The Falling Between Us

by Ash Parsons

  “It’s fine. I don’t like the clothes.”

  Chris laughs.

  Joshua pushes himself back, jerking the headphones off his head. Even through the comforting tinge of Dr. Meadow’s Mood Meds, I see it register—

  Get OUT.

  Joshua’s eyes meet mine through the window. I wave urgently, pulling my hand toward myself like I could catch his wrist and pull him through the air. Could pull him up and deliver him safely to the other side of this.

  “Joshua?” Mira’s words keep him spun out, the shock flattening him to the chair. “I’m so sorry,” she says again.

  Joshua doesn’t reply. A muscle in his jaw jumps as his teeth clench.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” Mira asks.

  “Get this damn door open now!” Artie’s voice is rage-sharp.

  The radio staff stand to the side, eyes saucer-wide at the drama playing out. Santiago tries the handle of the door.

  Chris’s voice falls like velvet oil from the speakers. “What do you think, Joshua?”

  Joshua is silent. He closes his eyes.

  Chris smirks and draws close to his own mic, grandstanding intimacy. “Well, honey,” he says to Mira on the line, “it’s been what? A year, give or take? Maybe give it some more time.”

  “Joshua.” Mira’s voice, insistent. “I need you to forgive me. Please.”

  “What’d you do, exactly?” Chris asks. “Beyond slipping him a roofie, taking some selfies, and stabbing him when he tried to get help?” He laughs. Then, suddenly serious, “Are there more pictures, Mira? Ones we didn’t see?”

  Joshua’s eyes snap open. “Mira,” he says, leaning forward.

  “Yes?”

  Santiago braces his shoulder against the door—then he batters it—an immense slam audible over the speakers.

  “Listeners, someone is trying to interrupt our conversation,” Chris says.

  “Shut up, Chris,” Mira says. “No one wants to hear you.” Her voice has lost some of its childlike lilt—an edge buried underneath like a razor under the skin of an apple.

  Santiago smashes into the door again. It groans but doesn’t give.

  “Yes, Joshua?” Mira prompts.

  Joshua looks at me. His eyes dark with understanding. Even if he walks out right now, it’s not going away. The Miras of the world will keep surfacing. Chris and those like him will dredge swamps for the bloated corpse.

  Santiago leans back and kicks the door. It flies open with a bang.

  Artie rushes into the room. She grabs the mic from the DJ, pushing him back.

  “Mira!” she snaps. “This is Artemis Malfa. You’re breaking the conditions of your plea bargain. Put an attendant on the phone. Now!”

  “No.”

  Chris just sits back, wearing a grin that flies would swarm over.

  Artie scans the deck of buttons and lights on the table before her.

  “Listeners,” she says, “this program is in violation of a court-mandated restraining order and should be considered not only illegal but potentially damaging to the parties involved. It’s also in the poorest taste. I urge you to listen to another station.”

  She punches a series of buttons until the speaker cuts out and the ON THE AIR sign dims.

  “Hey! We’re live!” Chris says.

  “Not anymore.” Artie stabs a finger at him. “You’re a piece of—”

  “You knew the game when you walked in the studio today.”

  “You’ll rot,” Artie hisses.

  Chris laughs. “Easy, honey.”

  Artie touches Joshua’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Joshua stands, looking sick.

  “Have a great show tonight, kid.” Chris says. “Really. Break a leg. Everyone’s cheering for you!” The DJ leans back in his tilting chair and starts clapping, loud and mocking.

  “You’ll hear from our lawyers, and the police,” Artie says.

  Chris puts his headphones back on as Artie steers Joshua out of the booth. “I’ll just pay a fine, if that. Public interest, fair game.”

  Artie doesn’t reply, putting an arm around Joshua’s back and guiding him away. Santiago takes point, forehead lowered, coldly furious.

  I fall in behind Artie as the other guards take up positions around us.

