31. Phoenix

Phoenix

One Month

O ur new song is taking off faster than we thought.

I guess I’m happy about that, but mostly, I’m depressed.

I can get it together enough to get through the set when I'm on stage. Feeling the music helps, although every time we play Isolated, I get almost violently nauseous. Those words just aren’t true anymore. Having Jorge sing about the man I love being some evil villain feels wrong. I have half a mind to change the damn lyrics. I won’t do that because it’s still our most popular song.

Jorge wrote the new one.

He’s been working on it for about six months, fine-tuning the lyrics and the melody. We were all there for support. I do love that about our band. No one feels less than or left out in the creative process. Everyone gets their time to shine. I’m still stumped on why Jorge insisted we name the song its title. Strange Lad.

I’ve gone over those lyrics countless times, and I still can’t figure out what the song means or who it’s about.

My best friend has been cagey about it.

If I wasn’t so focused on missing Eli, wondering what he’s doing or going through, I might be pressed to dig deeper and force Jorge to tell me. But it’s honestly not that important. People like the song, the riffs are crunchy and genty. It’s good. We haven’t had too much time to sight-see while we’ve been bouncing from place to place, but for the breaks we do get, I just hole up in whatever hotel or hostel we’re staying at.

It’s just too hard.

Especially now that we’re in Italy. Fuck. The gay community is booming out here, and it takes everything in me not to break down whenever I see a couple holding hands or taking in the gorgeous scenery. He should be with me . There’s some resentment I keep struggling to fight back because I didn’t want to come. I love playing drums and making music, but I love Eli more. I could’ve had Dark Wing’s drummer, River, fill in for me. The guy is a machine and would have had no issue learning our songs fast.

Did Eli even go to rehab? I text him daily , but I haven’t heard anything. Not a peep. I’ve even begged Nyx to see if he’s there. Just ask the receptionist or whatever, but she won’t do it. Being so desperate to know what’s happening has resulted in me texting Oli. He reads every single text but just won’t fucking write back. I’ve even called him a few times, forgetting the time difference, so I leave voicemails too.

I still don’t know what my baby brother wants from me or what I need to say to get him back into my life. I miss him constantly. And this guilt I carry with me over abandoning him doesn’t go away. It’s getting easier—lighter, even since I’ve grown to accept Eli. Fighting for him gives me the courage to fight for my brother. And damn it, I’m fucking fighting.

Hey, sweetheart. We’re in Milan right now. The show went well. Jorge’s song is really taking off. Our manager says that our album sales are growing too. Yay. Money.

I want to come home. Just want to come home to you. God, I hope they’re being good to you in there. I hope you’re not scared.

I miss you.

I love you.

Two more months…

“Whatcha doing,” Jorge singsongs, plopping down next to me on his stomach, propping his chin on his hands.

I’m lounging in the bed, moping. That’s what. “Nothing.”

He peeks at my phone. “Ah, the daily texts. Still nothing?” he asks. Shaking my head, I sigh and set down my phone. I scrub at my face while he wiggles closer so our bodies touch. “What about Oliver?”

“Same shit. Radio silence. He reads my texts, though, which is more than Eli's. I just want to know if he’s okay. The rehab place won’t tell me shit.”

“You call too much,” he teases. “I’m sure Eli is fine.”

I glance at him. “What if he isn’t? What if he never even went, and he’s dead somewhere.” Fuck, that makes me want to projectile vomit.

“Calm down,” he assures me, rolling onto his side so he can spoon me. “I’ve got a good feeling. You know how my feels are. Accurate as fuck .”

He grins, and I let a small smile slip free. Jorge is pretty intuitive about a lot of things. “True,” I admit.

“See? Told you. All is good. Promise.”

Huffing under my breath, I lay there with him for a few minutes, thinking. Worrying. And then my phone buzzes. We both gasp, which…why the fuck is he gasping? I grab it quickly, unlock it, and pull down the notification.

“Just Veronica in the group chat,” I mutter but check the texts anyway. God, Delilah is so fucking cute. She’s a chubby little thing. The picture shows her sitting on her dad’s lap, gnawing on a baby toy.

“Awh,” Jorge coos. “I need to get back over there and meet her.”

“You do. Nyx asks about you.”

“Not Damien?” He waggles his eyebrows, and I snort.

“Think he’s over you.”

Scoffing, Jorge scooches closer. He’s practically on top of me. “He loves me. Not my fault he had a fancy motorcycle that I couldn’t keep my hands off of.”

I smile, remembering high school. We were fourteen or fifteen, and Damien got his first bike. Somehow, he’d gotten this badass Harley Davidson for super cheap, and Jorge tried to sit on it. The whole bike, along with Jorge, fell over and scraped the fuck out of the paint. Damien hasn’t been a fan of him since. Oliver thought it was hilarious, but he was like eleven or some shit.

“Good times,” Jorge says wistfully.

I quickly write back to my sister and switch to Oliver’s thread. I don’t know why I keep checking. He doesn’t and won’t respond. “Fuck I miss him,” I rasp.

“Me too,” Jorge mumbles.

“What?”

“What?” he parrots.

“You what.”

“Huh?”

I scooch away from him, prop up on my elbow, and eyeball him. “You said me too. Why?”

“I did not.”

“You so did.”

He scoffs, rolling on his back and waving his hands around. “You know I get all emotional whenever you do. It was a sympathy miss.”

