Christian
And the crowd goes wild.
I’m guessing most kids have fantasies about being a famous actor or athlete or, hell, a musician, getting adulation in huge venues like a stadium or a concert hall or something. I never really did. Maybe it was because my mom’s a German professor and my dad’s a civil engineer? Not exactly glamorous, but they’re both great at their jobs and happy. Whatever the reason, it still makes me more uncomfortable than elated to be facing a screaming horde. Even if they’re screaming for us, not at us.
I wave my sticks from behind my kit anyway and hope to god we can get out of here soon. The shoot earlier today was long, and we’ve already played two encores tonight. I’m hot and sweaty and tired, and I want to go back to the hotel and collapse. Actually, check my voicemail first because I’m betting I have one from Dylan. Maybe he had a brilliant idea for the song that’s been dogging us for a few weeks now. Or maybe not. Even so, he’ll be a friendly voice in my ear and I could use one of those.
Even though Nicky’s bouncing around like a manic kangaroo and game for another round, Benji and Zane convince him that two encores is fine, and we head off stage for good. It’s not unusual for Teague to be the one to play arbiter of these things, so I’m a little surprised he hasn’t said anything. There was one time when Nicky just wouldn’t get off the damn stage, and Teague ended up hauling him off in a fireman’s carry.
Back in the green room, I grab some water while Nick and Benji are making their plans to go out. Zane and Rowan are being adorable on the couch, Rowan looking all flushed and fan-girly. She’s super cool for the most part—can chill in Benji’s garage with her feet up on the wagon-wheel coffee table like the rest of us—but when she gets the chance to come to a show, her enthusiast roots take over and she gets flustered. We’re all under strict instructions from Zane not to be dicks about it, and even Nick’s been respectful, giving Rowan a high-five and leaving it at that.
Teague…Teague is standing just inside the door, arms crossed, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. When he sees me looking at him, he gets ruddier than he was from rocking out on stage for a few hours and grabs a beer before dropping onto the other end of the couch, jostling the lovebirds. I don’t know what his deal is, but he was distracted during soundchecks, and while he didn’t play badly, he didn’t have the same energy he usually does. Nor did he look over his shoulder at me or open up his body to try to include me in the show. I never need for him to do that—I’m pretty content to just do my thing in the back—but now that he didn’t do it, I miss it. More because it was an interaction between us than any added attention it might’ve gotten me from the crowd.
Which is when it hits me like a punch to the gut. Does he know? Did I slip up during the photoshoot today and let my want for him shine through? I am so careful. So goddamn careful, and I can’t believe… Fuck.
Yes, there were times when I had to school my expression because I realized just how hungry for him I must’ve looked, but I didn’t think he’d noticed. I didn’t catch him looking at me. And wouldn’t I have? But maybe I’m not as good at hiding my feelings as I’ve thought. Perhaps he did notice when I’d tried, surreptitiously, to admire his form.
Which, on the one hand—come on. We were draped naked on chaises in the middle of a goddamn public courtyard with a dozen people milling around for a photoshoot for a calendar that hopefully thousands upon thousands of people will buy. If he didn’t want people looking at him nearly naked, then he shouldn’t be doing that. But that’s a bullshit excuse and I know it. It’s one thing to have someone who is divorced by time and space lust after you, and it’s an entirely different matter to have your bandmate, your best friend, hell, the guy you are currently sharing a hotel room with, look at you the same way.
There’s no other explanation for it. Nothing else has changed. I haven’t even talked to Dylan since last night, which Teague was oddly prickly about, so that can’t be why he’s being all weird. Yeah, he’s not joshing around with Nick and Benji the way he usually does either, but when Nicky puts him in a headlock from behind the couch, Teague doesn’t hesitate to flip him over, landing Nick in his lap and giving him a noogie before dumping him on the floor in a flailing heap.
Nope, it’s definitely me who he’s avoiding. And if that’s for real what’s going on, my life is about to get a whole lot colder. Less fun. Lonelier. I wish I’d gotten a little more warning or that he’d say something to me about it. Not that I could defend myself, but at least I could promise nothing would change. I can be his friend. Hell, I’ve always been his friend despite also being in love with him. I’m not sure that would make him feel any better, though.
And fucking A, I’ve been sitting here focusing on what this means for me and haven’t given a thought to what this could do to LtG. If my bassist can’t even look at me, that’s a problem. Yeah, Zane tipped us over to the downslope of the band, but no one needs to give it a big old shove in the direction of burn-it-all-down.
My head is racing and my breath isn’t far behind, and even though I know I’m in an air-conditioned green room in a theater in Boston, I feel like I’m out on the plains getting ready to face down a twister. I could really do without that. And Christ, so could the rest of us.
“Hey. Earth to Christian.”
Nicky’s page distracts me from my panic, and I look up to see him tossing Teague and Benji each another beer.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“We’re going out. Wanna come?”
It’s a courtesy invite and we all know it, but I do appreciate the gesture. Except for the part where I dart a glance to Teague and he’s very purposefully peeling the label off his freshly cracked bottle instead of looking at me. A lot of the time, I get a “Come on, man” or an encouraging nod because he wants me to be there. But he’s studiously avoiding my gaze. Well, I don’t want to go, and I really don’t want to make Teague any more uncomfortable than I already have.
