The drive is the longest one we've had all tour, and although we got on the bus in the evening, we're not in Barcelona until well into the following morning.
The bus begins to slow down, stops, we drive some more, stop, turn, stop. Coming into a city, navigating to the venue, finding the right place to park. And then we finally stop completely and the engine switches off. I hear Mike and Jürgen talking in whispers before Jürgen goes into his bunk after an entire night of driving.
The other guys seem to still be asleep, too. I haven't slept all night.
I get out of the bunk, glad to escape its claustrophobic air and the thoughts that just bounce back and forth. To escape the feeling of being ridiculed.
Brendon's bunk curtain is closed, and the pain feels new as I pass it, sliding the door aside and entering the lounge. But I've escaped nothing because Brendon's not in his bunk – he's on the couch, asleep. His notebook is in his lap, there are torn pages thrown across the lounge, and I realise he spent his night here, writing something he clearly wasn't pleased with. And now he's passed out, breathing deeply, and evenly but a frown remains on his face. Troubled dreams.
And I think of what he said yesterday, and I think of us the night before, in that hotel room, and then I think of us flying home tomorrow, and then I think of him no more.
He doesn't wake up as I walk past him quietly.
I get out of the bus just to breathe.
We're parked down the street from the venue, which is a red brick building that has the look of a theatre to it. Mike and Sisky are outside the bus, smoking morning cigarettes, and they look surprised to see me. It's not cold or snowy anymore – we've gotten out of northern Europe, we've gotten away from the Alps. It's a clear yet pale day, and I don't need my scarf protecting my throat. I breathe in the lukewarm air, fight off the constricted feeling in my chest.
I say, "Morning."
I say, "I'm gonna go for a walk."
I don't have to ask Sisky to keep me company: he volunteers on his own. And I appreciate it, I wanted him to come. He's great company when I don't want to think about myself. So we head down the street, Mike tells us not to get lost. We won't. It's relatively early, cars honking and drivers shouting at each other. I look around, look at the aging buildings with paint peeling off of them, reminding me of my house in Machias, and I look at the wide streets and the stocky palm trees, and I feel far away from whoever I am right now. This is some strange version of me.
Sisky's got something on his mind, and he's not trying to hide it. After two blocks of shared silence, he says, "Dallon was talking about leaving the band last night."
"What?" I repeat in surprise, not having caught anything of the kind.
Sisky nods slowly. "I overheard him talking to Mike about it, they were the last ones awake. Mike hasn't mentioned it to me or anyone, I don't think. Mike just wants to finish the tour and assess the damage once everyone's back home, but Dallon sounded serious. He wants to quit the band."
"Why?" I ask after a pause, trying to take this in. "Dallon, I mean."
I look at Sisky, thinking to myself that this is a fair question, but Sisky looks disbelieving and even taken aback by me, and I'm not used to seeing that on him.
"What do you think?" he asks pointedly. I don't know. "Everyone knows about you and Brendon," he says slowly like he needs to emphasise this because of my lacking deduction skills. "We all know you –"
And then he looks straight ahead where my eyes meet an abundance of trees, a park ahead of us. And I focus on that too, the way the slight breeze moves the branches ahead, and I think of Brendon's arms around me, his arms pinned to the bed, on my back, I think of how he moved when I pushed and pulled, I think of us fucking and how good it was and how lost I was in it. I think of the way he kissed the corner of my mouth after I'd come.
