Even Heroes Have Scars

[104] What Other People Say

Ansley's P.O.V.

There weren't words to describe the emptiness in me. I was a shell of someone long gone. Every night another girl was in my bed or I in hers, me incapable of spending a night alone. My heart ached day and night for the young boy who used to be so blissful in my presence, who used to play with his friends and carry such an innocence that made me feel like a child again.

A part of me was grateful to Demi for the overdose, as that incident caused Jacob to reach out for help. She inspired him, and I wished I could thank her for that.

There was a knock on the front door about a month after I dropped off Jacob at rehab. At first, I ignored it as a flipped channels on the television. A few seconds later, the knock repeated. With a sigh, I stood and approached the door. When I opened it, May was staring at me. I turned back around and went back to the couch, them following.

"What are you doing here?" I asked as I pulled a blanket back onto my lap.

"Well, hello to you, too," they replied as they shut the door. "What's going on with you? I thought you dumped me as your songwriter since you've ignored all my texts and calls, but when I called Brantley to ask if I did something wrong, he said you've been MIA with him, too. So, what, are you giving up on music?"

I rolled my eyes. "God, everyone's so damn concerned with how this affects them. I'm fine. I just need time."

"If you need a hiatus, say so. But don't leave everyone in the dark. I'm over here thinking you're dead or something, 'cause how can you give up on your dream?" May questioned as they hovered over me.

My blood boiled. "Do not joke about that. And anyway, I don't owe anyone any explanation."

"If you want to keep getting paychecks, you do. Look, you can mope around here with laundry needing to get done and dishes piling up and binge-watching Catfish as you wait for your paychecks from the diner, or you can get off your ass and write some music and save up for a better life for you and your brother." They crossed their arms over their chest.

I rolled my eyes again. "I'm fine right where I am."

"What will it take for you to get up?"

"For you to leave me alone."

"While it's humorous that you think that's possible, it's also a bit insulting to my character. I'm not your employee; I'm your friend. We're friends. I care about you." They turned off the television. They began putting their arms around me and lifting me. "So whether you like it or not, we're going to write a damn album about whatever it is you're feeling, and it's gonna be even better than the last one." They carried me all the way to the kitchen table in a fireman's carry. "This is a therapy session. For at least an hour, you're gonna tell me how you feel, and I'm gonna write it down, and then we'll write about it together. Got it?" They retrieved a notebook from my kitchen's junk drawer.

We stayed up so late writing that I never even ended up going out to bring someone home. My anger was finally being taken out through my writing, creating an angsty few tracks. Even one of the songs was about how, though we were estranged right now and I was seeing other people, my soul would still belong to Demi. There was a sad loneliness to these tracks in comparison to the previous album, which said something. I kept starting every song thinking it would be a happier one or about someone else, and then within three lines realized I was doing it again.

"Okay, I should probably go," May said after we laughed at a joke they told. "It's so late."

"It's not that late," I argued, wanting them to stay.

They shook their head and checked their phone for the time. "It's four in the morning."

I shook my head and scooted closer to them, so exhausted that I was delirious and feeling drunk. "You could stay."