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AC laughed. “Wow. Really? Are you going to do it?”

Tristan’s expression darkened. “We. We are going to do it, because reacting is never
a good stance.” He put his arm around me. “And it protects both of you. From all this
crap. And it’s true.” He tried to smile. “Well, not the model. You can’t pull a model
for shit.”

AC put on a hurt face, then laughed. “What do you mean? That last model I slept with
was incredibly…”

Tristan interrupted. “Thin?”

AC laughed. “Yeah. No, Tris, she was a nice girl.” He looked at us. “Just not for
me.” He got up and headed towards the bathroom, then turned around. “Hey, great idea.
Call Trevor. He’s got books of models. Get him to line up a few for L.A. Three should
do it. Because all real men can get it up three times a night.” He walked off singing
the KC and the Sunshine Band song, “That’s the way, uh huh uh huh, I like it, uh huh,
uh huh.” His laughter trailed back, then the door opening and closing brought it to
an end.

I looked at Tristan. “Really? We’re going to do this?” I wanted to ask him a million
questions. Tell him I knew why we were doing it. But I sat there, and waited for his
answer to a question I hadn’t needed to ask.

His eyes were far away. “I don’t like it either. But until I think of another way
to handle it, we’ve got five days to get through.” He kissed my cheek. “It’s not a
lie. We are together, and I do care about you. Obviously. More than you realize. It’s
just no one else’s business. But they want happy heterosexuality, I can do that. Rather
just do sexuality, but we’re halfway there.”

* * *

The concert was good, not great, and the bassist seemed to be playing either to the
crowd or to the drummer. There was no interaction between him and Tristan and AC.
I couldn’t imagine why someone would throw away a chance like this over some stupid
prejudice, but then again, people did a lot of things I didn’t understand. I was happy
to get back to the hotel room we’d booked at the last minute, and try to have some
quiet time. AC had retreated to his room, begging off the offer of watching some movie.
He hugged us both, and winked at me. But he looked exhausted. Tristan headed to the
shower as soon as we came in, and I ordered some room service. When the bell rang,
I signed for it at the door, and let them push it over the threshold, before I said
I’d take care of the rest. The server protested, but I thanked them, pulled out another
bill that I didn’t even look at, and pressed it into his hand. I shut and locked the
door, and pushed the table to one side.

“Table or bed?” I said to Tristan, as he emerged from the shower, dripping wet, a
towel slung low around his hips.

“Bed, I think. What have we got?”

“Hamburgers. They look ok.”

“After the shower, I barely feel hungry. Too tired.” Tristan pulled on a pair of running
shorts, and stood there, drying his hair with the towel.

His face was drawn. He looked almost ill, the circles under his eyes becoming more
pronounced. I suddenly felt very worried. It’d been stupid to think all this was going
to just be a blip on the radar. “Do you want a drink? Try and eat something, maybe.”

“Yeah, let me have a look. Maybe a glass of wine or something.” He came over to the
table, and picked up one of the burgers. “Looks all right.” He took a bite, and walked
over to the window, chewing. “Nice view,” he gave a half laugh. He looked at the burger.

I took a bite of mine. It was ok. Hotel food. “It’s all right.”

“Yeah, it’s ok.” Tristan came back over, and put the burger down on the plate, and
picked up a chip and contemplated it thoughtfully before putting it in his mouth.
He crinkled up his face. “Greasy.” He wiped his hands carefully on the napkin. “Maybe
a glass of wine. I think I’m too worn out for this.” He looked around the room. “Smaller
than usual, isn’t it?”

I looked at the pale green walls, the prints in their gold frames. It was a box. All
I could see were the corners. I breathed in. It suddenly felt more cramped than the
bus had. “It’s not brilliant, is it?” I didn’t want him to see my growing sense of
panic, but maybe if we talked a little, lay down. “Tristan?”

But he was heading back to the bathroom. “Be right back. I feel like complete shit,
Lily.” He shut the door and the shower went on. It wasn’t enough to hide the sounds
of someone being sick.

I sat down on the bed and waited. It wasn’t the food—we’d barely eaten. It was exhaustion.
Stress. And nowhere to go with it. The noises finally stopped, and the shower ran
a while. Then Tristan emerged, drying his hair with a towel, his skin paler than I’d
ever seen it.

“Lily. Are you ok?” It seemed a funny question coming from someone who was obviously
ill.

