by E. Davies
I was about to tell him before he asked me out. I couldn’t very well keep him hanging in suspense or crush his spirits. And then he distracted me in the best of ways, and the moment passed.
If I’m being honest, I let the moment pass. I was afraid that Caleb would realize who I used to be and judge me for it. My heart couldn’t handle it if he’d rejected me just moments later.
But Caleb’s clearly slipped into performance mode. If I stop him now and explain, I might snap him out of it and freak him out, and… no, that’s not fair. I don’t want to throw him out of his own groove by talking about my past.
I had plenty of chances to tell him, and I chickened out every time. This is his moment and I’ll let him have it first.
“So we’re all ready. Let’s get there a few minutes early,” I suggest after a moment. “Have a drink, relax, meet people. It’ll be less scary if you know who’s there and it feels like you’re surrounded by friends.”
“I might be,” Caleb giggles. “I bribed most of my coworkers into coming. And my boss, and my family. So at least the place won’t be empty.”
I squeeze his arm. “Perfect. If you get nervous, just forget about everyone else, choose the person you know that you think would like that poem the most, and go for it.”
Caleb flashes me a grin. “I can do that. I’m not going to let anything keep me down.” He springs to his feet and grabs my hand, then leans backward like he’s trying to pry me up. He’s full of energy, nervous but no longer terrified. I like seeing this.
“Jacket first,” I remind him with a laugh before I let him haul me straight to Vino and Veritas.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary until we reach the door of the bar. Before I can open it, a guy standing near the building springs to life and cuts us off.
And then he speaks the words that send a nauseating chill straight to the pit of my stomach.
“Titus? Titus Taylor?”
Fuck. Time seems to slow down until every second is a year long. The blood drains from my face and I freeze, not sure what the hell I’m supposed to say or do.
He’s still talking, and some distant part of my brain registers his words. “My name is Rod Graves. I finally tracked you down! You’re a hard man to find.” He points at the little hand-drawn poster I stuck in the window of the bar with Caleb’s name and mine. “You’re going by Tag? Are you getting back into the biz? Do you need an agent?”
Like a wrecking ball slamming through my life, the memory hits me: Roxy warned me about an enthusiastic young guy trying to sign me.
Fuck. How the hell did he find me?
I still haven’t said a word, but as I draw a deep breath to try to speak, Caleb’s hand slips from mine. He steps back, his brow furrowing as he looks between us.
Shit. I’m getting dizzy now, my heart thundering in my chest.
“I understand Roxanne still represents Jet Slack, but now that you’re flying solo… I think you could benefit from independent representation. So I’ll be in the audience tonight, and I want to talk to you after the show.”
He’s still talking a mile a minute, and neither of us can get a word in edgeways.
Caleb finally cuts him off, holding up his hand. “Excuse me?” His voice is muffled with something that sounds like fear. “This is… Tag. Right, Tag?”
That wide-eyed gaze turns to me, and I can’t bear to meet it with my own. Can’t face the shock and dismay. Instead, I bite my lip and stare at the ground by his feet as my cheeks flush with heat.
“Er…” Rod trails off at last, apparently noticing that things just got really awkward. I shoot him a glare akin to diamond-tipped steel, and he clears his throat and opens the door of the bar. “I’ll leave you to it. Think about it, Titus. Tag.”
Then he vanishes inside, leaving me alone to deal with the fallout.
“Tag?” Caleb takes another step away from me, and at last I try to meet his eyes. “What was that?”
“I…” My mouth is paper-dry. I shove my hands in my pockets, like a few bits of lint or my wallet or keys can help explain this. “I can explain.”
“You said you’ve been on stage before,” Caleb murmurs, his voice strange and distant.
I nod tightly, trying to swallow the frog in my airway. I’m so fucking mad at myself that it hurts. And mad at this asshole Rod for showing up. It’s all crashing down. All I needed was a few more hours, for God’s sake!
“Years ago,” I mumble, finally looking at him.
Fuck. There’s a wall behind Caleb’s eyes that I’ve never seen before. He’s looking at me like a stranger, not a lover.
“In my old life,” I add. “I used to perform—”
“In Jet Slack? The band? The world-famous band?” Caleb manages, enunciating every syllable in a strangled croak of… I don’t know if it’s anger or shock, but I don’t like either possibility.
I wish I could rewind the last hour. Even if it surprised him, I should have been the one to tell Caleb tonight. Or yesterday. Or last week.
I want to make my excuses and defend myself, but I can’t deny it. That would definitely be a lie.
So I just nod.
A few seconds pass. We’re blocking the doorway as a few people try to get in, but no way in hell am I about to ask Caleb to move this conversation out of the way. I barely even notice them, despite their polite throat-clearing.
“Why?” Caleb whispers at last.
God, so many reasons, but as I scrabble at them, they all feel so flimsy. “I didn’t want anyone here knowing.”
“Including me.” Caleb steps backward, but I don’t think it’s for the sake of the other bar patrons.
