In the Absence of You

by Sunniva Dee

  “No,” I told him honestly. “He’s still there, in Zoe Land.”

  “Yeah.” Troy didn’t offer more.

  “But it’s been ten days. That’s not much. If you think someone’s the love of your life, wouldn’t you try a bit longer?” I said though I wasn’t ready for a discussion. Troy must have understood, because instead of meeting my stare, his floated out the window, finding bright skies and palm trees.

  “Well,” he murmured, hands still in his lap, like he was never nervous, never worried about someone’s feelings for him. “I know that I’d just hold on to the love of my life.”

  “Right, and Emil is mine.”

  “Okay.”

  “And… he still thinks Zoe is his. I need to make him understand.”

  Troy swung toward me. Beautiful and made of dark copper, he stared at me like he had so much to say. But then he didn’t.

  I thought of Emil, who’s willing to go under in the absence of Zoe with nothing but his songs, his voice, and groupies to keep him alive. Troy wouldn’t want that for his friend.

  “I don’t want you to hurt,” was all he said.

  “I’m not,” I assured him, and he nodded.

  “If you’re ever in pain, Aishe, remember that I’m here. No matter what happens, how ridiculous things become.”

  I swallowed a lump in my throat at his reassurance. “Me too, Troy—for you.” And for some reason, I added, “I hope you find a girl who’s everything you need. And I hope you don’t have to go through a bunch of BS before you get there.”

  AISHE

  Emil is drunk again. Troll calls me and asks if I can fetch him from the hotel bar, because he won’t listen to anyone right now. He was already buzzed when I left to make our room romantic, take a bath, and just… doll up for him.

  My heart is a stone when I enter the bar and find him in a corner booth, gesticulating over yet another glass of Jameson, an older hotel guest who’s equally drunk his rapt listener.

  Shandor is there. His mouth is so thin I see no lips as he glares at me.

  What? I mouth before I lay an arm around my plague. I understand why Shandor is worried. He hasn’t objected since his initial meltdown when I revealed Emil’s and my agreement, but he’s not happy. Just my luck that Troll stranded him to babysit Emil.

  “Hey, sweetie,” I murmur, finding his ear with my mouth and kissing it.

  “Ooh, here’s the good one. She’z not whom I told you about,” Emil informs the hotel guest, who looks up with eyes that can’t focus. He smiles pleasantly and bobs out a greeting.

  “Women,” the man says with a voice so alcohol-soaked he’s struggling with the simple syllables.

  “Yeah, man,” Emil sighs.

  “Yeah,” the old man adds. “Go git’er. She needs to listen up.”

  “Are you ready for bed?” I ask, kneading Emil’s neck. That stone has become heavier in my chest.

  Emil gets to his feet without incident, but his arm is leaden over my shoulder as we head for the elevators. I’m relieved that he’s not stumbling.

  “Sir,” I hear behind us. It’s the bartender with the check. “On the room?”

  “Please, yes,” I say. “Four thirty-three.” I scribble my initials where the bartender points. “Sorry about that.”

  Shandor’s in the elevator with us. His face is closed, and he’s shaking his head slowly.

  “Don’t do that,” I say to him.

  Emil’s busy trying to pull something out of his pocket. It’s quite the operation, with a hand digging inside the fabric, expression twisted in a drunken frown.

  “How about you stop with your bullshit?” Shandor retorts.

  Emil laughs softly. Starts humming his song, “Bullshit,” and chews on the gum he’s finally found.

  “I know what I’m doing,” I say.

  “You don’t. You have no fucking idea what you’re doing, Aishe.”

  “Shh, keep it down, will you?” Mostly, I’m upset because he’s right. “I’m trying, Shandor. I need to try this. I don’t know what I’ll do if it doesn’t work, okay?”

  “We’ll take off. Let’s take off now.”

  “Where’re you going?” Emil lifts his head and stares right at Shandor.

  Shandor sighs. Pulls the bandanna off and rubs his forehead. “Nowhere, Emil. Not yet anyway. Be good, okay?” he adds, slapping Emil’s shoulder as the doors open for him on the second floor. “Be good to my cousin.”

