Falling Away (21 page)

I hit play, and there’s the sound of applause dying out as Echo thanks the crowd. The mandolin player picks at the strings, adjusts a tuner, and then he and Echo glance at each other and exchange nods.

“Okay, this is ‘Only the Moon.’ It’s one of our originals,” she says.
 

The drummer swivels away from the drums and takes the didgeridoo, inhales deeply, purses his lips, and blows into the instrument. A deep, buzzing sound rises, the kind of sound you can feel in your chest even through the computer speakers, and it continues for a long moment, unbroken. And then the guy playing the didg takes a breath, pauses, and starts again, this time somehow making the instrument produce a high-pitched, buzzier sound, and the mandolin joins in, picking a high, circular counterpoint. The banjo player has traded that instrument for his guitar, and he starts in with a drum-like chord:
thummmm—thummmm—thummmm.
Next is the electric guitar and the upright bass, finishing the melody.
 

Echo is last, sucking in a deep breath, and then she lets out a long, high, wordless wail that carries and carries until she lets the note trail off. And then she sings, in a voice of starlight and angelfire and aching purity:
 

“
It’s a long, long road to walk alone,

A dark and winding path that I must roam,

And I’ve only the moon to keep me company,

Only the moon to watch me on my way.

A broken heart chose this path,

A heart cracked by grief sent me this way.

And I’ve only the moon to sing me down the road,

Only the moon to warm me in this cold.

My feet falter, my tears drip,
 

Fall like rain, so much salt on my lip.

And I’ve only the moon to watch me weep,

Only the moon my secrets to keep.

I left you there,

I knew your heart,

And I left you there,

With only the moon to light your way,

With only the moon to hear you say,

Come back, come back, come back.

Oh, oh, oh, oh,

I’ve only the moon to sing me down the road,

Only the moon to warm me in the cold,

Only the moon to watch me weep,

Only the moon my secrets to keep,

Only the moon to hear me say,

Come back, come back, come back…
”

And then she repeats the refrain, “only the moon” in the same grief-wrought wail, the instruments all playing in a crashing clash of colliding sounds, the didgeridoo puffing and buzzing like the breath of a predator, the mandolin circling and circling high rolling circuitous notes, the acoustic guitar providing a fast chugging base-rhythm, the electric guitar mirroring Echo’s sung melody, the bass thrumming beneath it all louder and louder like the rumble of distant thunder, until all the instruments fade away and all that remains is Echo’s haunting wail and the reverberating bass.
 

Echo’s hands lift to hover by her face as she holds the final note for an impossible length of time, fluttering as she runs out of breath, and then she lets the note go and the bass is silenced. Echo slumps forward, clinging to the mic stand as if about to collapse, head hanging, hair falling in a blond curtain around her face, and just before the video cuts to the sound of deafening applause, I could swear I see her shoulders shake with sobs.

I look for the upload date, my heart thudding, goosebumps shivering on my skin. I find it, and discover that Echo uploaded this song less than a week ago.

“Holy shit. Holy shit.” I stare at the screen, scroll down through several pages of videos by Echo the Stars. “She’s fucking incredible.”
 

That song, though…is it about me? Or her mom? Or…both, maybe?

All I know is, I have to find her.

TWELVE: Alone With My Whiskey and My Regret
 

Echo

“Echo? Echo! Come on, hon. Get up.” The voice is male, distant, and pissed. The world shakes horribly. “You need to get up, Echo. Our set starts in twenty minutes and you’re not dressed.”
 

Set?
 

Shit. The gig. But I’m so tired, and everything hurts, and I’m drunk. Really drunk. My eyes won’t open. The world shakes again, harder.

“Stop…” I mumble. “Stop the…th’ shaking. N’more. No…no more shaking.”

“Then get your ass up, Echo. We can’t do the show without you.” It’s Brayden MacKellan, my band’s mandolin player, my best friend and, right now, my own personal conscience/torturer. “You’re fucking wasted…
again
.” He manages to pack a hell of a lot of disapproval and disappointment into that one word.

“Hurts.” I blink my eyes, and three of Brayden weave into my field of vision. I try to focus.
 

