First Chance

“It’s the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance. It is the dream afraid of waking that never takes the chance.”

It is the one who won’t be taken who cannot seem to give. And the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live.”

— Bette Midler

“I think I just fell head over heels in love!”

That’s what my best friend Layla excitedly tells me.

She’s gazing at an album cover, practically drooling over the lead singer of a rock band I’ve never even heard of.

Don’t get me wrong—I love music, I live for music. It’s a part of who I am. But mainstream rock band sellouts? Not really my thing.

Layla tells me the band’s name is Steele’s Army; their lead singer Steele is her dream guy. The man she would give up everything for. A man she would follow anywhere.

She mentions they are coming to our college in Boston. Our college, the Berklee School of Music, entered some radio contest, and we won.

I don’t want to go, but I’m bracing myself to. I know Layla is going to play the friend card to get me to agree to attend this sorry excuse for a concert.

What’s one night of enduring crappy, soulless music for my best friend?

I’ve known Layla my whole life. Our parents were best friends, until tragedy struck.

I hate thinking about those days. It always hurts. We celebrated every birthday and holiday together as a family.

Living across the street from each other our whole lives, our parents being so close, we would have dinner together every night. As a family. Taking turns hosting.

Until five years ago, Layla and I were at my house having a movie night while our parents went to a sit-down fundraiser dinner for abused children.

Our parents were always supporting charities. They were lucky to have more money than they could ever need.

I also donate regularly, mainly to charities for children or music programs, in memory of them.

I still don’t know all the details, nor do I want to. I think it would mess me up even more if I did.

Remembering that night… It was late, way past our supposed bedtime, when we heard a knock at the door. I paused the movie we were watching and answered the door.

It was a police officer. He introduced himself as Officer Petty. He asked if I was Natalie Wright. That being me, of course, I said yes. He then asked if Layla was there and if we would come with him.

I should have known something was wrong when he wouldn’t tell us why we were on our way to the hospital. In fact, he wouldn’t tell us anything at all.

When you tell someone that their parents are dead and that her best friend’s parents are in surgery, you don’t want them to be alone.

When we entered the ER, he asked me if I wanted to see my parents’ bodies. That’s how he broke the devastating news.

There was no way I could handle something like that, and I really didn’t want to remember my parents that way, so I quickly declined.

First, I was mad at the officer, then at the doctors for not being able to save them. Then mad at the cruelty of it all.

What kind of person tells a fifteen-year-old that she is now alone in the world like that?

Later, I found out that the officer did try to find out if I had any next of kin, preferring that they broke the news.

I remember him asking if we would like to wait in the waiting room while Layla’s parents were in surgery. Where else would we have gone?

While we sat in that waiting room nervously waiting for news from the doctors on Layla’s parents’ condition, what was happening slowly sank in.

I became numb, just feeling a wave of emptiness wash over me, my heart detaching itself from my emotions, no longer there. I was alone. They were my only blood family.

My parents were both only children, and my grandparents on both sides passed away before I was born.

Apparently, our parents had a few drinks and, thinking Layla’s father was the least drunk, he drove them home.

Speeding down the road, he lost control of the car, causing it to crash into a guardrail, and my parents were then thrown from the car.

EMTs found my parents’ bodies about fifty feet away from the car. They were pronounced dead at the scene.

Layla’s father, Brian, had been going at least seventy miles an hour, and not one of them was wearing a seat belt.

Layla’s father and mother recovered. They had scars from the injuries, easily hidden underneath clothing, but there was more scarring.

Less visible to others, but that I could see in their eyes every time they looked at me for the past five years.

I think that was why they took over guardianship of me, out of obligation to my parents. I could have gone to a foster home.

The money would have been put away in a trust, and when I turned eighteen, I would have been discharged from the state and handed a loaded bank account.

I know they love me in their own way, but I also think the guilt ate at them so much that they did things out of both guilt and love.

My parents were rich. Layla’s are as well, and because of that, my life is set. I’ve never had to worry about anything. I can do whatever I want with my life.

I chose to go to college many miles away from home. Away from the pitying stares of everyone in my hometown. With Layla.

We rented an apartment instead of living in a dorm on campus. You never knew who you’d be rooming with, and we would rather be with each other.

