Breaking the Habit
T RAV ’ S TEXT was appropriately sympathetic. Forty-five minutes?
Did I just say?
Well that’s special. That’s what you get for treating the guy like shit for over a year.
You’re a peach, you know that?
Hey, it’s not my fault you BROKE your lead guitarist.
He stared at the text for a minute, and stared and stared, thinking about it, the words resonating around in his head like a song.
He started texting like mad, hitting the End key at the end of every line, texting a lyric for the first time in his life.
If I break you can I fix you
Using bandages and tape
Kleenex and soft words
Is that all that it will take?
If I fix you is it worth it to
Touch the ragged ends
Of your shattered expectations
Of a man who’s not your friend?
If I break you will I miss you,
Should your pieces disappear?
After all I have been with you
For a shitty, painful year.
Can I break you into fragments
That I paste and glue again
Or will you gather your arrangements
Cause breaking’s too much pain?
Does it help to say “I’m sorry”?
That I didn’t mean to make you cry?
Does it help if I am truthful
And tell you truly why?
So if I break you, should I fix you,
Will that be a bitter end?
Or maybe just not break you
Just shake hands with my good friend.
Mackey finished, breathless, and looked at what he’d written. Trav had tried, here and there, to get a text in edgewise, but finally he’d just stopped in the middle and said Tell me when you’re done.
He read the texts again and again, hearing the music curling up from his stomach, and even though it wasn’t about lost love, and even though he didn’t hear any screaming in the middle like with his other songs from rehab….
He liked it.
That’s good , Trav texted. I like that a lot.
Well, should I call it “Apology to Blake”?
Either that or “Grant You Bastard.”
Mackey narrowed his eyes and thought. Well, yeah. Maybe the song could be written from Grant to him—but he wasn’t writing songs about or for Grant anymore. That was part of his rehab, he’d decided.
How about “The I’m Sorry Song.”
The pause told him Trav was probably thinking about it.
Yeah, fine.
Your enthusiasm will end me. I can feel it. It’s destroying my psyche with daisies, rainbows, and bunny burps.
Yes, Mackey, it’s a WONDERFUL song. I’m mad at you for not being madder at Grant.
Mackey stared at the text, surprised.
It’s nice to know I’m not the only spoiled child in this relationship , he texted, feeling a little bit superior.
Silence, silence, silence….
He broke you.
You fixed me. Doesn’t that mean you win?
I didn’t fix you. YOU fixed you. I just kept booting you in the ass until you made that work.
Or clocking me in the jaw. He laughed. God, that had been awesome.
Go to bed, Mackey.
After I write the song down.
Yeah, fine. Do that. It’s a good one.
Wait until you hear the riff.
S O ALL in all, Mackey was doing pretty good. Even the meeting with his mother didn’t suck too badly.
For one thing, she was dressed pretty. Shelia must have taken her around to the fancy boutique shops, because she was wearing a little column skirt that went right to her knees and a matching tank top/jacket thing. Her hair was done up nice, in one of those chignon doo-dads, and she had earrings that matched her outfit.
Just seeing her made him smile.
“You look real nice,” he said, grinning, as she and the others walked uncertainly into the big visiting room.
She ran up to him and hugged him, wrapping her tiny arms around his waist like wire. She was the one person besides Shelia who was shorter than he was—but not by much.
“You look tired,” she said, and he smiled gamely.
“Tired, but I’m not in tears. Hey, Trav’ll tell you that’s an improvement.”
Heather Sanders looked over her shoulder at the guy Mackey was starting to dream about. “He’s the one who told Shelia and the boys to
T RAV ’ S TEXT was appropriately sympathetic. Forty-five minutes?
Did I just say?
Well that’s special. That’s what you get for treating the guy like shit for over a year.
You’re a peach, you know that?
Hey, it’s not my fault you BROKE your lead guitarist.
He stared at the text for a minute, and stared and stared, thinking about it, the words resonating around in his head like a song.
He started texting like mad, hitting the End key at the end of every line, texting a lyric for the first time in his life.
If I break you can I fix you
Using bandages and tape
Kleenex and soft words
Is that all that it will take?
If I fix you is it worth it to
Touch the ragged ends
Of your shattered expectations
Of a man who’s not your friend?
If I break you will I miss you,
Should your pieces disappear?
After all I have been with you
For a shitty, painful year.
Can I break you into fragments
That I paste and glue again
Or will you gather your arrangements
Cause breaking’s too much pain?
Does it help to say “I’m sorry”?
That I didn’t mean to make you cry?
Does it help if I am truthful
And tell you truly why?
So if I break you, should I fix you,
Will that be a bitter end?
Or maybe just not break you
Just shake hands with my good friend.
Mackey finished, breathless, and looked at what he’d written. Trav had tried, here and there, to get a text in edgewise, but finally he’d just stopped in the middle and said Tell me when you’re done.
He read the texts again and again, hearing the music curling up from his stomach, and even though it wasn’t about lost love, and even though he didn’t hear any screaming in the middle like with his other songs from rehab….
He liked it.
That’s good , Trav texted. I like that a lot.
Well, should I call it “Apology to Blake”?
Either that or “Grant You Bastard.”
Mackey narrowed his eyes and thought. Well, yeah. Maybe the song could be written from Grant to him—but he wasn’t writing songs about or for Grant anymore. That was part of his rehab, he’d decided.
How about “The I’m Sorry Song.”
The pause told him Trav was probably thinking about it.
Yeah, fine.
Your enthusiasm will end me. I can feel it. It’s destroying my psyche with daisies, rainbows, and bunny burps.
Yes, Mackey, it’s a WONDERFUL song. I’m mad at you for not being madder at Grant.
Mackey stared at the text, surprised.
It’s nice to know I’m not the only spoiled child in this relationship , he texted, feeling a little bit superior.
Silence, silence, silence….
He broke you.
You fixed me. Doesn’t that mean you win?
I didn’t fix you. YOU fixed you. I just kept booting you in the ass until you made that work.
Or clocking me in the jaw. He laughed. God, that had been awesome.
Go to bed, Mackey.
After I write the song down.
Yeah, fine. Do that. It’s a good one.
Wait until you hear the riff.
S O ALL in all, Mackey was doing pretty good. Even the meeting with his mother didn’t suck too badly.
For one thing, she was dressed pretty. Shelia must have taken her around to the fancy boutique shops, because she was wearing a little column skirt that went right to her knees and a matching tank top/jacket thing. Her hair was done up nice, in one of those chignon doo-dads, and she had earrings that matched her outfit.
Just seeing her made him smile.
“You look real nice,” he said, grinning, as she and the others walked uncertainly into the big visiting room.
She ran up to him and hugged him, wrapping her tiny arms around his waist like wire. She was the one person besides Shelia who was shorter than he was—but not by much.
“You look tired,” she said, and he smiled gamely.
“Tired, but I’m not in tears. Hey, Trav’ll tell you that’s an improvement.”
Heather Sanders looked over her shoulder at the guy Mackey was starting to dream about. “He’s the one who told Shelia and the boys to
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