Chapter 20

Lee

What the fuck am I doing here in Nevada? That question had been bouncing around in my brain from the moment I got into the Uber on the way to the airport through the bumpy flight, the two long delays and the plane change in Denver, till now, as I stood in the Reno airport looking for the Rocktoberfest shuttle.

I could’ve done a thousand better things with my days off work. The house needed painting and weeding and crap hauled off to Goodwill and recycling. I could’ve read a good book or gotten a massage or taken that online course on geriatric skin care I’d been eyeing. Or slept. Well, maybe not. I wasn’t sleeping for shit lately. But I’d had options.

I’d walked out of Griffin’s life for a reason. Sure, the plane tickets were non-refundable, but I could’ve found somewhere I wanted to fly within the next year. I might’ve sold my Fest ticket online, the same way I bought it. The hotel would only charge one day for a cancellation, an ouch of money wasted but it wouldn’t break me.

So it was anyone’s guess why I was standing here in line, carry-on bag over my shoulder, waiting my turn to climb the bus steps and sit in another cramped seat for an hour and a half, to see a concert I’d never planned to go to in the first place.

Griffin. Only answer.

I found a window seat and ignored myself.

The desert had its own stark beauty. Once we cleared the Reno suburbs, the pine trees and green spaces began to dwindle. Tufts of sagebrush and other plants I couldn’t identify dotted the landscape like prickly pompoms. A bright clear sun shone down on the dusty roadside. We’d been warned by the driver that we were in the high desert and that some folks might feel the altitude, although most wouldn’t. I wanted to blame my lightheadedness on being four thousand plus feet above sea level, but if I was honest, oxygen levels had nothing to do with it.

The concert venue didn’t have housing, although I gathered most folk came with tents and campers and vans to stay in. The nearest town was small but it offered a hotel, a couple of motels, and part-time B Griffin dying in Wellhaven; kneeling at his grave next to Alice’s.

I’d pushed Mom to finally get therapy and find a way to get past losing Alice. Maybe a little therapy wouldn’t be bad for me too.

Either way, I was here now. A night’s sleep, and I’d have a new adventure and a new friend. Butler Collins was playing tomorrow night and I wouldn’t hate being in the audience to hear them live. I could imagine Yolanda screaming the lyrics at my side. Back in college, I’d gone to some shows with friends, and maybe that energy would get me out of the funk I was in.

Speaking of Yolanda. I pulled out my phone, powered up, and stared at the message list. A new one from Griffin. ~On the road from LA in the band bus. I’ll let you know when we arrive safely.

The man couldn’t take a hint, and yet… and yet, I’d been grateful to know his plane hadn’t crashed, his friends hadn’t gotten drunk and set their house on fire. I’d lose a little tension when I knew he’d finished the eleven-hour drive intact. He had a pro driver and a giant bus and I shouldn’t fucking care anymore, but yeah, I’d Googled the long route he’d take, while sitting in the Denver airport, and who was I kidding? I’d always care.

And if I wasn’t going to block his damned number, then maybe I could use it for something. Before I could think better of it, I texted, ~Are you playing Wipeout? If so, can you dedicate it to a friend of mine named Yolanda?

An answer pinged back faster than I could’ve expected. ~Yes. Absolutely. And then, ~Anything.

Anything except not sing at all. Anything except skip the concert to protect his health.

Although… here I was, asking him to sing, requesting ‘Wipeout’ because his work meant a lot to someone I’d just met. Sure, it was too late to change his mind about performing, so this wasn’t me signing off on his recklessness. Still, the dichotomy made my head hurt.

I decided my stomach was unsettled enough to skip dinner. A long, hot shower and a bed sounded like heaven. I had a few plane snacks left in my bag. They’d do. I’d read a good book and get some shut-eye and not think about Griffin Marsh for many, many hours.

That resolution shouldn’t have worked, but somehow, it did. My dreams that night were nebulous, Griffin-free, as I wandered an alien landscape where unseen dangers lurked in the shadows waiting for me. After one particularly weird episode, I grabbed my phone to check the time and saw I’d missed a text from Griffin.

~Safely arrived in Black Rock. Wish you were here.

I had a moment of absurd impulse to text back and say, ~I am here and I can’t sleep worth a damn. Come hug me. Thing was, I was pretty sure he would come. And if I let Griffin hug me again, I’d be totally fucked.

So I set my phone down, rolled on my other side, and tried to go back to sleep.