Theo

It was the strange sensation of hearing rumors about someone and then realizing you know who everyone is talking about. I was lurking on Caleb Blake Whitman message boards and fan pages, reading stories, looking at photos, and trying to see if people were still wondering when the next album would be out.

There were people swapping stories from when they’d seen him on tour, talking about their favorite songs, swooning over his dreaminess, and swapping MP3s from live shows. I could see why Caleb had thought his fans were invested in the drugged-up version of him. But what he was clearly missing—or not able to see—was the sincere admiration for his music. Yeah, people told stories about how he was high while performing, but it was only a pretext for commenting on how amazing a musician he was that he could play that well while intoxicated.

The other thing I found, when I worked my way back far enough, were pictures of Caleb and Rhys when they were together. I knew they’d been partners—seeing them together, it was clear that they knew each other intimately, and Caleb made no secret of it. But in the photos of them performing together, their love was clear.

There was one picture that I kept coming back to. Caleb stood onstage in a smoky bar, one hand on the mic, the other at the neck of his guitar, looking out at the audience. Rhys stood to his right, looking at him, squared shoulders appearing massive in the backlight, like some kind of guardian angel. When you looked at the picture closer, you could see that though Caleb was facing the audience, his hips were swiveled slightly toward Rhys, and Rhys’s toward him, like they were attuned to each other even in the chaos of performance.

Caleb looked so young, his hair long down his back, facial hair just stubble. Rhys looked about the same, though younger. At first I thought I kept coming back to it simply because I was jealous of what they’d had. After all, they’d been a team for years.

But the more I looked at it the more I realized that what I felt was protective. Of that younger version of Caleb; one who hadn’t yet been overcome by addiction, lost the things that mattered to him the most. I wanted to sink into the picture and wrap him up in batting. Put him away someplace safe before any of it could happen.

It was folly, of course. He was made for the music, and taking him away from it might have saved him in one way, but surely it’d have damned him in another. It was as ludicrous as his notion that he should give up music and hide away on the farm until the end of his days.

Which was why I was trying to fix it. Trying to find a way that he could have both his hard-won sobriety and the music.

I was starting to hatch a plan.

---

“Dude, this is kinda ridiculous.”

“It’s really not, Theo. Other bands do it all the time,” Ethan said.

“No, I know.”

I’d always gotten along with Ethan best. He wasn’t volatile like Ven or stubborn like Coco. And I loved to watch him work through a song because his brain just worked so differently from mine. But I’d always gotten a vibe off him like he was wary around me. Like maybe he was waiting for me to fuck up in some epic, irreparable way.

Still, when he texted to ask if I’d come shopping with him and then meet up with Ven and Coco, I said yes right away. It was rare that Ethan invited anyone to do anything, and it wasn’t often when we weren’t working on Riven stuff that I hung out with the band.

I hadn’t read his text that carefully, I guess, because when I showed up and he told me that we were meeting Coco and Ven and the band was being professionally “styled,” I was nonplussed.

“Er, what…does that mean exactly?” I asked.

Ethan laughed.

“Just that some people look at our brand, and how we already present ourselves, and polish it up a little. Or down, I guess. They refine it. Then they pick out a bunch of shit for us to wear. It seems nice, right, not having to worry about that?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I already didn’t worry about that. “Uh, sure. Yeah, anything to avoid getting mobbed by fans, right?”

“I don’t really have that problem, but okay.”

“What do you mean?”

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, I don’t really get mobbed by fans because I’m the drummer and people don’t recognize the drummer.”

“But…I’ve seen you.”

“You’ve seen people be all over the band when we’re all together. Not me.”

Was that true? I was sure I’d seen people all over Ethan after shows. But I guessed…that was different than out in the world, out of context. A spike of jealousy ripped through me. Jealousy that Ethan got to do what he loved but leave all the bullshit of fame on the stage when we were done performing, and have another life. Clearly, that would be the absolute wrong thing to tell Ethan, but as we walked into the next store, I ran back through as many times as I could remember seeing Ethan in public.

