7
Bangkok, Thailand
Once Roman Jacobs put an end to a discussion, it was done. Dead, buried, finito. His lips were sealed like his life depended on it, and you ought to follow suit, or he'd walk out on you faster than you realized he’d borne the inclination.
I found myself on the receiving end of his silence far too often, which left me navigating a minefield whenever I broached a subject guaranteed to piss him off.
See, I was naturally disposed to talking through whatever was bothering me until I felt a sense of relief.
Rome was the exact opposite. Rather brusque at times, and in such moments, we became oil and water—repelling one another until we couldn’t stand to be in the same room. He always bolted first.
As Nathan crooned about unrivalled love during the sappiest song on our setlist, Rome had again looked my way. A pointed glance. One that indicated he longed to break the ice. As always, I relented so he didn't have to.
Truth be told, I kept dreaming of him. Vivid, detailed, LSD-esque visions.
And when I wasn't doing that, I couldn't sleep. Now neither of us had spoken a word since returning from the brief hiatus that followed the Japan shows. He preferred to spend time with Piper and their families, selling the illusion of the happy couple. I tried not to take it personally, since I also prioritized seeing family and friends I’d neglected all year, but his distance smacked more of ghosting than honoring social obligations.
“Thanks, Tim. Oil her up, would you?”
After handing Blackbird over to the tech, I caught up with him outside on his way to the bus.
It was dark out. He was already puffing on a Marlboro, the pack peeking from the back pocket of his ripped jeans.
He’d changed into an oversized red tank-top after the show.
It clung to his body in the wind, exposing the hard lines of his tall, lean figure.
There was an unaffected grace in the way he carried himself.
It exuded confidence—sex. Trace amounts of something menacing and self-conscious.
He halted short of climbing onboard to finish the cigarette, kicking idly at one of the tires.
His chubby, redhead cousin Alan chatted at his side, flinging his hands around and breaking into songs from the setlist. Sensing my approach, Rome ran a hand through his mussed hair.
It was getting long, a stray lock escaping to hang down his brow.
"Hey," I huffed. He squinted through the smoke, ignoring me.
"Waddup, Rafe," Alan grinned, dapping me up. “Mate, sick solo tonight! Where the hell did that come from?! It’s new?”
“Thanks, mate. Yep, been at it for a while. Thought I’d take it for a spin. None of the guys expected it.” I tossed a glance Rome’s way. He was unimpressed.
“You’ve gotta show me that one bit! The one where you go…” Alan sang the melody in head voice and I cracked up.
“Are you daft?” Rome grumbled, cocking a brow his way.
“C’mon, you know the one!”
“Hey, look, I said it before: you’re welcome at Highgate anytime,” I chuckled. “We can work on it.”
“Ahh, mate! That’s my boy,” he squeezed my shoulder, before stepping away to speak with a security guard.
"It's warm out," Rome muttered, taking another drag and expelling the smoke away from me.
"Yeah.”
“He’s mental,” he said, eyeing Alan in the distance, who was now shadow boxing Rome’s security guard.
“Yep. But he’s a good bloke. Missed him.”
“Same.”
“How long’s he here for?”
“Til May. Til we head for Wales.”
“Right. Makes sense.”
“Yep.” There was a pregnant pause. He wouldn’t look at me.
“Hey, uh…got a minute?" I ventured, mesmerized by the flare of the cigarette cherry.
"Depends…”
“On what exactly?”
“Whatever you have in mind.”
“I just wanna talk.”
“I’ve got no time for that, mate,” he scoffed, starting away.
“Please,” I grabbed his chin, making him lock eyes with me. “Just for a minute, Rome. I’m begging you.”
Already he was aware of how the conversation would play out.
This owing to months of rehashing the same vague dialogue sans a solution.
The discussion ultimately entailed his resignation.
The email had been drafted months ago, ready to hit the desk of the record label’s president once the UK leg of the tour began.
Less than a month away. I lived in trepidation of that day, having fruitlessly tried to dissuade him since I became aware of his desire to leave.
I suppose my body language was a dead giveaway by now.
“Five minutes,” he said, and it was understood this was not up for negotiation.
“Fine.”
He snuffed the cherry on the cigarette and slid it back into the pack.
I followed him into the stadium, watching as his shirt buffeted around his gorgeous ribcage.
Inside, he found a backstage storeroom lit only by a window overlooking the parking lot.
Outside, the bus was the main attraction.
The crew skittered around it like cockroaches, loading our equipment.
