Chapter 16 Past
Ry crouched at the end of the stage, checking the marks again.
Tonight would be the first show since the breakup.
So far, setup had been a pain in the ass and nothing had gone well.
Lon barely said anything to him. Brand only watched him in between setting up his own gear.
Alex refused to be on stage with him, at least until it came time to perform.
So Ry had come out last, after Alex had finished.
This was not how it was supposed to be.
Alex had already moved out of their shared room and the house, leaving an emptiness behind. The same grayness had followed him here to the venue. Brand would soon follow. Lon might stay, but he hid whenever they were both home at the same time.
Ry finished checking his mics and marks and left for Alex to have another chance to double-check his sound before the show started. He headed to the small green room and sat on the old, musty couch. He had the place to himself, and so he poked around on his phone, trying to distract himself.
The stage manager knocked twice on the open door and beckoned Ry out. He shut his eyes and breathed deep. This will be like any other performance. He got up and rolled his neck a few times, popping some of the stiffness out. He fought to suppress the discordant ache in his chest as he headed out.
Lon sat at his drum kit, concentrating. His hands smashed thin air as he practiced.
Brand stood behind the keyboard, massaging his hands.
Alex was on the opposite end of the stage, his guitar already on and his bass in a stand next to him.
He took his mark at the mic, staring at the scrim between the audience and them.
A quiet voice came on the headset, “Three, two, one.”
Lon started a snare roll, progressing the drum to a frenzied pace. Alex strummed hard, and Brand joined the melody.
Ry sang.
The screaming crowd drowned out the music from behind him; only the drip from the earpiece fed him the music. He let their energy carry him from one song to the next, riding the waves.
But underneath, none of the songs felt like home, no matter how he tried. The cold hollow in his chest ached with each new chorus. His legs danced on stage, his body moving through the motions as if he were a puppet.
The audience sang along to the words, most with the precision of listening to the recording. He knew that fervor, that love, but not on this scale before. Older fans sang lyrics they’d painstakingly memorized from each new show.
The last song of their set, “The Heretic and the Broken Man,” was the most difficult.
He and Alex had, until now, sung to each other.
Alex’s voice still joined his, though was less strong, unsure.
And they did not look at each other. The words stiffened on his tongue, fell into a meaningless jumble of flat notes at his feet.
When the last chord faded and the lights went out, the crowd erupted into thunderous cheers.
Ry crumpled, letting the sound of their adoration wash over him and wept.
He had done his best tonight, but this performance paled to so many that had come before.
These new fans deserved better. They’d paid good money to see Ghostfire, and they’d given him the energy to make it through the night.
In exchange, they witnessed a sub-par concert.
The lights of the house brightened, the audience breaking into individuals, their voices mingling.
Ry stood and looked at the rest of Ghostfire. Alex had already fled the stage with his gear. Lon averted his eyes from his gaze. Brand, busy taking care of his keyboard, ignored him. He retired to the green room, Alex’s boots stomping their way out of the venue and into the night.
He collapsed onto the couch, resting his head in his hands. His head swam in the stuffy room, and he stared at the worn, vomit-brown carpet beneath his feet.
A polite cough caught his attention. Brand stood in the doorway, his face smooth and expressionless.
“I bombed out there,” Ry said, his voice cracking.
Brand crossed his arms.
“What?”
“That’s what you’re worried about?” Brand’s voice was sharp and cold.
“This isn’t the place to talk.”
Brand raised an eyebrow. “Fine.” He checked his watch, still blocking the door. Then he nodded to himself. “Let’s go then.”
Ry followed. Neither of them spoke during the walk across the parking lot.
The lone, jittery light did little to illuminate the space.
A car honked in the distance, two people yelling at each other from inside a house, all swam together with the sounds of traffic.
He hoped Lon and Alex were having a better conversation.
Brand unlocked the vehicle and sat in the driver’s seat. He turned toward him and sighed, then stared at the fence outside.
“He won’t talk to me.”
“I know.” Brand gripped the steering wheel. “He blocked you.”
“He blocked—it makes sense. Shit.”
“Do you know how fucked up this is?” Brand’s voice broke. “To be in the middle of this bullshit between you two?”
“I’m sorry, okay?”
“Are you?” He started the car and mumbled under his breath. “Maybe if you meant it.”
“Yes,” Ry said, crossing his arms and looking out the window.
The ride home was quiet and uncomfortable.
Lon, his best friend—or was it former best friend now?
—had barely been talking to him either. The cold tightness in his chest pulsed and shivered, familiar.
It was as if he were in high school again.
The asshole politician’s spoiled brat. Until Lon and Brand and Alex came along and treated him like a human being for the first time.
How did he repay their kindness? By being a complete shithead.
When they returned home, it was quiet.
“Goodnight, then.” Brand got out and didn’t wait for Ry. He slipped into the house before Ry could even finish getting out of the car. It locked as soon as he shut the door behind him.
Silence suffocated the home, as if Ry were completely alone.
Brand had closed himself in, and Lon was nowhere to be found.
He remained with his dark thoughts about his performance, his failing friendships.
Alex. He wandered into the kitchen and stared into the freezer at a bottle of whiskey, then at a few beers in the fridge.
He started with beer, and his mind relaxed enough to watch TV.
He didn’t remember when he fell asleep, but he woke a few hours later. Lon’s door was now closed. Exhausted, Ry crawled to an empty bed and curled up. A chill clenched his throat and burrowed beneath his hollowed ribs.