Chapter Text
The gloom from last night hasn’t lifted when I join Cassie and Jon for breakfast the following morning. The two look exhausted sitting by the full breakfast table, Cassie being a good hostess even in the stressful circumstances. I probably look as tired as they do. On my first night I couldn’t sleep because Brendon was near me, and now I couldn’t sleep because he was all the way in the hospital, keeping vigil at Ian’s bedside. The bed in Jon and Cassie’s guest room was cosy and I know that Brendon can handle himself, so I had no reason to have another sleepless night and yet...
“Any news?” I ask as I help myself to cereal.
Cassie shakes her head. I pour milk into my bowl silently, one of their cats purring at my feet. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s still pressing. Sad.
It snowed last night; through the kitchen window, a tree in their backyard is shiny white.
Ian might have missed this morning. All the ones to come.
“You want to take a shower?” Jon offers.
I glance down at my striped slacks that I pulled back on, and my upper half’s clothed by my white undershirt. I swear I have the smell of a hospital on me, that lingering scent of death. “Sure, but I’ve got nothing to change into. My clothes are at Brendon’s.”
“I’m sure Jon will have something,” Cassie offers, though we’re not the same size, Jon and I. His clothes will inevitably look too big on me.
“Or you could just pick up your stuff from Bren’s,” Jon suggests. He must see me tensing up because he adds, “He’s still at the hospital, I mean. I haven’t heard anything. But we’ve got his spare key if you want to pick up your stuff. He won’t mind.”
I relax slightly. “I suppose it’d be good to dress up. I’m meeting Sisky’s mom today.”
A smile flickers on Cassie’s lips, but she doesn’t say anything. I didn’t mean for it to sound quite so boyfriend-y, and so I go back to my cereal in slight embarrassment.
Jon keeps looking towards the phone every so often, like he’s hoping it’ll ring but it doesn’t. Maybe no news is good news at this point.
After breakfast, Jon offers to give me a ride as he decides to go to the hospital without waiting to be called. He drives to Brendon’s habitually, knowing the route by heart. I think we both assume that I’m staying with him and Cassie now. It’s better than staying at Brendon’s, far less conflicting. And Jon doesn’t need to wonder in whose bed I’ll be. No one has to. And Brendon needs space right now, I know that. He needs space, and having me hovering over his shoulder isn’t welcomed.
I’ll give him that space.
I’ve forgotten all about the brown rental Chevy until I see it parked outside Brendon’s house. Brendon’s car is in the driveway, too, but the snow outside is perfectly untouched. He hasn’t come home.
“I’ll head back to your house after I’m done at Sisky’s,” I tell Jon. “The kid seemed pretty upset about Ian.”
“We’re all upset,” Jon mutters quietly, hanging his head.
I don’t know what to say to that. Feel embarrassed that I compared a stranger’s worry to Jon’s who has been in this band with Ian for over a year. Maybe I should tell Jon that it’ll be alright, the way I told Brendon, but somehow the words will be phony if I say them to him. Not that Brendon doesn’t know any better, but telling him that things will be okay wasn’t about realistic projections. It was about Brendon being upset and me being willing to do anything, say anything, to reverse that.
Jon sighs and looks restless. I give his shoulder a supportive squeeze before I get out of the car. Feel guilty and inadequate for not knowing how to help him.
The key Jon gave me is in my pocket, and I dig it out as I leave footprints on the white blanket covering the ground outside Brendon’s house. I hear Jon’s car taking off as I read his handwriting on the white tape wrapped around the bow of the key: Brendon’s.
When the key fits in perfectly and the lock clicks open, I hope that Brendon won’t actually mind. I look over my shoulder, feeling like a thief. This is his home. My invitation to it is dubious as it is.
Inside, the house looks deserted and forgotten. A pillow and duvet are still on the couch where I slept; in the kitchen, our morning coffee mugs are still on the table. It’s silent. Doesn’t feel welcoming.
I focus on what I came for, and I grab my bag and the clothes that are still on his couch, and then I spend five minutes trying to find the damn car keys so that I can drive myself to Sisky’s, except I don’t know how to get to his house. After the keys have been found under the couch, I go to the rental car to retrieve the Chicago street map. The air is crisp and icy, instantly numbing my fingers, and so I rush my steps back to the house, map with me.
I spread the map out on the kitchen table. In the process I knock a mug off. I swear and reach for it, but it crashes onto the floor and chips. Great. In Brendon’s house, breaking his shit. He’ll walk into this mess after one of his best friends nearly died. Great, great job, Ryan.
I stop to take a breath, cursing myself for feeling so awkward and clumsy, for being just that. Making things worse for him.
The kitchen is untidy: the doughnut bag is still on the counter, my cut off hair is still in the corner where he swept it. He shouldn’t have to come back to this. I’ve got time before I need to go. Okay. I’ve got time.
I pick up the mug and the sharp piece of porcelain that came off. The mug is pure white, cheap-looking, so I throw it in the trashcan without too much thought. Then I begin to clean up the place. I finally get rid of my hair, and the brown locks land over the discarded mug in the trash. I spend forever looking for dish soap only to conclude that Brendon doesn’t have any, so I rinse the mugs and other dishes with hot water the best I can. The ashtray on the kitchen table is full, and I empty it, tapping at the bottom to get the ashes to fall out. The ashtray turns out to be more of hotel paraphernalia that he has a habit of collecting, it seems, my eyes flying over the reversed letters: aeslehC letoH
I blink. Turn the ashtray back around, now empty: Hotel Chelsea. On the bottom of the glass ashtray, in golden letters, small, black specks of ash over the words. Our Hotel Chelsea.
Something he once snatched. An ashtray that’s now in his house, after all this time.
Why would he have? When Shane could have noticed and – Or maybe Brendon. Maybe he hid it. Ashtrays hardly cost much but if you can get it for free, if you – And then you take it with you when you move, too. You take it to Los Angeles and then you take it to Chicago. See that logo there every time you use it.
Why would he –
I laugh when I realise that suddenly my insides feel hot and my pulse has picked up. God, so what? So what. He has an ashtray from Chelsea Hotel, and he probably stole it back when he and I used to frequent the place, our bed, our room, our world. Getting worked up over this is pathetic. To him, it’s just an ashtray. That’s all it is.
That’s all. Get a grip.
And so I quickly place the ashtray back on the table, now empty. Let it be. Finish cleaning up the kitchen and living room, tidying the little I can when I don’t actually know the rightful places of his belongings.
After that, I find Sisky’s house on the map and figure out the best way to get there.
