ten, so I know this next hour is going to be a lot of listening to him tell me I need to clean up my act.

I know he’s frustrated with me, and I can understand he feels like I’ve changed, but I don’t know what else to tell him.

I sit on the couch right as my phone rings again. For a moment, I consider ignoring my brother for a second time, but I ultimately decide that I should just get this over with.

I put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Mateo responds.

“I’m assuming you’re calling to continue our conversation from last night?”

“Yeah, about that,” he pauses for a moment, trying to put together the words he wants to say next. “I’m sorry for bringing up Nico. I couldn’t sleep last night knowing I threw that at you, but I can’t help but think how you have been acting lately roots back to him.”

I let out a shaky sigh.

Hearing Nico’s name always sends a shock through my system. Mateo is the only one, aside from Nico’s family, who knows what happenedthatnight, but it’s never gotten easier to talk about him. Not with my therapist, not with Mateo, not with anyone.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Mia, I can’t say I know what you’re going through because I don’t. The closest thing I can relate to is when Mom and Dad died, but I know it isn’t the same.” Mateo had to deal with the grief of losing our parents while he was learning how to parent an eight-year old, and I know it wasn’t easy for him. “I remember there were daily aspects of my life that became hard for me after they died because it reminded me of them, but I didn’t let it take over my whole life.”

I half-listen as Mateo goes on about how there are certain smells that bring back memories or certain foods he can’t eat without wanting to cry, but I just can’t relate. His thoughts and feelings about our parents’ death are completely valid, but they belong to him.

He continues, “I’m just trying to understand what you’re going through, but I can’t unless you explain it to me.”

Mateo has absolutely no idea about how music has become a trigger for me. When I listen to music, my thoughts start racing trying to remember Nico’s song, pulling me back into memories that can send me into a panic attack if I let them. And how the hell am I going to explain that to him without making him worry about me any more than he already does?

Through therapy, I’ve learned to cope because it’s impossible to avoid music all together, especially with a lead singer of a rock band for a brother. I can usually tolerate music just fine when I’m distracted by something else. I can let the music fall into the background.

When I don’t respond to his earlier sentiment, he redirects the conversation in the most unexpected way. “You’re going to come work for me.”

“Um, what? What the hell are you talking about?” I ask, defensiveness lining my words.

“I’m hiring you as our band photographer.”

“Absolutely not,” I assert.

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not. You can’t just make up a job for me, so you can keep a better eye on me,” I explain. “I haven’t taken pictures since—” I pause because I don’t know how to finish that sentence. I can’t even remember the last time I picked up my camera.

“Exactly,” Mateo responds, keeping his voice calm and even, as if he’s approaching a wounded animal. “You need to dive back into it. You love photography, and you’re good at it. Plus, we need someone to take pictures for our social media. If we want to get onto a U.S. tour, we really have to impress the scene with these Midwest shows.”

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