about grief and not-grief and feeling like there’s something evil inside you that keeps you from feeling things you should feel.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets, fluttered them around for a few seconds like he didn’t know what to do with them, then put them back in his pockets. “Besides, it would have killed my mom. To hear what I thought of it all.”
“Is that when you joined up with the band?” It seemed like a safe question.
“When I was fourteen, I went to this place where local musicians played,” he said, almost like he hadn’t heard my question. “Just a coffeehouse, really low-key. And there was this guy on stage with a guitar and a microphone and he was amazing. He said he wrote all the songs he was singing and everything he did had so much soul and emotion to it, and I just stood there with my mouth open.”
“That was who? Eric?” I turned down yet another street and sped up. It was getting even colder, so I wanted to get home.
He smiled. “Yeah. And after the show I went and talked to him. He asked me if I could play the bass and I lied and said I could even though I’d never played bass before. I figured if I could handle six strings, I could handle four.”
“How’d that work out?” I asked, my lips quirking up into a tiny little smile of their own accord.
“Pretty well, I guess,” he said. “I’ve been playing bass ever since.”
“Do you ever play a six-string anymore?”
“Sometimes.” He frowned. “Although I guess those days are over.”
I frowned too. “Sorry, man.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets as we walked. “I think that’s even worse than not having sex again.”
We’d made it to my apartment building, but I paused in front of the outer door and looked at him. “For real?”
He gave it some more thought. “Yeah. Definitely.”
“Wow.” I tried to think of something else to add but came up empty, so I turned around and put my key in the door and shuffled inside with Chris at my heels. “Why’s that?”
“Music literally saved my life,” he answered. “I mean, that’s cliché and cheesy as hell, but it’s true. I was lost and I didn’t know what to do. The guitar and the band gave me a purpose and a voice that I didn’t have before.”
“I guess I get that.” I headed up the stairs toward my apartment door. “It must be nice to have a purpose.”
“It is,” he said, then grunted softly. “Well, it was. Before I blew it.”
“Because you died?” I unlocked my door, but I wasn’t quite ready to go inside, so I paused with my hand on the doorknob and waited for his answer.
“Because I let some dumb shit come between me and Eric,” he said. “Well, me and the rest of the band, too. But especially between me and Eric.”
“And so . . . you stopped being friends?” I ran my hand over the doorknob absently.
“We were going to break up,” he muttered, staring at the floor.
I blinked. “You and Eric were . . .” What did the gays like to call it these days? Boyfriends? Partners? I wasn’t sure.
He looked at me, his forehead wrinkled, and then his eyes went wide. “Oh. No, me and the band . The band was breaking up.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to keep my embarrassed cringing internal-only. “Well. Okay. Carmen would have hated to hear that.”
“The girlfriend?” he asked, then kept talking before I could answer. “Well, she doesn’t have to worry anymore. Not now that Nathan Vale is rocking the arenas better than I ever could.”
I shrugged. “He’s not better than you. At least not from what I’ve heard.”
Chris raised an eyebrow at me. “Thanks for the compliment,” he said, in a voice that clearly indicated that he did not think it was a compliment.
“No, I was being serious,” I insisted. “I was reading articles about it after you died, and they all said that he was, you know, decent. Passable. But people said he didn’t have your, you know, passion. You know.” Ugh, could I have thrown
“Is that when you joined up with the band?” It seemed like a safe question.
“When I was fourteen, I went to this place where local musicians played,” he said, almost like he hadn’t heard my question. “Just a coffeehouse, really low-key. And there was this guy on stage with a guitar and a microphone and he was amazing. He said he wrote all the songs he was singing and everything he did had so much soul and emotion to it, and I just stood there with my mouth open.”
“That was who? Eric?” I turned down yet another street and sped up. It was getting even colder, so I wanted to get home.
He smiled. “Yeah. And after the show I went and talked to him. He asked me if I could play the bass and I lied and said I could even though I’d never played bass before. I figured if I could handle six strings, I could handle four.”
“How’d that work out?” I asked, my lips quirking up into a tiny little smile of their own accord.
“Pretty well, I guess,” he said. “I’ve been playing bass ever since.”
“Do you ever play a six-string anymore?”
“Sometimes.” He frowned. “Although I guess those days are over.”
I frowned too. “Sorry, man.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets as we walked. “I think that’s even worse than not having sex again.”
We’d made it to my apartment building, but I paused in front of the outer door and looked at him. “For real?”
He gave it some more thought. “Yeah. Definitely.”
“Wow.” I tried to think of something else to add but came up empty, so I turned around and put my key in the door and shuffled inside with Chris at my heels. “Why’s that?”
“Music literally saved my life,” he answered. “I mean, that’s cliché and cheesy as hell, but it’s true. I was lost and I didn’t know what to do. The guitar and the band gave me a purpose and a voice that I didn’t have before.”
“I guess I get that.” I headed up the stairs toward my apartment door. “It must be nice to have a purpose.”
“It is,” he said, then grunted softly. “Well, it was. Before I blew it.”
“Because you died?” I unlocked my door, but I wasn’t quite ready to go inside, so I paused with my hand on the doorknob and waited for his answer.
“Because I let some dumb shit come between me and Eric,” he said. “Well, me and the rest of the band, too. But especially between me and Eric.”
“And so . . . you stopped being friends?” I ran my hand over the doorknob absently.
“We were going to break up,” he muttered, staring at the floor.
I blinked. “You and Eric were . . .” What did the gays like to call it these days? Boyfriends? Partners? I wasn’t sure.
He looked at me, his forehead wrinkled, and then his eyes went wide. “Oh. No, me and the band . The band was breaking up.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to keep my embarrassed cringing internal-only. “Well. Okay. Carmen would have hated to hear that.”
“The girlfriend?” he asked, then kept talking before I could answer. “Well, she doesn’t have to worry anymore. Not now that Nathan Vale is rocking the arenas better than I ever could.”
I shrugged. “He’s not better than you. At least not from what I’ve heard.”
Chris raised an eyebrow at me. “Thanks for the compliment,” he said, in a voice that clearly indicated that he did not think it was a compliment.
“No, I was being serious,” I insisted. “I was reading articles about it after you died, and they all said that he was, you know, decent. Passable. But people said he didn’t have your, you know, passion. You know.” Ugh, could I have thrown
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