When I walk into the coffee house, a waitress addresses me in French, but it's drowned out by a guy doing an acoustic set in the corner. The air is thick with smoke and people are chattering and drinking black coffee, a lot more pretentious than the sweating crowd down the road. This time I take in the excessive Christmas decorations of the place as well: cardboard Santas and reindeer taped to the walls.
I lower my hood and blink at the waitress still waiting for a reply. She stares at me when she sees my face, slightly transfixed, and I recognise the honeyed look that suddenly glazes her blue eyes. I smile at her with painstaking effort, and her cheeks redden. She says something in French again, but this time her tone is sweet.
"I'm sorry, what?" My voice is rough, raw somehow.
"Oh. We're closing in half an hour."
"That's fine. Can I get coffee? Black."
"Sure." Her eyes follow me when I go to one of the empty tables, and I sit down with my eyes to the door so that I don't miss Sisky when he arrives. The waitress has got long legs and nice tits. She's narrow in the middle, widening at her hips, she's all around beautiful, and I could. She bites on her bottom lip when she brings the coffee over, her long black hair in a ponytail and resting on one shoulder. She makes eye contact, and I could.
But screwing cute girls in the bathrooms of various establishments does not feel that appealing anymore. I look around the café, and there's a hot guy two tables away, messy brown hair, chocolate eyes, and my guts twist slightly at the thought of taking him instead, and it's more appealing but just as hollow.
They're not him.
The waitress walks away, looking slightly disappointed when I don't return her interest.
But my insides feel heavy, my thoughts a mess. I dig into my coat and pull out a flask, the familiar engraved letters of G.R.R. under my thumb. This one's for you, Dad. Or in your memory. They all are.
I pour vodka into the coffee when no one's looking.
Sisky still hasn't arrived, and so I focus on craning my neck to watch the guy play in the corner, focus on his sloppy fingering of the strings, anything to make me not think about how he is probably getting on that bus soon. Probably not for another hour or so, but eventually, and then he will go his way and I will go mine. And the thought is painful.
It's also ridiculous because he and I have not even crossed paths. Not really. I've only been in the same room unbeknownst to him for a while, and that doesn't count as him and I having collided. It doesn't mean anything at all except that I caved in first, I had to come see him and then I chickened out.
So I guess he's still winning.
I only came to see if the rumours were true. If what the magazines say was true. And it is. He's a star and my name is not foreign to his lips.
So there.
There, there.
I didn't come with some foolish hope of everything getting magically fixed.
He's fine on his own. And now I'll never see him again.
Just as the sudden lump in my throat nearly cuts off my breathing, I hear a, "Look, you just pour some coffee into the thermos, right? Not that hard," from behind me. I turn back around, and Mike is now in the coffee house. He's holding a thermos bottle, trying to get the girl to take it, and next to him is one of the roadies I saw by the stage just fifteen minutes ago.
"Alright, alright," the girl hisses while I duck my head as shit shit shit proves to be a dominant thought. Mike would recognise me instantly.
"Someone should invent, like, coffee you can take with you," Mike now says to the roadie with a weathered face and messy black hair. "What would that be called?"
"Portable coffee," the guy suggests. "They could put it in paper cups or something."
"Shit, that'd sell." They wait around, and Mike is tapping his foot against the floor impatiently. "That was a good show, considering."
"Considering, yeah. You don't show up for a show that drunk," the guy mutters. "At least he'll now have some coffee to drink on the bus, but still. Something needs to be done about it."
"He's Brendon's friend, what can I do? Chastise him, sure. Tell him we're disappointed, sure. Jon will give him a good talking to. He managed to show up, though. He didn't forget his parts. That's professionalism on some level. Still. If it weren't for Brendon standing in my way, I'd fire Ian."
"Dallon's taking Brendon's side too."
Mike scoffs. "Brendon and Dallon teaming up. Now that's hardly a surprise… God, where's that damn coffee?" He looks stressed out and bitchy – just about like any manager ever.
The girl comes out shortly after, handing the thermos to the roadie.
"Took your time," Mike snaps and hurries out without further ado. The girl looks even more pissed off.
