by Neve Wilder
“Good. Healthy. Sad. All of those things, somehow. I could tell he was trying to follow the program, turn himself around. He said he’s been doing a meeting a day. Told me about being in rehab. It was nice, really. A little awkward because I kept thinking of the two of you together, but nice.”
After Leigh left, I cleaned up the kitchen, studiously avoiding the photos she’d left behind until I couldn’t anymore. Then I sat down at the counter and flipped through them all again, one by one. Watching our rise and fall in stills caused a fresh, brutal pang of sadness to radiate through my chest. But when I picked up my phone and pulled up Les’s contact information, I couldn’t make myself press Send.
Chapter 39
I puttered around the kitchen the following day, making lunch and trying to stay out of Rita’s way as she dusted and mopped. I sucked at the rocker lifestyle, all the way down to my hired hands; I kept wanting to take one of the rags on the counter and help Rita out the way I had my mom when I was a kid. When my phone rang, Rita shooed me away as she slid it over the counter toward me. “Make a business deal, sweetheart. I’ve got the dust bunnies covered.” The ache that threatened to spread through me at the pet name turned into a groan as I glanced down at the screen. Blink. There was no love lost between us. At least on my end, but I answered anyway.
“What’s up?”
“Hey, Porter, listen.” He spoke fast, as if he was afraid I’d hang up. Probably a good instinct on his part, since I was glaring at the pantry as I threw a bag of bread back inside it. “I know you’re not my biggest fan, and I wish I could fix that, but whatever, it’s not why I’m calling. Les is doing a Facebook Live thing on his page, like now. He didn’t tell anyone he was doing it, besides me, but uhhhh… I thought it might be something you’d want to see.”
My stomach lurched into my throat, and I got off the phone with him as quickly as I could. What was Les up to now? My hackles rose at the same time I felt a stab of disappointment, recalling his social media frenzy when he’d been in Vegas. Had he fallen off the wagon already?
I tabbed over to Les’s Facebook fan page on my phone and opened the video feed. The same fluttery surge that’d raced through me last night while I’d been looking at our old photos was exponentially multiplied by seeing him live. He looked, as Leigh had said, healthy and well rested. And sober. Goddammit, he looked great. He wore a plain white T-shirt, and his hair fell over his forehead in shower-damp tousles that he raked a hand through as he frowned at the screen. “Bear with me here, I’m not used to doing this. At all. Which is kind of surprising given the last tear I went on in Vegas. I don’t remember shit about that, though.”
Comments started pouring in, mostly exuberant greetings and hearts, a few bits of advice to tilt his laptop.
“Okay, how’s that?” he asked, adjusting the screen. “Good? Great. So hello.” He rubbed his palms together briskly, then ran them down his stubbled cheeks, seeming unsure what to say next. “I’ve got some things I need to get off my chest, probably against the advice of a publicist, but I’m done with publicists for a while. So you’re getting just me. Unfiltered me. Except sober this time.” Les panned his laptop around so we could see he was alone. I recognized the close-up black-and-white photographs of guitars on his living room wall. He’d picked those up on one of our stops in New Orleans because he’d thought the intricacy of detail was the coolest thing ever: “Isn’t it crazy that some human just came up with the wild idea of combining wood and strings to make some cool sounds, never having a clue it would become the obsession of a million jackasses like you and me, and that people would pay those jackasses for the pleasure of the sounds made with said wood and strings?” I think he’d been stoned at the time. I might’ve been, too.
He pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing, “For viewers out there who aren’t up-to-date, I’m fresh out of rehab after a colossal meltdown in Vegas, which I dearly wish I hadn’t vomited out in painful detail on my Facebook page. Don’t be like Les Graves, people. Just don’t.”
