by Peter Styles
“Evan, right?” Jace says immediately, smiling easily. Jordan can never figure out how the man always knows everyone’s names.
“Yeah—wow, I can’t believe this. It’s so great to be opening for you guys. I mean, we play a little around town, but this is…big, you know?”
“Sure,” Jace laughs easily, a frontman in his element. “We loved your stuff—I’m so glad we were able to get you all for the gig tonight. It’s really important to us to help local groups get a leg up, too. We’ve been there.”
Jace and Evan go inside, still chatting happily, and Jordan lingers by the door. He doesn’t smoke but he still somehow likes the smell of it, rich and thick in the air. One of the kids in Evan’s band is smoking in the corner, fingers drumming on his knees as he bobs his head to some music playing through his earbuds. Everyone Jordan has ever met has a different way of preparing for a show, from absolute silence to specific playlists and even meditation. His favorite way to meditate, he’s found, is an ever-changing playlist of favorite music and even scrolling through some of his favorite music videos. They loosen him up without completely taking him away from music.
The music outside shifts, anticipation building as the crowd realizes what’s coming next. There are already excited cheers. Jordan shifts on his feet, moving back into the building just the tiniest bit, and watches the teenagers start preparing to go on stage, lining up by the side curtains. Jace has probably given them all his card by now, a few pictures saved for him to upload later.
“Hey. Knock ‘em dead,” Jace cheers, clapping Evan on the shoulder, and Jordan can’t ignore the admiration in the kid’s eyes. Are we really like that for other people? For kids starting out, like we were, in high school and college? He feels nostalgic and hopeful and terrified all at once.
“Kill ‘em!” Sam hoots, bumping shoulders with what Jordan assumes is the drummer. Even the road crew are passing on their luck, cheery and energetic.
This is what I love, Jordan thinks, heart beating just a little faster as the atmosphere catches up to him. This feeling of being around people who love the same thing, all motivated by the cheers of the crowd and the love of playing music. He’s never really felt anything else like it in his life.
He notices a young woman, her fingers curled around the neck of a guitar, the determination and excitement in her face only broken by the hesitation in her posture. Her hair is a deep green, eyes wide and jaw set. He can tell she’s the face and voice the same way Jace is—she has the same set to her shoulders; the same responsibility in her demeanor. That was Jace, once.
“Hey,” Jordan says, watching her turn toward him with a faint air of surprise. He manages to muster up a smile and somehow, it’s easier than he thought. “You’ve got this. Leave some of them for us, huh?”
“No promises,” she responds, her smile sharp like a wolf’s, and he thinks, They’ll be just fine. Hell, he can’t wait to see where they go. They take the stage, the crowd excited in a way that only family can be for their hometown artists, and Jordan leans against the doorway, still faintly smiling.
It’s only a few minutes when Jordan catches Jace’s eye and raises an eyebrow. They’re good. Jace looks a little smug, which is probably because he’s the one that got them lined up to open in the first place. He’s always been fond of the hunt, trying to find other small-town outfits for their haphazard tours.
“Her voice isn’t all power,” Jace says, voice raised a little over the music, “but she’s never off-key. That’s a gift.”
“Who writes?”
“She does lyrics, mostly. Evan’s the melody, though all of them kind of contribute to the process. You know how it is. Messy. I like that about them—they kind of remind me of us.”
“Funny. That’s what I thought, too,” Jordan says, feeling a smile tug at his lips. Something about this show—this day, really, isn’t following his usual experiences. There was Damian, and then the green-haired girl with her bold gaze, and now he’s feeling somehow more in tune than he has for a few shows. Naps. Guess I should take more of them.
“Think your jean-jacket boy is out there?”
“Maybe,” Jordan rolls his eyes, trying to pretend he isn’t blushing. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Mm-hm. Hey, the request for today’s random play is Happy Hour.”
“You’re kidding,” Jordan says immediately, mixed horror and amusement pulling him out of thoughts of Damian’s dotted hands. “Why?”