Roman moved to sit atop a desk lining the wall; one boot planted onto the seat of a metal chair. The space was musty, reeking of damp cardboard and mold. Stacked ATA boxes and pallets crowded the floor, hardly sparing room for two bodies.
At a loss for how to begin, I fell into him, forcing him to catch me. He laughed for the first time in forever, crushing me in his arms.
"Little shit-starter..." he muttered, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Sorry for being a dick.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I croaked. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
“No…” He planted his hands to either side of my face, thumbing my lip. “What’ve you got to apologize for, gorgeous? It’s all me.”
“It feels wrong when I don’t say it…”
He kissed me brutally. I could taste the cigarette. I didn't know what to say. I only wanted to apologize more—mortified for nothing in particular.
"Rome..." I quavered.
He kissed me again, tonguing me so deeply I couldn’t stand upright. I set a knee to the chair, exhaling against his mouth.
“Rome…”
“You’re always on my mind…” he whispered, snaking a hand up my shirt, stroking the humid flesh.
“You didn’t call.”
“Couldn’t find a minute. She was relentless.”
“I know.” I twirled his silver crucifix between my fingers as he pressed kisses to my jaw.
“What’s wrong, baby? Huh? I know you didn't bring me here to be nice."
"M'always nice," I muttered, sitting atop the desk beside him. "I got you this…" I produced a silver lighter, pointing out the repoussé designs.
"Nice. Vintage?"
"Mm-hm."
"Collection’s growin’…thanks to you."
"You thought about it anymore?"
He paused. "Yeah..."
"And?"
"No different really. I told you…I don't want you waitin' around for me, Rafe. Nothin's gonna change."
"But when...?"
"I dunno. I've no clue, man. Stop askin’ me, alright? When the time comes, it'll come…and then you’ll know. Deal?"
"So, I can't know ahead of time?”
“Babe, we’re discussing this right now because I already told y—”
“The date!” I shouted, then briefly shut my eyes. “I mean a date…”
“Why is that necessary?”
“To prepare for it? That's the least you could give me. I’m fucking dying over here—"
“How can I tell you somethin’ I literally don’t know myself? Ever thought of that, mate?”
“Fuck’s sake…”
"You'll know when I know.” He reached and pushed my hair behind my ear. “How’s that? You'll be the only person to know."
"I just want you to think about it. Think about what’ll happen to uz...to everything if you just go without warning. Think about the fans—"
"Stop, mate, just stop!" he snapped, looking at me like I'd lost it. "I already thought about all that shit, alright? More than you realize."
"Doubt it."
“Oh fuck off.”
I got up and toyed with the window. The paint was chipped so I peeled some in listless agitation. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be going about it the way you are…”
"And how's that? Huh? How am I goin' about it exactly?"
"Like a dickhead. But I know you don't care what I think, mate. You treat me like m’just another bloke. Like some kind of afterthought. You're becoming so fucking obsessed with your own shit you can't even see how it's affecting me—"
"Believe it or not, Rafe, not everythin's about you, yeah?"
"You know what the fuck I mean. And I know everything's not about me—asshole."
"Chill, babe. You’re gettin’ worked up over literally nothin’. I’m still here, aren’t I? Right here in front of you. And look at how you’re treatin’ me. These might be some of our last moments, yeah? I don’t know about you, but I don’t wanna remember us this way."
I approached again as he toyed with the lighter, flicking the flame on and off.
"Look…” I cleared my throat. “I don't wanna fight with you…but you keep shutting me out. Pretending I'm not a part of this. This is as much about me as it is about you."
"Oh yeah? And how’s that?"
"You’re being snide…”
“M’askin’ a question…”
“Because of everything,” I ground out, beginning to unravel.
How could he not see? Or worse, was it the case that he did see and was trying to gaslight me out of noticing?
How could he suddenly trivialize the roles we’d played in one another’s lives, simply to make his parting seem casual.
“I’m a part of it now…because of what you did to me. You're the reason I'm fucked, mate."
"What exactly have I done to you?"
"You want me to say it? I know you hate it,” I spat, snatching the lighter from his hand and setting it on the desk so he’d focus. “I know you don't wanna face it."
"Say whatever you want, Rafe. It’s not that deep—"
"Fuck you. Like it or not, you involved me in everything that goes on with you now. That's just the way it is."
He lifted his brows in a dismissive shrug, always aiming to make me feel insane.
"So that's it?" I croaked, totally hysterical. "You’re just gonna keep being a dick?"
The stonewalling, the apathy, I couldn't stomach it. I wasn't built for the sort of frigidness he dealt out. And I knew if I wasn't careful, it was only a matter of time before he walked again.