Knowing something is true and having someone you love and respect say it to your face are not the same thing. All of us have shitty things we tell ourselves, but having the fact that I’m replaceable be confirmed by Teague is almost unbearable.

I held myself super tightly on the drive back to my place because otherwise I would’ve floored it, blown through lights, gotten pulled over, probably arrested because I wouldn’t be speeding only a little. This car can haul.

Now that I’m here, though, I want to leave. The glass and the chrome and the white that’ve always made me feel peaceful are leaving me cold. I want to be back at Teague’s with his comfortable enormous furniture that envelops me, just like he does. Did. Now all I can picture is him telling me I’m replaceable. That’s stabbed itself so hard into my brain I’m not sure it’ll ever heal.

After putting away my coat and shoes, I head up to my studio, plug in my headphones to my setup, and work on a song that I’d given up for too dark, too disturbing. Turns out it wasn’t the song that was the problem; it was me. I was all schmoopy-headed being in love with Teague, and when you’re feeling all sunshine and roses, of course clouds are going to make the place look too dark. But now that reality has come crashing down real hard, it doesn’t seem like too much at all.

Of course, while fiddling with the dials and the slides and tapping changes directly into my mixing program, it occurs to me that one thing we didn’t worry about at all, we really should’ve. I can’t walk out and walk away from Teague, ghost on him and never see or hear about him. Not only do we share almost all the friends I have (though he’s got oodles to spare who I’ve never met), but we work together. And the work is at the center of our breakup.

He thinks anyone could take my place and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference, and I…well, I was an enormous asshole. But not a wrong asshole. Okay, not entirely wrong but wrong about some of the things. I shouldn’t have called the music we make bubble gum and made it seem like I think it’s crap. I don’t. It’s important to people, a lot of people. People who I love and respect, and I am truly grateful for our fans. They’re awesome. What did not feel awesome was Teague making me feel like because Dylan and I aren’t going to make a fortune at what we’re doing, maybe we shouldn’t do it at all.

Money isn’t everything, and believing something is not as good because it doesn’t bring in as much cash? I realize that’s the fundamental tenet of capitalism, that things are only worth as much as the market will pay for them, but…how can Teague not see how wrong that is when it comes to things outside of nuts and bolts? And for him to say that the art I want to make is worth less than what LtG does, it hurts something deep down, makes the marrow in my bones ache. Almost as though he’s saying I’m not worth anything and that without him and the other guys, I would literally be worthless.

And to insinuate that I make them do the dirty work because it’s dirty? No. I stay away from that shit because I’m not good at it. If I had to? I would. And he’s right about one thing: I’m not as savvy as the rest of the guys. Being one of them has allowed me to coast to some extent. But it’s not as though I’m sitting in my ivory tower, rubbing my hands together and thinking how clever I am to get the peasants to do my bidding. I’m grateful to them for dealing with all that stuff. Which I maybe should’ve said to him.

But I’m still pretty mad, and I don’t want to think about being sorry. So I crank up the music that he’d no doubt wrinkle his nose at because there won’t be any radio-play singles, and I try to forget about how cold and lonely it feels here and how shitty it’s going to be in a few days when I have to see him at Benji’s.

Add. More. Synth.

“I knew you’d be here! Everyone is here!” That’s what Qitra yells into my ear as we dance. Dancing is maybe a strong word. Our bodies are about as tightly packed with everyone else’s as they are with each other’s and the only reason we’re dancing with each other is because we say we are, not because there’s any actual distinction.

“Yeah, it’s awesome!” is what I yell back, but what I’m actually thinking is, Not everyone. Not Christian.

I don’t know where he is. I haven’t talked to him since he stormed out of my place last night. If I had to hazard a guess? Either at home and on the phone with his beloved Dylan, or maybe at the airport trying to buy his way onto a flight in Dylan’s general direction. Or maybe he’s already there. Hell, it shouldn’t be hard to get a flight because, really, who wants to go to western Pennsylvania? I don’t know. Maybe if Christian were there, I’d want to be there, too. Although I’m still mad at him.

He said some shitty things. Yeah, I said some back, but… Nah, no buts. He’s gotta know I didn’t mean it about him being replaceable. He’s not. Not in LtG and not to me. Even if he weren’t the only person who continues to give me pants-feels, he’d still be special. He’d still be the only one I want.