The roadie, however, gets a sly smile on his lips and flips black hair from his forehead. "Thanks, babe. We just played a show down the road."
"Oh, did you?" Her voice is crisp and uninterested.
"Yeah, I'm with a band. His Side? You might've heard of them." He hands her some money. "There's extra there just for you."
Oh, a fatal mistake. You can't let them know you want them. Chicks dig mystery.
"Merci," she says with a purse of her lips and then turns around to clear up dirty cups from now empty tables. The guy looks slightly displeased, his eyes lingering on her form as he exits the coffee house. She comes over to me from where I've been trying to cover my face with the side of my palm pressed to my forehead, like I've been contemplating life all this time. She smiles down at me hopefully. "Anything else I can get you?"
"No. Thanks."
She looks disappointed.
I slowly relax from the sudden invasion of Brendon's manager and one of their roadies, drinking my spiked coffee and trying not to think about their words too much. About problems in the band. Already. People taking sides. Already. Well, I saw that myself, didn't I?
I never wanted him to have to go through all of that. Too late now. Can't protect him even if I wanted to.
But I'm sure that Brendon can handle anything that comes his way.
The musician's finished playing his shitty set, and people applaud dutifully. Someone calls something out in French, and the waitress passes my table and says a helpful, "We're closing."
Yeah, I figured.
I tip her generously. A 'sorry, you are attractive, but it's not you – it's me. And I swear that five years ago I would have.'
Sisky, unsurprisingly, hasn't showed up. I stand outside the coffee house, put my gloves back on, tie my brown scarf around my neck, and watch my breath rise into the icy air. I told him to meet me here, so where has he gone? Stupid idiot…
He knows our hotel, though, and I'm not responsible for him, absolutely not, so he can make his own way back. And I don't want to wait for Brendon to leave. I'll leave first. It's always easier for me if I manage to leave first. Makes me feel like it was my decision, that I'm not fleeing because I just witnessed how okay he is without me, even in the middle of a crisis.
If I leave first, I don't have to deal with the realisation of how unready I am to face him.
I walk back towards the venue slowly. There are a few dozen kids hanging around outside, and I look to where the tour bus still is, and kids are still waiting for the band there too. Sisky is nowhere to be seen, and a taxi is coming down the street so I hail it over. I get to the backseat, say, "Hey. Can I get, to uh… Rue… Saint… one of the saints, man."
"Which one?" he asks, and I don't even remember the name of the hotel. I look out of the window to the venue and, amidst a group of kids standing on their own, spot Sisky.
"Hang on, I just saw my friend. He knows the address." I get out of the car and cross the street, ready to snap at Sisky for disobeying simple goddamned orders. He's smoking like most of the gig-goers standing by him are, shivering in the cold as they form a circle.
"No, man, it wasn't actually him," the one with ginger hair sticking from under a green woolly hat says, his back to me. "I dunno who those kids think they saw at the show tonight, but it was not Ryan. It's time we all face the truth: Ryan is dead." I slow down my steps, frowning. This comment gets a hum of approval from the other kids – not even kids. They're all in their early to mid-twenties. "He died in September 1977. They've just covered it up, man."
"He is not dead," Sisky says, sounding angry.
"Sisky," the guy laughs, "wake up and smell the rotting flowers! I know people, alright? I've got inside information."
"Maybe I've got inside information too."
A few of the guys laugh. "Please. You?" the ginger guy questions, and the general consensus seems to be against Sisky's credibility. "Ryan ODed last year. That's why The Whiskeys split. They had him cremated and scattered his ashes from the top of the Empire State Building. It's this whole conspiracy, man, and another thing." He holds a dramatic pause. "They don't think the overdose was accidental." A girl gasps. "Yeah, man. He cracked under pressure. Took his own life."
"You are full of shit, Melvin!" Sisky snaps. "Ryan would not kill himself!"
"Like you know him." The tone is mocking, and Sisky's cheeks might be red from the cold but they turn redder just then. Melvin motions down the street towards the bus. "Why don't you go hang out with the teenaged groupies by the backdoor, alright? The true fans are having a conversation here."
The people chuckle, and Sisky nervously drags in smoke and hangs his head.