Because it doesn’t mean anything. An ashtray.
I grab a quick shower before leaving. Don’t use the floral shampoo this time but actually find something that smells manlier – a half-used hotel mini-shampoo, this one from a hotel in Minneapolis. Brendon clearly just has a habit of helping himself to whatever he finds in hotel rooms. That’s all.
And I don’t wonder when he stole the ashtray, at what point. Was it clean, had it been used? Had it been lying on the sheets next to us when we smoked after a round of sex, him using my chest as a pillow, me talking bullshit about the new album, my vision for it, hand carding through his hair lazily, him humming to let me know he was listening? And it was so important, letting him know.
And afterwards, when I took a shower, did he look at the ashtray for a second, and did he think of the carefree afternoon, when things were so good between us? And was it then that he emptied it and put it in his pocket? Smuggled it home? Kept it hidden from his boyfriend that spring, even when he and I stopped talking? He didn’t throw it out.
Or maybe it was something else completely. Maybe it was never in the room, maybe it was in the lobby, and maybe he had broken an ashtray at home the day before, maybe it was a replacement and maybe it meant nothing.
When I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist, I stop. Look at the toothbrush mug, the simple white one that stopped me yesterday. His toothbrush is green. Mine is blue. In the mug with his. And I must have put mine next to his yesterday, clearly, but I have no recollection of it, and now the toothbrushes are in that mug together. And I quickly take mine out before the mental image spreads, but of course it spreads – my imagination has always been all over the place. And as I brush my teeth, it gets coloured in vividly: how in some alternative universe this is our house, and I just cleaned our kitchen, washed our mugs, emptied our ashtrays, showered in our bathroom, and after this I’ll go to our bedroom and he’ll still be asleep in our bed. His hair a mess, his skin warm, him asleep, and then he’s squirming when I touch him, complaining that my fingers are cold and my hair is wet, but I kiss his cheek anyway, morning, morning, morning, and he huffs but is smiling, turns his head to align our mouths. That could have happened. That could have been us. I offered. I fucking well offered, and he knew it.
And he said no.
I take the toothbrush with me this time.
He said no.
My insides ache at the memory of it.
I’m barely out of the bathroom when I stop. Hear the front door opening to the living room. Stand in his study next to his unpacked boxes, don’t move, just listen. Because it’s his voice, and he sounds exhausted, but then there’s a second voice: Dallon. Telling Brendon to get some rest.
“Yeah, I will,” Brendon promises.
I slowly approach the archway. Hover. Don’t want to step into their line of vision. Feel like I’ve broken in.
But then I take one step more, just enough to see the door. See Brendon pulling Dallon into a hug, and then the two stand in the doorway with their winter coats on, in a tight embrace. It’s not a brief goodbye hug. They whisper words that I cannot hear. Support and encouragement in a time of need. That’s what it is. That’s all. Sure.
I feel like Jon felt yesterday morning: walking in on something that I shouldn’t see.
Dallon eventually pulls back, hand on the back of Brendon’s head. “Okay?” he asks, and Brendon nods, and Dallon smiles, and I step back before they see me staring at them, wrapped up in one of Brendon’s towels. The intruder.
“See you later, man,” Brendon calls out before the door closes. He sighs audibly. It’s loud and fills up his house. I wish I was dressed, at least, that it didn’t look like I’ve been lounging about his house while he’s been at the hospital. Helping myself to his briefly extended hospitality all too liberally.
For a second I consider – I don’t know, hiding, maybe? Hiding, yeah, okay – but then Brendon’s walked into the living room further, and then he sees me through the archway. He startles, jumping. “Jesus fuck!” he exclaims, a hand pressed to his chest. “Ryan? Fucking hell.” He’s not happy.
God, I’m such an idiot.
“Sorry. Um. Jon gave me the key. I came to pick up my stuff,” I say, speaking quickly, explaining. Beneath his shock, he looks tired but not devastated. Good. That’s a good sign. He looks confused, however. “And then I showered. I hope that’s alright.”
“...Yeah. Sure.”
Still frowning.
In that alternative universe, this would be a different scenario. Him coming home from the hospital – I think Ian would have fucked himself up in both worlds – and I’d have him in my arms by now, I’d be comforting him, I’d take him to bed, say that you have to sleep, get some sleep, and when he’d wake up a few hours later, with me in bed with him, then we’d undress and – And it’d be so intense with the need to prove that at least we’re alive, him and I, and we still have this, our house, our life, communal, shared, ours –
But this is what we’ve got instead. This.
He didn’t want me back in New York, and now that I’m here, I’m reminded of it all over again. He said that it was good to see me, but it was as an old friend. Like we’ve both said. Old friends. Means there’s baggage. Mistakes made along the way. Too many to count.
That ship has sailed, that point where maybe we still might have...
And now he’s got his house and his unpacked boxes and his band and his tours and his bandmates who drive him home and comfort him.
And I’m the odd extension, and aren’t I just so acutely aware of it right now?
“I thought maybe Jon told you he gave me the key,” I say as a way of explanation, tightening the towel around my waist slightly.
He’s still looking at me, his eyes out of focus slightly and fixed somewhere on my stomach. Then he manages to shake his head, tired eyes finding mine. “He didn’t mention it.”
“Oh.” Thanks, Jon. “How’s Ian doing?”
Is he a vegetable, did he fuck up his brain? But Brendon looks like he is in no condition for my interrogation. Still, he’s come home.
“I mean, is Ian...?”
“He’s himself,” he says with a small shrug. “Well. As much as he can be after something like that.”
“No brain damage?” I clarify, and Brendon shakes his head. “That’s great news! Fuck, that’s really good. He’ll recover fully, then?”
“Physically.” He’s now unbuttoning his coat. “Mentally and emotionally, he’s not doing so well. He – He’s really... not in a good place right now.” He sounds hurt even saying it.
It seems rude to pry, so I don’t ask. It’s most likely confidential between Brendon and Ian, anyway. Ian was breaking. Now he’s broken. It takes more than a hospital trip to fix that.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Brendon shrugs, but he seems angry and bitter beneath his exhaustion just like he was last night. After he’s gotten his boots off, he looks around briefly. Frowns. “Have you... cleaned up?” His brown eyes fix on me, confused.
“Just a bit.”
He blinks. “You. Cleaning up.”
“Yeah.”
“You.”
“I figured you wouldn’t mind –”
“No, no, I don’t. I just. Didn’t know you cleaned things. You. I mean, your SoHo apartment was always such a mess. So was your LA pad.”
