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sebastian

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Sebastian Moore, killing it on the drums!”

Banging my head, I rocked my drum solo for a modest thirty seconds, before falling back in place with the bass and guitars. Devin O’Leary, front man and genius behind this whole thing, wished the crowd a good night and a safe drive home. We jammed for a few more seconds, and then …

After one, two flams, and a crash of the cymbals, I stood up from my throne, thrusting my sticks over my head and feeling like I’d just run a marathon and destroyed it. Devin ran toward me, his guitar slung around his back and his hand outstretched, and after pocketing my sticks, I slapped him five.

The four of us took the stairs and entered the backstage of Madison Square Garden. It was our last night opening for Devin’s hero, the one and only John Mayer, and we had killed it. The band’s Instagram followers and Facebook likes had been blowing through the roof since the beginning of the tour. It was our biggest break, and we were headed places, fast.

“Seb,” Devin said breathlessly, clapping a hand over my back, “what the hell did you do back there, during the ‘Better Man’ cover?”

Wiping the back of my arm across my forehead, I nodded. “Oh, yeah, sorry about that. I was just in the zone and rolled with it. I know we didn’t rehearse it like that, but—”

Tyler Meade, our bass player, shook his head. “Fucking hell, bro. Don’t apologize for that shit! That was amazing! That thing you did with the—” He mimicked the polyrhythm with a few mouth sounds and some movements of his hands.

Devin nodded affirmatively. “It was fucking sick. It made that song even better, if that’s at all possible.”

Kylie O’Leary, Devin’s wife and our manager, approached with a grin and a leap into her husband’s arms. It was customary. At the end of every show, the two of them would spend about fifteen seconds making out, expelling the adrenaline and completely forgetting that we were there.

Devin made an attempt to feel her up, and she brushed his hand away. “Not in front of these idiots,” she scolded lightly, and the rest of us erupted in a cacophony of chuckles.

“Oh, please, don’t stop on our account,” Ty mumbled good-naturedly. “Olivia’s already almost a year old, isn’t she? Time to get started on number two.”

Kylie’s feet met the ground as she reached out to playfully shove Ty. “The bus is barely big enough for all of us, and you want to add another baby to the mix?”

“Aw, come on, Ky,” I wrapped an arm around Devin’s shoulders. “You’re gonna let the big guy down. Plus, you’re in the rare position of having traveling babysitters. Don’t you wanna take advantage of that?”

“He’s got a point, baby,” Devin agreed, nodding enthusiastically. “There’s three of them, so we should have at least three kids, right?”

“Could add a keyboardist, and then there’ll be four,” Chad suggested with a shrug.

“Great!” Ty laughed, clapping his hands. He took Kylie and Devin each by an arm and nudged them together. “Go on. As you were.”

“I hate them,” Kylie mumbled with a lighthearted giggle, and Devin laughed as he shoved Ty away. “Maybe you guys can focus on your own love lives instead of focusing on ours, okay?”

I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Hard not to focus on yours, when you flaunt it all the goddamn time,” I teased, leaning in to kiss Kylie’s cheek before gripping Dev’s shoulders in my hands. “Come on,” I grinned. “Last night of the tour, dudes and dudette. Let’s party.”

“Party?” Ty scoffed. “Sebastian, man, you go ahead and have fun. I need to pass out for the next twelve hours before my flight back home tomorrow.”

“Dev, Chad?” I extended my arms to my friends, hoping one of them would accept the invitation.

“Skypin’ with my girl tonight,” Chad muttered with a shrug, and Dev shook his head before replying, “We’ve spent the past three nights doing nothing but work; I need to relax.”

I love these guys. After years of making sweet music together, they are the extended family I always wanted, and there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for them. But fuck, they make it difficult to live the life of the carefree bachelor.

 

***

 

“You heading to bed already?” Devin asked, hoisting his daughter Olivia onto his hip. “Not gonna pick up some chick to keep you company?”

He was teasing. My casual coupling had been kept to a minimum since touring with the Partridge Family. Usually only when we were stationed in one spot for a few days, and I had the time to make a connection with someone, in a hotel. Older age and touring with a married couple had done that to me—made me crave a connection.

I held a hand up on the way to my bunk. “Already got Miss Right over here, bro. I’m good.” 

Kylie threw her head back as she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of breast milk. Just another fun thing I’d learned to live with.

“Can you remember this is a family bus and not a frat house?” she asked.

