by Peter Styles
Oh.
“I can tell by the fact that you’re silent that you’ve realized something,” Jace says calmly, “and I sincerely hope it’s not something painfully obvious, like the fact that you two love each other.”
“It’s not that,” Jordan says. “I mean—it is, but…”
“Did you not realize you loved him before?”
“Of course I did. I—I just…I’m worried about what everyone else will think,” Jordan explains. He knows it’s the truth as soon as he says it.
He’s worried that Damian’s father won’t like him. That Mrs. Ames and Ellis won’t. He knows how important the three of them are to Damian; he grew up without a mother or any siblings and they were the people he relied on his entire life. Damian doesn’t have many friends, either because he travels too often or because he’s selective, and the three people he’s had in his life the longest are the ones Jordan is about to meet. He feels the pressure of the significance weighing on his shoulders—if they don’t like him, he knows it will affect Damian. I don’t want that to happen. I won’t make him choose between me and them.
“Do you think they’re all jerks?”
“What? No.”
“Then why are you worried?” Jace sighs, tossing his notebook onto the bed before sitting cross-legged on the corner. “They love Damian; that much is obvious. If you make him happy—and you do—then why would they not like you?”
“I don’t know. I’m…”
“Please don’t say, I’m in a band. That one’s getting old. Besides, I don’t think they care. Damian is a wayward biker with a million tattoos. You’re probably going to look like a preppy schoolboy next to him.”
Jordan laughs. He feels a little better, even if he’s still nervous about meeting everyone. Jace is right, he thinks, as usual—if Damian’s family cares about him as much as he says, they won’t care. The only thing they’ll want is for Damian to be happy and safe. And I can do that, Jordan thinks. The only thing he ever wanted in life was to make the band successful, but now he has Damian and he wants to make their relationship just as amazing as his music. Maybe he’s never been so passionate about caring for someone else before, but he knows he cares about Damian.
“How far away are we?” Jordan asks.
“Go to bed,” Jace says, rolling his eyes. “We’ll be there soon enough. And don’t worry—I’ll wake you up early so you can take a shower before you see him.”
“Thank you, Jace.” Jordan wants to say more—explain how grateful he really is. How much he’s depended on Jace, not just now but for years before. I just can’t ever seem to find all the words I need. Jace smiles, though, and his expression seems to say he understands. They’re family, after all. He leaves quietly, shutting the door behind him, and Jordan falls asleep to the sound of the road beneath him and thoughts of seeing Damian again.
“Wake up. Come on, Jordan—we’re an hour away. Jordan,” Jace drags his name out, the vowels stretching into infinity.
“I’m getting up,” Jordan mumbles, rubbing his eyes. How was I so exhausted? He knows the reason; they’ve all been on tour for months and the driving has been worse than usual, what with the deadline to get back to Tower Valley.
“All right. I won’t wake you up again, if you go back to bed. Just remember, you don’t want to be smelly for Damian.”
Even the mention of Damian’s name pulls him out of sleep a little more. He tries not to seem too excited when he rolls out of bed, already wondering what he should wear. By the time he finishes showering and changing, he can hear Jace and Sam singing to a playlist of songs from high school at the top of their lungs.
“Shouldn’t you be saving your voice?” Jordan has to raise his voice a little over the music. Jace just sings a little louder, grinning as he takes the exit into town.
Everyone is always happier when they’re in their hometown. It feels like a triumphant return, as if they’ve been off to war and they’re finally returning to a waiting celebration. In reality, he knows the only celebration they’ll be getting is the cookout his family will inevitably have the next day. The bus will be parked by the house, the crew will sleep in the guest room and everyone will leave them alone until at least noon. He can already imagine the spread that will appear as if by magic, tables and chairs set in the backyard, the trees wafting their sharp, clean scent over everything.
“It’s good to be back,” Jace says between songs, nodding to himself as he turns onto familiar streets. The town is bustling; it’s five in the afternoon and traffic is full of people leaving work and going to night shifts. Most of the people passing on the sidewalks are bundled in jackets and coats, bracing themselves against the dropping night temperature.
