7. Phoenix

Phoenix

Love Is Dead

B eing on the road sucks as much as it doesn’t.

Since we have a strict budget, we only get decent food once a week. For the past ten days, we’ve been living on gas station food and bologna sandwiches, so I’m excited to finally get my ass in a diner for some good breakfast. I’m tucked in the back of the circle booth, Devon on my right and Kelly on my left. Jorge needs the edge of the booth, so he’s in his usual spot. Scrambled eggs and some hash browns sound fantastic right now.

It’s been three days since I blocked Eli on Snapchat. I almost blocked him everywhere, but that’d only give him a reason to seek me out. No one knows he approached me—I’m keeping it to myself for now because I know everyone is tired of the drama surrounding me. The exposure from this tour is good for us and our band. We all share the same dream.

Jorge wants to be the next Will Ramos, and Kelly wants to be the next Tuomas Holopainen—we all have ambitions to be the next best thing in the metal genre.I’ve always looked up to guys like Chris Adler and Jaska Raatikainen.

If this dream dies for whatever reason and we all have to grow up and get real jobs, I’d probably work at an animal shelter. I don’t know if it’d support me or give me a real career, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. Maybe I’d get into the food industry. I like cooking, too. Obviously, none of us want to give up the rockstar goal, and we all want to do this until we’re seventy, like KISS or ACDC. But sometimes, I see myself doing other things and being just as happy.

Devon nudges me, pulling me from my thoughts. “You good?”

I straighten, catching his eyes. “Yeah. Why?”

“You’re quieter than normal.”

Shrugging, I pick up the mug of coffee and sip it. “Can’t sleep with Michael snoring on top of me.”

“Hey!” Michael balks, tossing his straw wrapper at my head. “I don’t snore.”

In unison, we all say, “You do.” Jorge tacks on, “You got the apneas, bro.”

Michael huffs, turning his attention towards the door. “Snoring doesn’t mean sleep apnea.”

“It does when you stop breathing,” Kelly chirps. And then she acts out his snore for us, dramatically gasping for air. “You know people die from that.”

He grumbles under his breath, blond hair stuffed under his backward hat. “It’s not sleep apnea.”

I pull out my phone, find the video I took last night, and press play. It’s dark, the bunk above me barely visible, but his snores and choking noises are clear as day. “Fuckin’ creeper,” he growls, lunging over Devon to reach me, but I squish into Kelly.

Terry laughs at our antics. He’s almost fifty but still acts like he’s our age. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he tells Michael with an almost fatherly tone. “I have a CPAP.”

“It’s not fucking apnea. Move.” He shoves at Jorge, who is giggling like a little girl.

We watch him blush and hurry to the bathroom to hide. It’s all good fun; he won’t take it personally for too long. Everyone is too afraid to roast me because I’ve been touchy. But it feels good to joke around. The server shows up a few minutes later with our food, and we all dig in. Michael comes back not long after. I shovel my eggs and hash browns, saving the bacon for last. Everyone resumes their chatter, discussing the show and what we will do with our time before it.

I don’t add much to the conversation because my thoughts keep drifting. It might sound lame, but I miss my cat. He’s become something of an emotional support animal for me. I fire off a text to my sister while I’m chewing my food, demanding another picture of him and reminding her not to overfeed him or else he’ll hurl everywhere. Suddenly, the talking abruptly stops. I lift my eyes, fork halfway to my mouth when I see what’s caught everyone’s attention.

Jorge scowls, Michael gives me a look that says keep it cool , and Devon and Kelly scoot closer to me. Terry twists his head to get a better look since his back faces the door. I love how protective they are of me, but right now, I feel suffocated—childish. I’m not that big of a ticking time bomb that I can’t ignore Headhunter…and Eli.

Not bothering to acknowledge the group of them sliding into the booth across from us, I keep my eyes on my plate and continue eating.

“There are other diners,” Kelly mumbles under her breath.

“It’s awkward, but they are like your coworkers currently. It’s better to keep things civil,” Terry says, all wise ‘n shit.

He’s not wrong. It’s not unheard of for drama to be why bands are dropped from tours. Not that it happens often because tickets are already bought, time slots reserved for the venues, and every other expense factored into what we do. But it can happen, and if anyone would be kicked due to some bullshit, it’d be us. Eli might not be part of the band, but he’s with one.

I’m not hungry anymore, but I keep eating, the eggs tasting like dirt. I hide in my hair, and the familiar sensation of being watched comes from all angles.

The lighthearted breakfast takes a nosedive, and everyone is tense and quiet. I hate it—and I hate that it’s because of me. My phone buzzes in my lap, and a sliver of relief bursts in my chest. I grab it, anticipating a picture of my baby, when I see a text from an unfamiliar number.

Still save the bacon for last?

I slam my phone down on the table and grind my teeth.

Devon stares at the side of my head while I aggressively grab my coffee and chug the rest. Three consecutive buzzes rattle the table as my phone goes off. Unable to resist, I glance across the diner, Eli already waiting for it—my stomach summersaults when our eyes clash. Leon is none the wiser, arm wrapped around his shoulder, thoroughly invested in his conversation with their bassist. Bile rushes up my throat when Eli cocks his head a little, then turns, taking Leon’s jaw within his fingers, and kisses him.

