by Sunniva Dee
“He really does,” Troy tells me.
“Shut up, dude, you’re not much better yourself.”
“At least I got tips. Tell them how much you got on your best night.”
“Wait, you guys worked together as waiters?” I ask.
“That’s how we met. Turned out Troy was one hell of a drummer. I found out when our bud from Sweden chickened out to stay with his girlfriend back home.”
“All right.” Troll’s pitch is even gruffer than usual, and I realize his job was at stake too. The man has a wife and kids at home, and if Bo left the band, he’d be unemployed too. Something tells me a temporary waiter job wouldn’t cut it for him. “Get ready, guys. We’re closing out of the hotel—tonight. I’m letting Jack know he’s driving ASAP. Pack up. Be at the bus in thirty minutes sharp.”
Halting, Troll turns to Nadia. “Ma’am, does that work for you?” Oh he recognizes his new boss. Hearing him call her ma’am is adorable. “The back lounge is in even better shape than before the… accident.”
She nods weakly. “I might take a nap.”
“We’re waiting until she’s had a nap,” Bo declares, but then her hand goes to his cheek, and she says, “I’ll be resting in our bus suite, okay? You can make me tea there, maybe?”
Bo leans his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. “Oh God. Yes, yes, I’ll brew you tea. I’ve missed you.”
“It’ll be overdrive on Jack, pretty much thirty-six hours straight to our next gig, but we’ll make it.” Troll says, allowing a grin to open his face.
“Showtime!” Emil pumps his fist in the air, making me suppress a laugh.
“Showtime!” Elias repeats.
And so it is. Thirty-five hours later, we’re in Clapury.
EMIL
“You remember how we met?” I say to Nadia. It’s after our second Canadian show, I’m hammered, and I’m trying to stay away from the girl who hunts me down and gives me love each night I surrender to temptation.
Nadia hasn’t been out to watch our concerts this week. For Bo’s sake, she’s acted like she would, but she sneaks off early, and she’s always on the bus before everyone else.
“I remember how you met,” she says, red-rimmed gaze floating to me from the back-lounge couch. “That first after-party, when Zoe dragged me along with her. I can’t say I remember the details though. I left pretty early.”
“Mmm. It was love at first sight,” I say, smiling. “T’was always so easy with Zoe. She’s so crazy, man. I don’t know—I always, always liked her.”
“You’re slurring. It doesn’t make things better to drink that much.”
“Ja. Nothing makes shit better,” I say. “Anyways. Bo sent me to tell you he’ll be right back. Something about a meet-n-greet.”
“That you’re not a part of?”
“I’ve been ’scused.” I tip my shoulders high under my ears before dropping them. They’re weights now, pulling me down. “Troll says I’d do more harm than good. Says he doesn’t want a ride-along back to the U.S.”
“As in a groupie? You ran into someone already?”
“Naw, but you know how t’is. I would’ve ’ventually, at the meet-n-greet.”
She sighs like I’m a problem. I have a problem, is the thing. Zoe. Or I don’t have that problem anymore, which is the problem. Zoe’s the best, bitchiest, funniest little problem to have.
“I want my problem back.”
“What?” Nadia wasn’t inside my head, I realize, so when I burst out laughing, she’s got no clue.
“Zoe, I mean. Remember how she used to bitch at the shows? How jealous she was? I never did anything, but she’d be pissed if she weren’t there. What about when I called her from Buenos Aires? She was so mad at me she pretty much wanted my wiener to fall off.”
I haven’t seen Nadia laugh since she lost her baby. She does now, which I need to not forget so I can tell Bo.
“Yeah, Zoe was a bit insecure about you.”
“Just because I’m an awesomesauce rock star! Woot.” I cheer, imitating the crowd, and Nadia shakes her head, making the zip-it gesture with two fingers.
“There’s no one like Zoe,” I tell her then. “I made a mistake. That’s all. I never meant for that to happen.”
“I understand, Emil. I understand both of your sides, okay, but Zoe is my best friend. She went through hell trying to stomach what happened with you, and she couldn’t. You have to respect that.”
