“Agreed,” I nod and wait for the pang in my stomach to dissipate. Missing Cassie over the last few weeks has become a physical thing. It shows up as stomach aches, a tight ribcage, even a sore head that some of my worst hangovers couldn’t touch.
“And what’s happening with Vik and Steph?” he asks as he lights a cigarette. I’m grateful when he passes it to me at the other side of the leather couch. I’m also grateful that Geert and Jakob are sleeping further down the tour bus. It feels like I’ve not been alone with Jon since the tour re-restarted.
“You mean you’re not checking the gossip rags for updates?” I tease.
“Am I fuck!” He laughs.
“Vik’s still locked up and not going anywhere for a long time, according to his lawyer. I have no clue about that other fuckwit. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care.”
“Rehab is the rumour I heard.”
“Again, don’t know, don’t care.”
“I hope wherever he is, he doesn’t cross your path anytime soon or…” Jon swipes his index finger across his throat.
“Are you saying Ishouldn’tmurder him?” I tap my cigarette into the ashtray that sits between us. “You who have swung for him more times than anyone.”
Jon shrugs. “He’s an easy fight. For someone who was once a rah-rah rugby boy, he has a weak uppercut and an even more pathetic block.”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” I say, already feeling the heat in my blood increase.
“What do you want to talk about then? Your girlfriend and how she’s probably recording next year’s top-selling album as we speak?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say instinctively. “And I still think we could give her a run for her money.”
“Only one of those statements is true,” Jon says, and he moves so his feet are pointing my way, the ashtray now lying on his shins.
“Jesus, your feet stink.” I move further back but don’t push him away. I like being close to him like this. It feels like we’re cementing a new chapter in our friendship.
“No, they don’t. It’s just my socks. Haven’t changed them in a few days.”
I blink at him. “Why not? That’s gross, man.”
Jon laughs like I’ve cracked the funniest joke.
“What?”
“Never did I ever think that Pia Lindberg would be bothered by smelly feet.” He clutches his belly.
“What are you saying?”
“Pia…” He leans closer to me. “I literally saw you snort cocaine off a backing singer’s tit when we played at Glastonbury Fayre. And she hadn’t showered in two days, minimum. You licked the sweat off her body, out of her fucking armpit, like it was honey.”
I find a blurry memory that corresponds with what he’s saying. “That was then.” I smile at the recollection but don’t feel anything like desire to go back to it or to recreate similar moments. “And this is now.”
“And now you’re in love,” he says, his laughter finally coming to a stop.
“Now I’m…” I start, confident I can find an alternative for whatever this situation is that I am in. But I can’t.
“Just say it, Pia.” He throws the packet of cigarettes at me. I toss it back, then look out of the window on the opposite side of the bus. It’s night, and all I can see are the passing lights of oncoming traffic. We are somewhere between Chicago and Milwaukee, I believe, but we could be anywhere. I don’t care. I’m only focused on doing what I have to do each day until we’re on our way back to LA.
“What does it matter to you?” I say, taking a final long drag on my cigarette.
“It matters because I care about you,” Jon replies. I study his face for any hint that that “care” is more than just platonic. It’s a great relief when I conclude it isn’t. “And I want you to be happy.”
“I’ll be happy when you stop being so nosey. Since when do you care about who I’m fucking?” I stub my cigarette out.
“I don’t know, maybe since the moment you abandoned our European tour to be with her? Since the moment you started writing love songs rather than rage anthems? Since the last few weeks when I can see you’re here, on this tour, in body but not in spirit?”