  “Always.” Drunk and undependable, my plague bobs his head for much longer than he would sober, but when it’s our turn to get off the elevator, he covers the sensor of the door so I can walk out first.

  As we enter our room, I think that tonight I will ask him. Tonight, even drunk hotel guests have become privy to the details of Zoe’s departure, so why wouldn’t he tell me?

  Emil throws himself on the bed, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy with the effects of the alcohol. He smirks a little, eyes blinking slowly as he watches me. “You comin’, baby?”

  I take his shoes off. Socks. Wring his jeans down his legs and start on his shirt. “I’ve showered already,” he objects before I ask. I know he has, but he could use some cold water.

  “You don’t want to feel more sober?”

  “Never,” he breathes, lids closing with the need for sleep.

  “I’d… like it if we could talk,” I say, sinking down next to him. Over the week and a half we’ve been together, I haven’t put him on the spot much, so this makes him force an eye open.

  “What about? You want to get married now?” His stomach ripples with lazy laughter. “Women. That guy at the bar was right. Great guy.”

  “Tell me the truth about what happened when you cheated on Zoe.”

  Emil’s stomach stills. Slowly, his eyelids lift, and I locate his gaze beneath them, watery, drunk, focused. “You want to hear about that?”

  “Yeah. It’s killing you, and I want to understand.”

  “Do we have anything to drink in here?” he asks, hiking up on his elbows.

  “I’ll get you a Coke.”

  He rolls his eyes but relents to the hiss from the can I open. “It’s out there, Aishe. I told the real story to another journalist—who wrote another article. There’re so many articles about my sex life now.” He lets out an airy laugh that has no humor in it.

  “I don’t search the Internet for you, Emil. I’d rather hear it straight from the source.”

  “I wish Zee had looked at it that way.” He scoots higher up in bed and tugs at my clothes. I’ve arranged a dozen votive candles on the table, the TV stand, and on the windowsill. They’d look romantic if I lit them. They’d be wasted on my love fire.

  I remove my clothes and slide under the covers. He pulls me close and kisses my temple like he cares for me too. On some level, he does.

  Emil puckers one, two sluggish pecks on my lips. I sigh, because even now, even this way, I am happy in his arms.

  “Tell me about it,” I whisper.

  He grabs the Coke off the nightstand. Quiet swallows fill the air before he returns to me. “Since you asked me instead of Googling it, I’ll tell you more than I told the last journalist. I’ll tell you how it started.”

  I’m relieved. Scared to death that I can’t stomach his truths. But once he thumps back on our pillows, I nod against his shoulder, because the world has seen worse disasters than mine.

  “My job is weird. Girls dig musicians. You’ve seen how they are, how they throw themselves at us whether we’re single or not. Everyone knows about Bo and Nadia, but chicks still do everything in their power to tempt him—Hell, I understand why Zoe was so jealous. Not every chick out there is as sure of her boyfriend as Nadia.”

  His eyes flick to me, sadness painted so deep in them I’m not even sure they’re blue anymore. “Zoe couldn’t live a life off-tour while I was out playing. In hindsight I get this. Just… Fuck. I wish I’d realized earlier.”

  I want him to continue, but I don’t have a retort that doesn’
t sound like I’m in pain. I manage a Mm-hmm.

  “The two of us did all we could to have her with me as much as possible while I toured, but life got in the way and she had to hold down her job.

  “She doesn’t have aspirations for much—Zoe’s my waitress girl, always will be.” His gaze softens at the thought. The alcohol has depleted my boy’s already flimsy filter; I’m not sure he sees the love with which he describes even her flaws, and I consider how long I can lie here, taking this.

  “She was with me from before we made it big, from when we were touring small clubs exclusively and never being recognized. We went viral with a video Troll took of us at a radio show, our first public rendition of ‘Fuck You,’ and after that we went on tour with Luminessence. It’s when things started going downhill with Zoe and me.

  “Our schedule was tough, but Zoe flew out all the time. All my per diems were spent on flights for my baby. That, and socks from Walmart.” He laughs quietly. “I don’t regret a single one of those pennies. Zoe was happy while she was with me. When she wasn’t, we fought. Afterwards we loved and loved and—ah.”

