Chapter Eighteen #3
He speaks about it so plainly, his belief that he wouldn’t live a long life, and I don’t know what to say that doesn’t sound trite. I’m still trying to figure it out when a knock at the door startles us both. We nearly jump out of our skin when the door handle rattles but thankfully doesn’t open.
“Five minutes,” a voice calls.
We both sag at the sound of retreating footsteps.
Dax meets my gaze with a mischievous quirk of his lips. “I can get a lot done in five minutes.”
I laugh, smacking him lightly on the shoulder with the back of my hand. “I know you can.” Easing off him and the couch, I stand on shaky postorgasm legs. Dax plants his hands on my hips, leaning forward and placing a kiss to the apex of my thighs.
“Dax!” I half moan, half scold.
He smirks, placing one last chaste kiss there. “Soon,” he promises, before working down the hem of my dress so I’m covered.
I grab his chin, guiding his mouth to mine the way he used to do to me. He slips his tongue into my mouth, and I can taste myself, our flavors mingling in a kiss that quickly turns desperate.
Dax pulls back first.
“I told you I wouldn’t be able to stop,” I remind him.
“Do you hear me complaining?” Pushing off the couch, he crowds my space, his hand going to my throat as he brings my mouth back to his in a quick kiss.
I lean into him automatically, and he laughs, his hands going to my hips and angling them away as he begins gathering his things.
I slip off to use the restroom because I simply don’t have time to visit the circle of hell that is a UTI.
When I return, Dax is throwing the last of his things haphazardly into his bag before looping it over his shoulder.
He holds out his hand, and I cross the small space, sliding mine into his.
We can’t hold hands outside of this room, so I squeeze his a little too tight.
He pulls me closer by our conjoined hands, dragging his mouth over mine once, twice, before bringing me in for one last bruising kiss.
Dropping my hand, he smacks me on the ass before opening the door.
I suck on my teeth, shaking my head at him disapprovingly, and he grins shamelessly.
We only make it a few steps out of the trailer before we run into the last stragglers of the event.
“Donavan!” someone calls, and I whip around. It’s one of the Nicks—there are three at AP. I don’t know him well, or why he’s flagging me down until he glances toward the trailer Dax and I just came out of. “Alright?” he slurs, a knowing look in his eye.
Fuck.
I cross my arms. “Yeah,” I grumble. “Just nailing down some details for the article.” To Dax a few paces away, I call, “Don’t leave. We’re not done.” I give him a meaningful look that I hope he can translate.
Nick titters under his breath, and I’m relieved to see the sly look is gone. “I heard that wasn’t going well.”
I huff, rolling my eyes. “What’re ya gonna do?” I say with a frown. “Musicians and their egos.”
Nick gestures over my shoulder, and I glance back, repressing a proud smile that Dax got my memo.
“Hey!” I call after Dax’s slowly retreating form. To Nick, I say, “See you Monday!” before chasing after Dax. Louder than necessary, I chastise him. “You are not off the hook yet.”
“I hope not,” he says in a low rumble when I reach him.
“Sorry.” I keep my arms crossed so that for all intents and purposes, we still look like two people bickering and not two people who just came for each other. “I know this ruse is a lot.”
“It’s fun,” he says with a shrug. “But it would be nice to not have to pretend.”
It’s an effort not to soften my combative posture. “Yeah.”
“Do you think that’s possible?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, giving the idea actual thought.
Dax and I together, openly. I nod, slowly at first, and then more eagerly.
We’re far enough into the parking lot now that it’s safe to smile at each other.
“I don’t think it would be too detrimental if everyone believed we connected through this process.
It’ll be… a lot at first, probably, while everyone wraps their heads around it.
Well—It’ll only be bad for me. You’ll probably get congratulated.
” Dax grunts in agreement and annoyance.
“I don’t think we could tell the full story, but if we can control the narrative, I think we could drop the act after.
” Our hands brush against each other as we walk, and I interlock our pinkies.
“I don’t want us to be a secret forever. Just a little bit longer.”
His car lights flash as he unlocks it, and I can’t get inside fast enough. Once we’re behind the safety of his tinted windows, we reach for each other before doing anything else.
“Just a little bit longer,” he echoes, nudging the tip of his nose against mine.
I pull him to me, and his hand goes to the back of my neck, holding me there as his tongue tangles with mine until we’re both panting.
He pulls back, grinning, running his thumb down the column of my throat.
He hums contentedly, gaze roaming over me, and I want to crawl over the console and straddle him.
I want to tell him I love him. It’s too soon and three years late, all at once.
“I know, baby.” He leans in, brushing his lips across mine. “Me, too,” he mumbles against my mouth.
“I didn’t say anything.” Not for the first time, I wonder if he can read my mind.
“You didn’t have to.”
It’s like he’s trying to tell me something, but I’m too slaphappy from kissing him and punch-drunk from how late it is, losing myself in yet another kiss that I don’t want to end.
