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December 19, 2013

Elise

It wasn't real. There was no possible way this was real.

I couldn't stay here, feeling like I felt, yet every time I tried to open the damn door, I couldn't.

It wasn't that it was marble, leather, and 24 karat gold opulence; if it had been, I would have had no trouble leaving.

No, the problem was that everywhere I turned screamed Brian.

New, but comfy couch in a cornflower blue - check.

A basketball hoop hovering above the archway into the kitchen - check (and kinda stupid in that haphazard 'wouldn't it be cool...' way) - check.

An old knife scarred kitchen table that looked like it had seen a lot of love, kids, and mishaps with sharp objects and dog bites - check.

Wildcats towels in the bathroom - check.

A framed picture of his first rundown car in the hall - check.

And, last but not least, a big bed with a light yellow, worn quilt, with only two pillows housed in cornflower blue shams, leaving a mile of mattress space showing on either side - check.

The place was a small one bedroom and bath in a middle-income family area right outside Atlanta. From the sounds above me it seemed the places must have gotten bigger in size because I could hear the little feet of active children and the vague sound of water flushing that wasn't as much annoying and threatening of a roof collapse (like in my own apartment), but more a collective feel of people living in one space making memories and enjoying life....or just peeing a lot.

I sank down on the couch, my twelfth attempt to leave failing me. It was late afternoon. I had snagged a couple days off at the printing shop, business being sadly slow so close to Christmas. The Waffle House on the other hand was a different story. I had to make it to work.

My first impressions after being escorted inside by the limo driver had been a mixed bag. It had taken me a couple minutes to realize that this was Brian's apartment...or something. My next thought was disgust. Why the hell did he have an apartment? Did he shack up with girls here often? My third thought came from running my hand along an old wooden end table. There was enough dust to show that this place hadn't been cleaned in a long time. My fourth thought was that no one had been here in a long time.

It was a half hour into pacing when I began to clean. I located some cloths and some outdated windex and furniture polish and threw my brain into the busy work. I opened the windows and a stubborn door leading out onto a small little patio. I worked until I was sweaty. Then I went and cleaned the bathroom, hopping in the shower at the end, and foolishly using Brian's shower gel that was crusty on top but the liquid inside was fine, hitting me nose and making me think of him over me...in me...

Cleaning took a long time, but it hadn't been long enough. The time on a digital clock read 5:45. I needed to make it to the Waffle House by 8 and I didn't even have my uniform...

The smell of food hit me before he even opened the door. I had been watching the minutes go from 5:45 to -6, -7, -8....and the scent triggered my stomach into action, reminding me I hadn't eaten all day...

It was on the -9 when I heard the key and my heart froze.

It was 6:00 on the dot when Brian walked in the door.

He had Kentucky Fried Chicken in a bag and a big lump of dried blood on his upper lip, trying, but failing, to draw attention away from a bruising jawbone. He stared at me, a mixture of surprise and relief and...something else.

"I told her," was all he said.





"I bought this place about six years ago. It was a rocky patch and I just wanted to get away. I told her I was out recording for a week out in L.A. and instead I came here. I used to get a cleaning service in, but I stopped about six months ago. I almost sold it a time or two, but something held me back. No one knew about this...not Nick or anyone...until, well, you...now."

He smiled at me over his chicken leg that he held in both hands and I was hit with that overwhelmed sensation I had gotten no less than ten times in the past hour. I pressed my nail into a particularly long deep-set line on the kitchen table.

"You need ice," I said softly. It had been pretty much all I had said to him. My brain was stalled out.

"I'm fine. She hits like a girl," he joked, laughing softly to emphasize he wanted me to think it was funny. When I didn't laugh, the smile slipped.

"Yesterday morning...today...these have been two of the most honest days of my life," he said seriously. "El, I spent so long worrying about the effects of this," he motioned between himself and me. "But I think it was God's way of giving me a boot to finally man up and lift the shades. I have you to thank."

"You've thanked me," I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. He grinned.

"Not enough," he said huskily. Or at least I thought it was huskily rather than scratchy, which had accompanied every other word he had spoken tonight. I ate the last bit of mashed potatoes, wiped my mouth, and put my napkin on the shiny paper plate. He hadn't looked away, so I met him dead on.

"If this is one of the most honest days of your life," I said gently. "Then you'll tell me what's wrong with your voice."

He mimicked my motion, finishing up his potatoes and wiping his mouth, taking care not to hit the broken flesh or touch the bruising. I was sure he was going to give me a blow off response.

"Medical terminology or layman's?"

He caught me by surprise. "L-layman's."

He took a swig of his sweet tea. "Multiple years of vocal chord tearing followed by several unsuccessful surgeries that led to scar tissue and a tightening of the throat muscles, limiting my range and vocal control. There's nothing that will help at this point unless I..."

He trailed off. I knew what he was going to say. I reached over, worming my way around the 10-piece bucket.

"Then you need to."

Tears sprang up, resting momentarily at the bottom well of his eyes. "I can't. It's my life."

"No, it's just one part of it."

"I can't quit," he repeated. A tear broke free.

"I can't."