“I have to go to bed,” I said.
“Okay,” he replied, and I wondered if he’d been hit with a feeling similar to the one I’d just had. We looked at each other for another moment, and I felt myself wishing hard that this was different. Just for a second. I wished I was different or he was. I held my breath, admiring his long hair, his smooth skin, his blue eyes fixed on me, holding each other’s gaze for longer than we ever would again, because you can’t make eye contact for any real length of time with someone you don’t have stupid romantic feelings for. But then we looked away. He resumed his conversation with the other guy, and I got up and went to the bus. I felt a burning in my eyes as I crossed the parking lot. There was a little lump in my throat. When I swallowed, it turned into a quiet ache in my stomach. And that was the end of the closest thing to romance I’ve ever had.
FIFTY
I isolated myself as Fern came out of her shell. She’d go out with the other bands, truly making an effort to become the belle of the ball. I’d slump in my jammies, peeking out through the bus’s blinds to watch her cavort in the parking lot, arm-in-arm with Edgar, with Socks; somehow even making that douchebag Chick laugh, and a few times I saw her approach Marie-Lise, with a nice result. It probably sounds creepy or crazy, or like I was jealous or something, doing this, watching her, but you have to understand just how happy she was. She had been so off, so disconnected, so far gone from who she had been for so long. Those two worthless guys were dead, and as a result, she was becoming creative, happy, alive again. It was so jarring, but nobody really seemed eager to question what was behind it.
Chris basically stayed on his bus as well. With only a few weeks left, a feeling seemed to overtake the tour — that anxiety of being almost done, being close to finished. I’d play the show, go back to my bunk, try to sleep. So did Edgar. A lot of people did — it seemed like a split: you either wanted to party more and make the most of the last weeks, or withdraw early.
I was afraid of going home. I hadn’t talked to my parents in a long time, and the thought of going back to that little house — with Mom’s paintings on the walls and Dad’s books and Melissa’s sweet face and my little bedroom — scared me. I didn’t feel like I should be there anymore. Like I wasn’t the same person. They wouldn’t know me anymore — but I guess they hadn’t for a long time, anyway.
I toyed with the idea of asking Fern if she wanted to get a place together, or maybe I could move into Socks’s basement and sleep on the couch or something. I didn’t have a lot of money. I know Socks was looking ahead, into more touring. I just didn’t want to go back to the room where I had slept when I was a little kid after everything that had happened. I didn’t want to go home.