A Rock and a Hard Place

Afterthought

I walk off stage trembling. I've managed to not fuck up the show. Now I need to find somewhere to be crazy.

Andy can immediately tell something's wrong when he grabs my hand. He asks if I'm okay but I can barely manage more than a glance at him. He has the experience to know what my hands shaking and lack of response means, though. When I get my bass off my body he wraps his arm around my shoulders and starts fast-walking to the bus, meeting my pace with ease.

My anxiety hasn't acted up in months, but I seem to be losing my grip this summer. I could give myself a pass when I met Belinda again, but the last two days have no excuse. I've been nauseous and shaky without reason. Little things like a set getting delayed or running out of soda on the bus were fucking with me. I'd managed to pick fights with Andy that I feel horrible about. Even still, he deflects greetings from friends so I don't have to and holds me close as we walk.

When we get to the bus he ushers me to the back lounge space, drawing the curtain closed behind us. I'm panting as I fall into the black leather sofa against the wall. Andy moves to sit beside me as I pull my knees up to my chest, not caring that my shoes are on the couch. I can already feel tears starting to spill without my permission, and it only makes me feel worse.

"I know any sort of 'calm talk' is going to piss you off, but you need to breathe," Andy mumbles.

I shoot a glare at him. If he knows, then why try it? But he isn't wrong, and he's only trying to help, and I can't let my anxiety excuse lashing out at people. I try for a moment to focus on breathing, squeezing my eyes shut to stop my tears. In mere moments I get frustrated and demand, "Give me a cigarette."

When I look at him his brows are furrowed. I know he doesn't want me to rely on cigarettes to deal with my anxiety, but he knows it helps. He used to be the same way, smoking when bouts of anxiety or anger overtook him, and he still hasn't managed to quit either.

Reluctantly, he takes his pack out of his back pocket and hands it to me. As I take one out and retrieve our lighter from my pocket, he reaches up to open the back windows so the smoke can escape. My hands are still shaking; I can't manage to spark the lighter, but before I can get too frustrated he takes it from me and holds the fire to the tip. Once I've got a lungful of toxin I sigh it out, and I immediately feel its calming effects.

"I hate these," I mutter. "If I haven't quit by the time I'm thirty I'll－"

"Quit cold turkey, I know," he interjects, having heard my spiel before. I take another drag as I look at him. He's watching me, his body turned so I have his full attention. I offer him the cigarette after another drag, but he shakes his head.

"Good," I say. "You shouldn't be smoking these anyway."

He laughs. "Sound advice coming from you."

We sit in silence for a long moment. I'm done with the cigarette quicker than usual, but that's usually how it goes when I'm anxious. It's gotten me to temper my breathing, however, so it's done its job. I still feel shaky and nauseous. My mania is throwing weird ideas around, like jumping out of the bus window or smoking the rest of our pack. I sit cross-legged and put my head in my lap, squeezing my eyes shut. I have to get rid of these thoughts. I have to calm down. I have to stop feeling crazy.

Andy rubs my back under my shirt, his warm hand soothing against my clammy skin. "What happened?" he asks, his voice soft. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I don't know what's wrong," I answer honestly. I was on stage and everything was great. Our show was going terrific. I'd been thinking about how fun the rest of the summer would be and how great Andy was going to do tonight with it being BVB's last show.