“Dunno. You have some fans, you know,” Jace adds, smiling faintly. “And your voice isn’t bad, as much as you pretend it is. It’s actually good enough to front.”
“I will never front,” Jordan says immediately. Jace rolls his eyes. This is a long-standing argument between the two of them; Jace always jokes that once they’re famous, Jordan should do a solo album, and Jordan always insists that no one would listen to him alone.
“That’s what you say, but in your heart, you and the rest of us know you’re a drama queen. You’d love it. Hell, you love singing, even if you say you’ll never go it alone.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m good—”
“Okay, enough,” Jace waves a hand, wrinkling his nose as he reaches for his phone. “They want to hear it. We’re playing it. You want Ryan to get you a shot from the bar?”
“No.”
“Cool. Now, enjoy the show. I’m sure they’ll stick around to hear us, too.”
It is a good set. The energy level is constant and even; without properly seeing, Jordan’s sure it looks good on stage. He almost forgets to prepare until he sees Jace pulling his guitar out. The anticipation keys up another slot in his chest and Jordan maneuvers his bass guitar over his leather jacket—he hasn’t taken it off yet for a gig. The night air is cool by the door and he breathes it in one last time, preparing himself for the sweat and crush of the crowd.
Everything in-between is always a blur. The kids come off stage, cheers and congratulations swirling like cigarette smoke. So many words go in through one ear and out the other; Jordan barely keeps track before he’s taking the stage, the entire venue pitch-black and cheering in anticipation. They find their places easily, as if they’ve rehearsed a thousand times instead of one. The setlist printout is taped to the floor by their microphones, reminders they rarely need but always prepare. The tangle of cords onstage is set with silvery duct tape and the lights suddenly hit. It’s time.
Jace starts the show. His lightning-quick riff passes in a blur and then Jordan and Sam kick in, the notes of the song they’ve played a million times echoing in the air. For the first minute of the set, Jordan slips into the music, closing his eyes and letting his fingers do the work. There’s nothing like it, muscle memory and pulse beating in perfect time to something entirely unique and theirs.
By the time the first song is over, Jace is holding the last note triumphantly and the crowd almost drowns him out with screams and cheers. This is it, Jordan thinks, wanting to laugh and cry and scream alongside everyone else. This is why we do it.
He’s in the middle of harmonizing with Jace when he sees him, standing near the door, hair messy even from dozens of feet away. Jordan can’t tell whether Damian enjoys it or not, but he’s staring and he hasn’t left.
If he doesn’t like it, too bad, Jordan thinks, knowing it’s true. This song is more him than anything else he plays with the group. He thinks, in a moment of humor, that maybe he should use it as a screening process for potential partners. Listen here, then continue if you dare…
He forgets about impressing anyone almost immediately after that. He has two minutes to play, two minutes to sing, two minutes to lose himself. They’re only halfway through the set but this is his moment to let go and connect. He does just that, singing with abandon, ignoring the fact that it’s too hot to be wearing a jacket and his feet are sore from standing and his shoulder aches from sleeping wrong on the sofa. All the tiny discomforts don’t matter.
The rest of the concert passes in a blur of songs and J
ace talking to the crowd, his smooth voice eaten up with answering cheers and screams. They ask for a round of applause for the opening set—The Keys, Jace announces to the audience, our future tour mates—and then it’s time for the last song. The applause and energy lingers in the air like static far past the last note, the pre-recorded music returning as the lights come up and people start to mingle around merchandise tables and the bar.
“You see him?” Jace asks as they’re packing up the instruments, the bus pulled up alongside the back of the building. The road crew does most of the work, since Jace mingles and passes their information around, but they always take a minute before entering the throng.
“What? Oh. Yes.” Jordan tries to play it off as if he’s unconcerned. In reality, he’s wondering where Damian is and if he’ll be back. If he liked it.
“Sure. Hey, if you disappear, I’ll wait until noon to see if you’re still alive. After that, I’m knocking down doors.”
“Jace,” Jordan hisses, half embarrassed and half amused.
