by Paula Stokes
“Love you too,” I say. Instinctively. Without thinking.
And then, as the next song begins in a flurry of angry chords, I wonder: If you say something without thinking, does that make it . . . thoughtless?
Maybe Amber isn’t the only one who’s changed.
No, that’s crazy. We might be struggling a little bit, but I still love her—I know I do. I’m not phoning it in. I’m not taking her for granted. Maybe we throw those words around a little too much so they’ve lost meaning. But the feelings behind them are still there.
Aren’t they?
For the next few minutes, the guitarist and lead singer of Bottlegrate walk circles around the stage, and I walk circles around the idea that Amber and I are broken. Things were fine before she went away. Things were fine while she was gone. But since she got back, everything has seemed a little off. A little . . . different. She’s a little different. But different doesn’t have to mean bad, does it?
Amber squeezes my hand as the song ends. “I’m so glad you came.”
This time I swallow back the automatic reply. “Yeah,” I say finally—an affirmation of nothing. Amber doesn’t seem to notice.
After the concert, we all head back to the hotel—Amber and me in one cab and the rest of the guys in the other.
“You were fantastic,” I tell her, a little gushy. Trying to make up for thoughts that feel like a betrayal. “‘Wake Up Dreaming’ gets better every time I hear it.”
She grins. “You’re just saying that.”
I tuck a sweaty lock of white-blonde hair behind her ear. “No I’m not.” I wrap my arm around her and pull her in close. “You’re the best.”
She buries her face in my chest. “You’re the best too.”
I press my lips to the crown of her head. See? Fine. Everything is fine.
So why do I feel so phony? Amber slides the cab driver a couple of twenties when we reach the hotel. I follow her inside to her room. It’s not quite rock-star quality but it’s got a huge king-sized bed and a giant flat-screen TV on the wall.
“I feel really sticky and gross.” She gestures toward the bathroom. “I’m going to take a quick shower, okay?”
“Want company?” I cringe inwardly at my own words. I’m still trying to convince myself that nothing is wrong. But that’s bullshit. Something is messed up and whatever it is, hooking up won’t make it go away.
“Maybe,” she says, a slow smile spreading across her face.
But then her phone buzzes with a text. For once, I’m actually kind of relieved.
“Shit.” She turns away from me and digs it out of her purse. “Looks like our shower is going to have to wait.”
“Why? What now?”
“Janne wants us all to come to his suite for a little after-party.”
“So tell him we’ll drop by later.”
She gives me a look like this is another one of those times when it’s best not to argue with Janne. Again, I can’t reconcile this new obedient Amber with the impulsive girl she used to be. I get that she doesn’t want to mess up her chance at making it big, but shouldn’t it be about the music? Does she really have to jump through every damn hoop some record company douchebag holds in front of her?
“Come on.” She looks pleadingly at me. “We’ll only stay twenty minutes, I promise. He probably just wants to show me off to some reporters or something.”
“Fine.” I glance at myself in the mirror, mopping some sweat from my forehead and spiking my hair back up with my fingers. “Let’s get it over with.”
Janne’s room is almost rock-star-ish, with glass and metal furniture and a Jacuzzi in the bathroom. By the time Amber and I arrive, the other members of Arachne’s Revenge are already there, along with what looks like half of Chicago.
“There she is.” Janne twines an arm through Amber’s. “Come on. There’s a guy from Rolling Stone here that I want you to meet.” He points across the crowded room. She gives me an apologetic look over her shoulder as Janne tows her toward the back of the sunken living room.
I watch as a throng of studded leather and expensive suits swallow her up. The rest of the guests mill around, chatting loudly and intellectualizing about the modern art hanging from the hotel suite’s walls. Once again, I’m surrounded but completely alone.
Sighing, I step out onto the balcony for some fresh air. Amber’s drummer, Eli, is out here too. He’s leaning over the railing, staring out into the night.
“Some party,” I say, pulling my cigs from my pocket.