His self-conscious chuckle rang through the speaker, then he sighed. “But I’m leaving all of that up, because it’s reality, and I’ve got an idea that Porter & Graves’s fans have probably been feeling like they haven’t gotten enough of that lately. I’m sorry for that, and the purpose of this video today is twofold: to clear the air about rumors and own up to my mistakes and take responsibility for them. Okay, technically, that’s three things.” He glanced down and chuckled at the comment feed where someone had typed “deny, deny, deny!” then responded, “We’re way past plausible deniability now. No, fuck it, I’m gonna tell you my side straight.
“First thing I’ll say is that I won’t speak for Po—for Evan. I can’t. I can only speak for myself, which is fine because really, all of this is my fault. Every single bit.”
My next inhale got stuck in my chest. For a fleeting moment, I felt a prickle of fear that he might admit to cooking up the whole relationship thing with our publicist. I’d believed him when he said he hadn’t in the parking lot. It didn’t make sense. So I tamped down the insecurity and tried to relax my hand, which was gripping my phone so tightly my joints ached. Fuck, I missed him, and just seeing him onscreen brought the hollow ache of his absence from my life starkly to the fore.
“It’s really complex and convoluted, so be patient,” he continued, and started with the story of how he’d told Ella she could sell the tell-all of her night with us. “It would’ve been different if Ella had just decided to tell the story on her own, and she was definitely within her rights to. After all, she was a part of that night, but she was nice enough to give me a heads-up about it, and I should’ve told Evan about it, but I didn’t. I invaded Evan’s privacy thoughtlessly, without consulting him, and it was so fucking wrong it makes me sick to think about. And when I had an opportunity to come clean, I betrayed him again.
“Musician sexcapades aren’t that big of a deal, I know, and if it had come out right after it happened, it probably would have been less of a deal, but it came out months later when Evan and I were really struggling in our friendship—and that’s the other part that’s my fault.” Les’s gaze had been focused off to one side as he spoke, but now he looked directly into the camera, the sincerity in his eyes gutting me. “Purely, one hundred percent my fault. I was being irresponsible, excusing my own behavior and doing stupid addict shit because I was struggling to cope with my own feelings for Evan. Feelings I didn’t think I’d ever get a chance to express to him. Not if I wanted to remain part of the band. Because I was in love with him, and I have been for a long time.”
My eyes went wide. I could literally feel it happen.
“Rita!” I called frantically, digging through bottles of cleaning agents and the photographs still lying over the counter for my car keys.
She popped her head into the kitchen.
“I need you to drive me to Les’s.”
I turned the screen of my phone toward her befuddled expression. “I’m watching him. I can’t drive. Come on!”
She set down her broom and squinted at the live feed. “What’s he up to?”
“He’s… he’s—” How could I explain to her that he was taking my carefully constructed yet shoddy wall of defense and dismantling it word by word? “Holy hell, woman, you’re killing me, let’s go.” I exchanged the dustpan in her hands for my car keys and all but dragged her by the sleeve of her shirt out to my car, keeping my phone in my palm. Les lived in the Sylvan Park neighborhood which, in theory, was not that far from 12 South, where I lived. In theory.
Les rambled on as we got in the car, and I stared at the screen, transfixed and hardly breathing while my heart battered my chest.
“I didn’t think Evan was open to it, so I buried it in other ways. Ways that affected our friendship and our music. And when the idea came about to capitalize on Ella’s story by pretending to be in a relationship—a relationship I’d have pretty much given my left nut to have a shot at—I jumped on it, and I
pressured Evan into it. At the very least, I thought maybe pretending would help get him out of my system and I could move on. It was a selfish choice and I regret every second of it, because Evan never wanted to fool anyone.” He grimaced in apparent discomfort. “That’s not who he is, but he’s also a loyal friend. Some of the stuff that happened after that is personal and I’m not going to share it, but I do feel I should own up to all those photos of us that have been in the tabloids recently. Those were all prearranged, except our scuffle in the parking lot. That was real and I deserved it, and I’m gonna try to do better. I’ve been clean for thirty-two days now, and I’ve learned enough to know I shouldn’t make promises, but I’m trying to do the right thing one day at a time, and this is how I’m starting it.”
