Once they disappear out the back exit, I slowly make my way toward the dressing rooms as the backstage returns to normalcy. The muted thud of thrash metal comes from down the hall—Brookfield likes to get pumped up prior to going onstage. I knock several times before Justin peeks out and then lets me in. With arms crossed, Romeo leans against a wall. Across from him, Gabe punches another wall.
“Stop it,” I say, moving behind Gabe and dropping Seth’s shoe on a table. “He’s sick, Gabe. He’s delusional.”
Gabe pauses and looks over his shoulder at me, through his hair. The strands lift in sync with his heavy breathing.
“He’s schizophrenic. He believes you’re bad, an alien or something.”
Gabe’s fist drops as he turns toward me. “An alien?”
“Well, that explains a lot,” Justin mumbles from somewhere behind me. “And I’m not talking about Seth,” he adds with obvious laughter in his voice.
I lift my hands and shrug. “Like I said, he’s delusional. His brain doesn’t work right.”
“An alien?” Gabe repeats, then starts laughing so hard he has to reach out for a table to support him. “He thinks I’m a fucking alien! That shit is too funny!”
I look around the room to find Justin and Romeo grinning.
Suddenly, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I dig it out in a rush to hear Sam’s voice asking, “Has Seth been drinking?”
“Ah, yeah, he had a few beers.”
“He shouldn’t be drinking,” Sam snaps.
“Um, I didn’t know,” I say slowly. I know he must be freaking out, so I’m trying not to let his angry tone affect me.
“How many did he have?”
“Maybe three or four?”
“Sixteen-ounce drafts?” Sam asks incredulously.
“Yeah,” I answer in a small voice. “I didn’t know he couldn’t drink,” I repeat, though I’m not sure I could have stopped Seth from doing what he wanted, anyway. “I’m sorry.”
Sam sighs. “It’s all right, Peyton, I’m just—they have him in straitjacket, and even drugged up, he’s flaming pissed at me right now.”
“Where are you? Do you want me to come find you?”
“I wish,” he says, his voice sad. “But I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Is Seth going to be okay?”
“After they regulate his meds, he should be as okay as he gets.” The phone is quiet until he says, “Shit, I miss you already.”
“I miss you too,” I say tightly, hearing a forlorn tone in my own voice that matches his before I hang up.
I sincerely hope Seth gets better, but he has always been the wild card. His disease and its implications were things Sam and I haven’t talked about over the past week. We ignored the world outside the bus window, yet Seth has long been an unspoken issue.
That I used to date him is odd enough. However, I’m aware Seth’s schizophrenia adds an entire new layer of difficulty to Sam and me being together. And the instability of his disease, his obvious dislike of our being together, could come between us.
I sit in a row of chairs in front of the huge glass window at the Fresno airport. Justin and Romeo are a few chairs down. Both of them are on their phones. Gabe is hungover from the huge end-of-tour party last night—a party that was totally lame for me because of Sam’s absence. He’s on the other side of the walkway, lying across several chairs.
Sam isn’t with us.
His mother flew in yesterday. They’re staying at a hotel near the hospital. They hope to fly back, with Seth, by the end of the week. Sam says Seth’s doing better, but the doctor doesn’t want to release him until his new medication is working effectively.
I haven’t seen Sam in two days. I miss him every minute, yet him being with his brother is more important than my melancholy, obviously.
As a 747 taxis by the window, my phone vibrates, and a picture of Sam lying on the couch in the back of the bus flashes on the screen along with the text: Can you find somewhere private and call me?
Why? I text back, confused.
Just do it! Please!
I’m suddenly scared that Sam is going to share bad news—Seth isn’t doing well, Sam’s letting me go, or who knows what else. So I stand on shaking legs and head to an area of unoccupied seats. After setting down my carry-on and taking a deep breath, I call Sam.
“Hey, Peyton,” he answers.
“What’s going on?” I quickly and nervously ask.
“I wanted to send you off with a memory of me.”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to put the phone down. Just listen until I pick it back up, okay?”
“Um, okay.”
I hear him set the phone down, then the chords of an acoustic guitar echo. I’m trying to place the familiar tune when he starts singing:
Even amid falling leaves
She was brighter
Than the summer sun
Fell under the spell of her
Smiling brown eyes
Faster than a breath
And when she’s gone
It’s always night
And I’m under a bleak moon
A bleak, bleak moon
She’s more than beauty
She’s a generous soul
Rich with laughter
She makes me
High on life
She makes me whole
But when she’s gone
It’s always night
And I’m under a bleak moon
A bleak, bleak moon
He rolls into the instrumental, and overwhelmed by the song, I draw in gulps of air, imagining his fingers flying over the guitar stem, imagining the tender look on his face, and wishing he were here with me. Then he starts the last verse, and my throat burns.
From the shadows
I watched her shine
Trying to be content
That she’d never be mine
Never touch the sun
Never hold her brightness
Now she’s gone
It’s always night
And I’m under a bleak moon
A bleak, bleak moon
The song ends and I wipe the lone tear rolling down my cheek. I don’t deserve such a beautiful song now, much less years ago when he must have written it. I recall being worried about being portrayed as a bitch, but the way Sam sees me fills me with pride, hope, and fear—I want to be what he sees. I want to be what he needs.
“Peyton? You there?” Sam asks, breaking me from my turbulent thoughts.
“Yeah, um, wow,” I say in a rush of air. “I’m sure that’s really not me but thank you.”
“That’s you. It was you even then.”
Someone pokes my shoulder, and I turn to see Gabe. “We’re boarding,” he says loudly.
Nodding to Gabe, I reach for my bag and say, “I have to go. We’re—”
“I heard. It’s okay. I told my mom I’d meet her soon at the hospital.” He sighs sadly into the phone. “Though it will be the middle of the night, text me when you land?”
“Yes. Text me when you wake up?”
“The moment I open my eyes. Have a safe trip, Peyton,” he says in a desolate tone before hanging up.