"Hey," I say loudly, causing the small crowd to turn around. They stare. They stop… and they stare. It's a Webster's dictionary definition of 'stupefaction' that hits them all simultaneously. The cigarette that the ginger one is smoking drops from his lips as his mouth hangs open. I look past him. "Sisky, you coming or what?"
Sisky stares at me in astonishment, and then he drops his cigarette, steps on it, and pushes through from between the ginger kid and one of the girls.
"Ryan –" the ginger one rushes out, eyes wide as saucers, but I cut him short.
"I'm not fucking dead, so fuck you. And for the record, suicide is tacky, so how about you stop lying about imaginary inside information, alright?" I glare at him. "Fucking tagalongs…"
"I-I meant no offense, we –"
"Come on," I tell Sisky, who seems very rigid and frozen. I place a hand on the back of his neck because he might not move otherwise. "We've got a cab waiting." I guide him away from the crowd, and Sisky is staring ahead like he can't believe this is his life, but as we get closer to the taxi, he gets a slight spring in his step.
I open the door for him. The crowd has followed us. Fans do that – follow me when I leave. But they keep a slight distance, still staring at me, and one of the girls has got tears streaming down her face. Stupid idiot. I'm dead? I'm dead to them?
Sisky almost gets in the car but then turns to the fans quickly. "I'm Ryan's biographer!" he calls out and then shrugs in a 'what do you know?' way, hands lifting and everything, and then he grins wildly and gets in the taxi.
"Fucking kid," I mutter and follow him, and it's once we're inside, once we're separated, that the spell gets broken and the fans are pounding the taxi windows and frantically calling out my name and asking me not to leave.
The driver looks at us in confusion, but then he gasps. "Merde! Ryan Ross!"
"Sisky," I snap, and he says, "Rue Saint François Xavier, s'il vous plait," like it's coming from his backbone, and the taxi takes off quickly.
One fan runs after the taxi for two blocks before giving up.
Sisky's cheeks are still red, but a small smile lingers on his lips, a mix of joy and embarrassment, but he doesn't look at me, not quite.
"You're not my biographer," I repeat, anger swirling inside me. I overdosed on purpose? Is that what people think?
He rubs his cold-looking nose. "Sorry." He looks tiny then, mouse-like.
I only lean into the backseat and think that, well.
I go this way.
And Brendon, my Brendon who is no longer mine, who stands centre stage, goes another way.
The one that leads away from me once more.
The idiocy of the Montreal excursion hits me at the hotel, sometime after the fifth Scotch poured from the bottle that I smuggled from the dead hotel bar back to my room. Sisky sits on my bed and eyes me worriedly as I pace back and forth.
Sisky's got a glass of Scotch too, but he hasn't touched it. He is being uncharacteristically quiet and mostly just looks at me with pursed lips.
"God. Fuck. Shit." I rub my face tiredly, sighing. "What am I doing here? I mean, really. What for? Veni, vidi, nihil egi."
He stares in confusion. "What?"
"I came, I saw, I did nothing."
"Where did you pick up Italian?" he asks, and I cringe but don't correct him. Spend seven months on your own – you end up acquiring surprising skills. "Well, I thought it was a really good show. His Side was excellent. Everyone agreed."
Like the show is my fucking problem.
"Everyone being those brats you were entertaining?" I clarify anyway, and he half-shrugs. He's been down about it since we got back. He's got his problems, I've got mine but at least he isn't dead and at least he hasn't proved incapable of facing his former lover. I pour myself another drink. I can feel the alcohol in my system, making my insides warm. If I keep drinking, it'll get to my thoughts eventually, will shut off my brain. "Who were those snobby bastards, anyway?"
"The followers," he says, and when I frown, he explains, "The Followers' followers. I mean... that's what we called ourselves. Because we were... following The Followers."
"How witty."
"Yeah, well..." He pulls on the collar of his t-shirt that says 'Route 66', bought from some kind of a tacky souvenir shop between LA and Chicago. "I used to hang out with that crowd. They're the hardcore fans, you know? The ones that followed you from town to town, who knew all the roadies and waited outside hotels and were always front row. You know, the true fans."
