AFTER ALL OUR BROKEN PIECES: A SHORT STORY

KYLER

Five scratches have been etched into the wall beside me. Five of them. I know, sounds straight from a horror flick, like fingernails scratching against a walled prison by someone desperate to escape, right?

Not even close.

I can almost guarantee why they're there.

Time.

Yeah, exactly.

That bitch we know and don't love.

This is a testament to some dude's hope. A countdown to an end. Knowing that those sleepless nights, endless days, tormented hours and exhausting minutes of being away from his girl are nothing more than five simple ticks from coming to an end. Each one carved with the thought of holding her again, kissing her again, touching her again.

I know what you're thinking. Then someone is counting time away from her. A record of each day spent in agony, but you'd be wrong.

Trust me.

I feel it in my gut as I lay in this bed, on this fucking bus that smells like stale French fries and ball sweat. For a monstrosity on wheels filled with people, it feels surprisingly small and lonely.

I run the pad of my finger along the grooves and crevices of each notched line.

Five.

Really, universe? Cause I don't miss her enough.

Five is Lennon's thing.

And Lennon is my thing.

I haven't been away from her for this long since, well, the incident of which we shall not speak because living in the past is stupid. I pull out my phone and dial her number.

She picks up immediately. "Hello," her voice is low.

"Hi."

She yawns and squeaks. She's stretching. "Kyler?"

"Yeah sleeping beauty, it's me."

"What time is it?"

Good question. I pull my phone from my ear and hold the screen out in front of me. "3:47 AM."

Oops.

Seriously oops.

Freak out to commence in 3, 2...

She gasps and she's 1500 miles away, but I can say with certainty she's shot from her bed like a bolt. She's awake. As fuck. She's panicked. "Are you okay?"

"My bad," I say quickly, trying to recover. "I'm fine, Lennon. Wasn't really thinking about the time."

I'm such a thoughtless dick. A middle of the night phone call can be stressful for most but it's fair to say my girl worries. A lot. Usually, she worries that I'm safe. Go ahead, tell me I'm whipped. That she's got me on some leash, whatever, I've heard it all. Don't care.

I'm not whipped. Another thing I'm not: an asshole—to her at least.

Lennon has OCD. For the newbies, that's obsessive-compulsive disorder. And she worries. A lot. And that's okay, because she's this beautiful badass girl that I don't deserve but somehow have anyway, and if she needs a little extra reassurance from me, so what? I'm here for it.

"I'm sorry," I say again.

"No," she says. "I'm okay. I'm glad you're okay."

"You should go back to sleep. I'll call later."

"Thanks for the thoughtfulness—even in hindsight—but I'm wide awake now."

"Could be a band name, Lennon. Wide Awake Now. Think about it."

She giggles. We've been playing could be a band name for a while and she still chuckles every time. Since that's one of my favorite sounds in the world, I'll be naming bands until I'm dead or until Lennon stops laughing.

"What's the slogan?" she asks.

I pause. "Band name: Wide Awake Now. Slogan: But first, coffee."

She laughs again, softer this time.

"Admittedly not my best, but I'm running on energy drinks and tacos for the last month and a half, so my creativity is waning."

"How was the show?" she asks.

"People came, we did our thing. Lots of screaming, and now I'm lying in bed depressed and missing you and wondering why the fuck Tom the super band manager us has doing this insanity."

"You must be exhausted," she says.

"On a scale of ultra-hyped to dead, I'm precisely in between. I want to see you because the agony of being away from you is worse than being worked to the bone."

I hear a smile in her voice. "I miss you too." She laughs and echoes me. "Agony. You're such a tortured musician, Kyler."

"All of this sucks. I hate being stuck on that bus, driving, soundchecks, interviews, radio shows, tv shows, meet and greets, autograph sessions. I'm looking for a reason to flee. Being away from you is actual torture. Don't joke about my real problem."

"Ha!" She says. "You joke about my real problem all the time."

"I don't joke about your OCD all the time," I say. "Only like-fifteen percent of the time, probably closer to thirteen percent of the time, maybe."

"If that helps you sleep at night than thirteen percent must be a hundred percent true."

My shoulders shrug even though she can't see me. "Math's not my thing. I make music."

"That you do." She yawns. She must be relaxed again.

"You should go back to sleep. I can phone you later."

She yawns again. "Don't you need me? Isn't that why you called? You want to talk?"

"I don't need you to talk right now," I say quietly. "But if you're asking Davis, yes, I need you. Like the sun needs the moon, or the bees need the flowers or like I need the very air I breathe, then yes, I need you."

"I love you," she says.

My shitty mood evaporates.

"I love you, too. Goodnight, Lennon."