  We’re a tiny phalanx, a battered strike team retreating, and I can’t stop the image from taking hold in my mind, this image of us with shields, spears, and helms, as we barrel down the radio station hall, through the door into reception, past the secretary and others waiting, past the cell phone cameras and devouring eyes.

  Everyone heard it.

  The speakers throughout the building snap on, and the radio’s stinger plays as we move down the hall. Then Chris’s voice falls, soothingly, welcoming listeners back, apologizing for the interruption.

  Joshua keeps his head ducked. Artie, our commander, keeps propelling him.

  Walking wounded, help the stretcher cases.

  Santiago mashes the elevator button, and his eyes dart around, looking for a target to hit. The elevator dings as Chris starts replaying the interview.

  Then we’re in, down, out to the stretch SUV. We pile in, and Santiago orders the driver to burn rubber, and we’re pulling into traffic as if something is chasing us.

  The car speeds, and I’m gasping at a fast corner. Until I look at Santiago.

  He’s so angry his eyes are snapping. He holds utterly still, keeps checking Joshua.

  The speed isn’t from Santiago’s anger, or from fear of a threat. Of course not.

  The speed is for Joshua. To put actual physical distance between him and the voice on the radio.

  I glance at Joshua.

  He’s huddled against the window—looking out. It’s only because I’m sitting right next to him that I can feel the slight shiver, just one, that creeps through his rigid stillness.

  Artie is barking into the phone, call after call, deploying lawyers. Seeking suppression of the recording of the program, at least officially. Ordering the filing of papers in court about the break of the Do Not Contact provision. Appointing a point person to involve the local police, coordinate them with the court in Dallas.

  She’s a machine, a tank, guns blazing. Demonstrating firepower.

  Joshua has gone utterly still. His hand closest to me rests on his leg.

  I reach out and take it. It’s cold and slack. He doesn’t move.

  10

  ONSTAGE

  When we arrive at the hotel, we get out and take up the phalanx again. Artie is still on the phone. Added bodyguards meet us at the car, cushioning us from the people, the lobby-hanging paparazzi ready for us.

  Joshua doesn’t even put on his sunglasses. Doesn’t pull up the hoodie, or hunch like he normally does when running the lobby gauntlet.

  Questions are thrown at him as cameras click and flash.

  Joshua marches, he marches, without looking to either side, directly to the elevator. The doors open, and Speed is standing in it wearing unlaced shoes like he stuffed his feet into them in a rush.

  “I heard it,” Speed says to me, quietly, once we’re all in the elevator. “Everyone did. I knew the lobby would be packed.” He bounces slightly on his toes while we ride up.

  Joshua doesn’t acknowledge anyone. Just stares at the closed doors until they open on our floor, and we walk to the suite.

  Once the door closes behind us, Artie starts to talk to him, spewing all her anger at the DJ, how she is going to bury him, how she’s going to protect Joshua, how “that sicko” in the institution is never getting out, and what’s more, her doctors—

  Joshua turns his back on her and sits in the deep armchair that faces the windows, the kingdom of Los Angeles lying below.

  Artie falters in her rapid-fire word triage, glancing at me and then Speed for e
xplanation.

  Joshua pulls earphones out of his pocket, plugs them into his phone, and then places the buds into his ears.

  He looks at his phone for a moment, selecting music. Then he looks out the window again, letting his hands and head slouch to rest in the cushion-swallowing chair.

  Artie snaps her mouth shut and then goes into the bedroom, summoning Joshua’s phone-in therapist back in Georgia through the voice recognition on her phone.

  As if he will be able to do anything just by talking to Artie.

  Speed and I glance at each other. He swipes a hand down his face, like he’s easing off a cobweb of tension.

  He pulls a chair over to sit nearby, facing the windows.

  “You can go,” Joshua says, voice slightly louder than necessary, speaking over the noise in his head.

  He doesn’t look at me.

  “Rox too. Just go.” Then he glances at Santiago, to make sure the bodyguard is still there.

  As close as he gets to alone.