“No! No, I don’t respect it. If she loved me, she’d try harder.” There’s something stuck in my throat that makes my voice sound like a frog’s. “I’d do fucking anything for her, Nadia. Did she just stop loving me?”
There’s movement in the bunk area. I turn, and with my eyes swimming I locate Aishe. She fumbles with something in her suitcase and doesn’t look at us.
“Shhh, let’s not do this, sweetie. People are about to get on the bus. You don’t want to—”
“Please, don’t cut me off!”
Will I ever feel better than this? I’m deep, deep inside the anguish over what happened. Zoe came to me so easily. Isn’t it ironic how easily she left?
“Emil, I’d never cut you off. I just think that you’d be better off sleeping than delving into the past again.”
“Is that how you feel about your baby?”
Aishe sucks air in so deep I hear her from the bunk area. Nadia though, she stops breathing. Her eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them, but I—
Fuck. I don’t even know what I’m doing.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know where that came from. I’m… I am so sad about your baby. I’m an asshole. I—”
“Stop. Just stop. Honey”—dark eyes lift to me—“don’t ever compare a measly breakup to losing a baby again.”
I bow my head. Shake it. Because I still own the decency to feel shame. “I’m sorry,” I plead again.
“It’s okay.” Despite what I blurted out, Nadia reaches for me and pats my shoulder. I puff out my relief.
Aishe’s heels tap her away from us. It’s what I need, for my consolation prize to leave, the intruder into the crazies of lost loves. Nadia is the only one who can understand.
“No one ever tells me about Zoe, you know? How she is. Bo doesn’t. You don’t. I mean, it’s like there’s a pact of not revealing her life to me. Why? The only way I find out is if some fucking asshole tags a photo of her on Facebook. Shit, Nadia. I’m going crazy.”
She opens her arms and pulls me in. Small like my Zoe, she rocks me against her, shushing me quietly.
I wish every day wasn’t the same, just equally hard to get through.
“We kissed all the way to the gas station. We were only going to pick up green tea ice cream. It was Bo who needed it, because he’d promised you that we had it at home.”
“I know,” she whispers, hand stroking my head.
“But we forgot the time. With Zoe, time doesn’t matter that much, see? We just did shit together. She tricked me into climbing a palm tree to get her what looked like a coconut. It wasn’t. The damn thing was a wasp’s nest, which I didn’t realize until I’d thrown it down to her. Thank God the bastards were sleepy. She got away without a single sting.”
“She told me,” Nadia says, a smile in her voice.
I flop on the couch next to her. “I remembered which gas station sold the green tea ice cream, but my Zoe, she knew of this one place that had the craziest she-male magazines.”
“She… what?”
I feel my stomach rise in a small laugh. I like the sensation. Especially since I didn’t even crack up onstage tonight. “Dudes turned into chicks. So there’s, like, total boobs and pretty underwear, but fricking dicks too. Zoe wanted to show me, and since the place was a gas station as well, we figured it’d be the same. She-male porn and green tea ice cream, total hole-in-one.” My tongue is heavy in my mouth.
“You’re hard to understand now, sweetie. I can hardly decipher you.”
“Just az well?” I suggest, which makes
her chuckle again. Two points for me. Bo will be happy.
“So turns out the Indian owner didn’t appreciate us ogling porn mags without buying anything. They didn’t have green tea ice cream, why we had to buy vodka instead. My Zee, she’s a trickster. Said Amsterdam Vodka’s the best and doesn’t even hit you that hard. If only we hadn’t mixed it with… something? Pomegranate juice.”
“Emil, juice isn’t why you were drunk off your asses when you returned.”
“Wuz the vodka, huh?” I ask and look up to find her bobbing her head. She’s sweet. Bo’s lucky she likes him. I wish my Zoe liked me.
AISHE
“You’re so nice,” I say. “I didn’t expect you to wait around.”
Troy shrugs from his seat at the hairdresser’s. “I needed product anyway,” he says, puckering his pretty lips and using the hairdresser word for shampoo and conditioner and the like. He’s told me of his two sisters who are hairdressers, why his dreadlocks always look amazing. Their salons must also be where he picked up the term.
