I've never been in a fistfight. I've never known that I was about to get punched in the face repeatedly. It wasn't until my fingers held the needle over Billy's third solo album that I learned what that feeling must be like. It was an oddly exhilarating feeling. I knew what was coming. It was going to be terrible, but in some masochistic way, excitement surged through me.

There were the expected shades of lost love, sadness, and anger, but more slipped in this time. I could feel the rest of his life playing out as I had slipped away from him. It was a more palatable listening experience; dare I say, enjoyable. There was an undercurrent of frustration and thinly veiled annoyances of domesticated life warring with celebrity, an urge to protect and hide. It also felt musically more cohesive. I could tell it was Tim on drums, but he had been studying Billy's style. On a few tracks, it was apparent that Billy opted to record the drums himself. There was an odd mix of fighting with the kit and confidence in his movements that came through. I had a new favorite: every song on the album.

Stopping tempted me, but I knew what was next. It was the album. When I had asked Billy to play an angry song, he pulled this black and white album cover from the stack. When he witnessed my reaction, this was the album he shattered. This wasn't like being in a fistfight; this was preparing to watch the person you love most in the world be in a fight and know that you can do nothing to protect him.

The album spun and calmly began. The first few tracks didn't even sound like the style I had grown accustomed to in his previous albums. There were themes of following the path and accepting what you can't change. There were even a few references to the stability of friendship that I selfishly took as my own. A few love songs were mixed in; calm, soothing love that seemed to give him the happiness of a sunny Sunday afternoon.

And then it hit the reverb beginning that had haunted me for years. I didn't need to listen to it. I knew it by heart. It had been playing in my head for ten years. Then the screaming of the chorus hit. It was as though he was there, yelling at me. But Billy so rarely yelled at me, and when he did, he'd reel himself back in and apologize for his tone. He was always very deliberate with his words, style, and apologies. It was how I knew that every point in this searing, erratic song was a conscious choice. Nothing was unintended, and nothing would ever be regretted.

It was the only blistering track. The rest returned to placid happiness. Something about the songs made me feel lonely. The haunting melodies hit just off from sweet and drove an intended melancholy. I replayed the last few songs. Was it my mood that made them miserable? No, this again was designed.

I don't know how my phone got in my hand, but I had hit send before realizing it. "Has Billy ever been happy?"

I read the words over again. It could easily be read as a joke, but I was serious.

"What album are you at?" Tim quickly shot, despite the hour.

"Compelled to Yell," I typed back, suspecting he had been waiting to hear from me.

"Ah, yes, THE album. Weird one, right?"

"It's different. I mean, I've heard the namesake song before, as you know, but that song is the only one that sounds like his other work. Everything else is so..." I paused, my fingers lingering over the digital keyboard, looking for the right word. I had nothing, so I just hit send.

"Damn, I was hoping you would tell me what the hell that was. I've been trying to figure it out for years."

I had to let out a laugh and tossed my phone down as the songs swirled in my head. The undercurrent of despair distracted me from the lone track that directed anger at me.

"I'm worried about him." I shot to Tim.

"Lil, you're a few years late to be worried about anything on that album. Go to sleep; you're thinking too hard."

He was right, so I agreed with a "good night, Timmy."

"Good night, Lilipop."

I was obsessed. Billy Collins' music was consuming me. His words and voice tumbled through my head all night and day. They saturated my dreams; work was secondary, and conversations with Mary were distracted at best. Even eating was something I had to struggle through. Mary still didn't question my eagerness to return to my solitude. But I wasn't alone; I was with Billy. This was the only way I could still have him in my life; I could have his music.

I was devouring these new moments with Billy at a fevered pace. I came prepared for a fistfight with each album that had come out in the last ten years. It was ridiculous. Tim had warned me. It was brutal on Billy; I was lethal to Billy. I took a deep breath and dropped the needle on another album.