I tried jerking off thinking about Terra Boy this morning, and it didn’t fucking work. Don’t get me wrong. Terra Boy was still looking as good as ever, and I could still get it up, but when I went in for the action, he was all, “Hey, man, you seem kinda sad and angry. I’m not sure fooling around is really what you want to be doing right now. Want to talk instead?” And then he handed me one of Luna the Wonder Dog’s Astro-Coolers and we laid on a blanket in the grass and I poured my heart out. All I’d wanted was a goddamn orgasm to prove I still could, to convince myself it’d all be fine. Truth is, I think it would be. Eventually. But Terra Boy was right. I didn’t need sex.

Which got me to thinking. I have been an enormous fucking idiot.

I’ve been acting like I’ve got something to prove, when I don’t really. People probably aren’t nearly as interested in my sex life as I think they are. And even if they were, I’m not obligated to satisfy that curiosity.

Qitra’s grinding up on me, and it’s fine. She’s a good dancer, and I always like to see her out places because we flirt and hang on each other and then through some mutual understanding, we don’t go home together. I mean, yeah, we fucked the first time, but haven’t since. Maybe she’s got a secret of her own to keep.

After another hour of mindless dancing, I motion to the table where we’ve still got a bottle of Prosecco on ice, but she shakes her head and turns around to start dancing with some lanky guy behind her. He’s a good-looking dude, seems delighted to be graced with her presence. Maybe something good will come out of it. And if he tries anything with her she doesn’t want tried while they’re still in my eyesight, I’ll murder him a little. But he seems all right.

Back at the table, I bolt two bottles of water before I drink anything else. I should probably eat something, but then it’ll take me longer to get drunk. And I want to get drunk.

Before I can grab the bottle and take a swig straight from it, a stupidly pretty guy is draping himself over my lap. He’s got these shocking green eyes I’m assuming are courtesy of contacts and blond hair that’s cut close to his scalp. His mouth is—yeah, he’s very, very pretty. I can appreciate that. Can totally understand why someone would take one look at this guy and make for the nearest dark corner, unoccupied bathroom stall, or back seat of a car, but… Yeah, I got nothing.

It used to be that wouldn’t matter. I’d totally go home with this guy. He winds a finger around a bit of my hair and smiles. “Hey there, sailor. Looking for a port of call for tonight?”

I admire the transparency. Dude wants to fuck and he wants to fuck with me. But I…I can’t. And it’s not that I’d feel like I was cheating on Christian—I mean, I would. It’s that…going home with people for years and years on end hasn’t been a good idea. I wasn’t being kind to myself. Why was I trying to make myself into something I’m not?

I smile at the guy on my lap, give him a little pat on his leather-clad rump. “No, man. But thanks. If I were, I wouldn’t look any farther than you.”

Which is the truth. He shrugs and pushes off, probably to dance until he finds someone who might be more willing. I hope he finds someone and that they enjoy each other. A lot.

I’m still stuck on this thing, though. If one of my friends came to me and said they had no interest in sex, but were having it anyway because they thought it was “expected,” I’d tell them not to. Unless of course their partner was allosexual—yeah, that’s right. Thanks, Christian, for sitting down with me and your laptop and helping me look some shit up so I actually have some language to talk about this stuff—and they were doing it to make their partner happy and it didn’t hurt them. Or if they wanted to procreate or out of curiosity or whatever. But “because I feel like I’m supposed to” isn’t a great reason. One might even say it’s a very bad reason.

If I had talked to Christian earlier—like, years ago—I’m pretty sure that’s what he would’ve said; I have no obligation to have sex. Like if I want to and my partner wanted to and we were safe, then cool, but I didn’t have to. And that would’ve been such a relief.

I reach for the bottle and start pouring the bubbly directly down my throat, even though there are half a dozen flutes on the table. Glasses are for suckers.

Christian’s always been the one I could talk to, the one who I could trust. He never makes me feel like I should be a certain way; he takes me as I am. Perhaps there’s a lesson in there for me.

If it doesn’t feel healthy for me to keep banging people when it’s not a thing I actually want for any reason, why would it be okay to try to make Christian play music he doesn’t really like so he can make money that he doesn’t care about? Me trying to talk him into that doesn’t feel icky because we’ve poked at each other about art versus commerce over the years; it feels gross because people should honor their own needs and wants. They should be able to choose what feels right to them.

I need some more time to sit with this, to articulate it. To smooth it out until it’s some cool marble of wisdom I can hand to him. But until then…I take another drink from the bottle, shove it back in the ice bucket, and scan the crowd for Qitra. I’m going to need some more dancing for that.