In the Absence of You (5 page)

I try to discern sounds from the bathroom, but Troy and Emil are quiet. I open my Kindle, and for a moment, I watch it illuminate the pink and velvet flowers on my duvet cover. I sigh happily and touch its surface, which thumbs me into another page of my latest read
.
How crazy is it to have a full library on a seven-by-five piece of plastic? It’s like it was made for traveling communities.

I don’t move when Troy tucks Emil in above me, voice low while he tells him to get a good night’s sleep, that everything will feel better tomorrow.

“I’ll have a headache,” Emil objects.

“You took Ibuprofen,” Troy says, pitch hushed, perhaps assuming I’m asleep. Or maybe he’s thinking of Elias? Judging by Elias’ snores though, he isn’t one to wake up easily. “You’ll be okay.”

“Zoe,” Emil sobs out. “She’s gone.”

“Yeah, man. But there are other girls, nice ones. You don’t need Zoe.” The volume on Troy’s voice has dropped to a whisper. I only distinguish the words through some serious eavesdropping.

“But no one’s like her. No one. You don’t understand, Troy. You’ve never felt the way I do. Zoe is crazy. She covers every fucking surface in my heart—you don’t get it. I just want to fucking die without her.”

My heart squeezes at Emil’s words. I flip my Kindle closed and drop my hand over my eyes. In and out I breathe, slowly, pulling myself together, because everyone knows alcohol exaggerates emotions.

If this Zoe is perfect for Emil, why didn’t nature make it so that he’s perfect for her in return? I know it’s not how things work of course. With no effort, I can count out half a dozen legendary examples to the contrary from my people.

Troy closes the curtain on Emil’s bunk once his friend’s grief has quieted down. Reduced in sleep or in numbness, I’m not sure. I pull my curtain open enough to meet Troy’s stare. It’s sad for Emil, but he nods once and forms a
“He’s fine.”
I try for a smile but settle on a thumbs-up.

Minutes later, Emil snores over me. I still have a brick of compassion pushing my chest down over this thing I’ve seen much too much in my life.

Snap out of it, Emil,
I think.
Don’t give in to the darkness. She wasn’t the one for you if she doesn’t see how amazing you are.

A clumsy body
makes my bunk creak when it presses itself onto it. I wake up abruptly, but I’m not scared.

“Emil?” I whisper. The bus rocks forward on uneven roads, all lights are out, and the bunks surrounding us remain silent.

“Can I lie with you?” he pleads.

I open my duvet and make room for him. The bunk is narrow, but he forms his arms around me and entwines our legs beneath the covers. With a hand, he pushes my head into the crook of his neck.

“I was lonely,” Emil explains against my ear. He pulls in air through his nose. “You smell good. You rock.”

I expect him to doze off quickly, but his hands move sluggishly over my body. I don’t stop him from dipping under my top and igniting my skin, and a contented sigh escapes him at the feel of my breast in his hand.

Deep down, I know I’d give in to him, even in a setting like this with people sleeping in the same, small quarters only separated by curtains. Emil is too drunk to go further with me though, and we drift off like this.

When I wake up in the morning, my back curves along Emil’s stomach, and his fingers are moist with heat around my breast, his other hand deep inside my hot pants. Even so, his embrace isn’t sexual. It’s a boy seeking comfort from a girl, and I’m touched and aching from it at the same time.

EMIL

B
o’s in a fucking annoying mood.
Since Nadia and he sorted out their shit, they’ve been inseparable and so lovey-dovey it’s killing me. The fact that she’s Zoe’s best friend only adds to my stress.

Zoe hasn’t come on tour since it’s been over between us, and whenever Nadia joins us—it literally feels like she was just here—Bo goes all rainbow-eyed and unicorn-glimmery. He writes love songs we have to rehearse, of the type that ends up on the top hundred list, then he bugs the shit out of us with his smirks until she’s in his arms.

Yeah. You guessed it. Nadia’s coming today. She’s an awesome person. I love her like a sister, but her coming while Zoe never will again is getting to me.

“At five?” Elias asks, carefree as usual.

“Yeah. Since it’s on the way to Seattle, we’ll pick her up,” Troll says.

“She tell you anything about Zoe?” I ask stupidly. I feel Aishe’s gaze on me, but then she looks away, concentrating on receipts and the screen in front of her. She never moved back to the other bus after I was shitfaced that one night.

Bo’s smile fades. “You don’t actually expect her to fly out again, right?”

“Of course not. Don’t treat me like an idiot. I’m just wondering how she’s doing…” I trail off, losing confidence—which means losing myself. “She’s got me blocked.”

“Emil, please.” Bo’s gaze travels to Aishe’s back in Troll’s little office nook. “Just let her go.”

“I am. All the time.”

“No, for real. ‘Letting go’ doesn’t mean ‘getting laid.’”