“Nah, I’m pretty beat. I’ll go back to the hotel, but thanks.”
I look at the back of Teague’s neck, his perfectly cut hair showing off his nape, wishing he’d turn around and urge me to join them. He doesn’t. I can be sensitive to changes in the air, like a hyper-responsive barometer, but I’m now 100 percent sure: Teague is avoiding me.
Teague
I am avoiding Christian like the plague.
Have been since Boston, which I feel shitty about, but it’s also a self-preservation thing. And since he’s the one who’s always yammering on about that new age-y self-care shit, I think he’d understand. I’m sure he’d understand just about anything because I’d talk to him about it. This, though? I can’t. I just can’t.
The weird thing is that, if I think about it hard enough, I should’ve seen this coming. It’s not like that was the first time I’ve felt…attracted to Christian. Like, yeah, the photoshoot was the first time I was really smacked upside the head with it, but I’d been passing off little blips, a rising sea of interest for weeks, maybe even months before that. It was easy, I guess, since we’ve always been close and things can get a little blurry when you’re talking about affection versus love versus aesthetic appreciation versus you’re-pretty-in-a-way-that-makes-me-want-to-get-in-your-pants. Unlike Christian, I’ve always been kind of a blunt instrument. I try to be sensitive to how I might make people feel about how big I am because my parents drilled that into me pretty good. But other stuff? Not so much.
A burst of profanity comes from beside me on the couch, although it’s half-hearted. Zane’s bummed Rowan’s not around, so I invited him over to play some video games. Cheer him up, distract myself, and also I was kind of in the mood for a tuna melt. Zane really likes tuna melts.
We’re usually pretty good at this game, but today we’re sucking it pretty hard. I wish I could tell Zane why I’m such a mess, but that’s a no-go. Instead, I toss the controller to the ground and scrub my hands through my hair.
“Sorry, man. That was totally my fault. I should’ve had your back. I’m just…”
I’m just what? How am I supposed to explain this to Zane? He likes girls, always has, and he had a physical thing for Rowan long before he actually met her in person. At least, I think so, judging by how he’d look at her photoshoots in those magazines Benji keeps around and how his eyes would be glued to the screen during the pre-SIG coverage. Lucky bastard. Not only to have landed the object of his affection, but also to have been totally cool with having that feeling at all.
Though maybe I’m the lucky one who hasn’t had to deal with all of this…distraction until now? Has everyone else had to deal with this shit since, like, puberty? That’s fucking awful. In addition to all the awkward shit that’s going on with your body, you have to start dealing with the punch in the face of wanting to bang people you see walking down the street? How do people even live like this? It’s a wonder anyone gets anything done. Even though since Boston I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, to feel that very specific pull toward someone other than Christian, and honestly hoped it would go away. No dice on either count, and I’m starting to think this is just how things are.
I look over at Zane, and he’s looking back, his brow kinda furrowed, looking like he doesn’t even know me. Maybe he doesn’t. I sure as fuck feel like I don’t know myself right now.
“What’s your deal? You’ve been acting weird.”
I snort, and he shakes his head, rolling his eyes while he tosses his own controller to the floor. “You know what I mean. Not like yourself. Is everything okay? Does this have anything to do with Christian?”
My heart thuds against my ribs like my body’s a car that stopped short. “Why would you think this has anything to do with Christian? Did he say anything to you? What do you know?” Does he know? Oh my god, he knows. And he doesn’t want me back.
“I honest-to-god know nothing, but if I didn’t think this had to do with him before, I do now. I mean, you guys usually hang out a lot, and you haven’t been coming to practice together or anything. He’s been weird, you’ve been weird. I don’t like it when you guys are weird. Er. Weirder. If this has to do with me fucking things up with LtG or with Rowan being around or—”
“No. Rowan is not a problem at all. We all think she’s great, and we’re glad she makes you happy. For real. It’s a little bit of an adjustment for us to have to behave ourselves more regularly, but I don’t want you thinking for one second that we think Rowan’s a problem.”
Zane’s mouth thins into a line, and he sits forward, resting his hands on his knees. “But me messing things up with LtG is?”
“No. It’s…” How can I say this? I don’t want to lie and tell him it’s nothing at all, but he doesn’t need to feel bad about it. It’s thrown all of us for a bit of a loop, but that has very little to do with the fucking minefield in my brain right now. “We all knew this was happening sooner or later, and no one’s mad at you. It’s just something else we have to think about. I’ve been poking at Christian because you know he’s not awesome at business stuff. Maybe that’s why he’s been weird.”
Zane nods, and I think he’s accepted my explanation, which is good. I wish I could accept it, but I’m not buying it. Not that my giving him a hard time about planning has made him feel good, but that’s not all it is. Ugh. I can lift all the heavy shit and reach things that are high up and keep going mile after goddamn mile, but wanting to bang someone has got me all fucked in the head. Also, I think I might be hungry. Probably because I’m almost always hungry.