“Just sayin’. Don’t get murdered before noon tomorrow; I’m not looking before then.”
He goes back to the bar because it’s the only place he can think of to look. Or rather, wait. He’d managed to brush his teeth and wipe the sweat from his face off before leaving the band, waving with a vague excuse. He hadn’t missed the way Jace and Sam had eyed each other. God, I hope they don’t tell those kids anything. The last thing he needs is an up-and-coming group of teenagers in a band to get the dirt on his random crush.
The bar is more packed. The lights inside are dimmed now, the night crowd firmly taking over. It’s just below rowdy, cheers and large groups of people jostling around the place. Jordan is about to give up hope on finding an empty place when he feels someone catch his sleeve, a bare tug redirecting him.
“What—”
“Dude, you’re not gonna find a table,” Damian laughs, leading him to the bar where there are two empty chairs waiting. There’s already a glass at one of them, the bright amber liquid a few shades lighter than Damian’s eyes.
“Hey. Wow—have you been here a while?” He almost immediately regrets it. You may as well have asked, ‘been waiting for me long’? Thankfully, Damian just laughs and hops back onto his barstool.
“Nah. I skipped the crowd at the concert—hated to run, but I know how bad those places can get after a good show.”
He said it was good, Jordan thinks, heart jumping in his chest.
“You liked it?”
“Hell yeah I did,” Damian laughs. “Those kids—I mean, they’re great. And you—I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I almost missed out on that! It was—I mean, it’s been years since I’ve been able to do a live concert, believe it or not, but you were great. Made me remember what I miss about it.”
The compliments go right to Jordan’s heart. He feels like he’s lifting off the ground, suddenly weightless and dreamy. He liked it. He actually liked it. Somehow, chance worked in his favor, and everything aligned. Thank God.
Damian is watching him with bright eyes, curious and amused. Expectant, as if this is an interaction he’s played out a million and one times and he knows each move before it’s made. Jordan feels a little bit defiant at that. He doesn’t like the idea of being one of many, fitting some sort of preconceived mold. Maybe it’s conceited of him to want to be more, especially to Damian, but he resolves to try. Something tells him that if he doesn’t stand out, it’s not worth it. I don’t want to look back on this as the one night I had something good. I want it to be the beginning of something.
“Do you have family, wherever you’re going or wherever you’re from?” Jordan’s question catches Damian off guard. He can see the shift in Damian’s eyes as he keeps up with the question, contemplating.
“I have family in state. My father. It’s been ages since I’ve seen him, though. We do call every so often.”
“Really? What does he do?”
“He’s a sheriff,” Damian says, some inside joke lingering on his lips. “Small-town. I’m an only child, so I expected him to move on once I left for college, but he just kind of stayed put. Too stubborn, maybe. Or maybe he just felt like it was the place for him. What about you?”
“I’ve got kind of a big family. Older sister, younger sister, cousins and uncle and aunts. My parents have this huge house in the middle of the forest where we used to have picnics and get-togethers and stuff. It’s good to go back every once in a while, when I have time.”
“You smile more when you talk about them,” Damian grins, and Jordan ducks his head reflexively, feeling a blush build. “It’s good! Nice. When did you leave to become the next big thing?”
“Just out of college, for me. Jace and Sam only two years; they got their degrees on the road, in between gigs. We’d all been playing since high school and it just…kind of felt right. Like it was a good time to do it, and if we didn’t, we’d miss out on something big.”
“And what happened? What was the big thing?”
What was it? He wishes he could point to one thing—a record deal or a run-in with someone famous or something equally movie-like in its gravity. None of those things are true, though. In five years, they had put out a CD and quietly started making the rounds in tiny towns. It had been hard work, really, with Jordan spending half his time on the phone with a list of venues, calling and asking about openings and upcoming events. It was hard work. But worth it.
“I’m not sure it’s happened,” Jordan says slowly, “but some things have. Jace had some lyrics picked up by a small recording artist and made enough money to keep us on the road for a while. Sam realized he was kind of a privileged asshole before and changed, so that’s great,” Jordan laughs.