“Do they have what you need here?” I ask.
He shakes his head, entertained. “Nope. No dread wax and non-residue shampoo here.”
“We can order some in,” my hairdresser says, all big blue eyes and platinum bob pointing up in an ultramodern sculpture-style coiffure I’d never even dream up.
“No, that’s okay. We’re leaving tomorrow morning anyway,” Troy says. “We’ll be in L.A. at the end of the month, which is where my sister lives. I’ll pick some up from her.”
“I can color it for you though. Wouldn’t it just be so cool if you had the same deep red color in a few dreads as your girlfriend’s stripes?”
Troy rocks back in his chair, a quiet laughter making a sexy hum escape him. I can see why the fans are glued to him when they discover him beyond my blond burst of delicious onstage. Behind the others, there’s always Troy, banging away on those drums, chest, stomach, and arms flexing and shining with effort.
“Nah, I’m good, sugar. I’ll be heading over to Trader Joe’s for some wine. You need anything?” he asks, looking at me. I smile at my tour friend, the only one who isn’t either in his own world or wanting to tell me what to do with my life.
“Salty licorice?” I suggest.
His eyes narrow. “Oh man, that’s so nasty. The guys bring that shit from Sweden whenever they’re home. I should never have taken them up on the offer to try a piece.” He shudders dramatically, which just makes him adorable. Big, tall, dreadlocked man shuddering. So funny.
“You’re silly,” I say.
He rolls his eyes lazily. “I’ll look for it, all right? Here’s to hoping they have it.” Troy makes quote marks in the air around “hoping,” and I can’t help smiling.
Trader Joe’s didn’t have salty licorice, but strolling back to the bus, I’ve got long, shiny, straightened hair with deep red sections mixed in. I wanted them bright and eye catching. I’m fully aware that I’m primping for Emil.
Since we’ve been back on the bus, Emil has avoided me. Not that we don’t talk, but he doesn’t joke with me, address me without purpose, or sit close if he has a choice.
He doesn’t sneak into my bed anymore, and I haven’t mustered the courage to use Troy’s bunk as a stepping-stone in hopes that he welcomes me when I appear unbidden.
With each passing day, I need Emil more. Some might think it sad, but for me, it’s a fact I push out of my head when the realization grows too stark. Even so, a big portion of my hours is spent pondering how I can melt him. He needs me. If only he would realize how good I could be for him.
I walk next to Troy. I’m wearing a pair of small, female-type combat boots, and I found a great skirt at a store called Kacee’s. It’s long and flowing with layers to it, as familiar to my body as the sensation of the plague. In a deep red, silky consistency, it’s wide and setting in around my ankles in soft, swooshing sounds with each step. The color is similar to my new hair.
I see myself in passing shop windows. I do look striking and exotic, the opposite of Emil and sort of complementing Troy. Opposites attract. It’s what I’m banking on, to cost Emil a gasp or two when I get back on the bus.
We stride along, two steps of mine for each of Troy’s. We chat about our families, something I usually avoid but that’s easy with him. Troy comes from a big family. Seven sisters and two brothers, with him being the eldest and the only musician. I’m not joking when I tell him that’s hard to believe; how could his kind of talent run in just one child?
I bought a bunch of bangles too, went all out shopping today while Troy stranded himself at the Guitar Hub. In gold and silver and a shiny purple, they jingle up my arm, and I suddenly recall getting my first batch at five. I was so proud. I looked like my grandma when she was young in that stern, pretty picture we had glued to the dashboard of our car.
I stop abruptly, staring into a bijouterie exhibit.
“What?” Troy says, backtracking for me. He stares too, trying to locate what might have caught my attention. “Oh, the feather earrings?” he asks, of everything in there.
“How did you know?” I ask, impressed as I wave him with me inside.
They’re heavy, golden hoops with small feathers in the same deep color as my hair. They’re tacky and beautiful and back to my roots and yet not. My heart hammers for them. There’s a matching necklace too? Oh shopping lust rushes through me, making my smile wide.
