Everywhere: Book 3 of the Nowhere Trilogy

47. Camarão Que Dorme a Onda Leva (Shrimp That Sleep Will Be Taken By the Waves)

Não pense que meu coração é de papel

Não brinque com o meu interior

(Don't think my heart is made of paper

Don't play around with what's inside of me) - Beth Carvalho

3:21 AM, Tuesday, March 29, 2022

Harry is standing on stage naked. His guitar is strapped over his bare chest, and a pair of pink fuzzy socks on his feet. The entire audience has become silent as they stare at him from their places in the pit or the stands. These large stadiums should be better heated as he's confident his testicles have shrunk due to the cold. A shiver overtakes his body, and he turns soundlessly to Mitch who is fully clothed and makes no comment or gesture regarding Harry's current attire. Why is no one taking pictures? Everyone wants to see his wang normally. Hell, they typically play gifs on repeat whenever he fails to keep it under control. But here in...he gazes down at the cheat sheat on the stage floor...São Paulo, no one seems to care. Licking his lips, he glances at Adam who smiles and nods, encouraging Harry to start playing. But his fingers won't work because he doesn't have a guitar pick. He needs the guitar pick. Where the fuck is it? Chele probably has it. Wait. Where is Chele? His head twists in all directions as he searches frantically for her. The fans are now yelling at him, naming songs he should play. Some are throwing fruit on stage while others are calmly standing with their arms crossed. Chele?! Where is she? The anxiety stretches his chest like he's wearing a weight belt there. As time moves forward and he still can't find Chele, it's like a giant rock from Machu Picchu is resting just over his heart.

With a muttered "fuck", Harry's eyes pop open. His heart is pounding in his chest like a woodpecker, and he can't seem to pull enough oxygen into his lungs. Shit. Another panic attack. Recalling his mindfulness practice, Harry focuses on his breathing, paying attention to the chilly air flowing through his warm nostrils. He counts in his head using a square diagram like his therapist had taught him.

When his body is under control again, Harry sits up in the bed, running his fingers through his hair. He grasps the water bottle on the bedside table, downing at least half of it in his desire to quench his loneliness and fear.

Shit.

Rising, Harry walks into the other bedroom at the condo where he's staying in Sãu Paulo. Without ceremony or warning, he pushes Mitch onto the floor.

The previously-sleeping guitarist sits up on the wooden floor, rubbing his hand over his face. "What the fuck, H?"

"Make up with your girlfriend," Harry orders, leaving the room without looking back. The satisfying sound of the slamming door doesn't reach his ears, and he turns back to find a t-shirt blocking the doorway. For a moment, he considers going back to kick it out of the way so he can hear a loud bang to adequately relieve his emotions. Instead, he allows the bang of his own door to reverberate through the apartment.

This is what happens. Every fucking time. He commits to them. He gets close to them. He loses his heart to them. He makes love to them. They leave.

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3:26 AM, Tuesday, March 29, 2022

The rumbling through the wall wakes her. In her groggy state, she reaches for Harry to comfort her, wanting his arms wrapped around her. She longs to curl under his armpit and feel his heartbeat under her ear. It's the louder slap of a door plus the empty bed that fully draws her from her slumber. Sitting up, she lays her hand on the wall, certain that Harry is on the other side.