“Are we stopping by the house first, or are we going straight to Steel Drum?”
“We’re not stopping by,” Jace says. “If we did, we’d be late to our own show. I told mom to let everyone know the show starts at six thirty and we go on at seven.”
“Good. Did you get reserved entry for—”
“Yes,” Jace says, rolling his eyes. “Of course I did. I barely had to ask, even—apparently, the owner of the place knows Damian’s dad from some altercation or another a few months back. He likes him enough he said he would have let him in either way.”
“I’m not surprised,” Jordan says, fighting a smile. He can imagine the man breaking up a fight, even if he’s never met him.
“Like father, like son,” Sam murmurs, smirking.
Speaking of which. Jordan isn’t sure what to say when he calls. It occurs to him that he should have called sooner; Damian did ask to be updated when Jordan was close. Now that he’s in town, it feels belated to warn him. I hope he’s not angry.
“I should have woken up earlier,” Jordan mutters to himself, bringing up Damian’s number on his phone.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Jace starts to say, but the phone only rings for a second before Damian picks up and Jordan spins on his heel.
“Hey. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”
“It’s okay. Jace texted me. You shouldn’t sleep in your jeans, you know.”
“How did…” Jordan turns to look at Jace, immediately suspicious. His cousin smoothly avoids eye contact, pretending to double-check his rearview mirror. “Right. I’ll kill him after the show.”
“After the next album,” Damian corrects, laughing. “You’re here?”
“We’re heading towards Steel Drum. We have to get things set up in half an hour and there’s an opener before us. It should be quick—we’re just making sure all the presets are right and the sound guy knows what to do.”
“Have you ever played there before?”
“No. It’s a new venue—bigger than the bar we usually play in. We added it in last-minute to the schedule because Jace thought it would make sense. Full circle.”
“Full circle,” Damian echoes. There’s something strange about the way he says it, as if he’s thinking about something else. Jordan leans back in his seat, wondering what Damian is doing. He tries to imagine him getting ready for the show—looking for a jacket or trying to fix his nest of hair in the bathroom.
“What are you doing?”
“Jordan, please,” Damian says, teasing. “Not in front of the children.”
“Sam’s in the back and Jace is driving,” Jordan says, grinning. Sam shouts something from the back; Jordan can barely hear it but he guesses it’s an expletive.
“Oh—sorry, my dad is calling me. I’ll talk to you in a minute, okay?”
“Oh. Okay.”
Damian hangs up quickly and Jordan looks down at his phone, bemused at the sudden end to their conversation. He takes the passenger seat, watching the streets narrow as they reach the downtown area. The bar is only a mile away and he can see its lights beginning to glow in the darkening afternoon. The smell of burgers drifts in and Jace sighs, leaning towards the window.
“Eating is going to be nice. Imagine it, Jordan. Food at a table. The cookout tomorr
ow.”
“And what about the family?”
“I just want a burger,” Jace jokes, grinning as he turns into a back alley. The bus fits perfectly and they roll up to the back of the place, coming to a stop just behind the parking lot. There are already dozens of cars parked, people moving in to order drinks and get situated before the show.
Jordan shrugs his jacket on, wondering whether the back door will be open or if they’ll have to get someone in the front to open it. He starts to head toward the back, thinking he should take his wallet while he’s at it, but then Sam speaks.
“Oh. What a pleasant surprise.”
He sounds mischievous, which is the only reason why Jordan stops. He hesitates, turning on his heel in the doorway of the back bedroom. Sam is leaning on the windowsill, waving. Jordan feels his heart beat painfully in his chest, threatening to jump out as it hammers into his throat. Is it? He feels silly for hoping but he moves to the front of the bus anyway, trying not to get his hopes up—and then he sees Damian through the windows, grinning and leaning against the back of the building.
