by Luana Ferraz
Our part of the show ends, and, at some point, Pete leaves me alone at the side of the stage. I assume he’s going to talk to Lindsey—whom I haven’t seen since our little heart-to-heart—so I don’t follow him. I also can’t pay much attention to the concert. The fans spot me standing there, watching them, and keep taking pictures. I really want to retreat and vanish, but between my will to leave Pete and Lindsey alone and not let the fans know I’m bothered by their actions, I stay.
After a few songs, Neil appears and sends Paul and Jake back to the hotel earlier. I can’t really hear what he’s saying, I just know what it is.
“Are Pete and Lindsey going too?” I ask Neil before he follows the boys. I’ll jump at the opportunity of leaving early—even if it means getting in a car with Paul.
“Not yet,” he says, “although Pete and I are stepping out for a moment.”
“Where are you going?” I frown.
“Just…” he shrugs. And doesn’t answer. And then starts to walk away.
Now, I follow him. He enters my dressing room, where Pete and Lindsey are indeed talking. But they stop when they see me.
“Where are you going?” I ask again.
Pete glances at Neil and something in his eyes makes me start to panic.
“Pete,” I call him, making him look back at me.
“There’s something we need to take care of,” he says, slowly, which does not make me calmer.
“What is it?” I ask.
Pete sighs—that tired, frustrated sigh he’s been giving me so often lately—and runs a hand through his head.
“I can’t tell you what it is,” he says. I widen my eyes in rage and surprise. “I’ll meet you and Linds back at the hotel.”
They move to leave the room, but I bang the door shut and stand in front of it. I cross my arms and glare at Pete. Somehow, he’s not surprised by my reaction.
“Becky, please—”
“No!” I yell. It comes out louder than I intended. “Enough with all these secrets! I want to know exactly what’s wrong, and I want to know it right now!”
He just stares for a long moment. It makes me uneasy. I can’t read his face, I don’t know what’s going on, and I’m terrified.
“Becky,” he reaches for my arms, squeezing them, “I’m not going to tell you.”
“Why?” I yell again. My vision gets blurry with tears. “Why are you doing this?”
“Please,” he repeats, and his voice cracks. It’s all it takes to break me. “Please, just trust me, okay?”
“You’re scaring me,” I say.
“I know,” he answers, drying my cheeks with his sleeve. It’s useless, because I keep crying. And, now, he’s crying, too. “But you’ll have to trust me, okay? Please.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what else to do. I feel powerless and alone and scared.
I don’t answer, but let him push me to the side and open the door. But he just leaves when Neil walks to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, leading him outside.
“What the fuck is going on?” I turn to Lindsey.
She doesn’t answer, too. She walks to me and hugs me and I let her. I let her because if I’m left alone right now I think I might die.
***
“He’s not picking up,” Tyler says once again. He’s been trying to reach Neil ever since he walked into my dressing room and caught me sobbing on Lindsey’s arms. “Are you sure he didn’t say where they were going?”
“Would I be in such a state if they did?” I bark.
He glances at Lindsey, but she’s been tight-lipped all along, claiming they didn’t tell her, either. I don’t believe her. I don’t believe her for a second and now I resent her. I resent her, and Tyler—who’s been absolutely useless so far—and Tristan, who said he has no idea what might be going on.
“Hey, guys,” Seth knocks on the open door. He’s been left in charge since Neil is out on his secret mission. “Time to go. There are still some fans outside, though.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I say, getting desperate again. “Send them away. Ask security to send them away.”
They all look at me with pity in their eyes, which only makes me more enraged. Are they seriously not getting how fucking serious this is? Do they think this is an act? What will I have to do for someone to tell me the truth?
I give up and storm outside. Fuck them. Fuck the fans. Fuck Pete. I just want to get to the hotel, take a shower, and cry myself to sleep.
I’m the first out of the back door, and sure enough, the handful of fans still there call out my name. I ignore them, marching towards the van, which is too fucking far.