  “You fought when she wasn’t on the bus?” I make myself ask. My hand finds its way over his cheekbone and down his face, and I close my eyes, enjoying our connection even if it’s superficial.

  His nose expels air in a heavy, life-dreary gust. “Yeah, we did. She’d call me, and because I loved her, I’d pick up even if I was in meet-n-greets or in an after-party. She’d misunderstand the noise of gushing females, thinking I’d brought them to my room, that she’d caught me in the middle of an orgy or something.

  “Each time, I explained. Each time, I decided not to pick up her call the next time for her benefit. But I’d be dying to hear her voice, so I didn’t follow my own advice. She’s creative, my Zee. She saw it all so clearly in her head, and she was furious.”

  Alcohol depletes emotions and energy. My love allows thin eyelids to cover his gaze, and suddenly they strike me hard with their vulnerability. For the last month and a half, I’ve been in Clown Irruption’s midst, observing what the band conceals even to the crew on the bus behind them, and Emil isn’t the invincible burst of joy I thought.

  “So she was mad,” I whisper to Emil, worn down by the story I extract from him. “Mad when she wasn’t on tour with you.”

  “She was,” he admits, exhausted too. “If she was with me when she exploded, it’d be fine. I’d rush her, jostle her, play with her. She’d be angry, but she’d believe me so quickly, and the minutes it took to make her trust me again were crazy sexy and fucking fun.”

  “’Kay,” I say, steeling myself against his barrage of detail. Knowledge is power. It’s not enjoyable, but only once do I have to learn this. “You managed for a while though, right?”

  His chin thickens in a bob against his throat. “Buenos Aires was a turning point. She wasn’t there. I’d wanted her to come along, but she couldn’t because of work. We had layovers. Nadia came with. Zoe could have verified with her that we really had those unexpected layovers, but she didn’t.”

  I draw back to find his eyes. Sadness and humor glisten in them at once. “Zoe looked Buenos Aires up on the Internet and ran into all these super model pictures. Sure, Argentinian women are beautiful, but what did I care? I had my girl. When I got back to her a few hours after we landed, she lost it on the phone with me, and after that, she was more distrustful than ever.”

  I lean over him for his soda. It’s already warm and foams in my mouth. Absently, he strokes my hip as I return to my spot.

  “Zoe started flying out to our gigs without warning. She’d wait for me in my hotel room, anxious and fucking more beautiful than ever. Ah—shit.” The air he pulls in through his nose is loud, an attempt at suppressing his emotions.

  “I knew what she was doing. I didn’t care that she was checking up on me. It was like Christmas Eve every time she appeared, and I’d just pounce her, needing her like crazy.” He laughs a half-hearted, grieving laugh. “If it were up to me, I’d stay in those hotels for months. We’d have room service. Step out on the balcony while the maid did her thing, and then we’d return to bed. Ah crap.”

  “You pulled it off every time, never any surprises she didn’t like,” I mumble, pressing two fingers against my throat to stop myself from crying.

  “Until I didn’t anymore.”

  “Until you cheated?”

  “No. Until she found me in a backstage closet with a fan toting a VIP card—locked in by another fan.”

  “What?”

  “Fourteen-year-olds and pranks, goddammit. The two of them were nuts. The girl who locked us in thought she was doing the other girl a favor.”

  “Seriously? How did you get into the closet? Are you claiming that some little teenaged chicks pushed you in there?”

  A snort pushes itself out from the back of Emil’s nose. “Not at all. The one shoving me in there was double my size.” Despite the watery gleam in his eye, I can tell he finds it funny.

  “So… an enormous teenaged girl shoved you into a closet backstage and threw her friend in there with you?”

  “Yup. She was as tall as me and quite a bit wider. The friend was tiny though, plus she’d gone in on her own before me—it was planned. Zoe came looking for me just as I was banging on the door, pleading for someone to get me the hell out.”

  “Oh my God.” My mouth quirks, wanting to smile. “This is too much.” Emil, the rock star, kidnapped by a couple of obsessed teenyboppers? “But Zoe understood though, right?”