Jordan isn’t sure whether he opens the door or someone else does; all he knows is that he’s barely able to keep himself from sprinting as he makes his way to Damian. All he sees is the familiar dark hair and bright eyes, the spark in Damian’s eyes and the moles he’s memorized. It hasn’t even been that long but he still itches to touch him, wanting to know that Damian is real. That he wasn’t just a memory or some fantasy from the road.
“Beautiful,” Damian says, already laughing, and Jordan wants nothing more than to taste his smile.
Jordan cuts Damian off, his hands reaching for the waist in front of him just as his mouth moves to Damian’s as if pulled by gravity. The moment they kiss, it feels like an unspeakable relief comes over him. The world clicks back into place; the empty spot in his chest is filled and he feels warm in a way he can’t describe, like he was freezing before he touched Damian. There are hands in Jordan’s hair, careful and wide, pressing against him softly.
A door opens suddenly next to them, the squeak of its hinges sharp in Jordan’s ears. He almost doesn’t care, too caught up in Damian, but then he sees the vaguely surprised and embarrassed expression on the man’s face. The way the man looks vaguely familiar.
Oh, my god, is that his father?
“Louis mentioned you’d be back here,” the man says, studiously looking over the tour bus. By the way Damian pulls back, his cheeks flushing brightly, Jordan guesses he was right. He can’t even begin to think of how to introduce himself, now.
“You must be Damian’s father,” Jace says brightly. Jordan turns to see the rest of the band behind him—Sam is near the back of the group, hiding his face in his hand while his shoulders shake. Jordan adds him to his list, right below Jace, for sending Damian pictures.
“Noah,” the man says, extending his hand. “You Jace?”
“Yes, sir. It’s good to meet you.”
Jace is sunny and Jordan wants to crawl back into the bus, pretending he wasn’t just pushing Noah’s son up against a wall. The rest of the band introduce themselves, the road crew slipping inside to talk to the staff, and Damian turns to Jordan.
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low, “Believe it or not, that’s not the worst way someone has met my dad.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” Jordan replies, raising his eyebrows. Damian bites back a laugh, glancing at his father, who is making his way back to them.
“Dad. This is—”
“Jordan,” Noah says. His eyes are scrutinizing, raking over Jordan in a sharp way. Jordan wonders if this is what people he arrests feel like. It’s no wonder he’s sheriff. They probably can’t stomach lying to him. At that moment, Jordan knows he’ll answer anything Noah asks him without question, no matter how painful it is.
“Yes, sir. It’s a pleasure,” Jordan says, untying his tongue enough to greet the man.
“Hm. My son tells me you play bass guitar?”
“He’s really good, too,” Damian says quickly, clearing his throat unnecessarily. Jordan shoots him a sideways look.
“I do, sir—play bass—although I’m no prodigy. We all contribute in the band, so I can’t take absolute credit for the songwriting or anything.”
“Well, I’ll look forward to hearing you play, then,” Noah says. He tilts his head—another mannerism Jordan can see in Damian—and then he nods, walking through the back door as if nothing ever happened. As soon as he leaves, Jordan exhales, sagging a little.
“Were you that worried?” Damian laughs, slinging an arm over his shoulders.
“Of course I was nervous, I was making out with you behind—”
“I told you not to worry,” Damian snorts. “Anyway, he won’t judge you based on this. Dad’s fair. He’ll probably judge you a lot more based on what you do when you come over.”
“Great,” Jordan says, but he can’t fight his smile. “I’ll be grey-haired before our next album.”
“That’s a fashion choice,” Damian laughs, tugging him towards the door. “Come on, rock star. Time to gear up.”
Damian fits perfectly back into the routine; it feels like the setup flies by, speakers and stands and cables appearing as if by magic. Jordan barely has any time to recognize what’s happening; he’s too busy talking to the manager, Louis, who is a pleasant man with an enthusiasm for their band.
