I show up at the theater at five for sound check, like I’m supposed to. Even though we’re doing two nights in the same place, something we do sometimes in big cities, we usually do sound check twice. Better safe than sorry.

But instead of finding people inside, there are papers stuck to every door:

I stare at it for a moment, uncomprehending. I’ve been wandering around Boston all day, unsure where to go or what to fucking do, feeling awful and guilty and a little self-righteous and more than anything, like I’m a clueless idiot and like I fucked something up and I don’t understand how.

I pull out my phone to call Nigel, only to find thirty-two missed calls from him, seventeen from Gavin, and five from Joan.

“Hey,” Gavin says when I call him. “No show tonight, but we’re at this place called Emilio’s. Around the corner from the hotel. Come down.”

* * *

Emilio’s is a low-key Italian joint with checkered table cloths, cheesy decor, and an extensive menu. Gavin, Joan, and Nigel are all sitting in a huge booth in the back with a basket of breadsticks, a massive salad, and drinks.

“Right,” Nigel’s saying, one hand around his whiskey. “I haven’t rescheduled the Washington, D.C. Shows yet so with any luck at all, we’ll be able to make those. They’re still six days away, and it’s only about a twelve hour drive so frankly, maybe we should simply head out of Boston tomorrow, that way we won’t have to hurry and we could even get a spot of sightseeing in as we drive...”

I grab a breadstick and tear into it, my stomach suddenly growling. I’m not sure I’ve eaten anything since my breakfast pastry. I’m not really paying attention to Nigel going on about sightseeing in New Jersey or whatever the hell he’s talking about, I’m just stuffing my face and trying not to feel awful.

“If it’s going to be much longer than that, I’d rather fly home for a couple of days,” Gavin says.

“Same,” Joan agrees. “Boston is nice, but I like seeing my husband, too.”

I grab another breadstick and shrug at Nigel, because I don’t really care right now. Mainly, I’m fucking hungry, and besides that, I don’t want to think.

“Did he say when he might be back?” Gavin asks.

“He didn’t know just yet,” Nigel says. “It sounds as if the arrangements are turning out to be quite a chore—”

“Back?” I say around a mouthful of bread. “From where?”

Three pairs of eyes look at me, suddenly awkward. Joan and Gavin glance at each other, and then Gavin leans forward a little.

“He flew back to California this afternoon,” he says. “To arrange the funeral and everything.”

I stop. My brain stops. After a long second, I finish chewing, swallow, and blink at Gavin.

“He left?”

“At one-thirteen,” Nigel offers, looking at his phone. “He doesn’t get in to Bakersfield until twelve thirty, poor man has two layovers—”

“He already left,” I say. “He’s gone. Out of Boston.”

“Right,” Gavin says.

I flatten my palms on the table, processing this.

Trent left without telling me. He’s flying across the country to bury his brother and he didn’t tell me he was going, he just went.

I know it’s not forever. I know he’s coming back, but finding out now, hours later, from Gavin fucking stings.

“Oh,” I say.

“Sorry, I thought he’d have told you,” Nigel says, lifting his whiskey to his lips. “I’d have mentioned it earlier in one of the six voicemails I left you, but I assumed you already knew.”

“It’s fine,” I say, and grab another breadstick. I shove it into my mouth as I stand.

“Are you leaving?” Gavin says.

“Yeah, I gotta go.”

“Stay and eat,” Joan says. “The lasagna here is supposed to be amazing, and...”

I don’t catch the rest of her sentence, just shake my head and walk out of Emilio’s, back into the night. I’m still starving but I don’t feel like I can face them, not now, not like this.

I know it’s not a huge thing that he flew somewhere in an emergency, but for some reason it feels fucking cataclysmic. I can’t remember that last time that Nigel knew something about Trent that I didn’t. I can’t remember the last time anyone knew something about Trent that I didn’t, and that’s what feels like cold lead boiling in my ribcage.

We fought, and he left, I think.

We fought, he left.

There’s only so many ways to parse that, and they’re all fucking wretched.