I enter it, throwing myself on the last seat, sulking and staring out the window. I hear the small group scream a bit when The Hacks step outside. I look towards them and see that as Todd and Tristan stop to take a few pictures, Tyler and Lindsey come straight to the van, as well. Lindsey steps in first and joins me in the backseat. Tyler kind of stands in the middle of the corridor, looking from Lindsey to me then back at her. Without a word, she moves places, sitting on the middle seat. Tyler then takes her place by my side, but I look away, out the window again.
A few seconds later, I jump, startled, when his hand touches mine. He doesn’t pull it away after my reaction, and I turn my palm up so we can interlace our fingers together. He runs his thumb in a circling, soothing motion near my wrist. I fell tears threaten me again.
I close my eyes, tight, and touch my forehead against his shoulder. He takes the hint and lets go of my hand so he can put his arms around me. I hug his waist and bury my face into his lean, long neck. He continues to lightly stroke my arm with one hand while the other massages the back of my neck. Now I know why Pete and Lindsey spent so long letting me do this to them. It feels heavenly.
When we arrive at the hotel, everyone heads silently to their own rooms. I ask Lindsey if I can wait for Pete with her and she lets me. I take a shower in their bathroom and join her in bed to watch true crime shows while we wait. After a few minutes, my phone buzzes.
‘Can I come over?’ he asks.
Ugh. I really wish he did. I really wish I could go back to my room and just get to replay last night all over again. I can’t, though. For the first time in the day, the idea of spending time with Tyler doesn’t make me less worried about Pete.
‘No,’ I answer. Then I think of giving him an explanation. ‘I’m with Lindsey. We’re going to wait for my traitor friend together.’
‘Ok,’ he answers. ‘Will you let me know if everything is ok?’
‘Sure,’ I answer, with a smile. Then I hesitate a little bit, not sure if I should say something more. I decide to end the conversation. ‘Goodnight, Ty.’
I stare at the blue tick of the message. His online status tells me he’s staring at it, too. It’s a long time before his status changes to ‘typing’.
‘Goodnight, Becky.’
I… I just… I can’t.
DAY ELEVEN
Pete cries for almost an hour straight. Lindsey and I just let him, sitting there by him on the bed, touching him reassuringly as he hugs a pillow so tight that I think it might explode. When he starts to calm down, Lindsey produces a pack of tissues, a bottle of water, and saltines—out of nowhere. Pete and I both blink hard at her. She’s such a caregiver. Much like him.
He takes the water and gulps down almost half of the bottle. Then he breaks a biscuit in half and munches on it, apparently not really willing to swallow it down. I really, really want him to talk. I have a million and one questions to ask, but I decide to follow Lindsey’s lead on this one and stay quiet. Until he feels comfortable enough to open up.
“It was horrible,” he says, closing his eyes and letting a new flow of silent tears roll down.
My heartbeat picks up. What the fuck happened?
“It’s over now,” Lindsey says softly, squeezing one of his knees, which are folded against his chest.
He nods slowly. When he opens hi
s eyes, he looks at her. There’s so much exchange in this simple gesture that it makes me sick. I want to scream at both of them, but I bite my tongue—literally. I need to be patient.
He slowly turns his head to me, making my hands start to shake. He manages to give me a weak smile, which I can’t reciprocate. Please, I beg silently. Please, tell me what happened.
“Something happened,” he says quietly.
“No shit, Sherlock,” I answer. I’m not good at this. “Sorry. I’m just really nervous.”
“I know, I’m sorry, it’s just…” he sighs, closing his eyes for a moment again. “I don’t know how to tell you.”
“Just tell me,” I say, holding his free hand with both of mine. “Go straight to the point, like ripping off a band-aid.”
He studies my face for long seconds. I squeeze his hand in what I hope is reassurance and not pressure.
