4
After stopping for ice cream to cheer me up, we made our way to Starbucks for our fix.
I climbed from the truck and stretched, shaking my legs out to expel what was left of my frustration.
John and Jen had gone inside to order, but I stayed behind, hoping to reset.
I clocked everything—the streetlights, the pedestrians, the cars, the crows, the toes of my boots, which were definitely scuffed.
The moon was quartered. It was oddly warm for February, and I could smell the garbage wafting from behind the building.
Traffic piled up just outside the parking lot.
There was a man on a bike with grocery bags tied to the handlebars, weaving in and out of the lanes, threatening to tip over any moment.
Horns blared for several minutes straight as he forced them to miss a green signal.
I pictured what it would be like if he fell.
Bags bursting, crumpled soda cans spraying across the pavement.
"Rafe..." someone called. I froze. A few moments later they called again, then let out a strident whistle to draw my attention.
I turned warily, finding nothing except two other parked cars.
John and Jen were still inside, so I dipped my head back into the truck to see if the driver was speaking.
Except, he was facing forward and toying with his phone. Oblivious to my existence.
The quiet, cautious call came again. When the voice finally dawned on me, my heart shot into my throat.
I glanced over the roof of a sedan and found none other than Roman Jacobs.
He was peering from the half-open window of an S-Class Benz.
When our eyes met, he smiled, redeeming the blunt detachment of our earlier interaction.
Hurdling me into the past like a runaway freight train.
I hurried around the car that barricaded us, then stopped. He was alone. His manager must've been inside with mine. The driver was absent as well. In the reflective tint of the pitch-dark windows, I looked deranged and ready to bolt. Proper freaked out.
"Rome…” I breathed.
“Hey...”
I was unconvinced he was real. He’d hardly changed, yet everything had taken on a luster of newness that couldn’t be contended. The cheekbones were as prominent as I remembered. The jawline jutting. The lips sensuous and full. Hard, dark eyes masculinized the exquisite features.
The door opened. There was a throaty: "C’mere…" He scooted aside and I instinctively plopped down beside him. The seat was warm where he'd sat. The air smelled divine. The composite—Axe, freshly lit cigarettes, Dolce and Gabbana Light Blue. Maybe a little hair-gel too.
To my surprise he grabbed me. I fell into him out of habit—squeezing him harder than I intended. I could feel his ribs against my arms. Sensed the heat along his back where it had lain against the seat.
"Mate..." I exhaled, my deep-chested voice filling the car. "How long's it been?" As if I didn't know.
"Too long. Fuck…it’s been a minute, hasn’t it?"
He took something out of his pocket and set it on the seat.
Despite the shadows, I made out a silver lighter.
He was probably fishing for a smoke. The rest of my assessment revealed he’d gotten ready in the car.
There was a change of shoes nearby, a can of hairspray, and a handheld mirror.
The wistful, woozy melodies of Nick Drake’s Pink Moon filled the car.
I'd heard the album a hundred times in his company.
"Twice in one night?"
"Tell me about it. What're the odds?" he grinned. His undulant Yorkshire accent only strengthened with time. "You look amayzin’, bro."
"Well, you just look alright. Barely decent." We laughed.
"So uh...heard you let it go?" I think he meant the band.
"You mean the band?"
"Yeah, I meant the band."
"Yeah, we let it go."
“They fight you on it?”
“’Course. But…it wasn’t the same anymore. Couldn’t keep pretending.”
"You okay?"
"I guess I oughtta be. It was my idea.”
At that, he lifted his brows and pursed his lips. I averted my eyes, knowing where things were headed.
"But, uh, weren't you always the one givin’ me shit about leavin'? Or wantin' to leave, anyway?" I could only nod. The mild annoyance in his voice cut deep. "But now it was your idea?"
"You pissed at me already?"
"To be honest? No. Not at all, ba—"
He’d nearly called me babe, but caught himself. A lump formed in my throat, seeing him struggle with the word. I nodded again in a show of concession. He was exactly right. Regarding the band stuff, I was a hypocrite.
He flicked something off his knee. My attention was rigidly fixed to every move he made, still in awe that the exchange was even real.
I missed the stupidest things about him, like the bony wrists and jutting knees.
He was a few inches taller than me, a fact I envied.
I missed his earlobes. His exquisite side profile.
The steely blue of his gaze. The dark, judgy eyebrows and pretty fingers.
His knuckles were scarred like he'd been sparring.
He licked his lips and a ghastly longing raked through me.
I remembered what it tasted like. Lazy, searching kisses. That very particular flavour.
"Yeah, well..." he began, as if to say: ‘Shit happens.’
"You been alright?" I wondered.
"All good, man."
"All good, man," I mimicked his accent and he chuckled.
"So, uh...what’ve you gotten up to lately? You’ve been quiet online."
"Just laying low for a while. Trying to figure out my next move. Haven’t been up to nearly as much as you, mate. Congrats, by the way. You fucking smashed it! Massive tune, Rome."
He paused, eyeing me for an uncertain second.
"Yeah, uh...thanks, bro."