“Family shares stuff, Ky,” I reasoned with a shrug. “And I just wanted you guys to know that I won’t be lonely tonight.”

“I’m so glad,” she chided with a roll of her eyes. “Remember Livy isn’t far from talking. Last thing we need is for her to start repeating some of this crap.”

The bathroom door opened at the end of the hall and Chad emerged with a magazine in hand.

“Yo, speakin’ of crap,” he announced in his Texan accent, “I’m warnin’ y’all right now: that bathroom is filled with toxic fumes and you might wanna keep your distance.”

Devin, Ty, and I erupted in a chorus of laughter while Kylie huffed a groan.

“Chad,” she whined. “Did you at least spray the air freshener?”

“You asshole,” Ty groaned with a grin, slumping further into the couch. “I told you to stay the hell away from those nachos. They looked fucking nasty.”

“It’s the IBS, guys. I can’t help it.” Chad rubbed a hand over his stomach while I bit back an immature laugh.

With the bottle in hand, Kylie took Olivia from Devin’s arms. Her walk down the hall was interrupted by a dry-heave, and Chad’s cheeks flared with his suppressed chuckle.

“I think Daddy and I need to have another girl,” we heard her muttering to Olivia, and the three of us turned to Devin with suggestive grins. “We need to up the estrogen in this place,” she added as the bedroom door closed at the end of the hall.

“Sounds like she’s on board with our plan for the second one,” Ty laughed, waggling his brows and nudging Dev with the toe of his boot.

“Yeah, yeah,” Devin groaned, flopping down next to Ty. “You should bring your wife and daughter on tour with us. Ky would appreciate the company.”

“I would if Carrie didn’t have school,” Ty mentioned with a sigh. The lonely lilt to his voice was evident, and I pursed my lips sympathetically with my own distant ping of longing stabbing at my heart.

“Homeschool is a wonderful thing,” Chad nodded, sliding onto a bench at the table. “Best thing my parents ever did for me.”

“Yeah, and have you guys teaching her?” Ty lifted the corner of his mouth into an amused grin. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, the second I ask Ali to marry me, I’m bringin’ her along,” Chad replied with an affirmative nod.

“How long you guys been together again?” Devin asked, using a guitar pick to scratch behind his ear.

Chad puffed with pride as he said, “Six years.”

Ty and Devin both groaned in unison as I shook my head. Chad raised his hands in a questioning shrug.

“Man, shit or get off the pot,” Ty nodded, and then added, “And uh, I don’t mean literally.”

“Huh?” Chad drew his brows together and folded his arms on the table. “Whatcha talkin’ about?”

Leaning against the wall, I pointed a finger toward the youngest member of our group. “Chadwick—”

“I really hate when you call me that,” he groaned. “It’s not my name.”

“Right. My bad.” I nodded apologetically before continuing, “Chaddington Bear, I have never been married nor will I probably ever be, but even I know that you’ve been stringing that little lady along for too long. If you like it, put a ring on it, or you know, walk away and find someone else to, uh … occupy your time. Plenty of chicks love that Southern thing you got going on.”

Chad groaned as Devin glanced up at me and smirked around his chuckle. “You’re one seriously eloquent motherfucker, you know that?”

Spreading my arms wide, I leaned toward him. “Someone’s gotta tell him like it is. Might as well be me.”

Patting my hand against the wall, I announced, “And with that piece of advice, gentlemen, I’m heading to bed to jerk off and fall into a coma. None of you better wake me up tomorrow before eleven. Good. Night.”

With their mumbled wishes for good sleep behind me, I walked to my bunk and hoisted myself inside, closing the curtain and flipping on the light. I fumbled around for my headphones and cellphone, and scrolled through my library of music.

I had a playlist for everything. Working out, cooking, eating, and jamming. Sleeping was no exception and with one tap of my finger, the Foo Fighters’ “Walking After You” began to drift at a soothing volume through the noise-cancelling headphones. 

With an even exhale, I slipped easily into a state of relaxation, gripping the phone to my chest. Every breath brought me closer to my home and being alone.

I hated to admit it, but fuck, I was dreading it.

 

***

 

The town car dropped me off at the door of my house in New York.

“Should I get your bags, sir?” the driver asked, turning to glance at me in the backseat.

“Nah, man; I’m good,” I grinned, slipping him a fifty. “Just pop the trunk.”

