II
Chapter 1: How to Feel Out of Place
"A backstage pass!" Sisky says, delighted. "I've never had one before." He eyes the sticker he's pressed to his shirt like it's made of gold, his thick coat hanging open despite the cold. I've pressed mine to the middle of my upper thigh, but the coat hides it.
I know what it says, anyway. In the centre of the red sticker are three lines: His Side, 1/17/79, Aragon Ballroom. And as if on cue, my eyes lock on the vertical Aragon sign sticking out of the venue façade two blocks ahead. I smoke vigorously as we walk. Hear the heavy thud of my heart in my ears.
"Nice of him to get us backstage passes!" Sisky sounds all together pleased.
I'm assuming Brendon's gone ahead and informed the band of who is attending their show. A car picked him up to take him to the venue and dropped me off at the café where I had dumped Sisky. See you there, then.
"I'm guessing it went well," Sisky now muses, grinning broadly. "Was he happy to see you?"
"I don't think so."
I suck in smoke. My hands feel sweaty for no reason.
He frowns. "No? But... What did you do?"
"We had a beer and talked about the weather."
Sisky snorts. I'm not lying. We sat there in his living room, he decidedly on the other couch, and we talked about the heavy snowfall. He didn't ask me why I had showed up, what the hell I was up to, nothing. Like my arrival wasn't surprising to him at all, though he couldn't have been any more closed off. Keeping his distance. I briefly asked about the tour, he said it was alright, he's just tired, and then we took turns sipping our beers, the silence awkward, tense and heavy.
No matter what's happened between us, it's never been like this before. This forced.
"He's probably just overwhelmed," Sisky says confidently. Underwhelmed, more like.
"Listen," I say when we're almost at the venue. I take a hold of Sisky's shoulder. Kids are lining up outside already although the doors won't open for another hour. Sisky is buzzing because he's at a His Side show and he's got a backstage pass, but I need him to focus. "Just keep your head on when we go in there, alright? Same rules as New York: don't –"
"Don't be rude, don't be nosy, don't be overbearing," he lists, rolling his eyes. "When have I ever been any of those things?"
I blink. "You're kidding me, right?"
He huffs. "I know how to behave. I'll give people space." He then gets a dreamy look in his eyes. "I'll give Jonathan Walker space..."
Poor Jon won't know what hit him.
"And about Brendon," I then add, "he doesn't know that – that you know as much as you do, so –"
"I can be discreet!" Him? Discreet? That'll be the day. "Honestly, Ry, don't you worry."
The venue presumably has a backdoor, but I can't be bothered to look for it. Instead we march straight for the main doors, and the fans in the line spot me instantly, and then I am surrounded and I'm stuck signing hands, gig tickets and shirts. "Thanks, that's great, thanks, look, I gotta," I say, feeling claustrophobic as they make such noise, repeating my name, pushing, invading. I should be used to this by now, but it's been a long while. Someone tries to touch the curls of my hair that land on my shoulders.
"Oh, I, uh," Sisky's voice comes, and when I look at him, he's not too far away, blushing profusely as he signs a piece of paper that a pretty brunette is offering him. A few kids are crowding him as well.