She’s the only person who never treated me differently after my parents died. People think I should hate her. Hate her parents. How could I?

They were all drinking—I’m sure it wasn’t the first time they risked their lives seeing who could drive instead of calling a taxi or another friend. It could have been my parents driving.

Brian didn’t mean for it to happen. It was an accident, a forever life-changing freak accident.

“Nat? NATALIE!” Layla snaps her fingers in front of my eyes and yells at me.

She’s telling me we have to go shopping for new outfits for this concert. I tell her she’s buying since I don’t even want to go in the first place.

I realize I’ve been lost in thought, dwelling on the past. I don’t usually let myself do that. I try to keep it all neatly boxed up and tucked away in the back of my mind.

I’ve got the money, but going to college wasn’t my idea, and I don’t flaunt my bank balance by splurging on unnecessary materialistic things.

I only spend on essentials. Things I need to survive, like tuition, books, class materials, shampoo, body wash, and food.

I don’t believe in luxuries because there are so many people in this godforsaken world who aren’t as fortunate as I am.

The first clothing store Layla spots, we walk into. It’s not a high-end boutique. Usually, that’s Layla’s style, always keen to buy the latest designer clothes.

I stroll around, casually glancing at the racks of clothes. I look over my shoulder to see if Layla has found anything she likes.

She’s eyeing a purple minidress, which I know will flaunt all her assets. There’s no way I’d dress like that. I’ll take a comfy T-shirt and jeans any day.

While Layla’s in the dressing room, I start rummaging through the sale racks, hoping to find a shirt that offers some coverage. After about the tenth shirt, I finally find the one.

I take it off the hanger. It’s a vintage-looking Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers 1978 “Long After Dark Tour” T-shirt. It’s worn and frayed, but it’s totally my style.

I put the empty hanger back on the rack and go find Layla. She’s standing in front of a mirror, checking herself out. I take a moment to look at her too.

She’s beautiful, not in the cheap “I spent four hours doing my hair and makeup” way, but in a classic, natural way. She doesn’t need makeup.

Her hair is always perfect, long and black, reaching the middle of her back.

Her beautifully tanned skin makes her features stand out, eyes that are an emerald green, big and round and almond-shaped, with long, glorious eyelashes anyone would be envious of.

She has a small nose and high cheekbones, her mouth pink and pouty, and she’s a size two with barely any curves. She doesn’t need anything artificial to enhance her beauty.

Needless to say, we’re polar opposites. I look at myself in the mirror over her shoulder.

I never wear makeup on my pale face. I’ve never felt the need to, and I have no interest in drawing attention to myself.

I’ve thrown my hair up in a big, messy bun; I have strands of hair sticking out all over. It’s a golden brown, curly with a hint of frizz, and long—it reaches the top of my ass.

I have round, rosebud-colored lips, and my small nose has a slight bridge, accentuating my coppery brown eyes. I’m not a size two. I have wide hips and curvy love handles.

I’m not one to stand out, and I plan to keep it that way.

Layla has decided on the purple minidress. I glance up, silently thanking the stars. I was expecting to spend at least two hours in here before she made up her mind.

The minidress is more like a piece of cloth, just there to cover the intimate parts, but revealing enough for anyone to guess exactly what she’s hiding.

Thinking of the shirt I picked, I realize I have a kick-ass pair of jeans in my closet that would go perfectly with it.

I’ll never understand people like my best friend Layla. Why would you want to spend all night at a concert in uncomfortable clothes? For a chance with the band? That’s so not worth it to me.

She’s going on and on about Steele. Apparently, he came from nothing, they started a band, and BAM! Rock star of the charts…

I tune her out. I couldn’t care less about a band that makes their money by selling bad-boy images and sex, producing mediocre music that means absolutely nothing.

I believe a song should touch you. It should send shivers down your spine, make your heart pound to the beat. Maybe even bring tears to your eyes just by feeling the words.

Or make you smile and set your mood for the day. That’s the music I listen to, the music I’m a true fan of. Music I can only dream of creating.

Growing up, my dad listened to all the greats, making me fall in love with them too. It’s something I’ve carried with me, and I always will.

