In the Absence of You

by Sunniva Dee

  We’re at the Olympia show when I corner Zoe. Nadia’s in the bathroom, and Bo’s instructing his tech on the new strings he’s testing out. Zoe saw me coming, so she sped up, trying to get away from me, but before she reaches the backstage exit, I’m there, taller than her, more desperate than her.

  “Zee, please! Listen to me.”

  She wiggles to get past me. I can’t physically hold her back, because my feisty one would scream until someone came and interrupted us. My only chance is to speak fast.

  “It didn’t happen the way she wrote it. That bitch lied. She stayed on the bus with us for several days, right, because she was writing an article about Clown Irruption. She’d be all flirty with me, but I—you can ask Bo—all I wanted was for you to call me back. It was when you were mad about the pictures you saw of the opening act vocalist and me, remember? You kept yelling and hanging up on me.”

  She shoves me in the chest. Any touch of hers feels electric right now. “Get the fuck off of me, Emil. There’s no excuse, ever, for having sex with someone other than your girlfriend. That’s a pitiful little life you’ll get to live without me. Sure, I loved you, but I can turn that stuff off.”

  Small and furious, she’s got eyes that funnel pain at me. She smacks my hand when I lift it to touch her cheek. Then she walks off.

  “Zoe. Wait!”

  Halfway up the stairs, she swivels and glares at me. “For what, asshole? My mother took that crap from my father. Did I ever tell you that he had a mistress? For a decade?”

  “No, I—”

  “Everyone in town knew about them, even my mom. I overheard husbands laugh at what a lucky ‘dog’ my father was. I overheard wives feeling sorry for my mother, and see, that’s never going to happen to me. I’m not my mom, and you, Emil, had your one shot.”

  “I didn’t! You didn’t give me a chance. You haven’t even heard me out.”

  “Like you deserve it?”

  “Don’t we deserve it?” I ask, my pitch breaking and turning gravelly.

  “You deserve nothing right now, Emil, not even the whores you sleep with, but what I deserve is someone who loves me and only has eyes for me. Someone who’d never be tempted by another woman’s body.”

  “But I wasn’t tempted! The only thing interesting about Georgiana was her mind. She totally got the band and what we’re trying to do. It was only after a few drinks that she started flirting.”

  “And you’re not to blame at all? Are you saying she never sucked you off?” She’s five steps up, and I follow her. Why is Aishe at the top of the stairs?

  “No, I’m not saying that, but—”

  “Thanks, that’s all the explanation I needed. Now, get. The fuck. Away from me.” She inadvertently shows me her face before she runs off, two steps at a time, and her eyes are dissolving in watery, black mascara.

  I’m frozen at the bottom of the stairs, blinking to keep my vision from blurring. Bo’s guitar sieves out from backstage, like nothing occurred, like I didn’t just waste my only chance to explain myself.

  I’m not getting Zoe back. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t win against convictions that are cemented in the past.

  Midway up the aisle stands Aishe. She waits there, quiet and still. I blink back the burn in my eyes and meet her stare. She’s undaunted. Unsurprised.

  “Zoe’s gone,” I croak. Lift my shoulders in a helpless shrug. “Forever.”

  Aishe descends slowly. She closes the distance between us. The red feathers are back in her hair, and she’s wearing a Gypsy skirt. Aishe is a feast for any sad fucker’s eyes as well as for his hands. I know this.

  “Why do you still care so much, Emil? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  I chuckle out air without sound. “Because there’s nothing about her I can forget.”

  AISHE

  It’s a strange thing to watch someone like they’re a heartbreaking movie. You’re invested. You want to bawl on the protagonist’s behalf, but in my case, I’m watching life—real life. Nadia and Bo are accompanying Zoe to the checkin at the airport. What makes my heart shatter is the boy who slinks off the bus after them.

  Emil didn’t even get to say goodbye. I want to say it’s because she’s an evil bitch, but if I’m honest I think it’s because she loves him like mad. Emil is brave. He remains cocooned in the disaster of loving someone who’s hell-bent on ignoring him. It’s not healthy to be this brave.

  See me instead.

  Travelers watch him from the corner of their eyes. Whisper to each other, wondering if it’s really him. Is it Emil, the singer of Clown Irruption? Is it? “Probably not. He has cooler hair, and why would he be here?”