Damn him. Isn’t it just so easy to judge someone when you’re high on your own perfect life? I cross my arms. “Whatever. Nadia and you taking over the back lounge again, I assume?” I honestly don’t care. I’m never out of my bunk in time to use the lounge for anything before sound check anyway, but if Bo wants to mind my business, I’ll mind his.

“Yes, Emil,” he says, matter-of-fact as he drags his tee over his head from the back. He fishes deodorant out of his duffel and smears it under his arms before he puts on a fresh, white shirt.

We’re half an hour from the airport. He’ll be seeing his woman soon. Have her in his arms. She’ll be warm and nice. She’s exactly what and whom he wants, everything he’s ever wished for, and it’s only been three weeks since the last time he saw her. Dick.

“Why don’t you fucking put on a tie to go with that?” I growl, nudging my chin toward his shirt. Bo’s eyes widen with surprise, then he settles back into his signature, inscrutable expression.

“Because Nadia doesn’t like ties.”

Well fucking touché!

I feel my breath speed up.

“Emil?” Aishe calls. I’m sure she’s heard us. Not that I mind airing laundry wherever and to whomever. It’s why I’m a singer. I air dirty laundry over speaker systems for a living. “Can you come in here for a minute?” she adds.

I send Bo a last pissed stare before I lumber into the back lounge. Last I saw Aishe, before I watched “Spinal Tap” with Troy up front, she was asleep on the couch in here. Curled up like a kid, she had her hand so close to her mouth it made me wonder if she sucks her thumb.

I feel a little better looking at her. It might be because the guys feel bad for me, but there’s an unspoken agreement that no word goes beyond the bus if Aishe and I end up sharing a bunk now and then.

“What’s up?” I ask, thrusting my hands into my pockets. The tension over Bo’s fucking
bliss
sits in my muscles.

“Do you know anything about Quicken?” she asks, pointing at the spreadsheet on her computer. Rows of numbers are spread all over the screen. She peeks at me over a shoulder, cheek rosy. I know absolutely nothing about numbers or data programs, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t call me over to help. The girl has pulled me out of confrontations several times already over the last weeks, helping me avoid shouting matches and fist fights with my best friends.

She’s been my catalyst too, letting me touch her when I’ve needed it the most. It sucks, because I’m not in a place where I can be some noble, awesome guy. There’s not even a way for me to fake it right now.

I had it under control in the beginning, but the pain over losing Zoe just never let up. It’s exhausting to remain cool while Clown Irruption’s star spins higher and higher, the polar opposite of my plunging life.

I hate how I feel. What does money, success, and adoration mean when you lose the simplest, most important thing that makes you breathe?

I pull a hand from my pocket and press a fingerprint onto an empty spot on Aishe’s spreadsheet. “There. Just add a number and you’re good.” She laughs, and I hit the touchpad of the laptop, select an empty cell, and type “X,” like we’re playing tic-tac-toe. Her hair smells like plants. Fresh-cut grass or something. Really good. I bend in and sniff her.

“See? You’re all set. Where were we?” I grab her shoulders and knead them, letting my fingers shift downward while I glance around. Elias is here, but he’s on the phone, talking with a girl from Africa who visits our shows from time to time.

“My guess is you can’t tell me how to hide rows,” she says, speaking Greek. She turns her stool fully so her back is toward Elias. I like it. My mood is on the upswing, which isn’t a surprise—I’ve already learned she’s a miracle worker.

“Hmm, let me look closer,” I hum, deep like David Bowie, then I sink to my haunches behind her chair, lean my chin on her shoulder, and act like I’m scanning the screen for clues. My hands don’t go to the keyboard though. I let them slide around her middle so I can pull myself in and hold her close. Her stomach muscles quiver nervously. She’s tittering, I think, but without sound. It’s fucking nice to have her occupy my thoughts.

Aishe’s fingers thread through mine, and I bring them beneath her shirt and enjoy the sensation of smooth skin.

“Get a room,” Elias says, breaking from his phone conversation.

“Shut up, dork,” I retort and sneak upward in search of the rim of Aishe’s bra.

“Emil…” It’s nice when a girl’s voice tapers off like that.

“Yeeeees?” I’ve found fabric-covered steel, but I curve my hand past it and over her tit to fondle delicate skin from the top instead.

“We’re almost at the airport.” She ends with a sigh that’s affected by my touch—gauze to the gash bleeding in my stomach each time Nadia comes without Zoe.

“True, and?” I think I started growing the instant her eyes landed on me.

Elias stands abruptly and walks out the door. I get up and shut it. Lock it with the flimsy metal hook that will keep us from getting visitors.

“And looky, we’re alone,” I say, arching a brow.

“Emil…” She looks up at me, pleading. Since the night I was hammered, I’ve given her what she wants. She just wants some lovin’
.
It isn’t a big deal.