“Yeah,” Eli says.
The single word hangs between us for a few moments. I light up and inhale deeply. “Heard you might end up quitting the band.”
“Commuting to practice from Stanford is going to be kind of tough,” he says. “Besides, this is more Amber’s dream than mine.” Eli’s gray eyes study me thoughtfully. “I’d ask where she was, but I’m sure I know.”
“Janne? Is he an asshole?”
“Kind of. But he’s a rich, connected asshole.”
“He talks about her like she’s meat, you know?”
“Yeah.” Eli rattles out a soft drum solo on the balcony railing. He’s got a Roman-numeral eight tattooed on his left hand with a blade through the middle.
It reminds me of one of Stacee’s tattoos. When I get home, I should probably get around to emailing her back. Or else deleting her email. I’m still undecided on that.
“You don’t need to worry though,” Eli continues. “He’s not hitting on her or anything.”
“What about Nate?”
“He’s not hitting on Nate either,” Eli says in a perfectly deadpan voice.
He catches me mid-inhale and I choke on a mouthful of smoke. “You know what I mean,” I say, once I quit coughing.
Eli shrugs. “Nate hits on everything that’s remotely female. I try to stay out of his drama.”
I pick this moment to glance back inside. Amber is tucked into the far corner of the living room, watching the people mill past her. Nate cuts through the crowd with two glasses of wine. He reaches her side and offers one to her. I wait for her to reject it, but to my surprise she takes it from his outstretched hand and swirls the wine around in the glass like she’s some kind of expert.
“Wish I could do the same,” I say wryly. “Talk to you later.”
I duck back inside and stroll casually up to them. “What’s going on, guys?” I ask loudly. Amber jumps and nearly spills her wine. I slip the glass out of her fingertips.
“Hey, boss,” Nate says. “No need to share drinks.” He gestures toward a server dressed all in black patrolling the living room with a tray of wineglasses. “Plenty for everyone.”
The fingers of my other hand curl into a fist. I resist the urge to punch him in the face. “We’re good,” I say, just as Amber says, “I can get my own.” She turns toward the server.
I grab her arm. “Since when do you drink?”
She shrugs. “I don’t think one glass is going to hurt anyone.”
Nate looks back and forth between us, his dark eyes curious. “It’s a party. Why not let your girlfriend have a little fun,” he says. “No need to be such a Boy Scout.”
“Yeah.” I smile tightly, wishing I hadn’t promised Amber I wouldn’t start anything tonight. “Actually, I’m going to need to borrow my girlfriend for a few minutes.” I tug Amber toward the balcony. Nate follows us. I hold up a hand. “Sorry. Scout meeting. You’re not invited.”
“Micah,” Amber warns. “You said you wouldn’t—”
“I just need a word.” I step back out into the night. Eli takes one look at us and decides to duck back inside. I shut the French doors behind him.
Amber backs up against the railing, her arms crossed over her chest. Behind her, the Chicago skyline glitters in the night. A soft breeze blows the bottom of her dress around her legs. She gathers the fabric in one hand.
“So,” I start. “Pick up any new habits while you were in Cali?”
“Jesus, Micah.�
�� She rolls her eyes. “Hypocrite much? I mean, you drink!”
“No one in my family is a recovering alcoholic,” I point out.
“One drink is not going to turn me into my dad,” she says. “It’s no big deal.”
“It used to be a big deal. If it’s not now, how come you didn’t tell me?”
“Maybe I didn’t want you to worry about me while I was away.”
“But you’ve been back in town for over a week.” When she doesn’t respond I continue. “Come on, Amber. I thought you weren’t a sheep.”
She lifts her chin defiantly. “I’m feeling like you just want me to be your sheep instead of anyone else’s.” Her voice takes on a sharp edge and for the first time in a month, I see a hint of the old Amber in her.
I lift up my hands in surrender. “Hey. You’re a big girl. I’m just a little worried.”