"Love isn't measured by obsession," I note faintly, and he looks embarrassed once more. I'm not criticising him. He's obsessed, maybe, but he's alright. I'm not drunk enough to make that admission, however.
I keep thinking back to what they said, though. About my supposed suicide. Like I was that weak, that fucked up. Anger bubbles in me at the thought of it. "I wouldn't want to hang out with that crowd," I hiss. Brendon knows I'm alive, of course, but what does he make of such rumours? Do they just solidify what he already thinks of me? A fuck up. A ruiner of lives. Thank god that came to an end.
Sisky's eyes light up slightly, and he leans forward. "Yeah, they're not nice, are they? Melvin used to be nice. We met when we were fifteen, we were best friends, you know? We both fucking loved you. And then we followed you during Jackie, and Melvin was so cool back then. But, I don't know. First Brent, like... actually remembered his name, and then he once had a few beers with Joe, and Joe still remembers him, you know? And Melvin just thought he was too cool for me after that." Sisky is now playing with the sleeve of his shirt. "No one ever remembers me."
"He's just easier to remember. An ugly, chubby ginger kid." I keep saying 'kid' although this Melvin character is probably twenty-three or twenty-four. Not even that much younger than me.
"Yeah, well." He shrugs, but then smiles. "We showed him, though, huh? Next time I see him, he'll still be too stunned to speak. Because I found you. I'm on a road trip with you!" This thought seems to please him greatly. "Wait until everyone hears that you were spotted!"
Oh, joy.
This thought makes me finish my drink and automatically pour another one.
Which one is better? To let people think that I cracked, bound a leather strap to my arm, pressed the needle into my skin with a shaking hand, knowingly taking a lethal dose, or that I am actually out and about and fine?
And what if my cameo actually reaches the band, too? 'Hey man, Ryan Ross was at your show in Montreal last week.' Lurking in the shadows. Pathetic. That's what they'll think – that I'm pathetic. I marched backstage, at least, like Sisky so desperately wanted me to, but even then I...
I'm a coward, and now I want to get back into the car and drive back home – sweet, rural, dead Machias. And then forget and never let anyone mess with me enough to make me think that I have unfinished business with anyone from His Side.
They're all doing just fine without me. They're doing marvellously, even.
"You know what, Sisky?" I ask, motioning at his glass. "You need to drink. That's what we need to do here – drink." My skin is itching, my brain hurts, and I feel full of anger aimed at nothing and no one.
Sisky coughs when he first drinks the Scotch, and I guess he isn't used to it. He braves on, however, smiling at me, and I wish he'd stop. That 'you've been so nice to me' appreciation is rolling off of him in waves, but I am not nice.
"Where are His Side heading next?" I ask.
"Toronto. They have a week more of shows, and then they'll take a Christmas break, and then they have a handful more after New Year's," he says knowledgeably. "What did you make of the show? I thought it was great. Brendon's performance was so full of emotion, wasn't it?"
It was.
I take in an uneven breath. "I can't stay here. I need to get out of this country. This city. I need to get back home."
I look around as if to pack up, but I have nothing to pack up. Sisky looks confused and intimidated, but twenty minutes later we're back in the car, and I'm curled up in the passenger seat, wrapped up in my winter coat and drinking straight from the bottle that I'm no longer sharing. Sisky looks unnerved as he drives across a darkened Montreal, quieter than earlier. I leave the navigating to him.
"Are you okay?" he asks gingerly.
"No," I laugh, rubbing my face. "No, I'm not fucking okay. I just want to get back home. That's all. God, this was a stupid idea. Seeing him again..."
"Jon seemed to enjoy himself, though," he throws in, and fuck Jon. I loved the guy, still do I guess, but he can do whatever he pleases. He doesn't wreck me.
Sisky then starts babbling about what he thought of the show, analysing it rather accurately, noting that Ian made a few mistakes. I'm pretty impressed that he managed to pick that out too. Huh. Well spotted. Smart kid. Then he gets onto Brendon and he gushes like the fan that he is, saying my Brendon is talented and so full of energy, and "When he sang Miranda's Dream, god, I had chills going down my spine!"