My mind briefly recalls the only time he ever saw my apartment in LA. When he fucked me for the first time, his hot breath against the nape of my neck, a sloppy kiss… Fuck. But I lose the memory just as quickly.
“I clean things. Up in Machias, who else is gonna do it?” I point out, and he shrugs like he hasn’t thought of that. He rubs his left temple briefly, and it’s obvious he hasn’t slept all night, so I say, “I’ll get dressed and head over to Sisky’s. You look like you need sleep.”
“More like a nap,” he mutters. “We’re meeting at Jon’s later. Band meeting.”
Wow, don’t they ever rest?
“All the more reason for me to go, then,” I say, toothbrush still in hand. Know when to go.
“Alright.” He seems uncomfortable as I grab the duffel bag that’s still on the couch that now also has a neatly folded duvet on it with my pillow on top. I get dressed in the bathroom, hang my towel up to dry. Am the perfect guest.
Think how ridiculous it is that we now cover ourselves up when we used to dress and undress in front of the other without a second thought.
Like our flesh has now become sinful or a source of shame.
When I come back out, he’s sitting on the couch that was temporarily my bed. He’s smoking, his Chelsea Hotel ashtray now on the coffee table. He looks up at me when I walk in, and I sit on the adjacent couch to put my shoes on. I feel him staring at me, but I don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling. I have no damn clue.
“Uh, about last night,” he says at last. “At the hospital.”
Ah. So that’s his deal. Last night.
He’s either embarrassed or angry that I witnessed his breakdown – that’s how he works, I know all that: he’ll get pissed off that I used his weakness against him or something of the sort. I don’t want to deal with his problems with it.
“Hey, don’t mention it.” I tie my shoe laces without looking up. “You were upset, I just happened to be there. I could’ve been anyone.”
“Yeah. Right. Exactly.” He sounds relieved by this. “You could’ve been anyone.”
I don’t know if I really buy that, however. In my head, it only could have been me. Only. No one else. But I also know that I won’t be in a tight embrace with Brendon when I leave.
And I’m right.
He stands up once I’ve thrown my coat on, got my bag, the car keys, the map. He asks, “So where does Sisky live?”
“Bucktown. Or his mother lives there.”
“Oh. His mom.” Something like a frown flickers on his face before it’s gone. “Well, if you take the expressway –”
“I am, yeah.”
“Okay.”
And we don’t hug and we don’t wave goodbye. I give him a nod and hurry out. Leave him to mourn.
* * *
Despite my best efforts of bothering to put on smart, clean clothes, Sisky’s mother is long gone by the time I get to her house. Sisky opens the door, clearly unimpressed, and tells me that I was expected two hours ago. Well, shit.
So instead of meeting his mother, Sisky and I sit in the living room of the modest Siska bungalow that’s roughly the same size as Brendon’s – his, of course, is just for him. This one is for two people. Sisky asks about Ian, and I tell him the little I know.
Sisky was gone by the time we returned from the hospital last night. He’s taking the incident hard because of the music – not because he was particularly close to Ian. I think he, too, sees His Side as a final link to me and is worried that the band is now over. Surely not. Ian is disposable, regardless of what Brendon might have yelled at their manager.
“Are they cancelling the tour?” Sisky asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. They’re having a band meeting soon, I think, but... Who knows? If they stay here, it’ll make interviewing them easier, right?” I try to find something positive in it. And if the band stays in Chicago, it gives me a reason to stay, too. Hang out with Jon some more. Not have Brendon fly to the other side of the ocean.
Sisky’s got a typewriter out on the dining table, and he says that he’s working on the biography. I tell him good. He asks me if I want to read some. I decline instantly.
So instead we just chatter, and he gets out cards and puts on some ELO, and we both try not to think of Ian or His Side as it begins to snow outside. I stay until Sisky seems slightly better and less shaken up by recent events. I eventually promise to come back tomorrow, on time, I swear, because his mother still wants to meet me, which is understandable. Had I a son, I wouldn’t want him hanging out with the likes of me either.
When I get to Jon’s, it’s past dinner time, but Cassie’s a great cook and a gracious host, so I hope that something will have been put aside for me. And if she doesn’t object, getting drunk with Jon sounds like a plan. The whisky I bought on the way clangs in the backseat.
Cassie opens the door for me and ushers me in because it’s fucking cold out. Instead of finding the couple canoodling in front of the TV, watching Three’s Company, however, the living room is full of guys: His Side, the manager, a few crew members. Deep in discussion and hardly even noting that I stop in the doorway. Band meeting. Right.
“You want something to eat?” Cassie asks me, just like I hoped she would.
“Sure.”
Jon sees me, and I lift my hand as a greeting. He nods back but looks surprised. Well, it’s not like I was going to crash at Sisky’s, was I?
Dallon says, “So you’re saying that if we essentially rewrite half of our songs, then performing without Ian would work? Bob, that’s ridiculous! We’d ruin the show and the songs!”
They’re speaking over one another, and Mike looks like he would choose a slow, painful death of getting eaten by cockroaches over this. Brendon looks my way, and our eyes meet briefly before I follow Cassie into the kitchen. He smiled slightly. Tiredly. But a smile of ‘hello’, which I think I tried to return.
It seems like Cassie and I are the only ones not invited to the ongoing discussion. We’re the outsiders.
“How long have they been at it?” I ask her as she starts setting the table for one.
“Forever. Mike doesn’t want to cancel the tour, but Brendon thinks they should. They’re trying to come to a compromise.”
“Half a tour?”
Cassie chuckles. Leo, their guitar tech, was also in the living room, long messy blond hair to his shoulders. He looks rock ‘n roll enough, I’m sure he could step in.
Cassie gives me a plateful of rice, salad and a chicken leg, and she tells me that I’m too skinny. I lost some weight in Machias, but not that much. Canned soup is nutritious, right? She sits down to talk to me, and I ask about the Pilates class that she’s teaching, ask her if that is catching on with the world like she one day hopes that it will, and she’s all about it, looking pleased that I’ve asked. That way I don’t have to strain my hearing to eavesdrop on a band meeting that doesn’t concern me, although if they asked me, if it was any of my business, if I got the chance, well I’d –
“God,” Jon says, slouching into the kitchen. The guys are still talking in the living room.
“What’s the verdict?” Cassie asks as Jon takes a seat.
“It’s the same as when we started. Leo steps in for Ian, except that Brendon doesn’t really want that, but it’s a bit too late to cancel the tour, so we need to figure out a way. Because Ian’s not coming, that’s for sure.”
“Let Leo do it, then,” I say, forking rice into my mouth.