We hit every light, and once we got on 440, traffic backed up quickly and all I could do was regret not taking side streets. I struggled to stay still in the passenger seat, my entire body limned with tension while Les kept talking.
“Turn it up, I can’t hear him,” Rita barked, glancing over her shoulder before cutting into another lane.
“Shh!” I snapped back but clicked to turn the volume up.
Fucking hell. I glanced around at the standstill traffic, looking for an alternative route. “Can we get off and take back roads? We’ll be here all fucking day.”
Rita shrugged. “I can try.” She cut down an access road and got us off 440. We sped through side streets.
“Good goddamn,” Rita muttered, and I shushed her, catching her smile as Les continued.
“So my last is my apology to you, the fans, the most important part of our music. I’m so sorry for manipulating y’all, and I hope you’ll let me bear the blame and continue to support Evan in whatever he does, because he’s the real deal, and without him, I’d still be playing for loose change.” He let out a long breath and collapsed back in the chair, rubbing his fingers over his forehead as if drained. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions I can, so let ’em roll.”
He went quiet for a handful of seconds, eyeing the bottom of the screen, then straightened in the chair. “I don’t know what’s next for me. Right now I’m focusing on my sobriety, and music’s going to take a back seat. There’s a possibility we’ll finish out the album, but I’m not counting on it. And I’m okay with that. Considering what a shitty partner I’ve been, it’s completely understandable.”
Les had never been much for apologies, much less sincere ones, but the earnestness in his expression flowed off the screen and rolled through me, along with the overwhelming need to be there with him.
Onscreen, Les nodded and his eyes flitted down again before his brows pulled together in a frown. “Yeah, of course I still fucking love him. I wish I could’ve figured out a way to turn that off, because I’d have done it long ago, but I can’t. Pretty much every song I’ve written over the last year has been about the bastard. I love him like fucking air, but I don’t… that’s just something I’ll have to deal with. I have no expectations of Evan, and honestly, he’s probably better off without me.”
As soon as Rita pulled into his drive, I shot out of the car, phone still in my hand as I raced for the door. His voice pitched through my speakers as he chuckled at some other comment I’d missed, but the words hardly registered.
I banged on the door, and when he ignored it, started pounding.
Les glanced away from the camera. “Just a second, folks. Keep the questions coming, and I’ll scroll back to get to them.”
Even though I’d spent the past twenty minutes staring at his face, I wasn’t prepared for how my pulse would kick into overdrive when he opened the door and I stood in front of him in person. He sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, so slowly.
Myriad emotions passed over his face, and I could read every one of them: shock, elation, caution, hope, and the very last one, the one that did me in. Regret mingled with sadness.
The set of his mouth softened, his lips parting, and every thought in my head evaporated.
I launched at him and crashed my mouth against his. It wasn’t the most romantic kiss in the books. It edged on violent and was messy because he was taken by surprise. He stumbled backward, and I had to flail at his shirt to keep him upright. But goddammit, there was an entire month’s worth of pent-up emotion in it, and after a second, Les matched my fervor, his hands landing on my biceps and squeezing forcefully as he crushed me against him. I sank my fingers into the damp strands of his hair, inhaled the scent of his shampoo, and drowned myself in the taste of him. A quiet moan slipped from his lips, and he finally broke the kiss with a sudden tilt of his head.
“What are you doing?” Beneath my grip, a tremor ran through him, and his breath came harsh and hot against my cheek.
I swallowed a huge gulp of air and tried to collect myself. “I don’t know.” I released him to tug at the ends of my hair. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m kinda flying blind here. I guess I shouldn’t have done that. You just opened the door and… shit, you occupy my every other thought. Do you know how annoying that is?”
“Um yeah. Trust me.” Les canted his head to find my eyes and laughed softly. “So you think you could do it again? Because Jesus Christ, I missed this and didn’t think I’d ever have it again.”