I follow him, trying to stay close. “Yes, but…” I shake my head and close my eyes, pressing my hand to my face. “Yes, but only at first. I was going to tell you tonight after the show.” Steps scuff on the concrete, and I quickly drop my hand and open my eyes.
Caleb is walking away. His shoulders are hunched up to his ears and his head is down, and his hands are curled up into tight fists at his sides.
My whole world cracks at the seams, like a gulf the size of the Grand Canyon just opened between us.
I’m frozen in place, watching his retreating back as I desperately try to think what I should do.
If I run after him, is he going to tell me those words I dread hearing all over again?
We’re done. It’s over. You’re out.
Does he want me to chase him? Should I give him time to think about it? How much time do we have before the show? Does he even want to do it anymore?
Too many questions bombard me at once. I press my hand against the glass window to keep myself upright as my whole body sags like I got hit in the stomach.
“Caleb,” I croak. But he doesn’t turn around.
Oh, fuck. What have I done?
23
Caleb
Everything was going too well. I should have known. God damn it, I should have known.
For a brief, glorious day, I thought my life was going the way I’d always dreamed.
My family is going to be out there in the audience tonight, finally supporting me in my dreams instead of making snarky comments about my poetry. Even Gary agreed to come tonight, and he said he was looking forward to it.
And I had a boyfriend who seemed to give a shit. So much for that. Was he organizing this whole thing as some kind of career comeback, fresh start thing for himself?
I should have seen it coming a mile off. My life isn’t a fucking fairytale, and nobody wants to help you out for nothing. Even if they’re getting trophy videos out of it.
I feel disgusted—and disgusting.
The tears don’t stay inside for long. I don’t even make it to the staircase up to my apartment before I’m a snotty mess, my eyes so blurred that I trip twice. I choke on the adrenaline as the bitter sting surges into my mouth again.
I don’t know how I manage to get my key into the lock, much less the door open. I slam it after me and collapse on
to the floor, unable to make it even one step more.
Then the grief of betrayal overflows my chest into every finger and toe of my body. I pull my knees to my chest and press my face into them as the choked, wretched sobbing starts.
I’m mortified. How didn’t I recognize him? Thank God I wasn’t a Jet Slack fan, but of course I’ve seen his face in music videos online and in the newspaper when the band fractured.
That was him? The troubled rock star who got kicked out of his own band a few years ago? I don’t remember much about it, but everyone heard. It was one of those things that was hot news for all of thirty seconds.
Why the hell didn’t he tell me?
I can’t swallow back the shame. I’m a total amateur, some guy with a couple of okay poems, and he’s this global superstar. God, I’m mortified. He must have been laughing at me all along, getting stage fright about being in front of twenty people.
This is some fun little game to him. Deflowering a shy little virgin, making him think he’s some big star, all the while neglecting to mention that he’s this big shot.
But it’s my life and I wanted to take my own tiny little life, my own modest dreams, seriously. How can I when compared to a guy whose voice I’ve heard on the radio for years?
God, now that I know, I even recognize the warm hum of his words. It’s different than in their songs, but it seems so stupidly obvious.
I want to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment. But I can’t. I can’t just sit around here on my floor feeling sorry for myself.
Or can I? It’s really fucking tempting, I won’t lie.
My phone vibrates, and as much as I want to ignore it, I can’t help slipping it out of my pocket.
It’s Tag.
I’m sorry. I’ll be at V&V all night.
He’s not pressuring me into coming back to do my thing. But neither is he coming after me. Crap. I don’t know what I want, but I know I feel like he just stabbed a knife in my back right before my big break.
Does he have an ulterior motive? Does he just want the show to go on like normal? He’s good with an audience—surely he could spin it into his own thing if he didn’t care.
I don’t know. I’m all mixed up, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. I can only focus on how bad this hurts.
But this is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. No matter how much Tag lied to me about who he is, this is supposed to be my night. My whole family is there and this is finally my chance to prove that I’m serious about it.
If I blow off tonight, everyone will think I don’t have the guts for it. That I’m not a real performer. And I might not be some award-winning rock star, but I believe in myself.
Or… I was starting to learn to, anyway.
My phone goes off again, and when I look at the screen, it’s Lee.
Lee: Good luck tonight! I see Tag, but he says you’re not here yet?
Fuck. And of all my brothers, it had to be Lee. I press the edge of my phone to my forehead and groggily pull myself to my feet, leaning against the doorway.
Even seeing the man’s name makes me choke. I avert my gaze as I tap a response on the keyboard.
Me: I don’t know if I can.
Then my phone buzzes again.
Lee: You can do it, little bro. You’ve always done your own thing no matter what anyone says.
I stare at the screen, unable to come up with a response. An explanation. A cry for help. I don’t know what.
Another message.
Lee: I tease you a lot, but I like Tag and he’s been good for you. I’m really proud of you. Come on down and give us what you’ve got.
