32
After spending the following afternoon with producer friends, I found myself cruising around Malibu alone and trying to string together the events of the previous few days.
Each time I tried to recount my ecstasy, I saw her rage.
Each time I tried to recount the whisper of his kisses, I felt the scrapes on my arms and my banged-up shin.
Each time I tried to remember the sound of his voice, his laughter, the stories we'd shared—all I heard were her screams, pealing out of the darkness like some ultrasonic war cry.
I veered along PCH, windows down and music off because bits of prospective lyrics called to me.
I drifted beyond the roar of the ocean in search of them.
I tried piecing the words together like a withered jigsaw, forcing them into any semblance of coherence.
I’d been distracted for too long. The apprehension of my upcoming album had vanished while I was in his care.
It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d utterly neglected to write a single new song.
Or that I was devoid of a band, a sound, an aesthetic—direction.
His presence had provided a fraudulent sense of fullness, leaving me complacent when I should’ve been hyper-focused.
Rome had that way about him. It was rare that he let anyone in, so if he chose you, you went without hesitation and questioned nothing.
Following him into a potential lapse in good judgment.
Acquiescence became my only personality trait when we were together.
With one touch, one gaze, he could coerce me to forget everything.
Now that he was gone, the pit returned to my stomach.
It reformed the minute I entered discussions for signing a multimillion-dollar deal with Columbia Records that morning.
John didn't waste time. He knew the success of my solo career hinged on how I optimized the aftermath of Invicta’s disbanding.
If I acted too late, the momentum would be squandered, and I'd flop historically.
Already he'd helped me book a gig in a highly anticipated film project to be released the following year, and several fashion and cosmetic campaigns were waiting in the wings, years in advance.
It was his goal to have my debut album land around the same time as the series to ensure 'optimum exposure', as he called it.
That left me on an impossible timetable for filming and fostering the creative energy to do music.
And if I didn't create something remarkable, the world would deride me as a talentless hack who'd gotten away with riding the coattails of my four counterparts for years.
I set out to prove the naysayers wrong. I thought of them daily and what they would spew in all manner of circumstance.
What would the headlines promulgate? What would the other boys say if I were to fail on my own, having deserted them to follow him?
They'd say it was karma, no doubt. The headlines would maim.
Ralph Rawlings: Unprecedented Flop. Made the Biggest Mistake of His Life by Leaving Invicta.
Couldn't Hack It Alone. Moves Back In With His Parents.
The pressure was unparalleled. The only other person who could relate was Roman Jacobs, since he'd undergone the process first. The expectations for him had been far more intense than they were for me, because he had the balls to step away first and trash our music in the process.
Now he was over the hill of expectation, and I watched him go from the other side, afraid to follow.
He had a smash hit; a number one single that had broken countless records for charts and sales, and I knew he couldn't be more relieved.
He had proven his ability and could rest at ease, knowing the remainder of his output would be received with the same enthusiasm.
I, however, suffered the added pressure of being the most recognizable name from the group.
It was a double-edged sword—like being voted both Prom King and Most Likely to Succeed, leaving me desperate to live up to the hype.
I tried to maintain humility in all things, but it would be remiss of me to ignore how I’d managed to become the most renowned member of the group—that is, before Rome left and set fire to the world.
His success story was a precedent; a bullseye I must aim for on top of making music that wouldn't be derivative or forgettable.
Early evening descended and the shore was set ablaze in the golden hour.
Ghostly refrains followed me. Lyrical fragments, unspeakable sentiments, ungodly memories.
They wouldn't leave me be. At one point I pulled over on the side of the mountain to speak ardently into a voice note.
I missed him dreadfully. I couldn't stop thinking of him pulling away, zooming down my driveway out of sight.
I recalled waking him up a day ago, and the way his face softened into a weary smile.
"Perfect..." I murmured. Was there any better way to describe him? His smile, his heavily fringed eyes. Every ounce of him lacking fault. Every bit inspiring an unremitting adoration that made it unbearable to be without. Though I must. And there was no idea whether I would see him again. We'd talked and talked for hours, trying to figure it all out, but the only tenable solution remained letting him go. Yet another talk about where it’s going wrong. Fuck’s sake, we’d had a lot of those.
I considered the places we might end up in the next few months or years, in these jet-setting careers, apart from each other; but it was tiresome to think of him in that light.
Outside of me. Away from me. Never to speak of him in interviews.
Never to attend the same events. Avoiding each other all over Hollywood and damnation, as though our existences were mutually exclusive.
I wasn't sure of much, particularly where things were headed, but I knew where we belonged. And I prayed the universe would be about bringing this to fruition. I murmured another potential lyric into the phone, the refrain piecing itself together and tumbling from my lips.
A semi-truck flew by and rocked the car so soundly I snapped out of my creative zone.
I gazed around and remembered I was pulled over on the side of the highway, and that it was getting late.
By the time I'd gotten home, the rest of the song came to me, and I sat at my desk in nothing but my briefs.
I thought back to the start and saw his bunk at school, lying in quiet defiance across from mine.
We'd just moved to London and were all five crammed into a single room for many months.
At best it was a pigsty. At worst, it was a cesspit for hormonal adolescents that emanated weird odors.
Also, constant revelry, as we could never keep quiet.
We were the worst of our kind; boys who'd forgotten all manner of home training the minute we were liberated from the scrutiny of our mothers.
No one complained about the conditions of the war zone more than Rome.
For more reasons than one, he annoyed me deeply back then, and in hindsight it was easy to distinguish most of that stemmed from my hatred of his relationship with a female classmate.