“That’s sweet, but I’m fine, really,” Amber says. “Everyone in the music industry drinks, okay? It helps take the edge off. Maybe you don’t get it.”
“Right,” I say tersely. “Because your life is so much edgier than mine.”
“I don’t really know what your life is like, Micah, because suddenly you don’t talk to me anymore.”
“That’s because you can’t go a whole minute without checking your phone.” Now I’m the one raising my voice. A couple of people just inside the balcony pause their conversation to look out at us.
“It’s not my fault I have obligations now.”
“You don’t have to jump every time someone tells you to,” I say. “You used to think for yourself.”
“And look where that got me,” she says. “Suspended. Juvie. I finally have a chance to be someone now.”
“Yeah. I’m just wondering if it’s someone you actually want to be.”
Amber bites her lip. “Look,” she says, catching a glimpse of the people staring at us. “I know you don’t like these people. I shouldn’t have brought you here. Why don’t you head back to the room and I’ll meet you after I make rounds and say good-bye? We can talk in private.” The breeze whips her hair back from her face.
I watch the tendrils of blonde dance on the wind. “I’m not just going to leave you here alone with a bunch of predators, especially if you’re going to drink.”
“I won’t drink, okay? And I’m not alone,” she reminds me. “The guys will look out for me.”
Ouch. “Yeah, I’m sure Nate will be all over that job,” I mutter.
“I already told you, there’s nothing going on with him.” She huffs. “Your jealousy is getting old.”
“Fine. See you later.” I yank open the French doors that lead back into the suite. She’s right—about everything. She’s not alone. It’s not my job to tell her what to do. And like she said, I definitely don’t like these people. “Be careful,” I say. Then I leave her on the balcony.
Back in the room, I flop down on the king-sized bed and try not to feel like a total asshole for leaving Amber upstairs. I debate going back, but between Janne and Nate, someone would probably get punched if I do, and even though I’m pissed at her, I don’t want to break a promise.
What I really want to do is leave. I check the bus and train schedules on my phone, but of course nothing is departing for St. Louis before six a.m. and I don’t have enough cash with me to pay for either fare. My mom would probably come get me if I called her, but she’d never let me hear the end of it.
I exhale deeply and roll onto my side. Amber’s luggage is tossed haphazardly around the room—a matching suitcase and overnight bag. They’re made of bright blue canvas with navy trim. They look like some other girl’s stuff, one more thing someone else picked out for her. Everything about Amber seems like some other girl’s stuff now. Why can’t she see that?
I watch the clock for a few minutes and then decide to jump in the shower. Hopefully she’ll be back by the time I’m done. I slide off the bed and grab my own overnight bag—a plain black backpack with rock band patches sewn onto it by my sister. I have to say, it looks exactly like me.
My brain spins as the hot water courses down over my face. Her retort to my sheep comment stung a little. Am I just like Nate and Janne, trying to tell her what to do? No, that’s bullshit. I’m allowed to be worried about her drinking and pretending it’s no big deal, when she’s always said she’d never drink. I don’t know the whole story with her dad, but I know she’s got some messed-up memories because of his issues.
I think of my sister’s accusation, that I manage to screw things up for myself every April 5th. But this isn’t about that either. I may have done dumb things in the past, but I’m not sabotaging my relationship with Amber. This is about her changing, not about me being stuck on infinite repeat.
Chapter 11
I turn off the water and step out of the shower onto the cold tile floor. I dry off with one of the hotel’s big fluffy towels and then change into a pair of gym shorts and a T-shirt.
I hear the door to the hotel room open. Amber’s back. I push my wet hair out of my eyes and grab my toothbrush from my toiletry bag. I brush vigorously and then spit my toothpaste into the sink. Taking a deep breath, I stroll casually out of the bathroom to face her.
“Hey,” she says. Her eyes are red and her shoulders slump forward. She looks like she’s going to fall asleep before she even makes it to the bed.
“Hey, yourself.” I sit on the edge of the bed and motion for her to sit next to me. “Let’s talk.”
