Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
F or Luka, the next few days were a blur. The only time he could truly focus was when it was time to take the stage, where the music, as always, lifted him out of himself and let him exist separately from his problems. Unfortunately, he couldn’t play all day, every day, which meant that as the bus carried them from venue to venue, he had way too much time to think.
And his thoughts were not at all pleasant.
He felt like he’d gone back in time by four years, and was once again having to confront the pain and betrayal he’d pushed aside, if not forgotten in the process of building the F-Holes. Added to it now was the thought that if he’d only waited, if he’d given Kit a chance to explain, perhaps things would have turned out differently. But he’d let his pain drive his actions, and he’d paid a high price for it.
Luka had to admit that, in some ways, he’d been expecting everything to come crashing down. Hadn’t his parents told him it would, that he’d regret getting involved with Kit and pursuing his dreams of rock stardom? That “choosing” to be gay was an act of defiance they wouldn’t tolerate? They’d wanted him to focus on the “Petrov Legacy” and their ambitions of Luka joining something like the Boston Symphony Orchestra, or, better yet, the New York Philharmonic, where they could bring their friends to see his performances all while patting themselves on the back that they’d raised such a talented son. They had hated Kit, and when Luka’s father had succumbed to a heart attack during his freshman year at Juilliard, his mother hadn’t hesitated to lash out and tell Luka it was his fault that Oskar Petrov had died of a broken heart. She’d cursed him, saying she hoped he would feel the same pain he’d brought on them and that he would always be alone no matter how much success he might achieve.
So when he’d discovered Kit and Jordan together, and it had looked like everyone was against him, Luka had believed it without question. Since he’d cut contact with his mother after her accusations, it had left him with no one at all whom he trusted — except, ironically enough now that he knew the truth, Martin Bennet. He was lucky that Martin had been there for him and had talked him back from a dark precipice from which there was no return. If he hadn’t, there was no telling where Luka would be now or, sadly, if he would be anywhere at all.
Classes for their last semester had been done by that point, and Luka skipped the graduation ceremony he’d been looking forward to so he didn’t have to run into Kit, Josh, and Blake. He’d gone as far as changing his phone number and email address, and then he’d moved all the way across the country in order to cut every tie, letting himself be swallowed up in the uncaring masses of humanity in Southern California. He’d existed, surviving on what gigs he could get as a session musician or by subbing in orchestras, playing background on pieces that would end up as movie soundtracks. The entire time was mostly a blur, and he tried not to think too much about how often he’d been close to giving up completely. He’d come through it, and that was all that really mattered in the end.
It had taken him six months to finally wake up, and it had only happened because he’d heard one of his own songs late one night in a karaoke bar where he was drowning his sorrows. The young woman had sung it with such heart wrenching beauty that it had pulled him out of himself, reminding him that he was a lot more than what he’d allowed himself to become.
It didn’t take much for him, once he’d finally pulled his head out of his own ass, to discover that Sultana had made it big, just as he and Kit had once dreamed. And Luka looked beyond the misery he’d been wallowing in to realize that he didn’t have to have Kit in his life in order to succeed. He didn’t need Sultana, but he did need a band — and that was when he had looked at his cello, and the idea for the F-Holes had been born. He wanted something darker and more visceral than what Sultana had been, a group where he could release the storm of his pain and anger and scream it to the world. He thought that maybe by letting it all out in music, maybe it wouldn’t hurt quite as much as it had, bottling it up inside.
It hadn’t been easy, and there had definitely been some setbacks along the way, but he’d managed. The money from his songwriting credits had definitely helped, and he felt an odd sort of vindication when he’d collected the money and put it toward building a band to compete with Sultana. He’d found Dmitri and the others, people who understood pain as well as he did. And now, finally, he stood poised to gain the kind of success Kit and the others had found.
Yet mentally he was back on the same old hamster wheel, stuck in his own head and finding it difficult to get out again. He kept reliving that horrible night, trying to remember details instead of just the raw, screaming pain he’d felt. It was hard, because he had to acknowledge that part of him wanted to believe Kit was telling the truth. Of course, that would mean that Luka had in some ways caused his own anguish, when he could have screamed and grieved Jordan’s betrayal with Kit there to help him through it, instead of all alone. Part of it, at least, he could blame on his parents, who had done everything in their power to make him doubt not only Kit, but himself. It was fucked up beyond belief, and would have probably seemed unbelievable if it wasn’t his own damned life.
The rest of the band had silently given him space, though from time to time he was aware of Dmitri and Kris’s worried looks. Sweet Jo had actually seemed on the verge of tears a few times when he’d felt her gaze on him, which made him feel even worse because of all of them, Jo was the most empathetic and understanding, an innocent soul who endured her physical pain with a grace that humbled Luka. But he couldn’t help what he was feeling, and he’d avoided being around her too much in order to spare her seeing his torment.