“Neil took me to the police station,” he says calmly. I have to let go of his hand so I don’t break his bones. “I was assaulted this morning. That’s why my back is hurt. And I have a massive bruise on my stomach, from a punch.”
My mind floods with involuntary memories. Me sitting in front of a stone-faced woman. The smell of bleach, that made my stomach churn. The cold air on my bare skin. Shaking violently. Throwing up as strangers touched me. Running away through the bathroom window.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I can say anything. I just keep staring at his tired eyes.
“I saw…” he starts again, but pauses, looking for the words. “I saw someone leaving Tristan’s bedroom. And this person didn’t like that I saw them because they were kind of… hooking up in secret.”
“Who?” I ask. A part of my sick brain instantly thinks of Tyler. That’s why Pete didn’t want to tell me. That’s why he’s been acting so strange lately.
“Paul.”
It takes a moment for me to register that.
“Paul?” I scoff, my voice barely passing through the lump in my throat. “The guy that I could have had fired eons ago?”
“Don’t do that,” Pete rushes to say, changing position on the bed so he can face me.
“He could have been miles away from us right now!” I argue, fighting back my own tears. “This would never have happened if—”
“If he wasn’t such a vile person!” he interrupts me, reaching for my hands. “It’s not your fault,” he says, pausing in between words.
I take a deep breath, trying to think of the signs I should have noticed indicating something like this might happen. As if I’m any good at reading any signs.
“Did he hit you before today?” I ask, remembering I was away for three whole days.
“No,” he says firmly.
“Did you know about him and Tristan already?” I continue.
“No,” he shakes his head.
“What was Tristan even thinking?” I ask angrily. “Why would he be all over you if he’s dating someone else?”
I see Lindsey avert her eyes when I say that, but I don’t regret the question. I want to know.
“They’re not dating,” Pete argues.
“Right,” I snort. “What was he doing in his bedroom, then?”
“It’s not exclusive,” Pete continues defending him.
“That’s what he told you, right?” I ask. He doesn’t have to answer. It’s written all over his face. “I bet he knew this was going to happen. I bet he gets off on playing games like this.”
“You’re wrong,” Pete sighs, closing his eyes again.
“Stop excusing him!” I get up from the bed, too worked up to be close to him. “He should at least have warned you that he was involved with someone else!”
“It’s not his fault,” he continues, apparently surprised with my reaction, which makes me even more enraged.
“Don’t be stupid!” I yell again. “You told him about Lindsey, didn’t you? For fuck’s sake, she’s here! She’s here and he doesn’t give a shit! He’s manipulating you, using you, and you’re letting him!”
“It’s not like that,” Pete says, exasperated.
“Why are you defending him?”
“Because he’s a victim, too!”
That sucks all the air from out of my lungs. That’s the word they used in the report. I remember seeing it and the feeling of outrage it caused. I wanted to the police officer I was no victim! I wasn’t the weak, helpless person they were making me out to be. Even though I was sitting there with a swollen eye and a broken arm. It took me so long to reconcile with that word. To accept it. To embrace it. Victim. That’s what I am. That’s what Tristan is.
I stagger backwards until I reach the wall, and the next thing I know Pete is in front of me, holding me by the shoulders. Once again, I try to think, searching for the signs I missed. Searching for the things I should have noticed because they were familiar to me. Because they should have raised red flags for me. Because they should have made me see.
I feel sick. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t notice anything. He was here, right in front of me, in close proximity, needing help. And I. Did. Nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I say. It’s just when I look at Pete’s face that I notice I’m already crying. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Becky, no,” he hugs me, letting me cry on his shirt.
He flinches when I hug his waist. I let go and pull his shirt up, taking him by surprise. He pulls it back down fast, but not fast enough that I don’t see the dark bruise spread under his ribs on his left side. I cry harder.
“I should have known,” I mumble as I sob. “I should have done something.”
“No, sweetie,” he says, walking closer and hugging me again.