I answered him with another scorching kiss, and he slid his hands around to my back, under my T-shirt, and behind my waistband to clutch a handful of my ass. I groaned at the friction of his hips against mine, and was ready to get him naked right there when he pulled away again, his eyes going wide in alarm. “Shit, the video!” He dropped his voice. “Do you think they can hear?”
I licked my lips, thinking fast, then brushed past him, heading for the laptop and dropping into his chair once I got there.
“What are you doing?” he hissed, shutting the front door and stalking after me.
I adjusted the camera and started speaking. “First of all, this isn’t exactly how I’d planned on going about this, but here we are.” A barrage of WTF’s, heart signs, and boggle-eyes rolled up the feed. “And since Les has given you his account, I guess it’s time for me to give you mine. Side note: we really suck at PR, and Les is right—this would definitely be against a publicist’s advice, but I’m also tired of the facade. Everything Les said was true; he just ended the story early.” I felt Les hovering anxiously behind me, but soldiered on, determined to set the record straight because I couldn’t stand the idea of Les shouldering whatever fallout was to come on his own. “And I’m also done with image maintenance. I’ve always kept my private life private, not because I’m ashamed of it, but because it was mine and I thought, who cared? But I want to be transparent now for a few reasons.” I glimpsed some of the comments and nodded. “I’ve never been open with my sexuality or sex life because again, I figured it was my own business, but I guess being in the public eye changes things, and I don’t want anyone to feel ashamed about their sexuality or think I’m ashamed.
“The idea that I could be hurting someone by not being forthcoming doesn’t sit well with me. I’ve been with both women and men, so yeah, I’d consider myself bi. But nothing prepared me for what would happen when Les and I embarked on the whole fake relationship thing and I discovered the feelings stirred up were very real for me.
“So when he said it was complex, he wasn’t lying. It was and it still is, and I don’t know what that means for our music, or even for us, but that’s the whole story.
“I hope you’ll understand that I’m gonna cut this short because I haven’t seen or talked to Les in a fucking month, and I need to do that now.” I reached for the mouse to shut down the feed, then paused and looked directly into the camera. “Last thing: Adam Slade, you can go fuck yourself.”
I clicked to end the feed and swiveled around in the chair to face Les. He stood with one arm folded across his chest, a stricken expression on his face. He pressed the knuckles of one hand to the mouth I’d missed so much it almost hurt to look at, then dropped his hand and shook his
head. “I can’t believe you just told Adam Slade to go fuck himself. ”
“I know. It was probably too much. But seriously, fuck that guy.”
Les reached out to snap the top of his laptop closed. “Are you mad about the video? I wasn’t sure what to do, but I was tired of going through other people. I figured direct was best.”
“Nah, you’re right. For the best. I’m tired of it, too.”
He reached out, as if to touch me, then drew back, hesitant. “I missed you. So much.”
The past five minutes had been pure adrenaline and reaction on my part, and now the reality of being in front of him slammed full force into me. I grabbed at the bottom of his T-shirt and pulled until he sank down on his knees in front of me, and then I leaned, pressing my forehead to his, closing my eyes, inhaling him. “Same.”
“I’m so sorry, Ev.”
I couldn’t stand the sound of his voice cracking, or how his shoulders shook and curled inward. I slid from the chair onto the floor and put my arms around him. “I know. I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry for how I handled everything.”
How often do you two disagree on something, whether music-related or not?
Evan: Constantly.
Les: Yeah, but how often do we agree, Porter?
Evan: Also constantly.
Les: Damn straight.
Chapter 40
After Evan sent Rita home, we sat at the kitchen table I’d probably only ever sat at twice, drinking coffee and talking about rehab, about sobriety, Evan’s experience with Amanda Faulks, his dealings with the label. We talked for hours, until afternoon became night. We ate leftovers from my fridge for dinner, and I kept expecting Evan to get up at some point and leave, but he didn’t. I hoped against hope that meant something, but after everything that had happened, I couldn’t bank on it, and we still hadn’t discussed what to do about our current album or the band in general. In spite of that explosive kiss at my front door, our future remained very much in limbo.