Me too.
Sisky smiles slightly lopsidedly as he drives, and I make a drunken note of him still being a fan. I've started to forget that.
"You know, when I was talking to Melvin and the guys outside, they said that... Well, I mean." He glances at me worriedly. We're on a highway now. Good, good. Good, good, good. "Apparently some people say that Brendon's, like... I mean." He's very clearly struggling to form this sentence. "That he's not purely... interested in women. I mean. There are rumours."
I nearly laugh. Of course there are rumours – Brendon has never been in the closet. Not until now. And he has a long damn list of men he has slept with, and he used to work in a gay bar in San Francisco and he's attended gay freedom marches or whatever, and he lived with Shane for well over two years, and he might slap on a new surname for himself, but he's a star now. And people always want to know what bit of the sky these stars have fallen from.
There are rumours about Brendon, but it's difficult to prove one way or the other without hard evidence. The rumours don't even stem from Brendon's gay past because so far journalists have not been able to find out where he's from. It's mostly coming from Brendon when they perform, that's what Vicky said, and I never got that until now. He's just – sexual.
"You should know better than to believe all the rumours you hear," I say bitterly, the ashes of my burnt body landing on New York in my head. I would never choose a place as tacky. There is no place where my ashes could be scattered. I never belonged anywhere.
Sisky nods like he knows he shouldn't believe rumours, but at the same time he frowns. "I guess but... he did get really up and personal with Dallon and Ian, didn't he? I swear I thought he and Dallon were going to, well, uh... kiss." He looks awkward saying it. Leeches like Melvin & Co. are bound to hear rumours like that eventually, and Brendon's very brief moment with Dallon certainly isn't helping. But I didn't just imagine it – Sisky noticed it too. I'm not deranged. I wonder if any of the fans have heard the same rumour about me because I know there have been rumours about my sexuality for years now. Yet, if the rumours are there, Sisky is clearly blissfully ignorant of them so maybe no one just buys them and don't think them worth mentioning. Who would ever think I'm gay, anyway?
"Brendon and Dallon had chemistry, though." Sisky seems more confused the more he reflects the interaction between Brendon and his bandmates.
Straight guys are so fucking cute.
I'm busy not thinking about it, though, or thinking about Mike's words: "Brendon and Dallon teaming up. Now that's hardly a surprise…" His tone had been slightly sarcastic. I wonder what he meant, what the inside joke was. If he was insinuating that... No. No, I saw them myself when they came off stage: there was nothing suspicious there at all.
I'm making it up.
"God, I need a drink," I say. Sisky quirks an eyebrow as if to say 'but you are drinking'. Well, I need to drink more. Clearly.
I'm just jealous. There. What do I get for the admission? Brendon's most likely banging hot guys left and right every night, again and again, and I don't exactly have the right to be jealous. I know that.
And nothing suggests that Brendon would be involved with Ian or that freakishly tall bassist with those soft blue eyes and nice broad shoulders and that cute ass that even I checked out. Not everyone in this world is gay, for god's sake.
But then again, it is Brendon Urie. Or Roscoe. Whoever he chooses to be.
And he can win the heart of any man.
It's such a bitter pill to swallow. Life has been easy for him, no doubt, because what we had didn't mean a thing to him.
That's not true. No, no, that's not true, you know this, Ross, you know that. It'd just be easier to believe that I was an idiot, lost in what we had, not seeing that for him it was just something to pass the time. But he did care. He returned to me. Gave in. Arched into my touch. We wouldn't have fought like we did if we hadn't cared, we wouldn't have cried and yelled and –
It mattered to us both, is my point. It mattered. It tore us to pieces.
And I'm still too broken up about it to even step out of the shadows and face him.