“He doesn’t want to, man. Well, he will if he has to, but he’s not overly keen. Some people are just meant to be techs, you know?”
I know. Take William or Andy or Zack – techs, clearly. Not musicians. Not famous musicians.
“The guys could do with some beers,” Jon says, looking at Cassie pleadingly. She pats his hand affectionately before getting up and getting beers from the fridge.
Once Cassie’s out of the room, I say, “Got whisky for us.”
Jon laughs. “That sounds like a great idea at this point.” But he keeps peering at me, like he’s studying me.
“What’s happening?”
“Well, I just.” He shifts in his seat restlessly, quickly looks over his shoulder like he wants to make sure we’re alone. “When you walked in earlier, it just occurred to me, you know? If – If Leo doesn’t want to play with us, but we need to go on tour, then – then who do we know who can memorise an album’s worth of new songs in one weekend?”
He stares at me. I stare at him. Who? But he keeps staring.
...Oh. Oh fuck.
“Oh, come off it, Jon!”
“What?”
“No! Absolutely not!” But he looks deadly serious. I put my fork down. “No! You’ve got – you’ve got Leo and other techs who are more familiar with the material than I am, you –”
“We need someone with experience in performing.”
“Chicago’s full of experienced guitarists!” I argue, but still Jon just gives me this look like he’s made up his mind and that’s that. I need to reason with him. “Fuck, I don’t mean to sound like a dick, alright? But I’m too famous. You want it to be a His Side show or a Let’s Stare at Ryan Ross show?”
“Ry, we need you.”
Emotional blackmail. I know he’s desperate, but I am not the solution.
“God, Jon. That’s not...” Me on tour with them? Me filling in for Ian? “Brendon would never allow it.” I realise I’ve said it out loud a second too late.
“He would!” Jon assures me, but no, he wouldn’t. He really wouldn’t. Jon lowers his voice slightly. “He’s okay with you, you know.”
At that moment I realise that he’s right, and I hate him for it. Brendon is okay with me. Has gotten past that painful part where all the former fights and fuck ups feel fresh. They don’t, so he’s okay with me. Will smile at me and treat me like a person.
“Even so, this is pushing it. For all of us.” By that I mean me, and Jon probably knows that. I shake my head vigorously. “No. He doesn’t want me on tour. You gotta- You gotta learn when you’re not wanted. So no.” But Jon clearly isn’t convinced. I sigh exasperatedly. “God, it’s a really bad idea.”
“What is?” Brendon’s voice asks. He’s in the doorway with a beer bottle in hand, taking us in calmly. Oh. Maybe he didn’t hear what –
“Ryan filling in for Ian,” Jon spells out before I can stop him or come up with some non-band related context for my remark, and fuck, why would Jon do that?
I shake my head. “I already turned the offer down.” I don’t want Brendon to think it was my idea.
But Brendon merely blinks. “Why?”
...Wait. What?
“...Why I said no?” I clarify, and he nods, looking at me intently with his brown eyes that I can hardly stand because they’ve become such a definition of the perfect shade of brown. I did not expect him to say that. Why? Well, because. Him and I – That’d be. “I’m too famous. It’d draw attention away from the band.”
“That’s true, you would steal a lot of the attention, but,” he shrugs, “there’s no such thing as bad publicity. You’d also draw in crowds.” And now he looks at me like he’s waiting for my second reason.
“Well, it just wouldn’t work.”
That isn’t much of a reason, but I don’t know what to say. I didn’t think he’d even consider it, but he is. Clearly. He’d let me? He wouldn’t mind having me around constantly? I guess not. So I’m the one with the problem here, not him. Fuck. Does he expect me to sit here and tell him that no, I don’t want to help out Jon, one of my best friends, or him, a person who- who I cared deeply about, despite all, because deep down seeing him has rattled me? That something at my core stirs up when I see him? Does he expect me to own up to that?
“I just thought that, I don’t know... you’d think it’s a bad idea.”
And I hate how apologetic I sound saying it. I’m sick and tired of apologising to him because I am sorry but I’ve paid for it, and he wasn’t perfect either, so there.
Jon looks between us, and Brendon’s expression is perfectly illegible. Brendon can keep us all out if he wants to.
“I think Ryan would do great,” Jon then says. “He’s got the experience and the talent and the stage presence. We know him. He’s a friend of the band. And, I mean. It’s a three week tour. A temporary gig, you know? It’ll be done before we know it, and we need someone now. And Ryan’s already here.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” Brendon says at last. “I mean, if we can’t have Ian, we don’t want to settle for someone who’s not as good, do we? It’s better to upgrade.”
Wait. What?
“So you want me to come on tour with you?” I clarify because ever since I got here, I’ve gotten the feeling that he wants me to leave. The bitterest pill I ever swallowed: that he didn’t want me.
He shrugs in a ‘why not?’ way. “I’d be fine with it, yeah. Jon’s right about it all. You could do it. We’ve both toured with you so we know what we’d be getting into,” he says and smirks slightly, the first smile I’ve seen on his face since we found out about Ian. But I’m not amused and it must show because, more seriously, he adds, “I’d like it if you came along. Or, I mean,” he then rushes out, “we’d like it. The band. You’d be doing us a favour.”
“Well,” I say, trying to digest this. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay.” He nods, self-assured. No big deal. “Okay, fine. But don’t think for too long, we’ll need –”
“I thought about it.” He shuts up. Jon stares at me. Fuck. “Fine. Why the hell not?”
Why not, then?
Jon grins widely, happy and relieved. Brendon smiles, almost warm but not quite. Lukewarm. I smile back briefly, try to process this.
He’s forgiven me enough to want me on tour, and I’ve forgiven him enough to help him when he needs it.
Okay. Tour it is, then.
* * *
“How are the cookies?”
“Yeah, uh. They’re really good.” Pause. “Thanks.”
Sisky’s mother gives me an appreciative smile that’s very similar to her son’s. I smile back and look around the living room, pretending to be interested in the wallpaper. Cookies and a glass of milk. Well, now I’ve lived through everything.
Louisa Siska has long auburn hair and a wide smile, and she keeps looking at me benignly – affectionately, even. It’s unnerving as I’ve only just met her. Sisky is munching on a chocolate chip cookie of his own, but he looks like he’s out of energy. Him. He asked me about Ian again, and I told him the latest news: rehab.
I haven’t told him about the tour yet although I have a first practice session with His Side in two hours.
“So where are you staying?” Louisa asks me, hands neatly in her lap.
“Um, with friends. Jon.”