It didn’t matter where we were. With my dad, there was always music playing or he was humming the tune to a great song. He’s the reason I decided to major in music.

I want to bring back that classic feel-good music, the songs that make you feel as if your heart has been ripped out.

The songs that reassure you that no matter what’s going on in your life, everything will be okay. Music is therapy—my therapy.

As we’re leaving the mall, I tell Layla I’ll meet her for dinner at her favorite Italian restaurant. I need some alone time, so I decide to walk home.

These are the times I know she worries about me. She’d rather play babysitter and know that I’ll make it through the day, so she knows I’m okay and won’t harm myself.

I’ve never given anyone reason to believe I would, but I suffer from anxiety and panic attacks. I stress myself out, worrying excessively about everything. I worry way too much.

Mostly about things that are out of my control, my fear reaching unimaginable heights, but I still refuse to take any prescription medicine.

So I can feel numb? I’d rather live in a constant state of fear and worry about everything than spend my life walking around like a zombie, unfeeling.

Anxiety started ruling my life not long after the accident. It’s a tough thing to deal with, something I’ve never been able to shake off.

When the attacks hit, I feel suffocated and unsure of how I’m going to continue living my life without people knowing how much it truly affects me. How debilitating it makes me feel.

I used to have panic attacks every night. It would start with a light-headed feeling, then nausea would creep in, causing me to breathe heavily, then it would escalate to hyperventilating.

All the while, my heart would be racing and my fears would be climbing so high that these attacks seemed like they would never end.

Walking helps when the familiar feelings start to claw their way in. The crisp, fresh air has a calming effect, helping me rationalize my fears.

Now, the nightly demons are just faint memories. I’ve been doing pretty well at keeping them at bay. Generally, the monster only shows up when I have an emotionally charged day.

As I wander outside, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I was thinking telling Layla I would walk. I’m at least five miles from home. Luckily, the heat is bearable, and the sun is shining.

Boston is a beautiful city, full of preserved history. I’ve walked the Freedom Trail more than once, soaking up all the knowledge.

The Boston Harbor, always just a few blocks away, is a wonderful place to find peace when I’m wrestling with old memories.

Two hours later, I walk into our apartment. Layla’s in the living room talking to some guy.

This is normal. She randomly picks up guys she meets. I’ve told her it worries me, but it’s her choice to make. This is how she copes.

Everyone has their own vice, something they turn to. A habit or an addiction maybe, to save themselves from feeling. From facing the past.

I would never fight her on it because I do things too—things she doesn’t agree with. I decide to go to my room because I don’t want to ruin her night by showing my disapproval.

Our apartment is a decent size. It has two bedrooms and three bathrooms. We each have our own bathroom connected to our rooms, leaving a bathroom for guests.

Adjacent to the living room is the eat-in kitchen, a large archway creating an open floor plan.

There’s a hallway off the living room where the guest bathroom is located, off to the right before our respective bedrooms. It’s all pretty compact and modern, with updated appliances.

I didn’t have a hand in decorating; I left it all up to Layla. She doesn’t have any extremely eclectic tastes. So, I trusted her to make it feel like home in whatever way she wanted.

Layla and I moved in last summer, a few weeks before school started, so we could get a feel for the city and where everything was located.

The only room I’ve somewhat touched is mine. The walls in my room are an alabaster white and bare. I have two large bay windows at the top of my queen-size bed.

I usually leave the windows open, letting the breeze from the harbor roll in. Two nightstands flank my bed. A nicely framed picture of my parents is centered on top of the right one.

On my left is the bathroom, and to my right is my six-drawer dresser, positioned next to my closet. It’s not a mansion-size room, but it fits my needs, and it’s mine.

I open my door and shut it while yanking my shirt and pants off. Layla’s favorite restaurant is kind of upscale, so I can’t go in looking like a teenage hipster.

I have a few pieces of clothing that remind me of my life before. Walking over to my closet, I pull the door open and grab a few items of clothing, not even checking to see if they match.

I decide I’ll take a quick shower and change. I hope Layla will be ready when I am. Maybe she won’t take the guy with us.

Opening my personal bathroom door, I turn the shower on, choosing to let the water warm up for a few minutes. Usually, I shock my system by getting in and just turning the shower on.