Another strangled sob emerges. I want to tell him—but I don’t want to out Tag, even with how badly he’s hurt me. I’m not going to be that kind of person.
Besides, Tag said he was afraid of me outing him to the whole town. That means I can’t turn around and do it, proving him right. I have to prove that I’m a better person than he thought. I can keep his secret and be really, really pissed off at him at the same time.
It takes every ounce of my strength, but I tap out two letters.
Me: OK.
Then I pocket my phone and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. I can do this. I have to do this.
I’m going to pull myself together and make myself and my family proud, even if I have to grit my teeth the whole time to do it.
I stride to the coffee table where all the poems I decided not to read are still spread out, and drop heavily onto the couch. Then I grab a pen and a blank piece of paper.
Maybe I’m not really interesting or pretty enough to be heard after all. Tag made me think otherwise for a few brief, perfect days. But I’m still going to be me—without apology and without limits.
Nobody is going to hold me down or keep me back anymore. Didn’t I promise myself that just minutes ago? It feels like another lifetime, like a sharp divide has fallen between that part of my life and this one.
But I always keep my promises. Always.
24
Tag
I should have listened to my gut.
From the very start, I didn’t feel right about not telling Caleb who I used to be. I justified it, but deep down I knew he’d be hurt when he finally found out.
Now all I can do is pace along the wall of Vino and Veritas, looking foreboding enough that nobody has tried to approach me apart from Lee. Even he quickly beat a retreat after asking where Caleb is.
I don’t even remember what I said five seconds ago. Hopefully I gave him an answer instead of just grunting at him, Fuck if I know.
I hope Caleb will come back. I could talk quietly to Tanner and apologize for screwing up the plan, but there’s no way I can make up some bullshit that Caleb’s friends and family would believe.
Okay. If I need to, I’ll be honest: that I did something dumb and I’m not sure if Caleb is coming tonight, but please enjoy this complimentary mead or something. I don’t know. I’ll find a way to make up for it to the audience tonight.
Nobody here is as important as the one man who isn’t here.
I guess I could just leave, but… no. I’ve already been enough of a coward. There’s no way in hell I’d ever do that.
I’m going to keep my word and stay all night—until closing time, if I have to—just to give Caleb the chance to come back to me on his own terms. Assuming he ever wants to see me again.
I think I can safely guess whether we’re boyfriends anymore based on whether or not he shows up. It might be the longest night of my life.
I pace another circuit of the walls, steering neatly around anyone who tries to stop me. I can’t stop glancing at my watch, counting down the minutes. I can always give it an extra five minutes before hopping on stage and saying…
Well, I’ve got seven minutes to figure out what to say. No, six minutes now.
The door opens.
I’ve long since stopped spinning around to look at the door every time someone walks through. It was going to give me a heart attack if I kept that up.
But this time is different. It’s seven o’clock on the dot, and all the hair stands up on the back of my neck. A second later, I hear greetings and a smattering of applause. Even a little cheer. That’s Anna, who’s sitting in the front row with a big glass of mead.
So I finally give in and spin around, my stomach turning itself inside out.
It’s him. It’s Caleb. His face is a little blotchy and his eyes are too pink, but he’s holding himself upright with his chest out and his chin up. More like he’s ready for battle than a casual poetry reading.
“Let’s go,” is all he says to me as he walks past to the stage.
My heart drops like a stone into my shoes.
We’re done, he might as well have told me. There’s no way he would have walked right past me if…
Shut up, I tell my brain. Switch off and do this.
And this isn’t the first time.
I was the one who decided to throw the
setlist out the window in that very last concert. It was a small, intimate gig in a little bar in Denver. Just for our superfans, the ones who waited up all night to grab tickets from the secret email list.
There was never going to be a better moment, so I pulled the most diva of diva moves for a lead singer. The rest of the band were forced to accompany me like it was all planned in advance.
I told the crowd that they were going to hear something new, and I launched into the song that I wrote—that I was sure would push us in a new direction. None of my bandmates agreed. They wanted to keep singing the same shit, acting like the same idiots, while I wanted to be real with the people who most understood us.
Well, it was two and a half minutes of joy. The fans loved it, I loved it, and all my bandmates kept up with the verses I’d forced them to learn, however much they told me they wouldn’t be caught dead doing it.
For those two and a half minutes, I dared to dream that we were going to strike out in the right direction at last.
Then my backup singer took the mic, and the consequences bit me in the ass. Hard.
We’ve got some news to share, and we wanted you to be the first to know. There’s no good way to say this, but… that was a farewell song just for you guys. Tonight was Titus’ last performance with Jet Slack. After so many great years with us, he’s heading in a new direction. I know. We’re all upset, too. One more? You all want one more? Okay. Let’s do the last song, guys.
He didn’t even look me in the fucking eye. Not once. Stone cold sober ripped my heart out on stage and stomped on it.
I don’t even remember if I sang the right words in that finale. Everyone was crying and shouting that they loved me and shit. It was no real consolation. Nothing could possibly soothe the biggest shock of my life.