Page 8 of Pack Me Up

The memory comes quickly and without warning. My lead pack father’s voice, sharp as the first crack of thunder in a storm. Not words, just the sound: the way a shout flattens against walls, the way it finds your bones even when you pretend you’re somewhere else. Under it, there’s the edge of my mother’s perfume. A sweet, powdery mix with the metallic sting of vodka. Always the vodka, always the sickly aftertaste of citrus and shame. And of course, the sound of something breaking.

My hand stutters on the strings. The chord splinters, making a sound that makes me flinch. I feel it in my teeth. My breathing turns thin and sharp, like someone has flattened my lungs with the heel of their palm. The room tilts as I fall to the floor. It’s just a memory, but my body doesn’t know that.

My fingers clench, nails digging into the wood. I set the guitar down, gently, like if I drop it, the rest of the world will shatter too.

I want to move, but it’s almost impossible. I force my hands to find the floor. It’s cold and grounding. I count the floorboards, ten of them between me and the bookshelf, two more before the door. I count them again, silently, jaw locked so tight my ears ring.

Breathe, says the part of me that remembers therapy. The first inhale is shallow, just a taste of air. I hold it for one, two, three seconds, then let it out slowly. I count the different colors in the room, the instruments, and the uneven lines where the floor boards aren’t perfectly even.

Four breaths in, and my vision is back. The panic is still there, a live wire under my ribs, but my hands are steadier. I put them flat on my thighs, thumb rubbing the seam of my old jeans, counting the stitches.

The quiet after a panic attack is always too much. I watch my own hands for a minute, palms splayed and open on my thighs, not sure if I’m expecting them to shake or just waiting for thenext wave to come. The windows are fully dark, except for the LA lights buzzing against the glass. The only sounds in the room are the slow exhale of air conditioning and the fridge’s rumble.

I should practice, eat, sleep, or at least get off the floor. Instead, I stare at the coffee table, at the phone balanced on the edge of a half-read book, and the mug of tea gone cold. My fingers twitch toward the phone, then freeze. I imagine the words in my head if I did call Oli. What would I even say? “Hey, thanks for the opportunity, I’m too fucked up to leave my apartment, see you never.” Real professional, Britt.

The urge to call Oli and tell her I’ve changed my mind is strong, but I fight it. I swipe the phone up anyway, flick it on, and stare at the lock screen for a full thirty seconds, thumb hovering. I scroll through my recent calls.

I could text, I could lie, I could say nothing, and hope tomorrow’s version of me is braver.

Instead, I hit call and put it on speaker before I lose my nerve.

The first ring is a jolt, pure and electric. The second ring, I want to hang up. But on the third, Tommy answers, voice already at a volume that fills the apartment.

“Britt! Did you change your mind about the setlist already?”

Tommy always puts on a smile, but I know he has his own demons under the surface.

“Hey,” I say, and it comes out breathless, like I’ve just sprinted down a hallway. “Uh. No, I… I’m actually just… I needed to talk to you.”

The words stick for a second, too thick to say, but he doesn’t rush me. There’s a pause on his end, not quite silence. I can hear the distant chaos of his life: something beeping, someone laughing, the crunch of footsteps on tile.

I focus on that, the sound of his world through the phone.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say finally, voice so small I almost don’t recognize it. “The tour. I know I said yes, but I… I’m freaking out, Tommy. It’s not stage fright, it’s… I can’t even play in the apartment without losing it. What if I ruin everything for you?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

When he does speak, it’s soft, but iron underneath. “You’re not going to ruin anything,” he says. “If anyone fucks up, it’ll be Jack. Or me. Or Dax, probably. You, I trust.”

“That’s nice,” I say, half-laughing, half-crying. “But what if I freeze up? What if I can’t get onstage at all?”

“I’ll drag you on by the hair if I have to,” he says, not missing a beat. “Or I’ll sing from the floor with you. You know I’ve done worse.”

That actually makes me laugh, and the tension in my chest loosens by a centimeter. I press the phone closer, needing to fill the space between us.

“I’m serious,” I say, “I get stuck sometimes. Like I’m not in the room anymore. And it’s all just a lot. The crowds, the noise, the… everything.”

“Okay,” he says, all business now, like he’s negotiating. “So, here’s what we do. When you travel with us, you stay in the quietest bunk, and you can skip soundcheck if needed. Riley will have your schedule, and if you panic, just let us know. We’ll build a nest out of hoodies, and you can hide until you’re ready.”

I listen. It sounds almost manageable when he says it like that. Like I’m not a broken thing, just a part that needs extra care.

“I can’t promise I’ll be okay,” I admit.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “You just have to show up. We want you, Britt. Not some fake version. The real one.”

He pauses, then adds, “I’ll keep you safe. I just know this is going to help you grow and leave your past behind. Just like it’s going to help me.”

The confidence in his voice isn’t something I believe yet, but I want to. I hang on the line a little too long until he says, “You good?”