Page 62 of Chronicles of a Rockin' Mess

He wipes another tear from his cheek. I just want to pull him into an embrace and kiss his tears away, but I can’t. I’m just his friend…well, his friend who had amazing sex with him last night, his friend with a giant crush on him, his friend who is in love with him.

“I’m as OK as I can be,” he admits.

“Tell me about her,” I say. I’ve known this man for over four years now, and he’s never once talked about Carrie besides telling me she died of cancer and he turned to music to deal with it. I’ve never pried because I’ve always sensed that this was a very difficult thing for him to discuss.

He puts his hand over mine and squeezes it. “She was funny, really, really funny. And was always happy, even as a baby I remember her being so fucking happy. No matter how many horrible treatments she had, she was always smiling. She was really good at Mario Kart. She used to kick my ass at it all the time. She loved reading, loved playing the piano, and she could sing. She was my best friend,” he says as another tear rolls down his cheek. “I miss her every fucking day,” he whispers.

I lean my head on his shoulder. “I’m sure she’d be really proud of you, Lincoln,” I say to him. I feel him lean his head on top of mine.

“She’d have been in the band,” he says with a small laugh. “Probably running this shit.”

I laugh. “I think I would have liked her.”

“I think she would have liked you, too,” he says.

“Let’s go to your house,” I say to him. He looks at me in confusion.

“Your parents’ house,” I clarify.

“I…” He trails off.

“Come on, I have a spare key. Your mom dropped it off a long time ago. I keep it on my key chain in case you ever need me to drop something off,” I explain.

His eyes widen. “You really are an amazing PA,” he says, standing and holding out his hand for me.

I shrug. “I just like to be ready for anything,” I say to him.

He doesn’t let go of my hand as we walk toward his childhood home. When we reach the front door of the ranch house with a carport, I hand him the key and he unlocks the door. I follow him toward the back of the house and down a hallway where he pauses in front of one door and then goes to another.

He opens it, and I gasp. I’ve never been in here before. It’s Carrie’s room, and it’s a shrine. It looks like the room of a fourteen-year-old girl about ten years ago. There are posters on one wall and a bulletin board/dry erase board with notes and other miscellaneous items. The furniture looks antique, but the décor looks quintessential teenage girl. I walk over to a shelf and peruse her books. I glance over to see a keyboard with a music book open to Phantom of the Opera. I turn to Lincoln who stands at the doorway watching me intently.

“You’re right. I think Carrie and I would have liked each other,” I say in agreement.

He runs a hand through his hair. “I never come in here,” he admits.

“Why?” I ask him.

“It’s just…it’s too hard. It’s like a punch in the gut every time I open this door. I don’t understand why they won’t just give away her stuff and let her go,” he says.

I walk over to him. “She was their baby. They’ll never let her go, just like you’ll never let her go,” I say. “She’s always going to be a part of all of you.”

I see his face go from distraught to angry. He pounds a fist on the doorframe. “It’s just fucking not fair!” he yells. “She was only fourteen!”

I touch his chest which is heaving. “I know. It’s not fair,” I agree. I look back around the room. “Is that why you don’t come here often? You don’t want to see this?”

He shrugs, some of the anger leaves his face.

“They talk about her all the time. It’s like she never died,” he says quietly as he steps inside the room. He’s tentative as he approaches her desk. It’s then I see what he’s looking at, it’s four photos from a photobooth, Lincoln and Carrie. She’s wearing a hat, but you can tell she has no hair, and just like Lincoln described her, she’s smiling and making goofy faces. In the last one, she’s kissing his cheek while he rolls his eyes. I smile.

I see him study the photos, and I know he’s remembering when they were taken. I decide to try another tactic. “Take me to your room,” I say to him as I take his hand and lead him toward the doorway. I have never really explored his room before, it felt too personal, but now I want to see it.

He walks to the next door, the one we passed, and pauses before turning the knob and pushing it open.

I step inside after him and grin. It hasn’t changed either. This is the room of a teenage boy. There are also posters in here too. He has fewer books and only one photo. A picture of him and Carrie at the beach as kids. There are superhero figurines, a signed baseball, an older acoustic guitar sits in the corner next to a beanbag chair.

“So, this is where the magic happens?” I ask him, turning to face him.

He raises his eyebrows.

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