  “Okay,” I say, and I don’t know where to go.

  “Come on, Rox,” Speed says. And his calling me Joshua’s nickname pulls needles into my eyes.

  I follow Speed out.

  We head to Speed’s room and collapse across the beds. And time passes. We watch cartoons, avoiding the news shows, and talk, stilted utterances of shock and concern and what will happen? I even wonder if the tour might be cancelled or postponed, a lone flare of hope—

  “No, it won’t,” Speed says. “This doesn’t change anything.”

  And of course he’s right. Nothing has changed, and Artie will think that work is what Joshua needs.

  He needs the opposite. A break. To go somewhere he can be himself and let go. He needs time away from this circus where he is the star attraction.

  The sun sets outside, a glory of umber. We should be leaving to go to the arena, but we sit until the last hint of pink leaves the night sky.

  Time crawls by. Speed and I talk less, exchanging worried looks. Glancing at our watches. What is Joshua doing? Is Artie talking to him? Should we go back up to his suite?

  The concert has to have started, the opening band going on even though the headliner hasn’t arrived yet.

  Even though we’re watching TV in a hotel room, I imagine I can hear the crowd cheering for the opening band, or waiting at the end of their set. As instruments get changed out, as interim music blares over the speakers.

  Are we even going?

  Then Speed’s phone goes off and we’re summoned.

  Down in the lobby, we wait for Joshua. The stretch SUV is in the circle, waiting to drive us to the arena.

  The elevator opens, and the phalanx comes, Joshua wearing the same clothes, earbuds in, mask of impassivity still on.

  It stays on in the car, through the arrival at the arena, a throng of pushing fans screaming his name, screaming love. We wind through them, through doors, sets of doors, doors after doors after doors.

  And then Joshua is stripping off his slouchy street clothes and putting on one of the crisp sets of stage clothes, new and inky dark, silver accents so he shows up onstage.

  Then DeeDee is hovering before him, styling his hair and putting on stage makeup—dark-smudged eyes, shadowing cheeks and eyelids, a dab of color on his lips.

  And he’s dressed, and ready, more quickly than anyone.

  Speed’s ready, just going to go on in his shorts and muscle-T. The drum kit shields him from the audience, anyway. I grab an eyeliner pencil from DeeDee’s holster and hold it up in front of his face.

  The lead guitarist, Quinn, is still wrestling with his mesh shirt.

  Joshua stands with his eyes closed, waiting, listening to the music in his head.

  Speed waits, and I draw a crisp line all the way around his dark eyes, just so that it feels like he’s getting something, not just demands. Not just dregs.

  He offers a small smile in response.

  Quinn is ready, and the others as well. Joshua doesn’t even glance back at me, so I stay. Why would I go? There’s nowhere to wait up there, and we have to go through everyone—

  He’s gone. They’re fighting their way to the stage.

  I fall on one of the sofas and watch the giant TV that will project the show into the greenroom.

  Tonight should even be more polished than usual. A film crew is here to get live footage of Joshua’s new song—a performance video to release first.

  Feed the machine.

  The stage is dark, the roar is percussive.

  The show begins.

  “Screw this day,” Artie snaps, ripping her phone out of her ear.

  As if that’s a cue, the few people still milling around quickly exit.

  I stay on the sofa.

  Artie prowls to the craft services table and pours herself a large Scotch.

  The show goes on.

  And of course, Joshua hits every mark. So much so that I’m not sure if he’s acting. So much so that I wonder if performing is bringing him out of it, out of the fugue or isolation or whatever it is that he’s fallen into.

  From backstage, watching on the big screen, opening night feels like a TV show . . . not something that’s really happening just a few sets of doors and halls away. The songs cascade out of the speakers like a perfect playlist of his hits, the newer songs cocooned in between proven favorites.

  At the halfway mark, Joshua disappears from the stage for a costume change. The drum kit rolls forward as Speed takes a blistering solo, and then begins a call and response with the audience.