"Do you ever – ever get fucking sick of your own thoughts?" I ask, the half-empty bottle in my grip. It wasn't completely full when we started. Or I started. I lean into the seat, closing my eyes, listening to the drone of the car. But it's not soothing. I suddenly feel like I felt that day, that first day when I sent him away. The worst day of my life. The memories come rushing back, memories of making love to him, that excited buzz in me when I thought that I had him, that we were going to be together now, that he was finally mine, and then the cruel reality when he left me. He left me, and I had to send him away. Because I couldn't... And now it's like I have done no progress at all over the past year and a half. That's a whole new level of being pathetic. "You're lucky you're still young," I tell Sisky sombrely but definitely not soberly. "You don't know loss. You don't know what it's like when all the- all the good things seem like a thing of the past." In the back of my head, I know I'm ranting like an old person. I open my heavy eyelids and stare at him. "You ever had your heart broken?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah? How long did you date her for?"
"Five weeks one summer."
"That's not heartbreak, that's adolescence. You ever lost a best friend?"
"Melvin."
"He's a cunt and you know it. No, listen, you don't know loss. And I – I suppose it's all relative. What is loss to you is insignificant to me, and I don't mean to belittle your asinine life experiences, man, but fuck your asinine life experiences. Like when you asked me why I'm living in that house in the middle of nowhere, I'll tell you, fine. I'll tell you. Maybe because I can't lose anything there, alright? When you ain't got nothing, you've got nothing to lose, like Dylan says. And I'm so sick of losing people. I lose people. I swear somewhere out there is a lost and found just full of people I've lost, but the map is all wrong and I'm too tired to go claim them, half-petrified that they won't even recognise me anymore. And I – God, I remember when The Followers split... I remember the night of the bus crash. Spencer and I... I'd recently found out about – about Suzie and Haley, and I was so mad at him, man, I was so... And he said that we were no longer friends. That was it. Like it was that easy, that on that day he decided that I could be walked away from. People do that, you know. They just decide not to care about me. So I do the same in return. Serves them right."
"That's not true," he says, frowning. "You care. You care a fucking lot."
"I don't care."
"Then why did we go to Montreal?" he asks, and the answer is on my tongue but a bit misplaced. I come up with nothing. "You do a lot of walking away, but you still care. You can't switch off your heart." He sounds wise beyond his years just then, and I crinkle my nose in disapproval at all the sense he is making. "Besides, you can walk back. I mean, you talk to Spencer now. You're friends."
"Or do we just have no one else?" I mutter quietly, looking out of the window at the cars on the opposite lane, going by... going by... going by... I'm too drunk to worry about the ten million different ways this car could crash. Should crash.
"Your mother left you," Sisky then says quietly, sounding apologetic.
"Yeah. I guess she started the trend," I chuckle angrily and take a slug.
"You talk to your dad at all?"
I'm quiet for a while, confused. Sisky knows everything. Doesn't he?
"He's dead."
This is clearly news to Sisky whose eyes widen in surprise when they should be on the road and not me, but if we die tonight, well then we die.
"I – I'm so sorry. I didn't... know. I thought. I know he's sick, but I... Shit. I'm really sorry, Ryan."
I shrug and take another slug.
He gets this gloomy expression like my indifference offends him. "When did he pass away?"
"Late last year."
"That must have been horrible."
"It was. Because they'd given him, you know, a few weeks. But he held on for months. A fucking medical miracle him hanging on for that long. To spite me, you know? He did it to spite me." I stare at my knees in slight confusion. "And then he died."
"I don't know what I'd do if my dad died," he then reflects, like his hypothetical loss can be compared to my dad, which wasn't loss. More like freedom. It's just... confusing freedom that kind of is in the shape of loss. "I don't see my dad that much, but if he died..."
"Family is overrated. So, so overrated. Friendship and love too, it's all overrated. People say it gives life meaning – no, it doesn't. It gives life baggage. That's it: baggage. But me, I'm free. Free, free, free. I do what I please whenever I please, I answer to no one, man. No one. I am my own family, I am my own friend, I am my own lover." He snorts at this, and I add, "Okay, fine, ha ha. Maybe not the last one or I guess everyone would be their own lover." I take another slug, feel the alcohol burn my throat. I look at a road sign. "Are we going the right way?"
"Yeah."
"Alright then. Alright. And another thing, man, another – Everyone says that we have to make life count, that it's special. Well, what if it's not? You know? What if it isn't? Why are we pressured to achieve things? And I say that as someone who has achieved a lot. There are billions of people in the world. We can't all be special. We can't all be rockstars. Most of us have to and should aspire to be mediocre, right? And support the structures that enable the privileges of the special people. Right? Right? And – Wait. Where was I...?" I rub my face that feels numb. "Man, I'm drunk."