“Speak up,” I say, hoisting Aishe up from her seat and plopping her onto my lap. For good measure, I rock her butt over my cock, and it’s damn nice. Pretty sure she’s asking for it. “You got a problem?” I flirt.

“I… sort of.” Her voice sounds shaky. Goddamn, and if life’s taught me anything it’s that emotional females aren’t conducive to reckless sex.

I take inventory of the situation: we’re on our way to the airport. To pick up Nadia, not Zoe. If there’s no sex within reach, I’ll probably explode.

Okay. Okay. We’re twenty-five minutes from the airport. Ninety minutes from the venue. Park the damn bus. Get into the gig. There are always girls loitering outside. I don’t usually look for my little mutual understanding before the after-party, but tonight will have to be an exception.

Aishe takes my face between her hands and holds me still. “Emil?”

I can’t meet her eyes. She’s too right here when I’m in need. I bite my lip like a pussy to hold back the panic building inside of me. This is why I write lyrics now, to get rid of stuff.

“What?” I clear my throat.

“Do you…”

I already know she’ll tread closer than she ever has. I close my eyes, not wanting this conversation. It’s not planned, but I end up stroking her nose with mine until our foreheads touch. I don’t prod Aishe to continue. I just tangle into soft hair, pulling her closer, as if she could provide the relief Zoe took with her when she left.

“Do you need me that much?”

It’s sad that I can’t say no. I should be a man and stand up straight, let her go, not weigh her down with my unfinished business. But I don’t, because Aishe’s some star, twinkling and as distant as one, while I’m an entitled prick who has lost someone irreplaceable.

There are surrogates everywhere. I don’t need to corrupt Aishe. In ninety minutes I can find someone to unleash my greed on. I tell myself this. And then I say, “Yeah.”

My admission is quiet, unmanly, spineless, and her hands slide into my hair and pull my head down over her. Backwards, she moves us onto the sectional. She forms to it with her body, and I’m heavy above her. She draws me closer until I cover her so completely the tip of her nose is all that’s escaping my embrace.

“Emil,” she whispers, her pitch a hiss of empathy while I work to find as much of her skin as I can. “You don’t believe it now, but time heals. I’m here. I can be what she doesn’t want to be. All you have to do is let me.”

AISHE

We’re at The
Polka Dot Inn. Which is the silliest name for a club ever. By mentioning this little fact, we’ve already attracted an extended rant from Troll. Apparently, The Polka Dot Inn is one of the oldest, most distinguished clubs in all of America, and now that they’ve raised a heated, outdoor theater, they can house big bands like Clown Irruption.

“We should all feel honored to be invited here,” Troll grumbled last night on the bus. And didn’t stop harping on it until bedtime. I think we’ve all learned to keep our mouths shut about The Polka Dot Inn.

The last few hours have been strange. Giant warning signals
beep
and flash in my brain, telling me to barge out of this situation. All I need is to switch bunks with Irene again, and I’ll be back in safety on the crew bus.

But my heart is expanding, craving deep conversations with my head. They want to discuss love, crazy love of the kind that feeds the plague, and sometimes my head feels too weak to put up a fight.

When Emil needed physical nearness so much his lip quivered, I told him it’s only a matter of time until he’s over Zoe. Me, of everyone, told him this.

Sometimes when I look at him, it’s hard to remember that he’s not of my people. Emil wasn’t born from love fire to love fire. For his frosted-over northern veins, it
is
true that he’ll be fine soon, and it’s not coercion to insist on it, to make him give
me
a chance over the memory of someone he couldn’t have. No, no, it isn’t, and I want that chance.

On the way to the airport, Emil and I had twenty-five minutes for me to release his tension. He shuddered in my hands, until I unzipped his pants and sat down on his lap. It didn’t take long for him to concentrate on our connection and forget about her.

Right now, I feel good. I’ve got my growing worry under control. My brain is there, and my heart doesn’t feel the phantom pains of a future heartache. I like this feeling.

We’ve all poured out of the buses and settled inside The Polka Dot, as the locals call it. Troll is running around yelling at staff, techs, and stagehands. The band chills in the green room, putting away sandwich meats without touching the bread and sipping the Mexican beer Elias got added to the hospitality rider.

I swallow, peeking at Emil through a curtain of hair. I lean my butt against a broken monitor that serves as a makeshift table. He’s animated now, not paying attention to me. Talking about a song he’s got half done. “A dark one,” he says.

That’s the thing about artists; if they’re thrown off emotionally, it doesn’t stop them from communicating in their chosen ways. And if you care for them, what they share can hurt. I want him to write songs like “The Entertainer” again.

Nadia is here, eyes soft, leaning against her man. Entwined, their arms rest around her waist, the two of them facing a gesticulating Emil. Our lead singer is a burst of energy, himself, the only way I knew him in the beginning. His stare glitters with enthusiasm.