They manage to finish setting up in record time and soon enough, Jordan is left standing at the edge of the stage, watching Damian talk to his father and wishing he had more time alone with him.
As if on cue, Damian turns away from his father and strolls over, hands in the pockets of a red hoodie that looks immensely soft. Jordan pauses before slipping his hands under the fabric, hoping he’s not crossing a line. Thankfully, he doesn’t think Damian’s father is watching.
“It’s good to have you back,” Jordan murmurs. He’s still taking everything in—the tiny freckle that’s darker than the rest at the corner of Damian’s nose. The mole on his upper eyelid, hidden like a secret until he closes his eyes just a little to kiss Jordan.
“It’s good to be back.” Damian smiles and tugs at Jordan’s shirt. “Come on. We have an hour and a half, and I told my dad I was going to take you to get dinner.”
Jordan does his best to be respectful to the sheriff as they leave, nodding nervously when the man catches his eye. In the parking lot, there’s an old blue truck parked by the exit. It looks old—from the eighties, maybe—but well-kept. Damian is spinning a set of keys in his hand as he walks toward it.
“Is this your father’s?” Jordan asks, curious. It shouldn’t surprise me. Damian’s bike is pretty nice, too.
“Yeah. We both kind of like old things,” Damian says, eyes twinkling.
“Rude.”
Damian laughs, waving him into the truck. Jordan is content to sit back and watch him as they leave—he’s not in a rush. Not anymore. He’s finally back with Damian and he finally knows what he wants. Feels secure about it. He’s not questioning Damian’s attention anymore, much less because of Jace. Part of him is embarrassed he was ever worried about it. Somehow, in Tower Heights, with the landscape of a town he knows like the back of his hand, it feels more right than ever to be sitting beside Damian.
“Where are we going?” Jordan asks, realizing he has no clue.
“My house—or, technically, my father’s. I figured you didn’t want to be caught by people you know while trying to shove food into your mouth. We can go out if you want—”
“No,” Jordan says quickly. “No, you’re right. I may never get to finish eating if we go to a restaurant.”
Damian nods a little, as if reassured and pleased, and Jordan tries to discreetly watch him for the rest of the trip. Damian has always been strangely beautiful to him and Jordan doesn’t exactly know why—it’s not that there’s anything particularly stunning or unearthly about him. It’s just that there’s always been something about
Damian that suggests he should be living in a cabin in the woods somewhere, sitting barefoot on a porch or building something from beams of oak. Jordan can imagine Damian driving cross-country on his motorcycle and stopping to lay in a particularly bright field of sunflowers or bluebonnets. There’s just something about him that seems drawn to the earth.
“If you had a choice, where would you want to live?” Jordan asks, the question coming naturally.
“I’m not sure,” Damian says, frowning a little. Something in his tone says he’s answered this question before. Jordan wonders what answers he’s given.
“You’ve been around. No place has really caught your attention?”
“Well,” Damian starts carefully, squinting the smallest bit as if he’s trying to see what he’s saying, “I always did love the mountains in Oregon. The lakes and trees. The boulders you pass driving through Arizona and the saguaro cacti that carry through to New Mexico. Roadrunners in desert Texas and trees in central Texas and beaches in South Texas.”
“So, what you’re saying is, you want to live in a biodome,” Jordan says, smirking.
“Yeah, smartass, I want to live in a biodome. I mean—don’t you like seeing the world that way? We travel a lot—being on the road, you get to see the way everything changes. I don’t know if I could pick one place over another. Maybe that’s why I keep moving. Maybe that’s why I liked touring so much.”
“That’s why? I’m hurt,” Jordan jokes. Damian shakes his head but he’s grinning.
The house they pull up to is not quite what Jordan expected. It’s similar but not identical to the ones around it—two stories, with a small porch and narrow body. There’s a small garden at the front, flowers lining the porch next to the driveway. It’s the kind of house that’s perfect for a single father and son. It’s also nothing like what Jordan is used to. It’s like a third of mine. Maybe not even that.