Clarence refuses to speak to any of the other guys, and I will be surprised if he makes it to the end of the tour. In many ways, I don’t want him to. He deserves better.
Kevin looks like he’s aged a decade in a month.
And I want to be anywhere but here.
No, that’s not true. I want to be wherever Pia is.
They’re playing in London tomorrow, so maybe she’s there already. I’d like to be in London with Pia. I’d like to spend time with her in England. Maybe I could take her to Oxford or to my home village. We could do day trips to the Cotswolds or further afield, to the coast. We could have pub lunches and play board games and drink tea, and maybe I could even try baking scones or a Victoria sponge or…
I laugh to myself, head shaking, as I realise I’ve created a fantasy version of Pia. Pia would never do any of that. Pia would hate me for even suggesting it.
Another reason I love the rain is the anonymity it gives me. So few people are out on the streets – Seattle is still like most US cities, where walking is a rare pastime – and I like the sense of normalcy it gives me.
Not for the first time, I wonder if I should give it all up for just that. Normalcy. Anonymity. A life of rainy walks on rainy days.
But as I approach Pike Place Market and there’s more activity – bus loads of tourists – I know that again I’m imagining the impossible because if I walk away from the music, the industry, this peculiar universe I’ve become a fixture of, I would also be walking away from Pia.
And I hate myself for even considering that.
Besides, I know something about myself now that makes being “normal” even more impossible. I’m gay. No, bisexual.
I am something that will forever be othered. I am something that will always set me apart. And once more, that something connects me to Pia, and I don’t want to cut that connection.
I walk for hours in the end, and I know, when I’m up on stage tonight, I’ll regret it. My feet will hurt more than usual. I’ll be yawning into the encore. I’ll collapse in my bed and wish I could sleepfor a week, only for us to pack up and move again. Portland tomorrow.
Touring used to be such a buzz. All the places. All the people. All the fans. All the energy.
I thought I’d never tire of it, and part of me never will. Part of me will always stand under a hot spotlight and thank my lucky stars I’m where I am. But a growing part of me is exhausted.
It’s still magical, but it’s a trick I’ve performed too many times.
Still, when I see a small crowd of fans at the entrance to our hotel, I put my game face on and greet them. I sign autographs. I take off my hood and smile for photos. I tell them that I’m sorry but I can’t (and won’t) perform ‘What I Want’ on my own.
“It’s Pia’s song just as much as mine,” I explain to the sweet teenage girl with braces who has her own version of my haircut.
“But you’re the better singer,” she says, innocently, I think.
“Oh, Pia is a beautiful singer,” I respond. “And the best performer out there right now.”
The girl and her friends disagree with me, but I am satisfied that I know Pia better. That knowledge has me nursing a secret smile as I wave them all goodbye and enter the hotel.
“There you are.” Kevin rushes up to me before I’m even at reception, and I hold my breath.
“What now?” I ask, doom clear in my voice.
“Oh, no, nothing bad.” He looks to the side as we walk towards the lifts. “At least I don’t think so. It’s Pia Lindberg.”
I stop in my tracks. “What’s happened to her?”
His eyebrows pinch together. “So, it’s true?”
We stare at each other for a few seconds, until I look away because it feels like he’s reading my mind. “Is she okay?” I finally ask, because he didn’t answer my question.
He rocks back on his heels, squares his shoulders. “She wants to talk to you.”
“Talk to me?”
“Yes, on the phone. In your room.”