  “At first she did. Then the more she thought about it…” Emil lifts his shoulders. “Things got complicated after that. The last night before she left the tour, she even slept on Nadia and Bo’s couch at the hotel. A few weeks later, it had gotten so bad I asked her straight out on the phone, ‘Why are we together when you don’t even like me?’

  “‘Oh you’d be so stoked, wouldn’t you, if we broke up?’ she answered. ‘You could finally be with all the groupies and not even worry.’ And then she started to cry. She’s so fucking complicated, I… I don’t know how things went so wrong between us.” He pulls in a breath that shudders with emotion before he lets it out again.

  “I’m sorry, Emil.” My head feels heavy, so I rest it in my palm.

  “Yeah.” Emil lifts his hand and dries moisture from beneath his nose. “Then it all fell apart. After a few horrible phone fights, the band had a journalist coming out from BLAST! Between shows every night and trying to follow Troll’s orders and keep things on the down-low from journalists’ ears, I stopped calling Zoe and texted her instead. I wish I hadn’t done that.”

  “I’ve read BLAST! before. Who was the journalist?”

  “Georgiana Sampson. She’s got a high profile in the magazine and writes awesome articles. It was an honor to have her choose us. Her specialty is in-depth articles where she joins parts of tours with the acts she works on, and she happened to love our music. Unfortunately, she dug me too.”

  “And you didn’t dig her.”

  “No. But I was confused. It’s not an excuse, but at the time, all I got from Zoe was hostile text messages.”

  “I see.” I can’t fake convinced, and Emil finds my stare as I sink my head to the pillow.

  “That’s not it, Aishe—I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t jump Georgiana because she wanted me when Zoe didn’t. But she was around all the time. She slept in the bunk bed you have now, right there with us on the bus for five nights.

  “Georgiana is fucking intense. Asks two-edged questions nonstop, and we’d already seen her twist people’s answers into sensational almost-lies to sell her ink. Bo’s got some sort of built-in meter for that crap. He loves to tell you when you’ve said too much, and I can’t even count the number of times he stared at me while she was here, just looking like one big, flashing warning sign.”

  “That woman doesn’t sound very attractive,” I mumble. “She sounds horrible.”

  “Yeah, but sexy. Sort of has that
stern librarian thing going on. Bony thing from New York, she was. And she could hold her alcohol. Bo claims she faked her drinking because she’s aware the best stories come when rockers are drunk.”

  One side of his mouth rises in a smirk. “She’d be right too. Already on the first night, she started flirting with me. She’s good at it. I played along—not touching her or anything though. But we were on a hardcore streak with six shows in six days, which was why she chose to come out, and she and I got into this routine of having a few drinks together after shows. The last night she was with us, Bo and the others wanted Philly cheesesteak at some original place. I don’t like cheesesteak, and Georgiana stayed behind to ‘keep me company.’ Last thing Bo said was, ‘Careful what you say, Emil. Keep it together one more night.’ I didn’t.”

  “You slept with her?”

  “No. I got hammered with her is what I did. She’d bought tequila. I have no control when I’m on tequila, which is common knowledge. I was going to stick to Jameson, but then she whipped out the salt, the lemon, started pouring. I remember thinking, ‘Eh, she’s gone tomorrow. It’ll be fine.’

  “Not sure how many shots I had. She definitely had less than me, because I blacked out. I remember waking up in the back lounge with her head in my lap, my pants around my thighs, and her lips around my dick.

  “I should have stopped when I realized what was going on, but I just kept fucking her mouth on instinct. I went to bed afterward. And when she left the bus the morning after, it was to write an article that erased the only relationship I’ve ever cared about.”

  There’s a new sort of sorrow in my chest when I wake up this morning. It takes me a minute to remember. When I do, I instantly move on. After all, it’s in my favor that Emil isn’t with Zoe anymore. In his favor too, really, because their relationship didn’t sound healthy.

  I’m still sad that some calculating journalist bitch crushed Emil’s spirit. My sadness is for him, for myself who only gets a sliver of Emil, but what feels strange is that there’s definite sadness for Zoe too.

  I understand how people’s past influences their present. But why didn’t she at least let him explain himself? My thoughts go back to their pre-concert fight, how she was adamant about not repeating her parents’ mistakes. I respect that. I tried hard not to commit the mistakes of my people too.