He was always quieter than Ven and Coco, though almost everyone was quieter than Ven and Coco. But the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t really remember seeing fans going specifically for Ethan.

I’d always imagined the rest of my bandmates living lives similar to mine. Having to hide rather than show their faces in public, needing to plan the least-populated routes to get where they were going, weighing the stress of dealing with whatever unexpected public drama might play out against the desire to do an errand or see a show. I’d imagined that they knew some kind of secret that I didn’t. That they were coping fine and I was the only one who, for some reason, didn’t know how to deal with being a rock star when not performing.

But it seemed like I might have been very, very wrong. After all, they hardly invited me into their lives, so I hadn’t had much chance to observe them.

“Hey, Ethan?”

He held up a loud blue- and pink-checked shirt in answer and I wrinkled my nose automatically because the colors gave me a headache. But then I stopped.

“Do you like it? Does it fit your…um, brand?” I forced myself to say it with a straight face because clearly this was something Ethan took seriously.

He shrugged and put it back on the rack.

“Um, do Ven and Coco get…noticed a lot when they go out?” I tried to say it casually, as I flipped through a rack of gauzy long-sleeved T-shirts that looked like they’d be see-through.

“Coco does a bit. Not a lot of tiny black guitarists with blue hair, ya know? But she’ll usually take the car if she’s got to go somewhere.”

The car meant the limo service that Dougal had set up for us. I’d only used it when we were all heading to the airport for tours.

“Ven gets noticed because…well, because you know Ven.”

Ethan gave me a wry smile and I returned it. I did know Ven. He strutted like he was onstage all the time, and he wore distinctive red mirrored sunglasses that were practically a calling card.

“Did he always walk like that, even before the band was famous?” I joked, lightly bumping Ethan’s shoulder with mine.

“Kind of. It was more of a rolling hitch than a full-on surfer John Wayne, but still.”

“Surfer John Wayne. That’s the perfect description of it!”

Ethan held up another shirt, this one a leonine yellow-and-brown western-style snap-front. I gave him the thumbs-up since it didn’t make my eyes bleed, and I thought maybe brown would look good with his hair color. What the fuck did I know, though.

Because it seemed like we were kind of bonding or whatever, I said, “Did I tell you that someone asked if I wanted to be a guest judge on The Fashion Project?” I realized as soon as I said it that, given our previous conversation, Ethan might not appreciate this, but he just laughed.

“Man, your face when you said the words The Fashion Project was like you were telling me you were about to have a molar extracted without novocaine.” He cocked his head and looked me up and down. “Why the fuck would they ask you? You wear the same thing every day.”

“See, that’s what I said!” It was, in fact, exactly what I’d said to Caleb when Lewis had passed on the invitation: “I don’t have shit to say about fashion. Has he seen me? I wear jeans and T-shirts every day.”

“So, are you gonna do it?”

“What? No! Of course not.”

Ethan just raised an eyebrow and went back to browsing through clothes that all looked pretty much the same.

“You know it’s not really about them thinking you know about fashion, right?”

“Huh? What’s it about, then?”

“Have you seen the show?”

I shook my head. “I know it’s about fashion design, though, so—what?”

Ethan was shaking his head at me. “Are you being for real right now?”

My heart beat faster at his words. “I—yeah. Or, I mean, I know they just probably ask random celebrity people or whatever, if that’s what you mean. I’m not clueless. I just…there are thousands of those people who are all about fashion, so I don’t get why they’d ask me out of all those people. Since I’m not,” I finished weakly.

In the last hour I had become aware that some kind of gulf had opened between Ethan and me—no, that there had apparently been a gulf that I hadn’t known was there. And we were speaking to one another across it. I felt exquisitely uncomfortable because he was looking at me like I had something that he wanted. And I couldn’t tell him that the desire went both ways.

I bit my lip as his gaze raked over me, then nervously ran a hand through my hair, but my fingers got tangled. I dropped my gaze to the floor and saw that I was standing with one foot resting on the other, a gawky flamingo that could topple at any moment.