She perches on the edge of the bed and buries her face in my chest. “I don’t want to talk,” she says. “I just want to be with you.”
“We have to stop pretending everything is fine.” I push her hair back from her face and look down at her.
Amber pulls away. “What’s gotten into you lately? You’re the last guy I expected to go all self-righteous on me. I thought your official position was to live and let live.”
“Not drinking was a big deal to you, Amber. And now suddenly it’s not. I get that your world is bigger now, but what’s next? Coke? Heroin? Am I going to hear about you overdosing on the news?”
“Why are you being so dramatic? Everyone drinks.”
“I don’t care about everyone. I care about you. Sorry if I sound like a total Boy Scout, but I already have to worry about the band coming between us and you fending off Nate’s advances on tour.”
“Micah, I—”
I hold up a hand. “No. It’s fine. I can deal with that, because I love you and I trust you. The band is your future. You should be putting it ahead of me.” I shrug helplessly. “I hope you guys make it. I’m just not sure what that means for us. I feel like I want the old Amber back and you want me to be fine with the new Amber . . .” I trail off. Suddenly I realize I’ve been doing the exact same dance with my mom—me trying to keep everything exactly the same as it was when my dad was alive and her trying to pretend everything is fine the way it is now.
“I’m still me,” Amber says.
“Are you?” I gesture at her dress. “Your clothes are different. Your attitude is different. You’re losing weight you don’t need to lose. And now you’re drinking. I can’t handle worrying about you coming home from every trip as a totally different person.”
Amber leans her head against my shoulder, oblivious to my thoughts. “You’re probably right about the drinking. It was just easier to go with the flow than try to explain myself. It was easier to . . . fit in.”
“You’re the lead singer. You’re supposed to stand out.”
Her lips curl into a tentative grin. “Good point.” She sighs. But I can’t do this music thing and feel like I’m disappointing you if I don’t stay exactly the same.” Her smile vanishes. “This is a big deal. Even if it weren’t a big deal, people change, you know? That’s life.”
“Yeah, but it’s one thing for you to change and another for you to let other people tell you who to be.”
“I don’t even know who I want to be, Micah. I just know I need to be free to figure i
t out.”
Her words punch me in the gut. “That sounds like you’re breaking up with me,” I say, my voice going hoarse. Part of me knew earlier in the evening that this is how things would play out, but I guess I didn’t want to believe it.
“I don’t want to, but look at us. When did it get so hard to talk to each other?”
When you went away, I think. When your band became your first love and your cell phone became your best friend. You blew me off twice. But I don’t say any of that, because maybe it’s not true. Maybe there were problems earlier that I just refused to notice. Either way, there’s no point in assigning blame.
With one finger, Amber traces the noose tattoo peeping out from beneath my barbed-wire bracelet. “Why didn’t you tell me about the other night? About it being the night your dad died.” When I don’t say anything, she keeps going. “Trinity called me. What I don’t get is why I had to hear it from her.”
“I tried. I couldn’t make the words come out.” I pull my wrist free of her grip. “And then you kept getting all those damn texts.”
“What about now?” She peers at me through a curtain of white-blonde hair. “Can you make the words come out now?”
“Would it make a difference?”
“I’d feel like you trust me,” she says. “No matter what we decide, I still want you in my life. I want to be there for you.”
“What is it exactly that you want to hear?” My voice hardens. “You want to hear about the blood? About the pitiful way everyone looked at me after it happened? About how the cops had to lure me into the back room of the store so I didn’t end up watching them put my dad in a body bag?”
“I want to know why you blame yourself.”
“Because it was my fault,” I practically shout. My hands curl into fists. “I’m the whole reason that night happened.”
Chapter 12
April 5, six years ago
It was warm for April and the Pageant was packed. Hangman’s Joke opened for Roadkill, a local St. Louis band. Mom drove me there as usual, but she wanted to leave after Hangman’s set because she had to be up early the next day.