“I know, hon.” He kneels down, and even watching him move makes me dizzy. “But you need to get up and get moving. We’re getting paid huge for this. We can’t back out, and we can’t do it without you, so I really need you to figure your shit out, okay? Now come on. I’ve got a shower going for you.”
 

Ooh. A shower. Yay. I let him help me up, fall against him, smell the coffee on him, and the faint tang of beer and cologne. Mmm.
 

“You smell yummy, Bray-bay.”
 

“I know. That’s the smell of sober, Echo.”
 

“Shu’up, asshole.” I blink at him, both of him…no, all three of him.

He helps me into the bathroom, closes the door behind us, and starts peeling at my clothes. Which are sticky with what might be spilled booze, or possibly my own puke.
 

“You’re lucky you’ve got me, Echo,” Brayden says. “I don’t think anyone else would do this for you.”

Ben would have, but I can’t think about Ben; I’ve got Brayden, and he’ll have to do.
 

I nod my head sloppily. “I know. You love me.”

“I sure as hell do. But you’re also lucky I’m playing for the other team right now, because I’m really not sure you can handle the shower by yourself.”

Brayden plays for both teams, so depending on his mood and the day of the week he might be hooking up with a guy, or a girl, or both. It’s complicated, and I stay out of it. Of course, we did have that one night after our first gig together. He was the first friend I made at Belmont my first year, and he was in a straight phase. He’s beautiful, Brayden is, with long and artfully messy brown hair and piercing, expressive indigo eyes. He’s tall and thin, wiry and lean and sort of delicate-seeming, but he has an inner core of strength and an air of careless insouciance.
 

We realized our musical chemistry was off the charts and started writing songs together, and eventually we booked a gig, nailed the set, and then nailed each other. Which was when he decided to admit to being bisexual, and that he didn’t think he and I would work out long term as a couple, and he didn’t do long term anyway. Which was fine, because neither did I, and he wasn’t what I wanted sexually anyway, being a little too effeminate for my tastes. The little tryst didn’t affect our friendship or our music, and we added members to our band over the next couple years until we became Echo the Stars. The core is still Brayden and I, and we’re hella tight.
 

I don’t hesitate when he gets me naked and shoves me into the shower.

Which is ice cold.
 

“BRAYDEN!” I shriek and try to climb out, but he keeps me under the spray until I stop struggling. “YOU ASSHOLE!”
 

“Chill out, Echo!”

“Don’t tell me to chill out, you dick! This water is like fucking ice!”

Brayden has the gall to laugh, until I stop fighting him and yank him so he nearly falls into the tub with me. “You’re gonna get me wet, and we don’t have time for me to change!” he squeals, thrashing. “Okay, okay!”

“Make it hot, you asshole. And get me some clothes.”

He turns the knob so the water goes hot, and I sigh in relief. The cold water did wake me up a little, though. I’m far from sober, but I’m awake enough to function, at least. And god knows I’ve got plenty of experience functioning while wasted.
 

I just don’t know how to deal, otherwise, especially now.
 

I get clean, holding on to the wall most of the time. When I’m out, Brayden has my favorite pair of holey jeans and my favorite T-shirt, and my favorite boots. He knows me. Kind of like a sister, in a lot of ways. Only, he’s a he, and we fucked once. So not like a sister. But still.

Drunk thoughts don’t make any sense.

Bray hustles me out the door and into his Jeep, and he hauls ass across Nashville to the bar where we’re supposed to be playing…ten minutes ago, by the time we arrive. The bar manager is pissed, the rest of the band is pissed, and the crowd is pissed. At least I’m not the only drunk one, now, though.

I weave carefully onto stage, grab the mic and lean into it. Stare out at the crowd, which goes quiet when I appear. Being on stage centers me, calms me. The alcohol buzzes and burns in my blood, boils in my stomach.

“So, I’m kind of wasted,” I admit into the microphone. “Like really hammered. But don’t worry, I can still sing my ass off.”

The crowded bar shakes with the howls of the audience. We’ve built a cult following in the last year or so, which has a lot to do with YouTube and social media—all Brayden’s work—and our kick-ass live shows.
 