"Yup," Sisky says in agreement.
But I still have so much to say and so much to drink, keep the monologue going, anything, something, to forget his face.
When I wake up, the sun is high up and blinding. I've slept through its bright light blissfully – it's Sisky's hand shaking my shoulder that disturbs my slumber.
I blink, disorientated, feeling like shit. "What?" I ask, my voice rough with an alcoholic burn. The car hums steadily, and Sisky stops shaking me, hand now back on the wheel as we drive slowly.
"I said we're nearly here."
I wipe at my mouth, sitting up straight. I don't remember falling asleep. I remember little of anything but I feel like I've been gone for ages.
My neck hurts like hell, and I rub at it as I try to figure out what's going on. Vague, vague memories from last night start rolling in. I remember the show, and I remember watching the band, Jon and the new guys and then Brendon. Standing on his own two feet. Reborn. I remember the aching burn in my chest.
I remember running away.
I just couldn't.
"Are we home yet?" I ask because it's the middle of the day and we should definitely be home by now. I look at the long row of spacious suburban houses on both sides of the wide road. This isn't Maine. "Where are we?"
"You'll see."
"Are we in America?"
"You remember us crossing the border, right?"
"Yeah," I say groggily. I must have passed out shortly after. This doesn't look like Canada, anyway, but it's nice to know what country one is in. "Sisky, what the hell?"
Christmas decorations are all over the houses. Sisky slows down, peering at house numbers. I look around, baffled. I've never been this confused. Ever.
"Here we are." He parks the car outside one of the houses. It's the biggest one on the street, two floors, expensive-looking, white paint, large windows. It has no Christmas decorations out front. "Come on," Sisky says, getting out quickly. I follow, even more confused.
The air outside is cold after the warmth of the car. All of my limbs are stiff from the awkward position in which I slept, and the alcohol pulsing in my system doesn't help either. I still feel disorientated and sleepy as I roll my shoulders, try to get all the tensed up muscles and knots to loosen. Sisky's already walking on the path to the door of the house, but he stops to wait for me.
I eye the house worriedly as I approach it. "Where are we? Whose place is this? What time is it? How long have we been driving?"
"I drove all night and morning," he says, and only then do I realise how exhausted he looks. We're somewhere in the Midwest if the houses are anything to go by. Sisky still has energy, though, and he's smiling as he now rings the doorbell.
"I demand to know where we are," I hiss. I don't like surprises.
"Well, I need to go home for Christmas, take a break from this research business," he explains like this all makes sense and I should know this. "But I'll be back after New Year's. I figured I should drop you off before I go, though."
Drop me off where?
He rings the doorbell again, and I look at the baby blue Cadillac on the driveway with its long hood and sharp angles.
The door opens just then, as I'm hovering behind Sisky, confused, hungover and cold.
Oh.
Spencer looks at Sisky first, confused, and then he looks at me and nearly takes a step back. Sisky just beams and looks back and forth between me and my former best friend.
"Ryan?" Spencer asks slightly disbelievingly, like maybe he's stuck in a dream.
"Um. Hi?" I offer. The kid drove to fucking Cincinnati. The kid drove to fucking Cincinnati.
"I'm Sisky," Sisky says and grabs Spencer's hand, shaking it. "I recommend making some coffee, Ryan's hungover." He sounds sympathising. "Also, Mr. Smith, sir, you are like – wow. Like whoa. You know?" Sisky is still shaking Spencer's hand. Spencer looks different: the thick moustache he had for a few years has now been joined by a full on beard.
"I'm confused," Spencer says, pulling his hand back, eyeing Sisky like he's looking at a retarded monkey.
"Me too," I cut in.
"Well," Sisky says, addressing Spencer, "you're alone for Christmas, Ryan was going to be alone for Christmas, so I figured you two could spend it together!" He smiles like this is all he's asked of Santa this year, oh please, Santa, please, please.
I blink. What?
