41. The Sweatbox
IAN
Walking did what it was supposed to do. It burned off my anger, footfall by footfall.
It took me more than a mile on that highway to realize a few things.
Like, when a car passes you doing sixty, it’s followed by a buffet of wind so powerful, it’s like being smacked. And when a semi roars past, it’s like being hit by an assault that somehow drags you forward and toward the road. Exactly where you don’t want to be.
Like, just how much gravel and loose crap lines a highway shoulder. It looks smooth and easy from the wheel, but it makes for crappy walking.
Like, the sound of a highway is so overwhelmingly loud, I felt in my pocket for earbuds just for noise protection. Of course I’d left them on the bus.
But it was the heat—the muggy, sweaty, aggressive, attacking heat of a Washington-suburbs afternoon in high summer—that finally forced me to realize I wasn’t just burning off rage.
I was punishing myself.
I was drenched in the cloying skim of whole-body sweat, walking mindlessly in the danger zone of a major highway under a blazing sun without so much as a fragment of shade to shield me—and I was doing it because I was a fucking idiot.
Whose fault was it that I hadn’t read the contract I myself had signed?
Was it Nicky’s? Was it the woman who had done more for Aftermath—for me—than any five other people?
It was not.
I didn’t go to college, but I wasn’t incapable of learning. I didn’t expect other people to take care of me or make my decisions for me. I was an adult. Capable. A master electrician and the lead guitarist in one of the fastest-rising musical groups in the country. Who was supposed to watch out for me?
Me. I was.
Not only had Nicky done nothing wrong, but she’d been making my life better for two months. She’d handled herself with charm and dignity. She’d held her head up when she was accused of theft. She’d met my mother—she loved my mother.
And I’d made her cry.
I remembered the sight of her big eyes, welling with tears, when I’d been so sure she was the reason Finn wouldn’t get to art school. I’d been so sure.
I deserved this walk. It was right to get off the bus.
I came around an endless curve and saw a highway overpass in the distance. Ohhh. Shade. I could rest there for a moment.
It was like a mirage. It never seemed to get any closer. The heat from the pavement was soaking through my sneakers, raising the temperature of the soles of my feet.
Every step felt like just and fair punishment.
When I finally got to the overpass and stepped into the blessed shade, I was trembling. The noise was worse under there, every passing car’s cacophony echoing off the concrete, but the temperature felt like it was about thirty degrees cooler. I climbed over the Jersey wall and sat on the steep slope rising to the road above me. Then I lay back, fully wiped out.
As I lay there, the song—Nicky’s song—came back to me. Three verses and a bridge were just waiting for my brain to be quiet enough to listen.
There it was.
I’d sing it for her tonight.
Once my legs stopped shaking, I climbed up to the roadway overhead and followed it to a convenience store. I bought water, a lot of water. And I called a Lyft.
I had none of my passes, but Archer and Mal met me at the stadium entrance with my lanyard so I could get in. I braced to explain and apologize, but they cut me off.
“Nicky’s gone.”
“What?” I came to a halt, forcing them to stop with me. “What the fuck? Where is she?”
They told me the whole story. I was calling her phone before they’d told me half of it. “She’s not answering,” I said, frustrated.
Mal’s frown became a smug grimace. He nodded when Archer commented, “Sauce for the goose . . .”
“Shut the fuck up,” I growled. “Where is she now?”
“Train to Delaware, as far as we can tell. Fist put her on the Accord.”
“Acela,” Mal corrected. “The fast train. She’ll be home soon.”
“I need to get in touch with her. At the very least, I need to apologize.”
“Yeah, you do. But it will have to wait. You need a shower, Brother Ianacus. You’re reasonably stinky.”
“And you look like shit,” Mal added helpfully. “Nicky sent us our press schedule, and you’ve got a little less than half an hour to grab some clothes, get to the locker rooms off the greenroom, and wash some of that stank off you.”
“Forget it. I’m going after Nicky.”
“You’re not.” They had one hand each under my elbows and continued to march me down the vast stadium hallway. “What little money we’re making on this tour,” Archer reminded me, “is null and void if we miss a concert for any reason beyond life-threatening illness, so get your ass in the shower, and we’ll keep calling Nicky. Hustle up, buttercup. You still have a job to do.”
I could leave to try to find Nicky, or I could let my band down.
“We’ll be in New York City tomorrow,” Mal added, “and you’ll have time after the first concert. Focus now, and we’ll all work to find her then.”
“She thinks I’m an idiot,” I protested. “I need to find her now.”
“We all think you’re an idiot,” Archer reassured me. “She’ll forgive you. We all do.”
I shook my head, but by that time, we were back at bus eight. Ken gave me a scornful look but didn’t say anything.
“Get your ‘I’m Death’ duds, princess,” Archer said, “and let’s hit the showers.”
I came back with my clothes in my sweaty hands—and with a long white cord dangling from my hand. “Nicky’s charger,” I said in despair. “Her phone might be dead.”
“Calm down. She’s a resourceful girl. She’ll buy a new charger. Now, come on. You’ll barely have time to scrub all that highway off you.”
They got me into the showers and cleaned up. Then we went in search of the room Nicky had reserved for our press visits, which was surprisingly hard to find. How had Nicky done it?
On the way, I told the guys about Nicky’s song.
“That’s good news,” Mal said. “You can sing it for her.”
“I want to sing it in New York City, if you guys don’t mind.”
“It’s ready?” Mal was concerned, but I knew he’d back me.
“We’ll work on it on the bus,” Archer said stoutly. “It’ll be ready. Come on—I think we’re down this way.”