Damian snorts, shaking his head. Jordan clearly remembers those days. He’d never felt like there was any threat to the band staying together, but Sam liked to test that belief daily. Hourly, almost.
“And what about you?” Damian asks, resting his chin on an open palm. “What happened to you?”
Nothing. He’s a little reluctant to admit it—like he’s saying I’m never going to change—but it’s true. His growth has mostly been sideways, branching out from what he already knew. No revelations or big, life-changing decisions. No sudden epiphany about what he’s meant to be doing. Sometimes, he still isn’t sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing.
“I learned a lot about scheduling,” Jordan says, laughing, as if that’s the answer. He’s not sure how to word the truth. Damian seems to notice, even if he smiles, because his coffee-brown eyes are sharp and knowing. Like he’s spent half his life getting to know Jordan and doesn’t have to be told when things are left unspoken.
Call me crazy, Jordan thinks, but it’s almost like we’ve known each other before. It’s a dumb romantic thought and he vows never to speak it. He keeps it close to his chest, thinking maybe this is the universe finally giving him his big thing. If I can keep him, Jordan thinks, maybe this is it. The only question is how to do it.
They end up staying at the bar for another hour before Damian notices Jordan blinking heavily and suggests they leave. Jordan curses his traitorous body but follows anyway, knowing he needs sleep more than anything. He’s been on the road for months already and he’s running low. He needs a break.
“I’m so glad we’re staying tomorrow,” Jordan admits, glancing around the dark parking lot as they walk towards a nearby motel. “I need a day, even if it’s just that.”
“I’m sure you do,” Damian grins. Something about his smile is off, though. It’s almost as if each step is taking him closer to something he doesn’t want to face.
Jordan can guess what it is. Neither of them have been discreet about their interest; they’re old enough not to care about playing games. Thank God for that. It’s pretty clear what they want, but Jordan is yawning and Damian is hesitant and it would probably be the biggest mistake of their lives to force it. It would turn their encounter into just another fling
, bittersweet and occasionally remembered.
“Brunch tomorrow?” Jordan asks casually, as if they’re both not travelers but locals that just happened to meet. “I’m not going to be alive before eleven o’clock.”
“Sure,” Damian says, whatever weight was on his shoulders lifting away. “Sounds good. Guessing that’s your tour bus in the back?”
Of course it is. And of course Jordan can see the curtains on the window rustle jerkily, as if someone watching has shoved them back into place. I’m going to have a talk with them about spying. Not that it’ll work.
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“It’s nice,” Damian says, biting his lip, and Jordan realizes he saw, too. Kill me now. “Well, I’m in 202. Stop by whenever you’re alive, okay?”
“I will.”
Damian walks away and Jordan turns towards the bus, glaring daggers. He swears he hears laughter issuing from inside as he makes his way back.
5
Damian
Running into Jordan is probably the highest thing on his top ten list of things he hadn’t expected. Just below it is running into his father, and then probably discovering bigfoot or something. The important thing about the encounter seems to be that Jordan doesn’t remember him, which Damian guesses could go either way. All it really does is put a burden on his shoulders; does he say something, or not? Hey, Jordan, do you remember when we used to play together as kids? I used to run into the woods a lot and one day, I ran into you.
Oh, and I had a huge crush on you, too.
Maybe not.
He remembers, in painfully vivid detail, the days he spent with Jordan. Of course, everything around it is kind of blurry, but Damian’s memory has always been concentrated around his childhood. Mostly because his mother was sick but also because that’s when it felt like everything happened to him. Meeting Jordan was certainly a thing.
The first time they met, Damian had been feeling nervous. He’d left his mother sleeping at home, medication weighing her down, and taken off into the woods. He had thought it would be an adventure, going to look for some magic flower that would cure everything or a good witch who could tell him what to do. At seven years old, he somehow hadn’t lost that hope, which was probably because of his mother.