But this, the moment before the lyrics pour out of me, this is where I live.
 

And it’s something Mom never understood. It’s the cause of our fight. She didn’t want me to start a band, especially because my studies at school do suffer a bit. I’m dedicated to this band, to this life. She wanted me to focus on classical music. Go a more “elegant” route than gigging in dingy bars and honky-tonks in Nashville. She wanted me to…I don’t even know. Sing opera? Go to Broadway? I don’t know. She liked the “classical” thing, and I don’t think she really understood what that meant, or what she really wanted for me. When I started gigging with Echo the Stars, she was livid. She didn’t even want me to go to Belmont. She wanted me to try out for Juilliard or a conservatory. Or go to a university closer to home. Anything but Nashville, anything but a band. I think she knew if I started a band, I’d be less likely to finish school. And damn it if she wasn’t right. The more gigs we book, the more we get paid, the more attention we garner, the less relevant class seems. I just want to sing. I love being on stage with Brayden and Mim and the guys. Nothing matters when I’ve got the mic.

Like now.
 

The only thing that can numb the pain and the guilt more than booze is performing. So I cup the mic and hold the stand for balance, and I let Bray’s masterful mandolin playing wash over me, tap my toe when Will comes in with the banjo, and weave a swaying dance when Atticus taps the bongos with the heels of his palms and fingertips, creating a quick, driving rhythm. Vance and Mim are quiet for this number, sitting off to the side until we’re ready for them. For now, it’s just Bray, Atticus, Will, and me.
 

I dive into the music, letting it take me away.

“
I don’t need to love, you know,

Don’t need the heartache,
 

Don’t need the high or the low,

Don’t need anyone but me,

I don’t need to cling to you

Late at night, through the stars as they sing,

Don’t need love, old or new.

I just need me.

Because I’m all there is,

I’m all right,

I’m all right,

And I don’t need love.

I’ve ached and I’ve hurt and I’ve cried,

I’ve loved and lost and love has died,

I’ve learned the lessons, and now I know,

I don’t need to love,
 

Don’t need the high or the low,

Don’t need anyone but me

Because I’m all there is,

And I’m all right,

I’m all right.
”

There’s an instrumental break, and then I repeat the last few lines, Mim harmonizing.
 

And then we play “Only the Moon” which nearly makes me cry, so we do a cover of “Broussard’s Lament” by Sarah Jarosz, and then “Henry Lee” by Crooked Still, with Mim playing the cello rather than the bass and Vance on the fiddle. I’m lucky as hell to have these talented multi-instrumentalists in Will, Mim, Vance and Atticus; Bray and I both only do one thing, but we do that one thing
really
well. I mean, when you come across insane talent like those four, musicians who can seamlessly switch from instrument to instrument like they do, you go with it. You hang on to ’em and you make beautiful music with them. You do
not
waste it sitting in class learning shit you’ll never use. I learned composition by composing; I learned harmony by harmonizing.
 

I find my pace, find the groove where the music pulls me away.

We do “Undone in Sorrow” by Crooked Still, which really showcases Vance’s show-stopping fiddle skills, and then we take a break. I take a bottle of Sam Adams and sit out back behind the bar, drinking and thinking.
 

And of course, Bray joins me. “From an artistic perspective, I should appreciate this funk you’re in. Even piss-drunk, you sing your guts out up there. Better, even, maybe. And the songs you’ve written? Amazing. But…as your friend, I’m worried for you, hon.” He shakes his head to toss a hank of brown hair out of his eyes. “You’re drinking all the time, and you won’t talk about what happened.”

“My fucking mother died, Bray. That’s what fucking happened.” I take a long swig.
 

“I know, but…I know you. I’ve sweat and bled on stage with you. I’ve held your hair while you puked your guts out, and I held you through that pregnancy scare you had our freshman year, and I stood by you through that whole shit with fucking Marcus. And now, suddenly, whatever this is you have going on, you’ve shut me out of it.” He leans toward me, rests his head on my shoulder as he digs a cigarette out of his hip pocket. “And that scares me.”