“Oh, is that Jon Walker?” she asks brightly, looking to Sisky. “Adam, you’re a fan of his, aren’t you?”
Sisky nods but doesn’t really smile. “Yeah, Jon’s really nice.”
“Well, I think it’s just lovely,” Louisa now says. “When Adam was younger, he looked up to you so much. It’s just lovely, isn’t it? Lovely that you’ve become such good friends! He’s never had that many, you know.”
“Mom!” Sisky objects, looking severely embarrassed.
I say, “I didn’t have that many friends either when I was his age.”
Louisa smiles at me like we get each other. Sure. I’m mostly lying: when I was Sisky’s age, I had a record deal, had released my debut album, was touring the country with my band and had a string of so-called friends. Louisa doesn’t need to know this, however.
“Would you want another cookie?” she then asks, and I can tell that she won’t take no for an answer, so I nod. “Good! You are so awfully skinny.”
“Mom!” Sisky repeats, sounding mortified. The second person to tell me I’m too skinny over the past day or so. She disappears into the kitchen with a flash of her floral dress. There’s something deeply maternal about her, and so I don’t mind her mothering me.
“She lives to humiliate me,” Sisky says, cheeks a slight red.
“That’s what mothers are for.”
I think.
Louisa comes back, and I engage in further idle chitchat, discuss the flowers she wants to plant in the garden once summer is here, then agree that it’s horrible that last summer some kids trampled all over her flowerbeds. Sisky keeps giving me a curious look like I’m acting out of character, and I am, but it makes Louisa happy, so what the hell.
“You wanna see my room?” Sisky then asks, somewhat rudely cutting off his mother who was in the middle of asking me if I have ‘a lady friend’. I already saw Sisky’s room yesterday, but I nod, grateful for the escape. There is no polite way of saying you like cock.
“You boys go talk about your boy things!” Louisa calls after us, sounding amused.
...Okay.
Once in Sisky’s small bedroom, blue bed sheets with spaceships on them, he sits by his desk and says, “She is so embarrassing, oh my god.”
“She’s alright.”
Appreciate her. She loves you. Not all mothers do.
Sisky just rolls his eyes, unaware of how lucky he is. He’s got an impressive number of books everywhere, piled up on the floor, and it’s a music fan’s room, too: posters, LPs, band t-shirts, ticket stubs pinned to the wall. I grab a book from the nightstand, Robinson Crusoe, and as I flick through the pages, I say, “Hey, so I was thinking I’d check out the Navy Pier tomorrow. You wanna be my guide?”
“You sure? It’s kind of dead.”
“The views will be nice, though.”
“It’s cold and there’s nothing there. Maybe someone should build an amusement park there, then it’d have some purpose.”
“Come on, amuse me,” I beckon. “We’ll get something to eat, we can go to a record shop, a music shop. I mean, you need a proper guitar, right?” I nod at the cheap-looking acoustic in the corner of his room.
This, it seems, is a step too far. He eyes me suspiciously, brows knitting together. Shit. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
I’m affronted, I truly am. “I’m always nice to you, I –”
“No. You’re not.”
...True.
I close the book, knowing that the moment has come. It feels like I’m betraying him somehow, abandoning him like an unwanted kitt – Oh, fuck him and his idiotic similes.
“I just thought it’d be nice to hang out with you because, well. I’m leaving for Europe with His Side next week.”
Sisky’s eyes widen and his mouth drops open, dramatic as ever. “You’re – You’re what? You’re filling in for Ian?!”
“Yeah,” I say, hardly believing it myself. God, I suppose I am. And the worst thing is the huge chunk of me that is itching to be on tour again. “Jon asked me, and Brendon was fine with it, and –”
“You’re coming out of retirement?!” he asks, now standing up, his voice becoming dangerously shrill with excitement. He looks like he wants to jump up and down and clap.
“I wouldn’t say that, no. I mean, it’s only for a few weeks, it’s not –”
“Oh, it’ll be perfect! God, Ryan, it’s perfect!”
“...It is?”
I didn’t think he’d be this happy about me leaving.
“Yes! I’ve been wondering how I can finish my book when I eventually get there, and man, ending on a note of you being a hermit in Machias was such an anticlimax!” He rolls his eyes at me like that’d make me such a loser. “But now I can end it with you on stage once more! Oh, that’s perfect!” he exclaims happily, eyes shining. “Europe! Europe, Ryan! I mean, Mom won’t be happy with it, but she’s so used to me travelling by this stage, hardly matters if I’m in Nevada or The Netherlands, right? And she likes you! You can talk to her! Oh, could you talk to her?”
He eyes the door with fervent eyes, a shit eating grin on his lips. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him this excited.
He hasn’t properly smiled since Ian OD’ed. Now he is. At last. I don’t know why it feels like a relief.
And I... I mean. I guess I need my biographer... Or...
I think of telling him no, watching that smile of his vanish.
I don’t have the heart.
“Uh, sure,” I say, giving in. God. “I’ll talk to your mom for you.”
“Yes!” he says, and now he does clap. “I can’t believe I’m going abroad!”
I wouldn’t get too excited: venues and a tour bus, simply in countries where you don’t speak the language. But he’ll manage. Sisky’s got this innate ability to adapt, walking Darwinism.
“Can you go talk to her now?” he requests, beaming at me. Unable to wait at all. I roll my eyes at him.
In the end, Louisa insists that I take a dozen homemade cookies with me and tells me to send her a postcard from Paris because Sisky will forget. She also makes me promise to look after her son out there because Adam is a bit impulsive, you see.
Yeah, I’ve noticed that about him.
* * *
We spend the entire weekend practising together, me memorising their songs. His Side’s practice space doesn’t have a phone, and so communication with the outside world proves difficult. Vicky and I keep missing each other, but we manage to talk by leaving messages back and forth, Cassie having the patience to put up with it and being the middleman.
I finally manage to get in touch with Vicky on Sunday morning, however, a few hours before we need to head out to the airport. I plan on making myself scarce because Jon and Cassie will want to say their goodbyes, of course, and having me in the house, well – I know when not to be a third wheel. So being kind as I am, I’m heading to Sisky’s and then we’ll make our way to the airport ourselves. Jon and Cassie said sure, alright, and are probably holding their breaths for me to leave before engaging in some goodbye sex.
But before granting them the luxury for loud, bed-creaking, headboard-wall-slamming copulation, I give Vicky one last call. This time, she actually picks up.
“At last!” she exclaims, although I could say the same thing. “God, you do not make my life easy, do you?”
“Well, where’d be the fun in that?” I smirk.