"I should go," I say quickly as I realise the setup, motioning back at the car. I think my own confusion is clear enough for Spencer to realise that this was not my plan at all. I wouldn't just – barge in here, I wouldn't expect Spencer to want me here, I certainly – "Sorry about this, Spence."
"No!" Spencer says, however. "No, man, you should come in." He doesn't break eye contact with me. He shrugs. "Since you're here. God, you look like shit."
"Yeah, well at least I still know how to shave," I bite back. He's lost that weight he gained during the divorce, though. He was so miserable for so long, but now he looks like he's back in shape, and his beard isn't a hobo-beard either but neatly trimmed, and it suits him. The tips of his hair brush his jaw line, and he looks rejuvenated somehow.
"I need to go," Sisky then announces, but he ogles at Spencer lovingly nonetheless. Spencer looks weirded out. "Hopefully we'll get to sit down at some point, Mr. Smith. Spencer. Spence." He seems to be testing out the waters, and Spencer quirks a single 'excuse me?' eyebrow. Sisky flushes slightly. "Anyway... See you later." Sisky smiles at me brightly but tiredly, and then turns back and heads for the car.
"You shouldn't be driving!" I call after him, frowning.
"I'll be fine!" he calls out, lifting a hand as a goodbye.
I'm almost embarrassed when I say, "Hang on," to Spencer and then run after Sisky like I'm worried or something. Which I am not. He's on the other side of the car, driver's door open. He looks at me quizzically.
"You spent the past – night and morning driving here. You should not be driving to Chicago without getting some rest."
"I've got a friend in town. I'm gonna take a nap at his place before heading home."
"Well, I – Okay, then. I guess." I move my weight from one leg to the other, taking in this kid who's such a piece of work. "How did you know where Spencer lives?"
He shrugs. "The same way I knew where you live: went through Vicky's address book when she left her handbag in the room with me for four minutes. Then she came back with her lawyers, trying to scare me into not writing my book." He rolls his eyes like that was time wasted.
I frown. "Wait. You're still writing it?"
He looks slightly taken aback. "Well... yeah. I thought I was, anyway." A momentary insecurity flickers on his face. "If that's alright with you."
I sigh, looking from his hopeful face back to the house, where Spencer is now leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching us intently. "You can't just write whatever you feel like, you know. That biography would hurt people."
"Life hurts people," he corrects me, and I guess he's got a point. But it's a bad idea. I don't want my life in print because then that's it – it's official, it cannot be changed. And maybe I need to believe that there still is time to change this all.
"God, fine." I give in. At last. I'm tired of fighting, and so he's won. "Fine. But you know there will be restrictions and editing and a lot of shit you cannot say, right? But I'll, uh... I'll call Vicky. Work something out with her. Control what you're doing. Make it official."
Sisky blinks, shocked, and then he stares at me with shining eyes. "Make... me being your biographer official?"
"No. No, you're not my biographer. You're writing a biography of me, but –"
"Will I get to interview everyone now? Properly, too?"
"Well – Fine, you can interview people but just – There will be rules! And you need to be polite, you can't ask them rude questions and you need to respect their boundaries," I list, and he gets this shit eating grin on his face. It's too much for me to bear, the way his enthusiasm shines warmth and such – such love? I feel nauseous and it's not just the alcohol. "Okay, fuck off to Chicago, kid. You're getting on my nerves."
"Merry Christmas, Ryan." He's still beaming. "I'll see you next year." He is nearly jumping out of his skin as he gets in the car. I roll my eyes at him and walk back to the house, not noting how the sudden silence already feels foreign, like I somehow got used to him.
"So that was Sisky, huh?" Spencer asks when I reach him, and together we watch the car take off.
"Yeah. He's my biographer."
"No shit." We then look at each other, and Spencer breaks into one of those stunning smiles of his. "It's fucking good to see you, Ry."
"Yeah. You too," I say nearly bashfully. He pats my shoulder and moves aside to let me in. I nudge him with my shoulder as I pass.
"God, you stink of alcohol. Where the hell you been?"
"Canada."
"That explains it."
He closes the door, and while I know that I am returning to him as a broken man on the run, I still feel myself smile for the first time in seven months.