Getting out, I grabbed my suitcases and hoisted them up the gravel walkway. I watched the door as I listened to the car back out of the driveway. It was this exact moment when I wished there was someone on the other side to open the door and greet me. A butler or a maid would have probably sufficed, just having someone happy to see me. A fucking goldfish, even. But there wasn’t anybody. Nobody there to hug or kiss me, and there was certainly nobody there to open the damn door.

I dropped the bags at the door and fished my keys from a pocket. I had bought this place back when I started making a living doing what I loved. I’d been a kid back then, only twenty years old, and I was eager to be on my own. It was a modest house, especially compared to what I was making now, but how much space did one guy really need?

“Honey, I’m home!” I shouted from the door, before answering in a high-pitched tone, “Oh, Sebastian. I’ve missed you so fucking much. I can’t wait for you to spend a whole week buried between my legs.” And I rolled my eyes at myself, because next to pathetic in the dictionary, you could find a picture of me. Sebastian Moore.

The bags were dragged inside and left next to the stairs as I walked toward the couch. My mom, bless her, had stopped in on a regular basis to bring in the mail and to keep the place dusted and vacuumed. I found the pile of mail on the coffee table, starting to land slide onto the carpet.

“Bill, bill, bill,” I chanted, picking up envelopes and discarding them to the floor. “Junk, junk, bullshit catalog, bill …”

I sighed, quickly moving through months of amounted crap, until I reached an envelope that had fallen to the floor. It was handwritten, and whoever it was had used my birth name, Sebastian Morrison, in the address.

“Huh,” I muttered to nobody, and ripped it open.

 

Sebastian,

 

  You have no idea who I am, but my name is Tabitha Clarke. I found a few letters from you in my sister Samantha’s things and I thought I’d reach out to you.

 

Samantha. My eyes stared at the name, unblinking and startled. I hadn’t even thought about Sam in—fuck, well over a decade. But there were some things, other things, I could never forget.

 

  From what you wrote, it seems that my sister never replied to you, and I’m truly sorry for that. Because while you were made to believe that she had an abortion, she did in fact have the baby—a little boy. His name is Greyson, and he is now fifteen years old. I thought you’d like to know.

  I have to admit, I’m also writing for selfish reasons. You see, Sam was killed in a car accident two months ago. After losing both of my parents earlier this year, I have no other family, and therefore nobody else to help raise Greyson. Because you are apparently his biological father, I wanted to invite you to step in. He’s going through a horrible time, between losing three members of his family and being bullied at school, and I could really use the help.

  I do realize how odd and abrupt this invitation may seem. You are ultimately a stranger to us and I have no idea if you are a good person. But your letters from sixteen years ago seemed sincere and I’m taking it on good faith that you’re still that man.

  I’ve included my phone number. I’m hoping you’ll call.

 

-Tabitha

 

What the fuck. Before I realized what was happening, my hand unclenched the letter on its own accord, like it was on fire, and it went drifting to the floor at my feet. This woman, Tabitha, from some place called Hog Hill, New York was telling me that I had a kid. A son.

I have a fucking son.

I hadn’t thought about Samantha Clarke in well over a decade. Fifteen years, apparently. But with those words, I remembered the phone call in which she told me she was pregnant. I remembered it like it had happened yesterday. The sweaty palms, the dry throat, and the feeling that the world was falling apart around me. I was a kid myself, on the fast lane to the life I wanted, and becoming a father had never been part of the plan.

I didn’t have to worry about it though, she’d said. She was getting an abortion, being only nineteen herself with zero prospects for the future. I told her I would respect her choice to do whatever she wanted and left it at that, while the overwhelming sense of relief coalesced with something else: guilt. And that guilt eventually manifested into an overpowering need to provide, and that was when I knew, I did want that kid.

I wrote to her after she ignored my calls, but I never heard back. I assumed she’d gotten the abortion and wanted to put the whole thing behind her, and so, I had left her alone.

“What the fuck,” I uttered aloud, reaching down to pick the letter up again. “Sam is dead?”

My eyes scanned the letter again. She’d died in a fucking car accident? I dropped the piece of paper to the coffee table, thrust my fingers into my hair, and held my head in my hands. I had so many questions, so many things I wanted to know. Why the hell hadn’t she told me? Why had she done it all on her own? But above all else, I wanted to know about him. Who was he? What does he look like?

“I have a fucking kid,” I mumbled, and immediately, I grabbed my phone.