She’s being overdramatic because it’s already been organised: my guitars will be joining us in New York later on today before our connecting flight to Oslo. Also a suitcase of clothing, a few books and some other essentials that Vicky’s people have taken from my NY apartment will join me there. I gave Cassie a list of the suits and guitars I wanted – the ones that are good for tours. From the moment we leave Chicago to the moment we land in Oslo, we have sixteen hours of travelling ahead of ourselves.
And all of that feels natural. I’ve been here before, I’ve lived this life. It’s worrying, almost, how easily I slip back into this. And when Vicky asks how I’m feeling about the tour, I admit that it feels good. The buzz is in my veins, getting louder all the time. I’m so used to being on the road. I’ve missed it.
“And you’ve got the songs down? The last thing we need is you back on stage, fucking things up.”
“Thanks,” I note sourly. I’ve been doing nothing but practising His Side songs the last two days, with the band or by myself. They’re not my songs. I didn’t create the melodies. And so I’m like a forger at work, but I’m good at it. It’s a change going from rhythm guitar to lead guitar, but I like the challenge of it, too. “I’ve got the songs down, don’t worry.”
“Good,” she says, and I feel her hesitating momentarily. “How’s your arm?”
I quickly look towards the kitchen where Jon and Cassie are having breakfast. They’re talking, probably not trying to eavesdrop on me as I talk to my manager in the hallway. “Um, it’s been fine.”
“Because –”
“Really. It’s been alright.”
I’m out of practise, sure. I haven’t been playing as much guitar as I used to, but I’ve been playing for hours the past few days, and sure, my left elbow feels slightly stiff, but there is no pain. And even if there were, I wouldn’t – I’d go get a massage or something, I wouldn’t take anything. Vicky would kill me. I’m sure Brendon would too, considering one of his best friends just fucked himself up. I’d try acupuncture and let them stick needles in me. I’d do the responsible thing this time around.
“What’s new with Ian, then?” I ask since Mike has been reporting to Vicky religiously. It’s made the headlines now: Guitarist of His Side hospitalised after overdose. The band hasn’t commented on it, and the shows are presumed to go ahead as scheduled. My involvement with any of it has been hushed up. For now.
“He’ll be going to a rehab centre when he gets discharged. There’s a good one in Chicago, but he wanted to go to Las Vegas. Be close to his family.”
“And how long will he be there?”
“However long he needs.”
The band is taking a break after the European tour, so that should give Ian some time to get his act together.
“The, uh,” Vicky now says, sounding slightly hesitating. “The place has another centre in Los Angeles. They’re very discreet, meant for those with money. I heard through the grapevine that apparently Gabe’s there now.”
“Sorry?” I repeat because I have heard no such thing. Not that I’ve been in touch with Gabe myself. I thought he’d be in New York, still living his decadent life. Ian needs rehab. Gabe – Gabe’s stronger than that. I thought. I was relatively sure.
“Yeah, that’s what I heard. He and I don’t stay in touch, I had no idea he’d even left town. I’ll give you the number of the place if you want to give him a call at some point.”
“Yeah, sure.”
There’s a pen and a notepad next to the phone on the side table – Cassie’s organisational skills showing once more. Vicky quickly changes the subject from Gabe, her former lover – and mine too, I suppose – and gives me a speech on how I need to handle the press because she won’t be around to hold my hand through any of it. Sisky, however, will. The tour bus only has so much space, and how much of a jackass would I have looked like saying that I need my biographer on board? And so I’ve given Sisky the task of handling all the administrative and organisational matters concerning me. Vicky’s not happy with it; Sisky’s over the moon. But if that kid can write a book, he can surely get my hotel keys for me and carry my luggage and keep the press away from me. And it certainly justifies bringing him along a hell of a lot better.
He said he’s perfect for the job: “As an obsessive fan,” he reasoned, “I know how we think. I know how they’ll try to get to you. And I will block them!”
Convinced me.
“I’ll call you from Oslo,” I promise Vicky in the end, needing to wrap the call up in order to give Jon and Cassie some alone time. I’m nothing if not an understanding friend.
“You better,” she says, “but if you wake up Alex when he’s finally fallen asleep, I will hunt you down, I swear.”
“Noted.”
“Well,” she sighs, “I guess that’s it, then. You’re on your way. It’s not quite how I envisioned your musical comeback, but you’ve always done your own thing. Playing guitar for your ex-boyfriend.”
“He –” I immediately start but then stop to calm myself down. “He’s not an ex-boyfriend. We were never – Look, it was just never like that.” I hate how defensive I sound, but it’s annoyance. We weren’t together.
“You’re right, I suppose you weren’t. But still.”
Vicky wishes me a safe journey and hangs up on me, and I stand in the hallway, ticked off. Because the past few days have been alright: I’ve spent hours with the band, with Brendon. And we shy away from each other, sure, but we’re not standing there as exes or whatever we were. We share beers and we chat, with the rest of the band always there, and it’s alright. He’s not avoiding me, and I’m not avoiding him. He’s not refraining from telling me off when I fuck up a song, but he’s not coming down on me with anger like on the first night. He’s treating me like a human being. He tells a joke, I laugh, I tell a joke, he laughs. And I’m not saying anything about how these songs are a lot more polished, more commercialised than his demos back in the day. Dumbed down music from a man who can do better.
We’re finding a balance, and I think it’s working.
Because if we stood there, only thinking about the past, I doubt either one of us could cope.
So we don’t think about it.
We focus on the present. On the little we have, not on what we lost.
* * *
We arrive to Oslo in the morning, exhausted, confused, bitching about the cold after sixteen hours of travelling. No one’s really slept.
I get smuggled onto the bus, sunglasses on despite it being a cloudy day in late January, my head kept low, and we make sure no one recognises me, that no reporter accidentally spots me or snaps my picture because then it’d be all over the news prematurely: His Side has arrived with Ryan Ross.
The smuggling goes as planned. The bus looks relatively new on the outside: it has tinted windows for privacy, the bottom half is metal, the upper half and the roof is burgundy coloured. Though our bus on the ’74 was spanking new, it didn’t look as neat as this. Funny how much things can change in five years. It’s a German make from what Mike tells me.
