I'll Be

Chapter One: And While We're Here

What happened to Sawyer Matthews wasn’t romantic.

            What happened to Sawyer Matthews was a tragedy. And I would know. As a guitar player, as a musician, as someone who has had the capacity to love another so deeply your bones ache, I knew that he didn’t need that kind of negativity in his life.

            But back in the summer of 2013, I’d heard of the disease, but I hadn’t come face to face with it yet.

            Sawyer sat with me on the floor of his bedroom, scouring over his haul from Amazon.

            “What did you decide?” I asked, leaning against the side of his bed.

            He smiled, “I decided that I’m just going to accept it. I mean, shit happens, and the doctors said that it could take a bit before it catches up with me.”

            Sawyer was diagnosed with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosisthree weeks ago. This had a more common name, a more familiar name; Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

            I leaned over, kissing his cheek “I’ll play for you. I’ll be your hands, and your feet. I’ll hold your guitar and we can pantomime like those guys on Whose Line.”

            His voice was gravely, and when he laughed, I imagined it pouring out of him, slow and golden like honey. He looked at me “We go to Boulder next week. Reeve says we sold out The Ice House.”

            “Caia booked us a show in Brighton.” I said softly, taking a deep breath “But I can call Auden. She’ll fill in for me, if I ask nicely.”

            Such was our life. New Poetics and empty.pillowtalk took up every afternoon, weekend, thought and function that ran our lives. empty.pillowtalk was the brainchild of Sawyer and his best friend, Reeve Brennan. Reeve, Sawyer, Dustin and Robbie were local superstars, despite the fact that no one close to Denver had even heard of pillowtalk, Not that I could speak like I knew; New Poetics was about as successful as a late-night TV infomercial. We kept getting gigs somehow, and I’d made enough to live in a tiny apartment about five miles from my parent’s place. But Sawyer, he lived in the two-story his parents had raised him in, unless he was crashing at my place.

            “What are you listening to these days?” I stood up, clicking through his most recently played music. Giving it a minute, the familiar wisp of Oli Sykes filled the room. I looked down, Sawyer’s head against the side of the bed, and I could hear him sing to himself:

            “Would’ve been, could’ve been, should’ve been, never was, and never ever will be.”

            I sighed, “You really shouldn’t listen to this. It puts you in a ‘mood’.” I shook my head, and he reached for my hand. Sliding down next to him, I rested my head against his shoulder.

            “It makes me feel normal.” He said softly, “I mean, I love The Gorillaz and Two Door as much as always, but sometimes…” He stood up, lifting a shaky hand to his iPod “Sometimes I need to get it out in other ways, you know?”

            Bring Me the Horizon helped get out aggression. Sawyer used the trance style to ‘wake himself up’ on some days; he was ridiculously perceptive to how his brain worked, and what he needed to get through his pain.

            I shook my head, scrolling through and playing something that I knew would put a smile on his face: In Love with the 80’s by Relient K. I reached down, gripping his hands, “Up we go.”

            He laughed, and I danced us around the room. While we moved, he said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Ted.”

            “I know. I’m just the best, aren’t I?” I smiled, wrapping my arms around his waist “But you don’t have to worry. You’ll go all ‘Professor X’ and I’ll be right there with you.”

            “Mm.” He rested his cheek on the top of my head, “I wish I could be there to erase what happens next.”

            I closed my eyes, nodding “I know.”

            Sawyer had been identified with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, more commonly known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease, when he was fourteen, which they said was out of the ordinary, just because it happened to men in their early fifties or so. I didn’t know him then, or at least, not in the way I know him now.

            We met in high school; he had the locker three away from mine. They did it by birthday, and he was two days older than me, between Kennedy Jennings and Elyssa Blake. But that never bothered me, because I didn’t start talking to him until the day Liv ran up and told me that she’d found the perfect melody on her keyboard.

            She gushed, “We can totally switch it up and rock it. Like OMD-style, or amp it up to make it more Modest Mouse.”

            “Practice this week?” I slammed my locker door shut, and saw Bree sharing earbuds with Julianna while the meandered down the hall. Liv turned, walking up to them and nudging Jules in the shoulder.

            Jules removed the headphone, handing it to Liv “The Story So Far.”

            Bree smiled, “Jules is in love with Ryan Trof.”

            “What happened to the lovely Rian Dawson?” I asked, hitching my bag over my shoulder, “I thought you were all about him like, three days ago.”

            Jules placed her hand on her heart, “He will always have a place in my heart. I love all drummers equally.”

            Liv pushed us down the hall, her combat boots nudging my heels “Unless it’s Meg White or Sheila E; or Jess Bowen.”

            “She’s so pretty.” Jules shook her head, “Bands need more girl drummers. There aren’t nearly enough of them.”

            “Régine Chassagne.” Called a voice. We all turned, and I had to blink a few times to realize who had said that. Sawyer smiled at us, trying not to laugh; he explained, “Arcade Fire. Montreal band with some major tech power; check them out.”

            Jules nodded, “Th…Thanks.”

            He grinned, lifting his hand “No worries.” As he walked away, he nodded toward me, “Hey Teddy.”

            I smiled, “Hey Sawyer.”

            When he turned the corner, Bree sighed “It’s always the musicians.”