When Ethan’s voice came again it was softer, but laced with something dark I couldn’t place. “You really hate it, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “The fame. The attention. You actually, for real hate it.”

I nodded, and raked my hair behind my ear.

“I fucking hate it so much, Ethan.” My voice was rough and low and I felt like I was going to crack open. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry. I…didn’t get it. We…” He trailed off, glancing uncomfortably around the empty shop.

“You what?”

“We thought it was part of your…thing. Reluctant rock star or whatever. Part of the persona.”

“What persona?”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay, I get it, Theo.” His voice was gentle—almost soothing—and he took me by the elbow and led me out of the store by the arm.

We ducked into a coffee shop on the corner, and when people started snapping pictures as we waited for our drinks, Ethan watched me but didn’t say anything. When our coffees were ready, he just led me back outside and we started walking again. I forced myself to relax, and grabbed the hat out of my pocket, shoving it over my hair.

“So, you all basically think I’m a dick, huh,” I said. It was out of my mouth before I could even think about it.

“No. None of us think that. Well, okay, Ven sometimes thinks everyone’s a dick.” I nodded at that because, sure. “It’s hard when we all put the work in but you get all the attention,” he said.

“But I—”

“I know you don’t ask for it, Theo. I know you don’t do anything to encourage it. But that’s how it works because you’re the lead singer and because you’re gorgeous. Sorry, it’s just the way things go. And we know that. Doesn’t mean it’s not frustrating sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay, I know. I get that.”

“You also get that you’re…really good, right?”

He’d stopped me with an outstretched arm.

“What?”

“I don’t know what to say to you sometimes, man. Because I really can’t read you at all. Shit, it’s been years we’ve been doing this thing, and I still didn’t get until today that you legit don’t want to be famous. I know you’re an adult and all, but sometimes you just act so fuckin’ naïve about shit. At first I thought it was willful, you know? Like, you didn’t want shit to be true so you refused to believe it. But now…” He bit his lip. “So, anyway, I’m telling you, in case this is one of those things that you randomly don’t know. You’re a fucking amazing singer and a really exceptional songwriter. Period.”

Warmth washed through me and I could feel myself hunching my shoulders. I’d heard it from a million fans, but none of it meant as much as hearing it from my own bandmate. I had no words to express how much I’d needed to hear it.

“I know Ven gives you shit about songs a lot, but that’s just the way he works, you know? But no matter the other shit about being famous or whatever, you’re a great fucking musician. Okay?”

“I—okay,” I mumbled. “Thank you. Thanks, Ethan.”

“Okay.” He thumped me on the back and we kept walking.

“So are you,” I added, belatedly enough that it sounded like a knee-jerk “you-too” compliment return. “Your drumming is always my favorite thing about our songs.”

“Thanks, man,” he said, and he sounded touched enough that I guess the truth of my words had shone through despite their awkwardness.

After we walked a few more blocks, I said, “So, this styling thing. Are they gonna try and get me to wear different stuff?”

“What, and mess with the great fashion impresario Theo Decker’s signature style? Not a chance.” He smirked. “They’ll probably buy you exactly what you have on now, only it’ll cost twice as much. Where do you get your jeans, anyway, dude. They do this thing that always looks awesome.”

“Uh. They’re…Levi’s, I think? What thing?”

“They’re all creased behind your knees so it looks…” He rolled his eyes like he was aware he sounded ridiculous. “It looks cool, okay? Shut up,” he muttered when I laughed at him.

“Seriously? Uh, they get creased behind my knees because I wear them and they get sweaty and then I don’t wash them, probably. Wow, I thought I was just lazy and filthy, but it turns out it’s totally my brand!”

Ethan swatted at me, and I elbowed him, and he knocked my hat off.

“Ethan!” I cried, in mock horror. “Not the hat, it’s my signature look!”

He snorted with amusement, and slung an arm around my shoulders, steering me toward whatever fashion hell awaited us.