  The crowd shrieks loud enough that it sounds like a distant thunder in the greenroom. On the screen, I watch as a large set piece, huge scaffolding like a cage wall, lowers onto the stage. Dancers rush to it and stop, freezing in the act of reaching to climb.

  The stage goes dark. A single spotlight sweeps the crowd, then tilts up.

  Joshua hovers on nearly invisible wires high above the cage wall. He’s changed from the black clothes into blinding white. As he sings, the rig lifts and lowers him, swooping movements like flight. The dancers below climb toward him, reaching to grab and pull him down.

  The song ends when one succeeds in grabbing his feet, and they spin, lowering to the stage. The dancers form a wall around him, shielding as they remove the harness.

  The second half of the show goes perfectly, Joshua showing no sign of fatigue or stress, actually seeming to enjoy himself, giving himself over to the performance.

  He sings the last song of the set, and the show’s over.

  The band leaves the stage for a few minutes of wardrobe changes and swigs of sports drinks. The crowd, knowing the game, applauds nonstop, encouraging an encore that was never in doubt.

  And then the band reemerges to a rising swell of victorious screams.

  Two high-production encore songs later, Joshua and the band bow, wave, and return the audience’s applause. They turn their backs and descend backstage for good.

  But Joshua doesn’t follow them. He leans in to say something to Speed, then stands there, not moving. The spotlight continues to reflect off his back. The audience begins a rhythmic chant, small and disorganized at first, then taking shape; “Blackbird,” screamed in an accelerating beat. The words fly around the arena, and crescendo into a unified scream as Joshua stands motionless.

  Someone hands Joshua his acoustic guitar. And then Joshua turns, alone, small on the otherwise empty stage.

  Another roadie emerges, walking a stool over to the mic. The crowd erupts. Joshua takes a seat and tunes the guitar, and all the noise suddenly disappears as if swallowed.

  Artie and I are just as silent, mesmerized as we watch. Joshua’s never done this before.

  His fingers strum the guitar strings, a progression of chords and notes I recognize, but I can’t remember where or why. The sound is g
entle at first, soothing. Then an intensity builds and the sound begins taking shape—a simple chord progression with minors and flats, accentuated with a slide up the neck of the guitar. A blues riff, raw and powerful.

  Just before Joshua sings the first note, the pieces tumble into place and I recognize the song. The very first version of “Armored Heart” he played for me; the first version of his first song. He plays and sings like he’s alone, the music spare, intimate. Forty thousand people are breathless.

  As the last note dissolves, Joshua hangs his head, almost in supplication. The crowd erupts as one, standing, thunderous.

  I have never seen Joshua look so small.

  11

  THE FUN MARATHON

  Everyone gets cleaned up in their dressing rooms, and we pile into massive stretch SUVs to go to the after-party.

  The band and the dancers talk about the VIPs they saw in the audience, and which famous actor or actress they hope to see at the club. They talk about what they packed to take onto the yacht afterward, for their day off, the one-day cruise Artie has arranged, which will be an overnight trip to some island.

  Then the yacht will turn around and come back, and the tour will hit the road the very next day.

  It’s supposed to be a celebration. Yet Joshua appears drained.

  The party at the club is itself an unstoppable force. And the star’s mood doesn’t matter, because this party is as much for the crew, the corporate sponsors, and the select VIPs.

  Speed tries to get next to Joshua, saying that we can go back to the hotel if we want, and skip everything. Even the yacht.

  Joshua nods but doesn’t move, acknowledging the option but choosing not to pursue it.

  Then Artie arrives and takes him by the elbow, and we’re on the move again. The party is private and packed, the space rented out and filled by select guests. Hollywood figures, their entourages, tour roadies, the musicians, the dancers, and us.

  Speed and I shadow Joshua and Artie, a circuit of tables and handshakes, Joshua just letting Artie guide him through the motions. Another performance.

  Finally we’re in the booth, elevated, behind a velvet rope, and Santiago is there, a somewhat paternal wall of muscle.