But a few hours after the band had played their two-night gig in Indianapolis, he’d woken up, the lyrics for a song swirling around in his brain. It was still the middle of the night, and the bus was headed toward their next venue. He’d reached into the storage pocket of his bunk for his notebook, then gotten up quietly and headed for the dinette area. The steady sound of the bus engine had given him a chord, and he could hear it in his head being played in a steady cadence on the cello as he penned the words.
I’ve been asleep for years, the darkness in my head
As vast and empty as my heart.
It took so long to get here through the pain,
Through years of cold and lonely rain,
To see truth whole, not just in part.
We both lashed out in anger. Your betrayal struck me dead,
Like a knife plunged in my gut,
Your words were ice to stab and maim,
On their heels the horror came,
To rip and tear and cut.
I just want it to end,
I just want to be free,
I just want to breathe,
I just want to see.
I just want to see,
See it clear as day,
See it all around me,
I just want to see,
See the truth.
He was so wrapped up in the music he could hear as sure as if it was being played that he was startled when he finished to look up and find Kit sitting across from him. Kit offered a hesitant smile.
“A new song?”
Luka nodded, surprised that he wasn’t angry at the question or at Kit’s presence. It seemed almost normal, as though over the course of the last several days, he’d somehow accepted that Kit was there to help. Processing his own emotions had never been Luka’s strong suit, but he decided to accept them and move on.
He hesitated for a moment, but since he was sure what he’d penned was going to end up on the F-Holes next album anyway, he turned the notebook around, then pushed it across the table. Kit looked startled, but then he read the lyrics, and closed his eyes as though in pain. When he opened them again, Kit’s gaze was somber.
“I get it,” he said. “I want that, too.”
“Yeah.” Luka pulled the notebook back, then re-read his own words. “I don’t know if I’m there yet, but….” He shrugged. “Maybe at some point.”
“Does that mean I can stay with the band?” Kit’s question was soft, not at all confrontational. A part of Luka wanted to respond with something ambiguous — much like his own feelings — but he accepted that wouldn’t be fair, not only to Kit, but to Kris, Dmitri, and Andre. They didn’t know everything about how much Luka had invested in the band, but since he was their principal songwriter, they knew that without him, the F-Holes wouldn’t be the same band. No doubt they were anxious about it, even if they didn’t say anything, and he felt bad about causing them doubt when they’d helped him get where he was today, not only musically, but as the supportive friends he’d needed. He owed them so much for how they had — if unknowingly - helped bring him back to an equilibrium in his life that he couldn’t let them suffer for it.
“You can stay, if that’s what you want,” Luka replied, his voice as soft as Kit’s. “And… I guess thanks for helping us out.”
“You guess?”
Luka stiffened, but then he saw the teasing light in Kit’s eyes. He knew that expression, and he smiled crookedly. How many times had he heard it during high school and college, when he’d grudgingly acknowledged something?
He was saved from having to reply as Dmitri, yawning and stretching, came out of the bunk room. He stopped with his arms raised over his head as he caught sight of Luka and Kit sharing the table, eyes widening. There was a flash of anxiety in his expression before he lowered his arms and walked over to the coffeemaker.
“Everything okay?” he asked, his tone casual.
“Everything’s okay,” Luka said. He stood up, collecting his notebook and closing it. Oddly, he didn’t want to share the new song yet, at least not with anyone but Kit. It was too personal — and he realized the irony in the thought that he’d not hesitated to share it with someone he’d hated for years, rather than the guy who’d been his closest friend since the F-Holes had started. But it was how he felt, so he smiled at Dmitri. “I’m gonna grab the shower before we get to the venue. We’re in.…” He stopped, realizing that he couldn’t remember what city they were headed towards. Man, he’d really been stuck in his own head lately.
“Chicago tonight and tomorrow, then we have St. Louis, and Kansas City after that,” Dmitri said. He was obviously relieved at Luka’s words and probably his demeanor as well. “Greg has us booked in at the Drake, and I’m looking forward to it. Lake Michigan isn’t the Pacific, but at least it’s water.”
Dmitri was from LA, and had lamented not being able to surf while they were on tour. Luka shook his head. Trust Dmitri to find the good in any situation. The dude sometimes had so much optimism that Luka wished the band could bottle and sell it.
“Chicago it is,” he said. The tour would head down toward Texas, before turning back northward again until they made it to Black Rock City and Rocktoberfest. They’d stay there for several days before hitting the road again for a string of concerts on the West Coast and into Canada, and Luka looked forward to getting to see so many other bands. Music festivals were hectic, but they also gave him a lot of ideas for songs. Music was synergy, after all, and now that he’d found inspiration to write, he hoped he could put it to good use toward their next album.
And, he realized suddenly, there would be a next album. His desire to run was gone, and while he maybe wasn’t ready to fully make amends with Kit, he could tolerate his presence for the tour. He had his music to escape into when things got to be too much. It wasn’t perfect, but at least it was good enough for now.