  He doesn’t pay attention to the onlookers as he stalks onto the curb. He enters the building, fists digging into the pockets of his jeans as he pushes through the doors. I know what he’s doing. Emil is getting a last glimpse, drinking belated sips of her even if she doesn’t reciprocate. Just—

  Just the way I do with him.

  I scrunch my eyes shut before I open them and give in to reality. I’m smitten, a word usually so harmless and sweet. It’s not harmless for me; if the plague gets you, you’re smitten in a way that is lethal.

  Winter-cool Emil from that country bordering Santa’s land, does he have a heart so big it burns with the insistence of a love fire?

  If he does, he’s squandering it; his love fire should be for me. Maybe it is, that he simply doesn’t know it yet? I pull in air so deep my chest feels like it’s expanding for the first time. I might not have breathed much during the days with Zoe on the bus.

  “Open again?” I ask of our driver. He bobs his chin and poofs the doors wide. I’m wearing stilettos but manage a stealthy touchdown on the sidewalk. I’m not sure what my plan is. With Troy’s attention on me through the window, I’m self-conscious and in need of an excuse.

  I’ll go in and buy magazines.

  I tap through the front doors. Emil’s standing by a column in the middle of the room, all of his focus on Zoe at the checkin counter. A teenaged girl approaches him. She’s unsure at first, but then she goes for it and speaks up. Emil nods once and signs something she holds out.

  His hands go back into his pockets once she leaves. Shoulders lift and sink in defeat, and I can’t take it anymore. I walk up to him. Stroke a hand over the small of his back as Zoe walks, arm around her friend, to security.

  I’ve seen him with tears in his eyes several times over the last few days. This isn’t one of those days. Emil looks shell-shocked, numb, like he can’t believe what’s happening to him. His eyes are so wide I fear his reaction once the truth sets in. Because again she’s left him.

  “It’s like she’s doing it all over again,” he whispers what I think, and my heart twinges. “Wow. I’d have never guessed it could happen twice with the same girl.” He lets out an incredulous chuckle. “Fuck, Aishe. She kills me.”

  I slip my arm around his middle, and he accepts, a heavy hand crossing my shoulder. He pulls me in. I wanted him to pull me in. I feel better when he holds me like he doesn’t want to let go of me.

  There’s a sob above me, puffing into my hair. I don’t look up. Silently, he lets his grief out, behind a column, in private, hiding against me and hugging me close. I lace tighter around him, drawing myself in with my cheek to his chest. I close my eyes—reality can’t beat this embrace with my love fire; I’m helping him let go and open to a better life.

  I don’t know how long we stand like this. I don’t care, because it’s all I want. I’ve longed for this hold. I’ve missed him while he missed her. Now it’s our turn again, and I’d give him the sun if I could.

  “Oh Emil.” Nadia’s choked outburst wakes me from my pained bliss. She strokes his arm and hugs him from behind. “We won’t have her come out again while we tour. I promise you. It’s horrible for both of you.”

  Emil shakes his head, unable to speak.

  “I’m sorry, Emil,” Bo murmurs.

  My plague doesn’t reply
. But he swings us sideways so we can walk out to the bus again with my body pressed to his side.

  “No,” Bo says. “No, no. No way are we playing eight sad-as-shit songs in a row because you’re in a mood. And we’re not bringing Ingela’s song back into rotation. Fuck no. Nadia doesn’t deserve it. She’ll never hear us play that song again.”

  “Then I’m not going onstage.”

  The crew and stagehands from the new venue are loading gear into the locale. “The Black Orchid” sounds like a strip club or a crime novel, not the huge, beautiful concert hall we’re in.

  I’m not giving a damn about Shandor’s glare when I squeeze Emil’s shoulder reassuringly. I can’t change Emil’s mind, but I can lend support and wordlessly tell him that I support him no matter what.

  Troll is at his most Zen. His whole body radiates calm conviction when he says, “Bo has a point. The house is sold out, and every single person here is your fan. You don’t want to let them down because you’re in a mood. Remember, they’re young, they’ve scraped together for these tickets, and they’re not cheap. My bet is many of the kids buzzing out there can’t afford a lot of concerts.”