“What a fucking toolbag,” Jorge growls, voice low.

“I’m going to wait on the bus,” I announce.

“Don’t let him do this to you,” Devon says, grabbing my wrist. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it does.

It matters. It hurts. It’s fucking killing me.

“I’m going to go wait on the bus,” I repeat, voice harder and louder.

Everyone shuffles out of the booth so I can get out. So this is what he’s going to do now.

Flaunt his new relationship, dig the knife deeper, and watch me bleed out. I thought him ghosting me was terrible. I thought I already lived through the worst of a broken heart. I was wrong. He wants to make sure that any trace of love inside me dies. Why? Who the hell knows with him? All I do know is that ignoring him isn’t going to work.

Once I’m outside, I look at the texts.

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, Phoenix.

I want to talk, but I also want to ruin it all.

He doesn’t feel like you. Watch.

“What the fuck!” I roar, wanting to throw my phone into the street.

S omehow, I made it through the show without fucking up. We’re exhausted, looking forward to a real bed to crash in as we ride the elevator to our hotel rooms. Staying in them is rare for us, but since we have been having consistent sales on the merch booths and sold-out shows, there are enough funds to get rooms for tonight.

We also justified it because we have another show in the next town tomorrow.

Kelly yawns, leaning on my shoulder. The elevator dings, and we walk out. No one ever wants to sleep with Michael, but Kelly opted to tonight because she’s the only one who sleeps with earplugs regularly. I’ll take a queen with Jorge while Devon will take the other. Terry likes to sleep on the bus, which helps keep costs down.

When we separate to our rooms, I head for the shower.

I get undressed, flip on the water, and check the group chat all my siblings text in. A smile spreads over my lips at seeing Delilah asleep on Deke’s chest. I react with a blue heart, type out how I miss them, and set my phone on the counter. Jorge and Devon want showers, too, so I don’t fuck around. The hotel bar soap is tacky, but whatever.

While I’m soaping up, I glance down at my ribs. This one is my favorite of all the tattoos I’ve gathered over the years—a cherry blossom tree with my siblings' initials written over each of the four flowers. I plan to add my nephews and niece soon.

The crazy thing about the tattoo is that the same petals Eli has tattooed over his neck are meant to be cherry blossom petals. I remember thinking it was some stroke of fate that we were meant to meet—to be together. Not that either of us has any real ties to the tree itself; we both like how beautiful they are. And here I go again, reminiscing, holding onto shit that doesn’t fucking matter anymore.

I do this too often. I dig through the grit and pain to find the beautiful pieces, hoping it will change things or justify his actions. Why can’t I stop? He’s making it his mission in life to fuck with me—to hurt me. I want to understand him. I want to figure out his motives or if he’s just a gorgeous lunatic.

Looking back, I know why I fell in love with him, but how much of that was real? There’s no way to know for sure. No one wants to deal with this for the next five and a half months, though. It’s unfair to my band. We all might be friends, closer than most people’s families, but I don’t want to put them through more drama. They’ve worried about me enough.

I’m not going to hang myself…or something.

I get out of the shower, quickly dry off, and dress. My hair takes forever to dry, so I use the mini hair dryer provided. While I half-ass point the thing at my head, I check to see if anyone wrote more in the group chat. They didn’t. But I have a new text.

Remember when you said I could call you if I was in trouble?

Did I? Probably. I probably said it to him after one of those vanishing spells he’d have to reassure him that I cared. I never knew what he did during them. My mind would come up with all kinds of crazy shit, worried and half-blinded with insecurity and jealousy that he was off with someone else. So, yeah, I’m sure I did. I was always there for him if he needed me.

But I don’t respond because shit’s changed.

I know how this looks, trust me. But, if you meant it, I’m in room 305.

I turn off the hair dryer, my heart pounding uncontrollably. Running a hand down my face and cupping my mouth, I stare at the text. My stomach swoops like I’m falling.

This is another trick. If I indulge him, show up at his hotel room, and he’s fucking balls deep in Leon, I might just kill him. Because I wouldn’t put it past him to do something like that. And better yet, why doesn’t he ask his boyfriend? Isn’t that the whole point of having a partner? Someone to be there for you when shit gets hard?

Unless…unless Leon is the reason it’s hard. Unless he’s hurting Eli.

Why should I care, anyway? If he’s that big of an idiot to stay with someone like that, after all he’s done thus far to fuck with me, oh well. I turn off my phone, leave the bathroom, and meet Jorge’s eyes.

“Where you going?” he asks.

Apparently, I’m going to do something very fucking stupid. I slide into my shoes. “Just going to get some air,” I lie.

“Devon might eat all your Oreos if you are gone too long.”

Devon jerks up from where he’s pulling out his clean clothes. “I will not.”

“You will.”

“I won’t be long,” I tell them, giving zero fucks about my Oreos.