“Yes. Tristan. Can I do something?” I tried to ignore the prickles under my skin.
I felt light-headed. What the fuck were we going to do?

“No, it’s ok. Look, I’m going to get a sleeping pill from AC. He’s always got something.”
Tristan was putting on a pair of jeans as he said it. “Do you want one?”

“Sure.” I was about to ask if I could come too. I clamped it down. I didn’t think
this was just about the pills.

Tristan paused at the door, bare chested, his jeans caught up at the top of his ankle
boots. “I won’t be long. I want to make sure he’s ok.”

“Sure.” There wasn’t a lot to say. He gave a weak smile and the door closed behind
him.

I looked around the room. Then I walked over to the desk, and flipped through the
pads, trying out the pen on a couple of sheets. I put the pen back in the drawer,
and went back to the table, covering it all with the napkins. There was nothing wrong
with the food, but the smell of greasy burgers and fries was making it worse. I opened
the door and looked up and down the halls. Nothing. I pushed the table out, wincing
at the noise of plates and cutlery crashing together as the table went over the threshold.

I stood out in the hall. This hotel had red pink carpet with a small repeated white
diamond shape. The line of sconces lighting the hall repeated, separated by a print,
and a door, at neat, regular intervals. The ceiling felt like it was getting lower,
and the hall longer the more I looked, like some kind of optical illusion. There was
no sound. Even the elevators were still. I shut the door. Back inside, I gave the
room another once over. All normal. Green. Small. I went into the bathroom and flushed
the toilet and washed my face and hands. I avoided the mirror. Then I went straight
to the minibar, pulled out a beer and two small bottles of bourbon, and arranged them
neatly on the table in front of the sofa. The remote finally switched on, and I turned
down the volume on the Weather Channel, as I watched the outlines of states with pictures
and numbers changing in front of them, and men in raincoats standing by highways.
I unscrewed the cap on the first little bottle, feeling reassured that there were
others in the minibar. Two swallows emptied it, and I opened the beer. And bottle
in hand, watching the local forecast, accurate and dependable, I settled in to wait.

chapter fourteen

Kansas City to Oklahoma City

I hadn’t waited that long. A couple of hours later, around 2, Tristan had rolled in,
looking slightly less sick, but no less pale. He raised one eyebrow when he saw me
on the sofa, but hadn’t said anything, just beckoned me over. I’d switched off the
TV and walked over to him. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and the outside and something
else I couldn’t quite place but that seemed familiar. He wrapped me in his arms, and
we just stood like that. Eyes wide open, but mouths shut, I thought. I had a feeling
that if I could have seen his face he would be staring at the wall, the same way I
was. He finally released me, and started removing my clothes, and his, carefully,
as though he were putting a lot of thought into it. When we were both naked, he looked
at me, and holding out his hand, he helped me get into bed. We arranged ourselves
under the covers, his arm around me. With his free hand, he switched off the light,
as we settled in.

Then we both started talking at the same time. Tristan gave a small laugh. “You first,”
he said.

“How’s AC? Is he ok?” It seemed a safe question.

“Yeah, he’s all right. We’ll get past this.” He ran his hand through his air. “We
had some decisions to make. With the radio show tomorrow as well.” He held me closer.
“You’re ok. Right?”

I nodded.

“Fuck, I forgot about the sleeping pill. Too busy doing real drugs. At least I don’t
feel sick anymore.” Tristan gave a low laugh. “Now I just can’t sleep.”

I stared at the ceiling. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Tristan shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. You shouldn’t drink so much.”

“Maybe I should have a taste of what you and AC are doing.”

Tristan was quiet for a moment, then rolled me on top of him. In the gloom of the
darkened room, his eyes were remarkably bright. He studied me for a minute. Then he
kissed me, a short soft kiss, his mouth fitting to mine comfortably. I felt some of
the tension release, and I sank against him, my head on his chest. He stroked my hair.
“You’re probably right, at that. Let’s see what we can do.”

And we had stayed like that, his hand idly smoothing over my hair, until I had drifted
off to sleep, anyway.

* * *

The interview the next day was embarrassing. The host of the show started off on the
right foot by calling the album “Remembering the Past,” then asking if Tristan was
worried that his style of music wasn’t as popular as the stuff in the charts like
Rhianna. Tristan tried his best to be diplomatic, and talked about the fans worldwide,
and the loyalty that they’d shown after Devised split up. But the host just carried
on. I had the impression that he was hoping for a blowup. Tristan became increasingly
sarcastic.