Inside, the bus is crowded. It has twelve bunks at the back half of the bus, the front half being two long couches, one on each side, with a small kitchenette and a toilet before the bunks start. A sliding door separates the halves, and Bob keeps playing with it with awed exclamations of how modern it is. The space in the lounge is narrow; as Dallon and Jon sit opposite one another, our legs hit their knees as we snake between them. I’ve seen worse, and I’ve seen better. The band and crew all pour in, select bunks, try to find space for their luggage, tired but excited. The driver’s a German guy, Jürgen, and he doesn’t speak much English, but his impressive moustache makes up for it. “Guten Morgen,” he says, shaking our hands. He grins especially wide when he shakes mine. “Ah, Sie sind Ryan Ross! Big fan, big fan! Wunderbar! Und Sie spielen jetzt mit His Side? Super!” He holds my hand even tighter, and I just look at him with incomprehension on my face. “You very good music man!”
“Danke,” I return, and he seems pleased by it.
I’ve never been a fan of bunks and still am not. I choose the top bunk on the right side at the very back. No luxurious back lounge for me anymore, and it’s a demotion but simultaneously it feels like acceptance, being a part of the group. Neither worshipped nor held in contempt. Just one of the guys. Sisky says that he’ll take the bunk below mine so that “we can whisper to each other at night”, and so I make damn sure that he, in fact, takes one of the bunks towards the front, as far away from me as I can. In the end, Leo sleeps below me, and I only hope that he doesn’t snore. Dallon tests out a bunk and is soon saying that he can barely fit in, that he has to lie in the fetal position because he’s so tall.
The time difference has all of us confused: it’s almost noon in Norway, and so it’s six in the morning for our systems. We’re groggy and busy, and the crew is nervous because it’s the first night of The European Sanctuary Tour 1979, and the band is nervous because, well, it’s their first time in Europe and it’s also the first time they ever play without Ian. While the band is busy with interviews during the day, Sisky and I help out the crew consisting of three techs: Leo, doing bass and guitars, Quentin, who does the drums, and then Dick, who does Brendon’s keyboards.
“Is that short for Richard?” I ask, and Dick nods, bushy brown hair past his shoulders, his chin covered by matching stubble. Under all that hair, he’s quite handsome. “So... can I just call you Richard?”
“It’s Dick,” Dick says, and despite his mountain man appearance, he has an effeminate lisp. Another one of Brendon’s, uh – acquisitions. Clearly.
The venue is an old yet large theatre with the seats removed, but the upper balcony remains, and the place can fit up to a few thousand people. The decoration is elaborate and gold-leafed. We are very clearly not in the US anymore. The venue is also much smaller than the shows I got used to playing with The Whiskeys: from ten, fifteen thousand towards the end of it, to this.
I used to play venues like this.
Somehow it feels homey.
The day passes in sleep deprivation, excitement and loss. Ian’s absence lingers, and Jon says that he feels guilty that they just left him there and didn’t even postpone the tour. But he’ll be going back to Las Vegas in two days, and he’ll be seeing his family while he’s in rehab. You have to accept the things you can’t change, the people you can’t change. Ian has to help himself now.
The soundcheck takes forever. We have a problem with Jon’s guitar, Brendon forgets some lyrics, I fuck up a part, and then we’re all even more nervous. The band has more interviews, and Brendon keeps smoking, and I don’t think he’s slept or eaten since Chicago, and he really should, but then neither have I.
By the time the venue doors open at seven o’clock sharp, the entire band and crew has been awake for twenty-eight hours and counting. We’re in the dressing room, psyching ourselves up. Brendon’s drinking a glass of water, gurgling, humming, warming up his voice as he paces in small circles. He’s in his zone, somewhere far away. Bob’s got drumsticks and he gently keeps drumming his thighs with them, and Jon’s messing around with one of my guitars. Mike keeps biting his fingernails nervously. Dallon occasionally joins Brendon in a harmony, nodding along. The music vibrates off of us.
Then we change into stage clothes, t-shirts becoming dress shirts, jeans becoming suede or corduroy pants, belts with big buckles wrapped around the waist, and the atmosphere is even more electric.
I forgot life could be like this. I forgot the pre-show jitters, the first night of tour. But I remember the fear I felt, the pressure making my hands sweat. Now I feel nervous but not terrified or hateful towards the audience. It’s not my audience. The words sung aren’t mine, they’re not my secrets. Not personal.
They’re not here to see me. God, that’s liberating.
When Mike announces that it’s time, the guys automatically move toward one another. I don’t realise what’s going on until Jon motions me to join them, and then we stand in a circle, all with our hands in the middle, and Brendon asks, “What we gonna do?” and the band and crew yell out, “Kick some ass!” and then we lift our hands ceremoniously and cheers and punch each other’s shoulders. Sisky and I both look a bit stupefied, but we’ll get the hang of these rituals soon enough. At least they have team spirit.
The crowd is restless and is cheering sporadically when we reach the side of the stage. This is it. I’m going back out there.
God, the set list, okay, I remember the songs, I do, I gotta remember, okay, I know them, I won’t fuck up –
Jon grins at me happily before he follows Bob onto the stage, and the crowd erupts in applause. Mike is yelling, “Go, go!” to Dallon and motioning, and Dallon rolls his eyes, clearly perfectly at ease, and he then saunters on stage.
I move to follow, chewing on my bottom lip nervously because it’s been a long time, and the crowd’s not expecting me, and a lot of fans are pissed off at me for disappearing, and what if it’s not a good reaction, or what if they don’t even recognise me, would that be worse? Shit, did I think this through?
But then Brendon’s hand is on my shoulder, pulling me back just as I’m about to go on. He looks mildly scandalised. “Whoa, where you going?” He looks between me and the stage.
“Uh,” I say, “...the stage?”
“You come on last.”
“No, you do.”
He shakes his head. “Not tonight, I don’t.” And for a split-second he gives me this fucking dazzling smile, excitement, confidence, and then he’s gone.
Brendon half-jogs onto the stage, leaving me in the shadows. The crowd cheers loudly now that they’ve received the star. And he seems otherworldly there, transforming into something larger than life. He was born with charisma. But instead of immediately launching into the first song as the band normally would, Brendon takes the mic.
“Hello, Oslo!” he says with such confidence, such charm, and when the crowd screams, he laughs, and my stomach drops. “God, you look beautiful,” he says, and they cheer more. “We’re His Side from Chicago, USA. We’ve never played in Norway before. Well, we’ve never played in Europe before, but this is the perfect place to start.” The audience cheers in approval – Rule #1 for playing abroad: suck up to all the countries you’re in. “It’s a very special night for us tonight for many reasons. For one, it’s the first night of tour. Second, our guitarist Ian Crawford couldn’t be with us here tonight. He had to stay home.” Behind Brendon, Jon hangs his head slightly. “But we have a good friend filling in for him! And I think you might know him. Oh yes, I think you recognise this man.” He turns to face me, stretching out his arm in a welcoming gesture. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for Ryan Ross!”