  “So I’m not allowed to have a sick day?” Emil shouts.

  “Not at the expense of six thousand people, you aren’t,” Bo says, eyes darkening. It’s not a good sign.

  “Yeah? Watch me. I’m about to walk right out of here, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. I’ll check myself into a hotel and drink and watch TV all night—because I feel fucking sick!”

  “You are sick, Emil, and guess what we’ll do?” Muscles bounce in Bo’s jaw while he suppresses his anger. “This is as good a place as any to get you to a doctor.”

  “What?” Emil’s eyes widen next to me.

  “Bo. Dude.” The surprise in Elias’ gaze is real, and the way Bo’s lips prune with determination makes my heart skip.

  “No, it’s time,” Bo says. “I love you, man, and you need professional help. What if a pill is all you need to return to you?”

  “Oh fuck no.” Emil’s chair tips over as he stands, glaring at his best friend. Despair and fury war in his eyes. “I need no vet to be me. This is me, dude. Take me or leave me the hell behind—what do I care.”

  Standing, they face off, stare meeting stare and not giving. Emil’s arms rise, fists clenching, while Bo’s remain tense by his sides.

  “You feel better when you perform,” I interrupt. I pull myself close to Emil, mouth pressed to his arm as I say it. Bo’s eyes leave Emil’s. They flick to Troll’s. Tense against my chin, my plague doesn’t answer me.

  “I’ve seen you go onstage tired, launch into ‘The Entertainer,’ and hop off happy and full of energy an hour and a half later,” I murmur, voice shaky with the stress surrounding me.

  Bo picks up where I leave off. “Yeah. You’re awesome on ‘The Entertainer.’” As he speaks, Bo’s gaze returns to its customary unperturbed ice. “There’re meds, and then there’s ‘The Entertainer.’ Both good options.” What Bo’s saying sounds a lot like an ultimatum.

  Emil gets it as well. Air sloshes in and out of his lungs too fast. “Okay. On one condition,” he barks. “We send a runner out for a revolver.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. A revolver. I’m gonna play Russian roulette in front of the audience during the chorus of the song. You know: ‘—and if you’re bored when I’m done, I’ll shoot a bullet through my head for your—En-ter-tainment,’” he adds, in case we’re in doubt.

  Ice fills my stomach. “You want to play what?”

  “Not with real bullets. Blanks, which means there’s nothing in the gun. They’re just a lot of sound and no action,” Emil says, not meeting my eyes.

  Troll and Bo exchange a look. Bo bobs his head once, and Troll’s attention returns to Emil. “All right. Bo and I make tonight’s set list. We send a runner off for your stage prop, and you sing whatever we present to you.”

  “I want ‘Bullshit’ on the list,” Emil says, cute and petulant instead of furious. It’s better.

  “All right. ‘Bullshit’ is on. Now, scram,” Troll mutters. “Go grab a beer or something.”

  And Emil does.

  I have never seen a better show. I am in awe of Emil—he’s like fireworks on a black sky, giving his all, washing everything he feels out over the audience.

  It was wise to keep the sad songs to a minimum. “Bullshit” might be the least sad of the ballads he wanted because it’s replete with anger too. There’s no doubt that the song is about Zoe, about how she gave up on him before he was ready, and how he doesn’t understand why.

  The fans connect with the unfairness, with his rage, and they bounce and shout along to another tune gone viral before it’s even recorded. The lyrics cause a small riot in the mosh pit, where incensed guys shove each other and girls stumble and fall. Thankfully, security is thick and handles it with efficiency.

  Bo is a genius. It’s on purpose when “The Entertainer” erupts immediately following “Bullshit,” calling Emil out of his despair and easing joy back into the audience. Tonight, Emil wears an old-fashioned boxer’s robe in red silk. It’s open in the front, over his bare runner’s torso, draping down past ripped jeans that are bottomed off with Nikes. On the first cry for an entertainer’s attention, he tears the robe off, lets it fly and land in a heap at his feet.

  He’s got the revolver in his back pocket. I wonder if his fans see it while he rocks his hips, leans his head back, and snarls into the mic.