Beyond that, my distaste for him was the result of misapprehension and curiosity.
And maybe a mild intimidation—all things that I, of course, projected onto him.
Mostly because I couldn't understand him.
I was envious that he'd chosen to spend his spare time with someone outside of the group, instead of goofing off with us in our downtime.
Alex and I grew closer day by day, and although I spent a fair share of time with our female housemates as well, I had reserved my nights and my wars for Rome.
Waiting to hear his music blaring from his headphones became my nightly ritual, so that I had a reason to complain.
Anything to draw him out of his square and onto common ground to parley.
Even if it was only to tell me to ‘fuck off’ as he so often had.
The mystery he cultivated around himself by being so indifferent and withdrawn grated my nerves.
Why did he get to be moody and mysterious?
I was an open book. Everyone in the house knew everything about me.
So, it felt like an outrage that he bore the intellectual and emotional depth to be reserved.
Who exactly did he think he was? I'd asked that question a thousand times over the last few years. And of course, that led to me believing he thought lowly of me, but I see now it took him longer to warm up to strangers than I did. He was an introvert through-and-through.
He could be a priss about his bathroom items. Very moody and territorial.
He was lazy in the mornings and took too long in the bathroom, running out all the hot water.
He was vain, of course—obsessed with looking at his own reflection and fussing over his hair.
He liked to ride in the car with the windows down, and it infuriated us.
He also liked to listen to his music so loudly that it bled through those damn headphones wherever he went, especially at night when the rest of the house had fallen into silence.
We all fought about the stupidest shit back then, but he and I went at it the most. He detested my snoring and I hated that he sang while I watched the telly.
He hated that I kicked my shoes off in the middle of the floor after returning home, and that my socks always ended up on his side of the room.
I'd begun to put them there on purpose once I realized it got a rise out of him.
What annoyed me the most was that he stole my T-shirts and jumpers and relinquished them only when he was ready, regardless of how it inconvenienced me.
It took us a while to see the good in each other, and once those things became apparent, we were transfixed.
He questioned me a lot about the music I listened to, and we began to exchange mixes and playlists on the regular.
I fell in love with Pink Floyd and had him singing Johnny Cash and Elvis in no time.
I began to use his hair products and cologne at his insistence, and above all he taught me to make a proper paper airplane, which in his opinion was a dire necessity.
The thought of me having grown up without knowing blew his mind.
With he and I both having the top bunks across from each other, we would sometimes chat into the AM about the most absurd things; like aliens, angels, exotic pets, exotic cars, and missing school.
Once or twice we ended up creeping into each other's beds to avoid waking the other boys with these late-night conferences, where we endeavored to keep our distance atop the covers.
We'd watch early YouTube videos and DIYs, and dated DVDs on my laptop, sharing one set of headphones and snickering whenever someone hissed for us to shut up.
The early days were a haze of petty bickering and strife, which transformed into endless conversations in the wee hours, and a confusion of hormones exacerbated by the high of our weekly performances.
I wouldn't change it for the world, not even our worst fights.
Considering how far we'd come, things hadn't changed much.
I replayed a few voice notes from earlier and jotted down the broken lyrics that came to me on PCH. Tried to make sense of them. I deciphered something about our times in Covent Garden. Running through the garden—
A violent knock landed at the front door, rattling the entire house.
My heart shot into my throat, as no one knew the gate code except for a select few, and those people would never stop by this late unannounced.
It was dark out, and all the lights around the house were off.
Whoever it was had no qualms about imposing or startling me awake.
I grabbed my phone and searched the security footage, but couldn’t see a car.
There was no longer anyone at the front door either.
I couldn't see the back door because of the way the camera had been positioned, and it was proving to be a security risk.
On my way downstairs, I grabbed a baseball bat my dad had given me long ago, and crept down the steps to the halfway landing.
I listened and the knocking had vanished.
As I rounded the banister and headed for the front door, the motion sensor lights kicked on and I nearly pissed myself.
I saw a figure standing at the glass beside the front entrance.
It was him. I dropped the bat and it rolled away with a thunderous sound.
As I slung the door open, he turned to face me, brow furrowed.
"M'sorry..." he muttered. "Rafe…please, babe...just one last time. Please..."
He rushed in and snatched me into his arms, squeezing me so hard my feet left the floor. We stumbled backwards into the house and the door slammed shut. We fell onto the chill marble and he crawled atop me, yanking my briefs down my hips and untangling them from my ankles.
The floor was frigid beneath my ass. I lay and waited for him to make his next move. He kissed my upraised knees, caressing my hips. All the blood rushed to my cock in a single heartbeat. When he loomed over me, pressing his lips to mine, the floor gave—
I free-fell over a bottomless drop—guts knotting violently.
Suspended mid-air, I was unable to brace myself on anything in the wretched darkness.
I cried out to him, but Rome was long gone.
Not a trace of his presence remained. There was no one to hear.
God was an afterthought. So was spacetime and the mere thought of humanity.
There was a deep and galling sense of separation.
From the world—from my own mind, which had voided all sense of what was happening.
I had lost utter control of my being and wanted only to die.
For it to all be over. To be welcomed into the sweet repose of eternity.
But it was now perfectly clear, I would never stop plunging.
I flinched awake at the desk, having fallen asleep over my notes.
I took a breath like I'd been held underwater too long, and my ribs ached with the effort.
I could feel my heartbeat between my ears.
It was after midnight and I had drooled all over my handiwork, so I collected it and blotted the saliva away.
Finally I turned on Harry Nilsson's "Without You" and crawled into bed.