A stream of icy cold water is a pretty effective way to wake up quickly.

Not wasting time under the showerhead, I wash my hair and body quickly and step out of the shower, drying my body off, then wrapping the towel around my hair. I walk back into my bedroom.

Having set my clothes out on my bed, I pick up the black designer dress and examine it. It ends at the knee—acceptable. I put on a pair of flesh-colored hosiery and black strappy high heels.

Unwrapping my hair, I run my fingers through it, combing out any knots I find. Then I grab my handbag and walk out into the living room.

Layla’s there alone. Thank God. I didn’t want to be the third wheel making an uncomfortable dinner. She’s ready, jacket and all.

“All ready?” Layla asks.

I nod, making my way out of our apartment while she locks up. A few seconds later, she joins me in the elevator, and we start our descent to the lobby of our building.

I ask her about the new guy. She answers evasively. That’s how I know it’s another casual fling. Exiting our building, we start walking to the car garage across the street.

Many college students who choose not to live on campus pick apartments here. It’s a secure and safe building, which offers a huge well-lit parking lot.

When we reach her car, she takes her keys out of her clutch and clicks the “unlock” button. I climb into the passenger seat, she into the driver’s seat.

I don’t drive. Maybe someday, but for now, my fear is too overwhelming. Anytime I’ve ever tried to sit behind the wheel, I freeze, my hands unable to move.

When you’re immobile, it’s impossible to steer, let alone start a car.

She whips the car out of the parking lot, making me thankful for seat belts, and we head out to dinner.

Throughout the drive, Layla blabs about the concert, how she’s thrilled the school won, and how she’s always wanted to see Steele’s Army live.

“Their music has always been inspirational to me,” Layla says as I try to hold back from laughing.

She pays no mind to me and continues with her story.

“You know how much I love the band, Nat. As my best friend, you should just go along pretending you do as well. Try not to be a Debbie Downer tonight, all right?”

“I’ll try for you, Lals,” I say to appease her. I’ll try to pretend I’m enjoying myself while we’re there.

Layla then goes into her plan of how she’s going to sneak backstage and seduce the lead singer. This isn’t something I care to hear about.

I can’t hold my interest in her going on and on about a band like a proud groupie.

I stare out the window thinking of the past, the present, and the future, all the while mumbling generic responses to what she’s still blabbering about. I’m sure she doesn’t notice.

We arrive at Antonio’s, Layla’s favorite restaurant, about half an hour later. Before I even have a chance to open my own door, a valet attendant is there, doing it for me. I step out of the car and can’t help but stare at the fancy surroundings.

Above me, a black awning is adorned with countless tiny golden lights, hanging down like vines. They mimic the stars in the night sky. Layla steps up beside me.

The moment the door opens, the scent of garlic, basil, and pasta wafts out, hitting my senses hard. My mouth starts to water and my stomach gives an involuntary rumble.

I take in the restaurant, a place I’ve eaten at more than fifty times. Many of the walls are made up of wrought iron wine racks, holding some of the most expensive and diverse wines from around the world.

The decor is done in earthy Tuscan colors, strategically placed to make you feel like you’ve been transported straight to Italy.

The hostess takes our coats and leads us to our usual spot, tucked away in the back. The round table, covered in white, is set for two, with wine glasses already overturned and waiting to be filled.

Our waitress comes over and tells us about the daily specials. We decline, already knowing what we want. We order the same thing every time we eat here.

After we place our orders, I glance at Layla. I can tell she’s got something on her mind. She flashes me a big grin.

I knew this was coming. She’s playing the best friend card again—twice in one day. That’s unusual, even for her. So, I automatically put up my defenses.

“Nat, about the concert… The guy you saw at our apartment earlier, I invited him. I know you don’t date, but—”

“I’m not doing it, Layla. I’d rather not go at all, but if you’re going to make me, I’m going alone,” I say, trying to sound as uninterested as possible.

“Come on, live a little,” she pleads.

“Layla, you know I love you and I’d do anything for you. You don’t ask for much, but I’m not doing that.”

She sighs, her hope deflating.

“By the way, when is this concert?”

“Don’t worry, Nat. You’ve got two days to get ready. It’s on Saturday.”

Just fucking great.