  I’m perched on a stool next to Troll in the sound booth. Between the stage and us, the black outline of thousands of arms rise toward the ceiling, waving and showing the V-sign.

  The spectators go where he takes them. They’re under his spell, cheering, singing along. Sucked in by Emil’s charisma and his blatant mood change, they’re reaching for a new euphoria.

  “Are you—

  “Are you—

  “Are you—entertained?”

  Harder, wilder, louder, Troy’s drums boom.

  “Or is it time—

  “Is it time—

  “To get—

  “Fucking—

  “Serious?”

  Troll gestures to Shandor on monitors, who bobs his head, lifting a thumb. A steady rhythm vibrates through the floor, Troy’s drums expanding and filling my body. They build a frenzy in the audience, in me, in the front man onstage who’s lifting a gun in the air, waving it slowly. He points to the ceiling. Points at Bo who winks in response. And as the song ends on the final chorus, Emil points it to his temple and sinks to his knees.

  He swings his head and meets Troy’s gaze. The beat of the song slows down, slows down, until it’s nothing but a deep, sluggish heartbeat accentuated by Bo’s guitar and Elias’ wet bass line.

  “Ah…” Emil starts, roving over his fans with semi-closed eyes. The spotlights hone in, finding a playful glint in his gaze.

  Tuned in, the fans know they’re in for a show. They quiet down, a few squeals for more breaking their silence. Though I know what Emil is about to do, my pulse skyrockets, fear and anticipation mixing in my veins.

  What if it’s not just blanks in that gun?

  What if he really does it?

  No. Troll and Bo would never leave him alone with a loaded revolver. I inhale courage and swap a glance with Nadia onstage. She sends me a smile I can read from here. It’s encouraging. Telling me he’ll be fine.

  “Ah… ah… I should just do it,” Emil moans, puckering his lips on the microphone and making my nipples contract. “Why don’t I just—”

  “Shoot a bullet through my head for your—

  “En-

  “Ter-

  “Tainment!”

  He screams the words out as Troy speeds into a barrage on the drums. The audience shouts along, euphoric, until the music freezes and a gunshot explodes onstage.

  There’s smoke.

  We don’t use smoke for our shows? No. No.

  Emil slumps
to the ground sideways, awkwardly, unnaturally. For a second, the revolver hangs from a finger, swinging, until it too falls to the ground.

  No one moves. The stage is frozen in time, but the audience, the audience erupts in howls of horror.

  Where’s the blood? I think before Emil sets a foot under himself. Precarious, wobbly, he raises his body from the floor, sweat-soaked chest heaving with exertion. Head forward, his hair covers his forehead, concealing his eyes.

  The spotlights must have been dimmed too, because now they illuminate Emil gradually until his body glistens white in the full wattage.

  There is no blood when he tips his head up as slowly as he rose. Eyes closed at first, he opens them, widening into a full stare at an audience he’s blind to with the onslaught of light.

  “Hey,” he murmurs, a smile rising the corners of his lips. “That was intense, huh?”

  And the audience breaks into hysterics.

  The two last songs of the night don’t ease my fury. I’m not going to be available for my merch table, no, I’m leaving the venue girls to man it on their own. Because if I don’t get to take my rage out on Emil—on my plague, my love fire, the one I mean nothing to—as soon as he gets off stage, I’m going to implode.

  I make my way to the front, flashing my all-access crew lanyard at every checkpoint I hit, and barge up until I’m with Nadia. I’ve got my hands fisted. Emil’s all cocky, thrusting hips out there, ripping through each song with perfect pitch and dead-on precision, and I can’t wait to have him walk over, thinking he’ll get to go backstage in peace and just—simply have a drink.

  Emil waves and throws a few kisses at girls in the mosh pit, then he jogs offstage toward us. Nadia disappears into Bo’s arms, but over his shoulder, she mouths: Wait. After the encore.

  I should listen to her. She’s our boss’ girlfriend. Just, there’s Emil, sauntering off the stage, toting that revolver, and he’s got the widest grin on his face.

  I take three steps forward and slap him. For a few seconds, there’s stunned silence around me, until I interrupt it myself with, “What the fuck was that out there? You scared the shit out of me! And what about the audience? How many did you give a heart attack with that goddamn hoax?”