He leans farther over the console, pushing me back into my seat, and I smile against his mouth, ready for more.
He reaches past me, locking me into place with the seat belt.
“Devil woman,” he mutters, flicking the horns of my headband affectionately.
As he leans back, I stare goofily at the clock on the dashboard. Half past midnight. Meaning struggles to make itself known amidst my kiss-addled brain.
I gasp, turning to him. “Happy birthday.”
His mouth curves upward shyly. “Thank you.”
Twenty-nine. Two years longer than he thought he’d get. I slide my hand into his, bringing our conjoined fingers to my mouth, kissing each of his knuckles in turn. “It’ll be a feat,” I say mischievously, “to top this for your thirtieth, but I’m up to the challenge.”
“Oh yeah?” he says around a laugh.
“Mm-hmm.” I peer up at him, resting our conjoined hands on the center console. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
He meets my gaze for a moment that could be a second or years before looking away, squeezing his eyes shut. He nods, knowing exactly what I mean by it. His grip on my hand tightens for the span of a few deep breaths that rattle his chest. “Me, too,” he says at last, with finality.
He looks over at me, saying nothing, but it holds everything, the things he can never say, never convey, even if I spent a lifetime interviewing him.
I lean in, our kiss slow and sweet this time, like a promise.
It’s not my birthday, but I make a wish anyway: for twenty-nine more years, then twenty-nine more.
[Excerpt from Sloane Donavan’s Final Revelations interview transcript]
2002: Nobody’s Fucking Business
MARCUS: Ah, yes. The infamous Reverie Fest.
BARRETT: I don’t know, man. That shit was embarrassing, for sure, but I’ve always maintained that’s Dax’s story to tell, if he wants to. If not, it’s nobody’s fucking business.
JONAH: I’ve run back the events of that day multiple times, but the thing is… I don’t remember seeing Dax until right before we were supposed to go on stage.
CAIN: He was clearly fucked up, but that wasn’t exactly new at that point.
MARCUS: He’d always pull it together somehow, right before going on stage, so we just rolled our eyes and figured it’d be like every other show Dax was half-present for.
CAIN: Even halfway gone, Dax is still better than most guys.
MARCUS: Except he wasn’t even half-present. He had no idea where he was. I don’t even know how he found his way to the stage, much less on time, to be honest. I feel like shit saying this. Do we have to talk about it? I guess everyone knows already…
CAIN: I wish I could say this part of our story isn’t true, isn’t as bad as it looked, but… Yeah, it was that bad.
JONAH: Right before we went on, I remember thinking, I don’t know that he’s gonna pull it together this time.
I wish I’d said something, but then again, butterfly effect, y’know?
We all knew Dax wasn’t okay, but you can’t force someone to get help if they don’t want it.
That show was mortifying, but it was also a wake-up call.
DAX: Do I want to talk about Reverie Fest?
No. But I guess I have to, huh? [per SD, to be redacted: My family had never come to any of our shows.
So when my sisters asked to come to Reverie Fest, I was stoked.
I met up with them for breakfast and I remember making a deal with myself not to take too much that day so I could be present for them.
But when we got back to the festival, I got them through security, and…
my parents were waiting. My mom and I had kinda talked, mostly through my sisters.
My dad and I—we hadn’t spoken since I got expelled from school.
He could tell I was strung out, and it ended up in a fight.
Now, I’m not blaming my dad or anything.
I got myself into that mess all by myself.
That day was a roller coaster, and I had been numbing myself to the roller coaster for nearly a year at that point.
I was scared shitless to start feeling stuff again, because I knew how much I hadn’t been dealing with, that there would be no dipping a toe.
I’d drown. So, instead of sobering up and proving everyone wrong, I went back to our van and…
got incredibly fucked up. Took more than I usually did, took things ahead of schedule.
Yeah, I had a schedule. It allowed me to believe that I was the one in control, that I didn’t have a problem. ]
Marcus had to sing almost all of that set by himself.
I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember falling backstage afterward, but I got this.
[points to dimple] I do remember waking up in the hospital, sober for the first time in I don’t know how long.
And I was drowning. They were getting ready to discharge me, and I remember being mad, like, don’t they know what I’ll do the instant I’m out of here?
As if they were the irresponsible ones. And I realized that it wasn’t anyone else’s responsibility to fix me.
I’d thought I was in control, but that day, I broke all my rules.
And now that I had… I was scared of what I’d do if left to my own devices.
I’d spent the past few years trying to pretend I wasn’t a kid, but in that hospital bed, I was every bit the kid I was.
I called my parents, crying, asking if I could come home.
They said yes—on the condition that I got help, and I agreed.
They picked me up, set me up in my childhood bedroom, and—They’d never even met my bandmates before that day, but I remember walking downstairs the next morning to find my band, my parents, and my sisters at the dining room table, making calls.
They got me into rehab a few days later.