“Couldn’t bear another note of that sad song. Too many bands writing sad songs that emulate every other sad song and no one remembers where sad songs actually come from. Or lovesongs. Or angry songs. Why is music lately so fucking trite and shallow?” I sigh and shake my head. “Sorry. You’re probably a huge fan. Don’t mean to offend.” I rethink it. “Or maybe I do. This hellhole clearly isn’t for me. Got lost on my way to the restroom to hurl. But what would I even hurl? Haven’t eaten anything since the Cheetos. Oh, I meanCheeto,” I correct myself, “thanks to that fuckingsquirrel. Are you hiding or something?”
His probing eyes haven’t left mine. “Sure looks like it, huh?”
“Maybe I am, too. From everything. Even myself.” My grip on the bin tightens. “You realize Chase Holt is about to go on? Don’t wanna miss the opening song. Bet it’s a realbanger—some soulless producer-written shell of a song aboutlove,” I mumble miserably. After noticing the silence, I give the guy a glance. “Look, sorry, I don’t know the first thing about whoever this alleged not-so-country-anymore sellout is that we’re all here to see …”
“Sellout?”
“… other than he’s out and gay, and my bestie AJ was hooked on his music for a hot minute last year, and—Wait. Can I still call him my bestie? Was he ever?” I ask, a totally separate question, a Pandora’s Box of terror I just opened up. I stare into the depths of the trash bin. “I heard this Chase Holt guy had a show here, and I thought, hey, go surprise your bestie with tickets, he’ll love that. But nope. I lose him to a fucking city inFrance.”
“Uh … Paris?”
“I’m not drunk, by the way,” I feel compelled to explain. “This isn’t puke. It’s fuckingbetrayalspilling out of me.”
“So your best friend … ran off to Paris …?”
“Ran offafterParis, big difference. He’s in love and doing what he thinks is right. He’s as trite as a Chase Holt love song. Aren’t we all?” I let go of the bin and start to laugh. Yeah, I’m losing it. “Am I the idiot for filling my head with thewildnotion that I could actually make my life move forward? That I couldnotjust be the nice gay friend everyone takes advantage of? Nice guys get left behind. They getstuck. Like I’ll be. In the ever-loving quicksand that is my hometown of Spruce. I’m tired of being …” My posture breaks. “… what everyone tells me I am.”
There’s a thick silence that follows. I hardly notice, as if I’m all alone in this hallway, like the guy is imaginary.
Then, in a changed, softer voice, the guy mumbles, “I get it. Feelin’ boxed in. People decidin’ who you are before you get to.”
“All these years slipping by, and I’m no closer to finding out how to rescue myself from … from myself.”
“What’s the rush?” he gently asks. “Some things take time.”
“I’m a senior next year. Once I graduate, it’s all over. I’ll be trapped. And believe me, I’ve triedeverything. Music. Dancing like Jimmy. Doodling. I’m apparently bad at all of it. I’m even bad at planning road trips enticing enough to keep my bestie’s attention. I’m just … I’m just gonna … I-I’m gonna …” Oh, no. Here come the tears again. “I’m gonna be stuck in Spruce for the rest of my life.”
“You don’t gotta be a damned thing other than what you are.”
I look at him challengingly. “And what am I?”
“You seem like a guy who knows when somethin’ ain’t right,” he answers, this stranger I’m trauma-dumping on, this man with kind eyes. “I can clearly see passion inside you.”
“It’s the rest of the betrayal,” I explain. “I’m holding back.”
“Don’t gotta hold back. Not here. Ain’t no one here but us.”
“No, no. I’ve perfected the art. It’s the one thing I’m good at.” I fold my arms over my chest. “And this dam of mine, yeah, it will break when I let it, and trust me, you don’t want to be there.”
“Says who?” He kicks away from the wall. “Tell you what. Just take a breath, maybe a minute or two, then head on back to that crowd out there and enjoy some music. Who knows. Maybe this … sellout isn’t what you think. His music might even—”
“What Ineed,” I cut him off, “isn’t another fucking guy singing about hisfeelings. What the fuck about mine?”
He flinches at my words, eyebrows lifting up, taken aback.
“Let him sing,” I go on, growing more bitter with each word I spit out. “Let that guy whine about his achy little heart to a crowd of devoted fans. And let those fans adore his clichéd love songs so he can strut back to his studio and shit out some more, while the rest of us out here in therealworld continue to suffocate.” The dam’s cracking without awaiting my blessing. “Does it make me a terrible person for …” My voice starts shaking. Eyes are welling up. “… for wishing someone felt as bad as I do right now …?”
He says nothing.
But that’s because his face says everything for him.
Whatever motivation this guy had to help me out of my funk has clearly been shredded to bits after my words. I’ve ruined his night. Just like AJ ruined mine. Which makes me feel even worse. This guy didn’t come here for my abuse and doesn’t deserve it. He just bought a ticket to enjoy an artist he probably cherishes.
I don’t know if he has an answer to my question.
I don’t wait to find out.
I turn and head down the hall before he sees my dam shatter apart completely. I don’t stop until I’m outside, fleeing through some side door no one’s watching. My back slams against the brick wall. I slide down, a shuddering, blubbering, broken-down mess next to a smelly dumpster, scaring away a poor cat. Probably for the best. The same doomsday clouds that took away my afternoon sunshine choose now to spill over my head like a prank, an utter downpour the second the rain comes, and it doesn’t let up.