“It’s good to see you too.” I say, my mouth smothered by the black button down.
“What’re you doing here?” He asks, his thick Boston accent coming out harsher than I know he meant it to.
“I need to see him, Marv.” I plead. “I have to.”
“Are you sure?” Marv asks. “I don’t just mean for you but for him too. He’s spiralin, darlin’.”
I nod against his chest. “I have to,” I whisper.
“Okay.” He sighs, letting me go, but his eyes widen when he takes in the dress and the stupid headpiece I’m still wearing.
“What’re you wearing?” He asks with a chuckle.
“It’s a really long story.” I tell him as we pass the guards and head into the corridor that leads backstage.
“Boys give you trouble?“ he asks, referring to the guards out front.
“They teased me about the dress, but they weren’t too bad.” I reply honestly. “They didn’t know who I was.”
“It’s been a long time, Bristol.” He says sadly. I forget sometimes that I didn’t just leave Rhyit, I left everyone. The friends I made, the crew, and the rest of the band were left in the dust when I left.
“I know,” I say guiltily. “I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye.”
“It’s okay, darlin,” he nods as we take the hallway, “but it’s so good to have you back.”
“I’m not back.” I say, defensiveness rising in my tone, “I just need to talk to him.”
“You know what I mean.” We stop walking just before the door that leads to the side stage. “Go through there. You can see him on stage for the encore, and then you’ll be able to get the green room, okay?” He asks.
“I’ll be fine.” I say, placing a hand on his large shoulder.
“It’s not just you I’m worried about.” He exhales as he takes a step back from me. “Be good, kid.” He says with a wink. It’s the same thing he always said to me, and the familiar response brings a small smile to my face.
I step through the open door and walk through the dark towards the stage. I spot Rhyit on the other side of the stage talking to Garrett. He takes the water bottle from him and takes a long drink, the muscles of his neck protruding as he drinks. He pulls the bottle away from his mouth and dumps the last of its contents on his head. Water droplets hang on his dark hair as he takes a long breath, and his body sags tiredly as he grabs the head of the Fender.
When he turns around from facing Garrett, all the air in my body feels like it’s been sucked out. He stands in front of me, but luckily, he can’t see me behind the black curtain. He’s beautiful. I forgot, okay maybe I pushed it out of my memory, how stunningly handsome he is in person. His dark hair and bright green eyes, chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones. He’s a work of art. I also see the effects the drugs have had on him. He’s not nearly as bulky as he once was, while still being a big guy, he used to have a lot more muscle. The thought makes me angry and sad in equal proportion. I feel my knees go a little weak when he smiles at the crowd, his Fender clasped in one hand. I watch as he walks to the center of the stage and takes a long deep breath, the exhale can be heard against the windscreen of the mic, echoing loudly across the crowd.
“I know you guys know this one.” He says into the microphone, I can’t see the crowd, but I can hear them. They cheer loudly and start to chant the title of the song, my stage name, over and over again.
Alex runs a pick against the strings of his guitar as their drummer counts them in. “This one is for the girl who got away,” I take a step forward, hoping to see more of him as he starts the opening verse to Pistol. I peek my head further around the black curtain, and the people in the front row spot me. I hear their loud screams as Rhyit continues to sing. I take a step back out of sight and watch them–watch him. He sings this song with so much sadness it feels like a bullet piercing my chest. That was not the intention for this song, for these lyrics; they were supposed to be happy, like happily ever after level happy, but instead, they sound like a breakup song, full of regret and pain. I mouth the lines of the chorus from memory, the words might as well be imprinted on the back of my eyelids, they’re the only words I see constantly. Boston and Alex play, and Rhyit walks around the front of the crowd, grabbing the fans hands as they try to touch him. He stops in front of a girl with a tube top and shorts, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and red lips pulled high in a smile. He’s singing to her. HE’S SINGING OUR SONG TO MY LOOK-ALIKE.