The noise becomes something more than noise, something incomprehensible.
I don’t move.
Sisky shoves my shoulder. “Go, for god’s sake!”
Oh. Right.
And then I move, walking onto the stage. They’re cheering, screaming, how loudly, I don’t know, it’s hard to tell, and were the spotlights always this hot, and were the crowds always this noisy?
Brendon smiles at me as I get to my stand – fraternally, comrade, public acknowledgement, thanks Ry, takk locally, takk Ry, takk.
And this feels good, standing here, feels surreal, and a guitar, I need one, can someone – Thanks Leo, okay, and I hear my name being yelled and screamed and sobbed, and Brendon looks – god, he looks kind of proud when our eyes meet, and I’m bewildered but in a good way, and then Bob yells, “One, two, three, four!”, and then I play because it’s what I do, and Brendon moves to the rhythm, he’s beautiful, and I look away, at the guitar, my fingers, and Dallon is doing his jerky dancing on my other side, stomping the floor with his left foot, and I better not fuck this up.
Just don’t fuck this up.
* * *
It’s sometime before three a.m. local time that we get to the Swedish border. The winter night is pitch-black, and Jon, Brendon and I are the only ones left awake in the lounge. The energy from the show kept us all going, but one by one exhaustion has gotten to us.
Jon and Brendon are still talking, and I listen with half an ear, feeling sleep creeping up on me. They’re discussing “the changes Ryan made” – I improvised in a few songs. I remembered the melody, and instead of playing what Ian plays, I played something of my own. Mostly because I didn’t remember how exactly it was supposed to go, so I improvised some. It worked.
And I didn’t forget anything major or mess up any songs. Vicky will be proud.
Mike said that this thing will blow up, man, it’ll blow up.
He’s probably right: the crowd was shocked by my sudden appearance. Jon said that there were kids right in front of him that burst into tears when I walked on. I heard my name getting yelled relentlessly. Kids surrounded the bus when we tried to leave, banging the sides.
But right now, when Jon and Bren are pondering over my changes, sitting on the couch opposite me, we feel detached from the rest of the world.
It was a good first show. We were nervous, but we made it work. Brendon sounded good. He was as mesmerising as ever, and it was a strange sensation being on stage with him, watching him from that close up. But I concentrated on my guitar, and he focused on singing. Dallon was to my right, and maybe it’s not the best place to be on stage, between him and Brendon. I think we need to switch it around so that I can be furthest on the right. They have stage rituals, habits, like Brendon walking up to him in certain songs to share the microphone for a while, and it’s awkward, almost, how Brendon has to get around me to get to Dallon.
If Dallon and I switched places, then Brendon won’t be on my immediate left either, flushed, perspiring, eyes bright as he does what he clearly loves, smiling at me. It’s contagious. I’d see him mid-song, and he’d sing a line at me, and I’d smile, and I never imagined him and me on stage together. Never in all of my years.
Maybe never thought he could pull it off.
He’s proved me wrong.
His hair was sweat-slick towards the end of the set, a sheen of sweat on his neck, his throat, and I’ve seen it before but in a different context. He now says, “I reek,” making a face as he gives his armpit a sniff. The venue didn’t have showers – that’d be too luxurious. Safe to say that we all reek, even if we put on non-stage clothes afterwards.
“Maybe we’ll get to shower tomorrow,” Jon says through a tired yawn. “Or if not, the day after that. But I’m gonna have to call it a night, guys.”
Brendon hums tiredly but doesn’t move, and while I know that now would be a good time to leave, I don’t move either. Am somehow too tired to.
Jon gets up, stretching. He smiles at me lazily. “We killed it tonight, man. You killed it.” He offers me his hand. “Thanks for helping us out.”
“Thanks for taking me on tour with you,” I return, squeezing his hand. There’s something natural about being on the road with Jon, but the last time we did this I could hardly enjoy it. I was such a mess, drinking, obsessive, fucked up, angry with Brendon, then missing him, then angry again, then just lost, and Brendon was all I could think about, the betrayal and the hurt and the loss, and so I immersed myself with the job as much as I could, pretended to be fine, and Gabe was conveniently there, and well, on a few nights I immersed myself with that, such a stupid thing to do. And as I think back to it all, I don’t recognise myself as that wreck. The memory of it is as dark as the night outside, foreign and indistinguishable. Was that really me?
All because of the boy now sitting opposite me, giving me a tired smile as Jon leaves the lounge.
Because the Brendon I see doesn’t look or feel or act like the boy that I was mourning back then. He is that boy, and I am that fuck up, and the memory of that pain lingers and is still visible as scars on my skin and in the air between us, but at the same time it couldn’t have been us. Not him like he is now, and not me like I am now.
I keep calling him a boy, but he isn’t. Not anymore.
“How was it, playing without Ian?” I now ask quietly, not too seriously so that he can ignore it if he wants to.
“Not good,” he admits quietly, sadly. “But not as bad as I thought it’d be either.”
And it sounds like ‘thanks’ but I won’t push it, just nod. Brendon peers out of the darkened window, like he can somehow see us moving into the next country, though of course he can’t.
“God,” he says, laughing softly. It’s aimed at me. “Funny, isn’t it? We never made it here until now.”
Sweden?
But then I get it: here. Europe. The old continent. And he means us. Because neither one of us made it to Europe with The Followers that summer; he quit and then I crashed the bus. But we were supposed to come here. Pete had great plans of how Brendon could be my plus one and keep me happy. And then with The Whiskeys, I made it to Europe that time but I left him behind. We were always supposed to make it here, the two of us, but then we never... And now we have.
“Funny,” I agree, not sure what he wants me to say about that. He doesn’t take the conversation any further.
I used to dream of showing him places, my favourite part of Regent’s Park where you’ve got the best view over the lake, and that little record store in an alleyway in the Latin Quarter of Paris where the owner doesn’t want to sell you anything as he hoards the records like they’re his children, and the beautiful and grand Sagrada Família in Barcelona, the church they’ve been building for over a century, and I want to show him the arches and the steeples, the little details you’ll easily miss, want him to see what they’re still working on because it’s not done. Some things never are. And I’ve been so angry that he didn’t want my dreams of us coming true.
But maybe they were never that realistic.
For all my cynicism, I’ve always gotten carried away with him.
This, us on this bus, now saying goodnight and disappearing into our bunks... this is good. This is what we’ve got.
And it’s a hell of a lot more than the two of us realistically ever could have hoped to gain.