“See!” I blurt, slapping his arm. “You did say it!”

“I didn’t,” he hisses. “And even if I did , what’s the problem? Can’t a man express his feelings?”

I gape at my best friend as he gets off the bed, his full head of curls flopping wildly from the movement. He stands and pulls a bag of Pop Rocks from his pants. “Where the hell did you get those in Italy?”

“I brought a stash, obviously ,” he drawls and dumps some on his tongue. When they sizzle and pop, he grins like an idiot.

“Weirdo,” I laugh and text Oliver again.

Just let me know what I need to do. I’ll do it.

Miss you, bro. Miss you too much.

S o far, I’ve managed to avoid Leon like the plague .

Shit has been awkward whenever we’re all backstage, but most of these venues have rooms. It's not just some crusty lounge where we all have to stare at each other. So even when I see him in passing, it’s too brief to have any real interaction. But tonight, I don’t have such luck. No, that fucker is watching me like a hawk while we do sound check. It’s creepy and ridiculous.

He’s sizing me up, I realize.

Eli did confess to me on New Year’s Eve that he hadn’t ever heard from Leon after dumping him that night in the hospital. I just assumed the guy took it to the chest and moved on. After all, they were supposed to be like a casual relationship. Or so I thought. I fumble my footing, screwing up the whole rhythm, and Jorge growls into the microphone. Not the normal kind, either.

Spinning on his heel to shoot me a look that says what the fuck , I dip my chin in Leon’s direction. Jorge’s eyes find him immediately. He throws his curls out of his face. They’re too long. We all keep telling him to cut the shit, but he won’t do it. He says he’s going to grow his hair down to his knees. Kelly kills her keyboard a moment later, and I watch in slow motion as my best friend in the world storms over to Leon—a man on a mission…or a warpath.

“Fuck,” I grunt, getting up from behind my kit.

“Oh shit,” Devon says, plopping his bass down on the ground.

“What?” Michael asks, clueless for a beat until he squeaks in surprise. “That’s not good.”

“What’s your fucking problem, man?” Jorge growls from the side of the stage, all up in Leon’s face.

I jog the rest of the way, pulling on his arm, not wanting a fight to break out. “You’ve been staring Phoenix down. Why?” Jorge demands, fists clenching.

Leon folds his arms. “Been wanting to talk to you,” he says, ignoring Jorge.

“I’m all ears,” I grind out, squeezing Jorge’s bicep and hoping he backs off.

It’s difficult to put into words the way I feel right now. Part of me wants to let Jorge go, let him fuck this guy up. Jorge can be scrappy when he wants. He’d often get into brawls as a kid. Seeing the person who touched and kissed and fucked the love of your life is a special kind of twisted. And especially knowing that the guy had a hand in providing Eli with the drugs that put him in the goddamn hospital.

“I’m not looking to fight,” Leon says quickly, looking down at Jorge’s fists.

“Oh, me either. I’m just fucking flexing,” Jorge spits.

“Stop, man. Let them talk,” Devon insists, while Michael, not so subtly, puts his entire body between the two of them.

“You say one wrong word. One ,” Jorge warns.

“It’s fine, stop,” I insist. “Sure. Let’s talk,” I tell Leon.

We both move away from my band. Jorge motioning slitting a throat as we do. I wince because I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately. He’s been almost suffocating with how needy and protective he’s been since we left for the tour. He cuddles me every night and tells me I’m his best friend. Dude, I get it, but like back off a bit. I’ve always been okay with his need to be handsy. That’s just how he is. But it’s to the point where people are going to think we are fucking.

And now this stunt?

I shake those thoughts away because now I’m out of sight…with Leon. “Sup,” I say, deepening my voice and casually puffing up my chest. Yeah, I’m peacocking a little.

“I was wondering how Elijah has been?”

He doesn’t deserve to know. He has no right to that information. But the look in his eyes and somewhat defeated body language have me loosening my lips. “He’s doing okay.” I honestly don’t know if he is, but that’s what I’m hoping.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He’s…getting some help.”

“Good. Good. I was hoping he would.”

I narrow my eyes on him, feeling like he might think this would be a prime opportunity to get back with Eli. Or contact him. Or think about him as more than a fling that ended and has no chance of restarting. “After all he’s been through, I’m doing all I can to support and help him make healthy choices. He just needed a safe place to make the decision to get better.”

Yeah, it’s a subtle dig. What the fuck ever. Eli is mine. Leon nods, shifting on his feet. “I’m sorry if I made it weird for you.”

“You didn’t,” I lie through my teeth, wanting this to end. “It’s all good.” It isn’t. He’s a cunt.

“Well, it seems he made a good choice with you…then.”

Damn straight. “I love him,” I say confidently. “It’s always been him for me.”

“I get it.” He smiles a little, but it’s a sad one. “Anyway. That new song is killer. The double peddle during the bridge is wicked.”

And he carries me into a ten-minute conversation about drums.

By the time we split up, I filled in Jorge about what happened, and we finished sound check; I’m ready to return to the hotel. Yeah, it’s weird being on tour with Eli’s ex, even if it was a bullshit relationship, to begin with, but I have to let that shit go. I can’t let my jealousy ruin this for my band. So, I don’t.

We play the show, and I nod to Leon once we take down our stuff. Then, I go back to the hotel to text Eli all about it. I miss him so badly that I let Jorge cuddle me and tell me it will all be alright.