I take a step back, my ears ringing, my heart in my throat and my stomach swirling.
What did you think he was going to do? Stand in front of thousands of people with an I LOVE Pistol shirt on. No, you idiot, he’s moved on. He’s one of the most famous rock stars on the planet, you think he isn’t out getting his dick wet every night. Jesus. My thoughts race as I walk backstage. I don’t want to hear the rest of the song; I don’t want to watch him swoon over another girl.
The large hallway leads me in the direction of their green room, the band name taped to the door as I approach. My feet feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each, and I could easily sleep for a week. I turn the knob to the door, and I close my eyes after I take in the room. A plate sits in the middle of the room completely filled with cocaine, lines are chalked up on either side, ready and waiting for them to do when they’re done. A small bowl sits on the side table next to the couch filled with pills of every shape and color. Liquor bottles are scattered across the room in varying stages of full.
Bile burns up the back of my throat as my mouth fills with saliva, this is the life they’re living without me, this is what they do now that I’m not here. I take a few steps back, pulling the heavy door with me, and as I click the door shut, I sprint to the bathroom. I swallow the saliva pooling in my mouth continuously, praying to whoever is listening that I don’t puke on this dress.
When I spot the woman in a dress symbol, I push the door open as quickly as possible. I see an open stall as the door closes behind me and heave the contents of my stomach, or lack thereof.
Once I’m finished, I sit down on the floor of dirty backstage bathroom in a designer wedding dress, veil still firmly placed in my stupid updo. My butt stings against the cracked tiles and the tulle, but I don’t feel the pain there as much as I do against my chest. I’ve been playing the ‘what if’ game with myself for years, the result always ending in me leaving anyway. What if I stayed and they only got worse? What if I stayed, and they all resented me because they weren’t living their best rockstar lives? But there is a major difference between the what ifs and seeing it in person, the life they’re living is different than the one they lived with me. We drank and we used drugs, but never to an extreme. The scene I just witnessed was over the top.
I stand up from the ground, my legs wobbly underneath the dress, and I brush myself off and move to the mirror near the door. Once my hands are washed and I’ve cleaned the eyeliner runs from under my eyes, I take a deep breath. You can do this. Just go talk to him. With a new resolve, I step out of the bathroom and into the hallway as roadies move equipment and people mill around in the hallway paying me no mind even though I’m dressed like bridal Barbie.
A tattoo I’ve seen a thousand times catches my eye towards the end of the hallway, dark hair covers some of the letters, but I would know it anywhere. Tiny pieces of hope fill me, he’s here, I can talk to him, I can tell him everything I need to say. When I reach the door he disappeared behind, I can hear a woman giggling on the other side, but I pay her no mind, she’s probably with her girlfriends enjoying the after party with the band. I knock lightly, praying I don’t walk in on someone shooting up or worse. I don’t think I could handle it right now. When there’s no answer, I grip the knob of the door and push. The door gives way, and the familiar tattoo sits only mere feet away from me. He’s so close I could touch him. His leather pants hang low on his hips and long tanned legs are wrapped around him at the waist. Her giggle carries around the room as he leans forward and says something in her ear, the muscles in his back tighten as he leans further forward. His pants fall further down his hips, and I can’t breathe. A small whimper leaves from somewhere deep inside my chest, and they both stop and start to turn around. I’m pretty sure the whimper was the sound of my heart breaking further, but I can’t be sure. I back away from the scene before they both turn around, praying neither one of them spotted me spying on their obvious private moment.
Once I’m back through the door, safely away from them, I lean against the side of the wall in the hallway. I place my hands above my head, hoping the motion will open the airways in my throat that closed at the sight. I gulp the air, waiting for the burn in my chest to subside but it doesn’t, the feeling intensifies to the point that I’m not sure I’ll ever breathe normally again. Hot tears coat my cheeks as my chest continues to collapse into itself. Such a freaking idiot, I think to myself.