Though he’d never stopped calling me bro, now it would no longer be tempered by the occasional babe.
I couldn't believe we were back to such distancing formalities and egg-shelling every nuance of conversation. It was depressing. He’d once called me unspeakable things.
Always breathlessly, always as he held me in a misty delirium.
"Number one in how many countries now? Eighty?" I balked. “Mate, good shit. It’s mental.”
“Thanks, bro.”
"Remember how worried you used to be?"
He eyed me in that uncertain way again. Like he was seeing me for the first time—or was disquieted I still knew him so well. Like he worried I held all the leverage.
“It’s only natural…to worry about this stuff. The markets are only so predictable.”
“Yeah…”
It was astonishing, how easily I could fall into his gaze. I wondered if I looked ok. I wanted to check my hair, my breath. I licked my lips to moisten them, grappling with the same nervous energy I experienced when we first met. Colliding in the dorm, mouth full of toothpaste.
"For what it’s worth…I never held any of it against you, Rome. I’m out of my mind proud of you.”
"Yeah, ditto…” he said, staring ahead. "How's the fam?"
"Great. Yours?”
"They’re alright. Mum, she asks about you from time to time." My heart skipped a beat, until he added: "And the other boys."
"Send her my love, alright?"
"Same."
"How's your Dad?"
He tossed me a mildly incredulous look before muttering: "Dad is Dad."
I wanted to make him laugh, anxious to kill the silence wafting between us like a tide.
The record had run its course, stifling the mood.
Time felt suspended. He was growing bored of me.
Probably wondering why he’d even bothered.
Someone laid on a car horn for several moments outside before furiously peeling off. We looked at each other and laughed.
Why didn't things flow? Neither of us were at ease. I always thought seeing him again would be easy, but it was tremendously awkward. Like I’d never known him to begin with.
Did he remember so little of us? Did he even want to remember us?
Did the past matter? I couldn't tell if he was genuinely enjoying me or whether he was just being polite. Fuck’s sake, I'd rather he degrade me than treat me civilly.
"Rome...?" I began, unsure of what I even wanted to say.
He lifted his brows, indicating I should continue. I wanted to tell him he had no idea how many songs I’d written about him, but his phone rang.
"Need to get that?" I asked. "I won't mind."
"I’ll call ‘em back.” He silenced it.
Before we could resume our conversation, the phone blared again. It was face-down on the seat, so the caller remained a mystery. He didn't bother to look. I watched what appeared to be an iPhone 8 flicker in the darkness, the light pooling onto the seat in bright flashes.
“Can’t believe you have your phone set to ring. Mate, that’s so geriatric—”
That got a real laugh out of him. The streetlight stopped short of the car, so it barely illuminated his hands, or the dips and curves of his features, or the half-smoked cigarette in the makeshift ashtray along the door.
I could already imagine him relighting it as he pulled away, regretting the conversation we'd had.
"You write anythin’?" he asked, laying his head back against the seat and gazing over at me. I did the same, audaciously facing him—trying to catch my breath. This was far more intimate than I intended. He only gazed deeper, aware of how narcotic his stare could be. Say something. Anything. His brow furrowed, daring me to keep our eyes locked. As though he sensed my irrational longing, but was too much of a gentleman to expose it. He’s won.
He’s already won. My stomach flipped and I looked away, unable to withstand the directness of his scrutiny.
"You mean music?” I grasped at thin air. “Have I written any music?"
"Yeah, I meant music. You were always writin' before."
"Loads, yeah."
"Anythin' new?"
"So much, actually. Years’ worth."
"Anythin' you might put out?"
I faced the ceiling and fought to catch a full breath, mortified by the struggle. "A few. Mainly about the last two years...stuff that's still coming to me."
"That's the hardest part, innit? Choosin’ which to keep. Sussin’ out what’s rubbish. Decidin’ what to save for a better time…y’know, when certain things ought to be said. Most of the time I’m just airin’ out old thoughts. Ended up with nearly a hundred songs."
"Exactly…"
We sat in silence, watching the driver take a call at the hood of the car.
"You listen to the lyrics?" he asked, voice quiet but firm. He was referring to his debut single. That was clear.
"Yeah, I listened."
"Good..."
That good made my stomach drop. I played it cool. He was cluing me in to something, and I couldn't bear to process it while still in his presence. He’d caught me totally off-guard, and the revelation hit like a jab to the sternum.
"Y’know, I was thinkin’…” he continued. “Writin’ feels like the only real outlet for everythin' that…transpired, shall we say?" I couldn't tell if he meant us or the band. I think he meant us. "Just like...thoughts and opinions and memories."
I zeroed in on his rings, nodding. The mannish rose that had split my lip.
Remembered the bloodshed and searing agony.
The other boys would’ve gotten a kick out of knowing I’d been the first to see him again.
And in the span of ten minutes at his side, was ready to risk it all. Witless moth to a blaze.
Suddenly his sidekick appeared, picking up a conversation from before she left the car. We broke eye contact like it was the original sin. Like we’d been caught unclothed. He said it was good to see me.
"Yeah…cheers, mate," I uttered, then watched a long while as their taillights faded from view.