It started fine, anger. It was all anger. The guitar screamed in a fury; the drums beat in a rage, the lyrics bit at my very core, and even the vocal style was closer to strained screaming than singing. I knew anger; I understood anger. I had been angry with myself as well. But then, as quickly as the wrath came, a slow song came on. Everything was deliberate and precise, crafted from pure pain. Billy was lost again. The loneliness of his earlier albums slipped in with a deadly slice. As his vocals strained over the words as though he were fighting tears pulled by the sentiments, my hand flicked the needle.

My head was swimming. I paced as I pondered this quiet song, the emotion of the moment recorded for all time. I finally worked up the courage to drop the needle again. Billy's voice came as him, fond and shy. There were no screams from his guitar or chest-pounding drums. It was just Billy sitting at a piano. He carried it off with a tenderness that made the tears come, and I let them. This was why I was doing this. I fell in love with the boy singing this song just like the entire world had.

I tore through the rest of his catalog with such ravenous hunger that I panicked when I flipped to the B-side of the last album in the box. He had been railing against me for too long. There were moments of others, happy and simple, but the war still seemed to rage against me. If nothing else, he still thought of me. I wanted to believe it was a kernel of care, but more likely, it was just a well of inspiration. I had made him so mad that he had fed his creativity for years. It was an underhanded compliment at best.

"I'm on the B-side of his last album," I texted Tim.

"Stop listening," he immediately responded.

I barely read it before my phone rang.

"Stop the record," Tim demanded.

"What? It's been fine. He's pissed. I get it. I mean, it's been a half dozen albums," I joked.

"No, Lil, you don't understand. You need to stop the record. I'm coming over. You can't listen to the last two tracks."

"Timmy, he put them out for the world to hear. It can't be that bad."

"Lil, if you don't turn the record off, I'll never talk to you again. I promise you. Stop the record until I get there."

"Fine." I flicked off the record player. "Silence. Are you happy?"

"No, but I'll be there soon. There's one other thing for you too. I kept it to show you after this last part."

I laid back on the couch and waited to hear the stomping of Tim. I thought about putting on a different album to listen to, but instead, I found my eyes scanning the track list of the B-side. Nothing stuck out. It looked like a couple of love songs and somber titles, but nothing that looked like it was a vicious attack that I couldn't handle myself.

"Hey," Tim said from the doorway, causing my eyes to snap up from the album.

"Hello, Mr. Theatrics," I teased.

"I just wanted to be here for this. I think you'll have some questions." He flopped down on the end of the couch and threw a generic DVD on the coffee table.

"I doubt it. Honestly, I don't know what I was so scared of; the unknown, I guess. I love his music. It's made me feel close to him again."

"Yeah, these last few songs are different." Tim ran his hands through his blond hair as he spoke. I smiled at the memory of Billy doing the same to relieve internal tension.

I dropped the needle, and a few songs passed with nothing significant. Even a funny song made me think of Viv and Jackson seeping into Billy's mind.

It was the penultimate track that made everything shift. The intense music seemed to push the words and the pleading vocals to the forefront. It was a cry for help, a cry for someone he felt so connected to but had lost.

"Breath, Lil," Timmy quietly prodded. His eyes were glued to me.

The warning was well-timed as my lungs screamed for nourishment. I felt the tears welling. And then the last song. It started with just his voice, strained and cracking. It was a plan, a path for relief in the most gruesome of ways.

"Timmy." I reached out to him, blinded by what I was hearing.

"It was a year ago," he reminded me.

It continued to devolve, to complete and utter resignation of life.

"Timmy." My words came in a strained whisper.

"He's okay, Lil."

The song ended. "Is that me? Am I the one that's gone? Am I the one?"

"Lil, you know Billy. He takes things further in his work. Sometimes it's too far."

"Was it me?"

"Some. He had a bad year. He'd been on tour, which always drags him down. And while he was away, Sarah started up on custody again."

"What? Why would she do that? Billy is the best father." Rage soared in me.

