6 #2
I met his eyes over my wineglass and they were almost curious, but mostly impassive. He was feigning interest on my behalf, having realized the subject was an obsession for me. Classic Johnny. He was a decent guy, that John.
"Nothing to tell really..." I feigned indifference myself. "We used to be really close, but then we weren't. And now we're here."
"And where’s ‘here’ exactly?”
“On speaking terms…”
“Right... ‘speaking’ through emails."
"Yep, speaking through emails. It’s something, though.”
"But wasn't he, like, a dick to you before? Am I remembering that correctly?"
"No, uh, not particularly." I chewed my top lip.
"Right, sureee. But didn't he dip without telling you guys or something? Like mid-tour? Not to put too fine a point on it, but that's...well: a dick move. Wouldn’t you agree?"
"Yeah...to put it mildly. But there's a lot more to it, y'know?"
"Like what? More douchebaggery?"
I let out a half-hearted chuckle. "Look, you’re a prick sometimes too, and I don’t hold it against you, alright?”
“Yeah, well, you pay me to be a dick. That’s how I get you all the good deals. What’s his excuse?” He leaned in, bracing his arms atop the table. I averted my eyes.
“Look, mate, it’s sort of complicated, alright?
Most things are. I knew him for a while.
He's a decent guy. I'm not gonna suddenly deny that.
I'm not gonna sit here and let one fuck-up redefine someone's entire character for me.
" I paused to gather my thoughts, desperately searching the area for a diversion.
"I've seen way too much of who he really is, y'know?
Way too much to judge him based on one bad day—or more like a bad week.
So, uh, I can't exactly condemn him for leaving.
Not after the way it all played out leading up to it. " Finally, I met his eyes again.
"Look, Rafe, I hear ya, I do. But regardless of what happened leading up to the situation, he didn't care enough to be respectable before he left. And that’s after everything you'd been through together, right?
Forgive me, but I've known you since you were what?
Eighteen? Nineteen? You're an incredible kid, and I wouldn't dream of treating you that way. Not even if you fired me."
While I understood his frustration with how awful it all sounded, he didn't understand how convoluted the truth was.
How deep Rome's and my connection ran. Nor did they understand the nature of it. One that required me to be far more forgiving than a typical friend. So, while it sounded like I may’ve been making excuses for his shitty behavior, no one understood the role our relationship played in forcing him to leave so abruptly.
Whether I sympathized with his running or not, I was the only person on the planet who could truly understand it.
Asia had become a living nightmare for us both—especially Japan.
With each country we moved on to, it became more challenging to pretend onstage.
I regret now that the fans didn't see the best of me, but there was far too much going on behind the scenes for me to keep up pretenses of unity or camaraderie.
During the Asia leg, I could barely look at him.
I sensed the changes in his personality as if he was slowly shedding an outer layer or removing a mask he’d worn dutifully for years.
Things were volatile. There were new elements to his character that hadn't been apparent before, each lashing out at me and demanding space.
Becoming physical when I refused to grant it.
The number of cracked ribs and bruises I had to show for the late-stage changes in his personality were a secret I carried like my own private ignominy.
His cousin accompanied him in those final shows, and once Alan showed up, Rome never came back within my reach.
The cousin became yet another pretext for his avoidance.
According to him, we couldn’t clue Alan in as to what had occurred between us, or it’d be ruinous.
Singapore was the final straw. At that point, he slipped through my fingers at an alarming rate, and everything I did thereafter was just a lousy attempt to cling to what was left of him.
Until finally I was grasping at nothing but air.
Truth was, he simply didn’t want to be there, which translated into him undermining our reputation as a band.
Missing countless cues. Playing half-speed.
Forgetting lyrics. The fans noticed how empty and cold-hearted he’d become and began to comment.
That pissed me off the most, how badly he’d let them down, despite taking their money.
He was becoming increasingly unconcerned with anyone but himself; becoming more absent while we performed, and even began missing shows.
In retrospect, he probably didn't know how to feel.
He was caught between wanting to pursue his own peace of mind and letting down millions—equally vexed about abandoning me.
No one understood what that pressure was like, and I was grateful the ultimate outcome—his unprecedented solo success—lent credence to the idea that pressure created diamonds.
The guy I'd met last night was a diamond if I ever saw one.
Before he left, Rome had been cornered by two frightening choices, both having chased him for years like hellhounds nipping at his heels.
He could either stay and play to the masses and remain miserable and ill, or he could walk into a grave unknown, entirely alone.
Alienated, disoriented, having zero guarantees of success, and simply hoping to eventually find his way.
He chose the latter, and that made him the bravest bastard I'd ever known.
I thought back to his face that day and remembered there were no tears.
He’d been scarily unemotional—just done with everything and everyone around him, including me.
And I suppose I’d displayed enough emotion that night for the both of us.
I remembered being on my knees in front of the door in his hotel room, blocking him from leaving after we fought.
I grabbed his hands and they’d been cold.
He had no words left in South Korea. We’d said all there was to say days before in Thailand.