“Uh-oh,” Troy says at the look on my face. He crosses thick arms and stands back, leaving me to my lust. By the time we walk out, I’ve spent less than thirty dollars on those awesome earrings, the necklace, and a few feathered hair ties from the same collection. The cashier helped me attach them randomly across my hair, and here I am, admiring myself in the bus window and really freaking liking what I see.
“Watch out, World,” Troy purrs behind me.
EMIL
I’ve killed time at Walmart. I’ve rummaged through the local game store. I’ve spent time with Elias picking through a fucking second-hand record store, and I don’t even own a record player.
All I’ve managed is to confirm that I can’t wind down. That everything sucks if I’m not onstage or belting out songs in some bathroom or in the back lounge of the bus.
Our booking agent just screwed us over. There’s a hole in the schedule with a canceled radio appearance and shows too far apart on each side. It’s left Troll bitching, which is fine with me. What isn’t fine is a day and a half doing nothing while the driver sleeps in a hotel and we’re stranded on the bus.
Yeah, so I’ve got time on my hands to feel like shit about Zoe. All these months, and I’m still drowning in our breakup. I need to not go online and check out her Facebook page, but if I feel like it, like now, I’m not going to fucking stop myself.
She still has pictures on there from when we were together. One’s of the two of us, where I’m pulling her boot off, and she’s yelling at me, half-laughing, finger-pointing and telling me what not to do.
Zoe always told me what not to do. Sometimes I listened. That picture is the one with the most comments. Three hundred and ninety-eight. It’s mostly OMGs and You know the singer of Clown Irruption??? and then my mother’s tactless one, added way after we broke up, saying, “Hug Emil for me.”
My sexy girl. That small, pointy nose of hers and the blonde hair that’s not much longer than mine. She liked her tiny ponytails. I did too, because it was a blast to pull them out. She’d bitch about that too.
Thinking about these things makes me smile.
Elias is at the register, paying. While I wait for him, I dial Zoe’s number. My calls go straight to voicemail, which means she’s blocked me, but if I star-sixty-seven her, I’m good. She’s stopped picking up anonymous calls too though.
Zoe’s voicemail is the same as when we were together. She sings her greeting out in some parrot imitation, ending her instructions with an “I love youuuuuu!” She sounds hopped up on helium, and I can’t for the life of me remember wh
y her voicemail used to annoy me.
My anything-but-sweet girl, so different from everyone else. Nothing I did impressed her. Everything I did turned her on.
No. I remember one thing that impressed her. She liked it when I switched up my singing voice. Zoe has the craziest taste in music. Obviously, she’s a fan of Clown Irruption—she discovered us even before we were popular—but mostly her playlists are eclectic and old-fashioned.
“You don’t even care what people are like,” I told her. “They could be bald old men as long as they sang like lounge lizards. You’d blow their dicks if they did a smoochy ballad for you.”
“Bullshit! Ah, omigod, Emil.” She rolled her eyes at me. “Gimme someone hot singing like that, and you’d get a run for your money.”
“Why would I give you that? I’ll just do it myself,” I joked, humming low for her and instigating one of her love attacks.
My girl was funny. So fucking cool and funny. There’s a knife twisting in my stomach at not being with her anymore.
I call her again. I don’t know if she retrieves my voicemails. Either way, I’m leaving her one for the books. Lowering my voice, I level down to sexy and breathy like Jeffrey Osborne and sing “On the Wings of Love” until the beep cuts me off.
“What’re you doing?” Elias asks, purposely freaking me out from behind.
“Nothing you need to worry your hyper-white wig with,” I say and earn a punch in the back.
“You weird-ass prick. Ready for the bus?”
“Never,” I say and get up.
EMIL
I’m in a foul mood. We’re traveling tonight, finally, but Bo and Nadia are whispering in their back lounge suite. For once he’s not consoling her.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Nadia says, keeping it quiet because I’m right outside. I hate to be kept in the dark. There are things I don’t want to be bothered with, sure, but the choice should be mine.
“You know how she is, darling. It’s not like you can stop her. She’ll be here whether you want it or not, and honestly, it’ll be good. She’ll be of comfort to you.”