"I know; she lost. She always loses. It's just a whole thing. And he'd been with this girl for years, and they busted up. When that happens, he always...."

"He always what?" I pressed.

Timmy shook me off. "So, Billy made this a few months back." He began as he held up the DVD. "I don't think he remembered he had told me this story about you and him, about what you wanted him to create. Everyone thought it was so weird. You know? Like he had lost his mind." Tim let out a laugh. "Honestly, this was the sanest thing he's done creatively in a couple of years."

Tim popped in the DVD and hit play.

It started. I recognized the song from the last album. My eyes were glued to the screen, watching Billy.

"It's a dance video," I whispered. All those years ago, he had asked what I wanted. In a moment of jest, I said dance video, complete with jazz hands.

"One take, he insisted it be all one take. If he didn't like something, he scrapped it all and started over from the top."

I couldn't stop the smile on my face.

"This is all you, Lily. I don't even think he realized it. Maybe the poor bastard still hasn't, but everything about this is you."

"What?"

"Look at it, Lil, black and white with a suit tailored just like Orson Welles, a hat that's twenty years old that he bought in a thrift store in Boston with some chick he used to know."

"He's the worse dancer," I laughed.

"Right. Oh, wait for it; here come the jazz hands."

"He let people see this?"

"People loved this. We had to start over a few times because we laughed so hard. Oh, grand finale...."

It flew in from the side, and Billy deftly caught it.

"My cane," I murmured to myself.

"Your cane, Lil. He made this video for you."

"A couple of months ago?" I prodded.

"Yeah, after everything settled down from the album release, he just showed up at the studio one morning with this in his head and...." Tim shook his head, trying to finish his thought. "I don't know, Lil. It's like you were with him again, but you weren't."

"I didn't know. What does it mean?"

"Honestly, I thought you two had started up again, and he was hiding it. Now, I just think he lost his damn mind. I'd think that somewhere in that house, he has a doll dressed like you, but Tess pointed out that Viv would've found it and had him committed."

"But he's okay? Those last couple of songs; they were just... He wasn't thinking about..." I wiped the music video from my mind and focused on the songs.

"They're songs..."

I sighed before holding up the DVD and adding, "can I keep this?"

"It's yours. I have many copies just in case he ever realizes how ridiculous he is. Unfortunately, it was a hit, so it's hard to tease him." There was sincere annoyance at the success of the video. "Okay, I gotta get home."

"Thanks for coming, Timmy."

"Hey, favorite song?" He asked as he paused in the doorway.

"You know, I have to say Compelled to Yell is a pretty tight song."

"Lily Turncott, you are a riddle inside a mystery," Tim laughed.

"Not the first person to tell me that." Then I added, "Not the even first person from Duluth to say that."

"Night, Lil," Tim called from the hall.

"Night, Timmy," I called after him.

I laid down on the couch, letting Billy's songs blanket me. My mind kept stalling on the last album. I stared at my phone, at a sent text I didn't recall sending. All it said was, 'are you okay?" My mind itched at my error. I wished I could recall it. It wasn't fair. I shouldn't have sent it. But then the return bubbles popped up.

"No," was all he typed back.

I didn't know how to respond. I wanted to go to him, to wrap my arms around his neck and protect him from anything that caused pain, anything that might cause pain.

But then the bubbles appeared again. "If I called you, would you answer?" It was the question he always asked. Every beginning and every ending started with this one question.

"Always," I typed as tears made my view hazy.

My phone was supposed to ring. I clutched it to my chest, hoping for any sound to shatter the silence, but nothing came. I must have sat there for half an hour before realizing no call was coming. I couldn't go to sleep, though. I knew my mind was warring too much for rest. I pulled on my boots and coat and stepped to the front door. The moonlight illuminated the snow like it once illuminated Billy's pale skin. I sighed at the memory and was just about to slump to the stairs when the silence broke.

"Hey, heartbreaker."