And then it occurs to me—this is why he didn’t tell me. Because he knew he couldn’t count on me. He knew I’d be weak and freak out and make it all about me. He knew I’m a terrible friend.
“Becky, no,” he says as I scream in his chest and slide to the floor. Just by his voice I know he’s crying, too.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he chants as he holds me so tight I can barely breathe. “It’s okay now, it’s over, it’s going to be okay.”
***
I wake up a bit panicked, breathless and hot, like there’s no air in the room. When I open my eyes, I see there really isn’t—Pete and Lindsey are kind of hugging each other over me, his arm over my face, her knee in between my legs. I’m lying in the middle of them. On their bed. In their room. I don’t remember getting here. I don’t remember falling asleep.
I try to move but find I’m trapped in from every direction. I won’t be able to get out without waking someone up. I decide to go for Lindsey.
“Hmm… what…” she mumbles.
“I need to get up,” I whisper.
She rolls over, lying on her back. And stays there. I don’t think I succeeded in waking her up.
I carefully remove Pete’s arm from over my head and feel my way out of bed over Lindsey. Once I’m up and standing, the claustrophobic feeling dissipates. That is, until I remember why I spent the night here.
My heart jumps in my chest and my head feels heavy, but I decide to not fight it. I let my mind run with everything—Pete and Lindsey, Pete and Tristan, Paul. Alex and all the memories I lost with him. Tyler and all the memories I already have with him. Alnwick, grandma, my parents, the piano, the stars… all the beginnings and all the endings. All the times life has crushed me under her thumb, and how many more times she will do it.
I brace myself for the pain, hugging my chest and closing my eyes tightly. I feel like standing in the middle of the road, waiting for the truck to wreck my bones. But, when I open my eyes, there’s no road. There’s no truck. I can breathe.
The pain is there, but it’s not nearly as overwhelming as it was last night. It’s faint. Just throbbing, like an old bruise that when you press, there’s only an echo of the ache deep i
nside the flesh. Like it’s almost healed.
I’m not sure what to make of it. I’m suspicious—maybe my mind is playing a trick on me. Maybe I’ll take one step and set off an avalanche. I do it, just to test it out. I take one step towards the bathroom. And then another. And another. I pause beside Pete on the bed, removing his sweaty hair from his face. I enter the bathroom, close the door, and turn on the lights, staring at my swollen eyes in the mirror. Yeah, it’s there, I can see it. I can feel it. Pulsating, constant but not unbearable.
I think that… maybe… I’m going to be okay.
I wash my face and take a wee, walking back to the room to check the time. My phone says it’s already morning. It also says Tyler texted me three times during the night.
‘News from Pete?’
‘Is everything okay?’
‘I’m outside your door.’
They all make me smile for different reasons. I tuck the phone in the waistband of my comfies and decide to step out. I take one last look at Pete and Lindsey, now turned away from each other on the bed. I hope their pain is tolerable when they wake up, too.
As soon as I’m out in the corridor, Tyler stands up. He was actually sitting in front of my door. He’s still in his night clothes, as well, but his hair is wet from a recent shower. My stomach churns.
“Hey,” he says softly as I walk over.
“Hey,” I say back. My voice is hoarse from all the screaming.
“I knocked, but you didn’t answer,” he says, pointing to my door.
“I wasn’t there,” I say dumbly.
“I know that now,” he smiles. We stare at each other awkwardly, not really knowing what to do. “Are you okay?”
I open my mouth to say I am, but can’t. Because I’m not. Not yet. And, for some reason, I don’t want to lie to him.
“Not really,” I confess.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asks without hesitation, his worried eyes glued to mine.
It makes my heart ache with a different emotion. A good one, for a change. I don’t know how to answer, because he’s already doing something, so I kiss him. I can tell it takes him by surprise, but he kisses me back. He holds my face with both hands while we do it. When we break it, he rests his forehead against mine, and I pull him closer by the waist.