The radio host played the single from the record then announced proudly that he actually
had set up a quiz for the guys on football. American football. Tristan smiled politely.
“I never watch it,” he said, “but you must be a big fan. Is something important happening?”
The questions were all about options, and trades, and trophies. We all made terrible
guesses. AC kept giving him the names of basketball players. Every time the host said
“But that’s basketball,” AC would answer, “Really?” I tried to answer a few questions
as well, but the radio guy made sure to talk right over me after the first few words.

But I had my own segment. The host had turned to me and said, “So let’s meet Lily.
We don’t want to leave out the girlfriend. Look what Yoko did.” He turned to me. “Do
you feel you’re like Yoko, a difficult woman?”

I stared at him. “She’s an artist. Difficult to understand maybe, for some people.
If that’s what you meant, then yes.”

The guy gave a big guffaw. “Tristan, you’ve got your hands full there.” Then he asked
where I liked to shop.

“Places where things are for sale, generally,” I responded. Tristan rolled his eyes.
The next question was which celebrity I’d go out with if I could. “You, of course,”
I said, “But only if we can shop together. I really want to get you some new clothes.”
AC started laughing so hard they cut to an advertisement.

But Tristan was trying his best to keep it together. After the ad ended, he stepped
in right away and mentioned the concert the night before and how great the fans had
been, before repeating the correct name of the album. The guy started in again with
another inane question and Tristan stopped him. “Sorry, mate. I’m not finished yet,”
he said in that slow way he had when he was getting annoyed. Then he went on to give
the upcoming dates, the name of the album, and nomination for the awards show. “I
didn’t know you were nominated,” exclaimed the host. Tristan smirked. “That’s all
right—you didn’t even know the name of the album when we started.” But Tristan thanked
him at the end, a total professional, and signed autographs for some of the staff,
and he and AC signed stuff for the little group of fans that were waiting outside
the radio station.

But seeing as I’d received a text from Dave that morning asking if I was all right,
before he asked for an update on the status of the project, I was perfectly aware
how fast the gossip had traveled. Now it was out there, I was the official girlfriend.
Tristan had even managed to get in the plug for our relationship where he had explained
that now that we were a couple, it wasn’t really fair to the band to put up with our
lovesick antics. Tristan had been grinning, his dark shades giving him a forbidding
aura, as he leaned over and kissed me, holding up the microphone for the sound effects,
while I giggled nervously. But when we got in the car, Tristan turned to me. “You
know that guy was trying to catch us out, don’t you? Sometimes it’s better to just
answer the questions.” He saw my face. “Not that you weren’t right to be annoyed.
The guy was an annoying prick.”

I was about to answer, say I’d never asked for this. I could feel all the repressed
emotion coming to the surface. All the things I hadn’t said. “Tristan, not really
fair on your side. You drag me into this, to play a part. I don’t see…”

AC interrupted. “You can’t give her a hard time for standing up for herself, Tris.
You got in a few of your own digs. And you’re used to this shit.” AC gave me a hug.
“Funniest fucking thing ever. Stupid asshole. Football or shopping. For fuck’s sake.”

Tristan stared at both of us, frowning. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head.
“This is what I get. Well deserved.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Fuck, I’m
sorry. I’m tired, I haven’t really eaten in 24 hours…” he glanced over at AC.

AC laughed. “I hear nothing tastes as good as…,” he smirked.

“Skinny feels,” I finished for him.

“That too.” AC winked at me.

Tristan was trying not to laugh. “Bloody hell. You two. Let’s get the fuck out of
here.”

chapter fifteen

Oklahoma City

Six long hours later, we had arrived in Oklahoma City. We were still in the middle
of nowhere, or it felt like it, but it seemed like we were closer to something. It
was a day off in the middle, which had seemed like a waste, but now that it was here,
was the best idea ever. We’d gone for a walk, got followed, jumped in a cab, and gone
back to the hotel. Tristan had ordered pizza, AC had come over, we’d watched two terrible
movies on Pay-Per-View, and we’d all crashed out on the sofa. AC finally woke up and
staggered back to his room, and Tristan and I had fallen into bed. The sheets were
soft, and so was the mattress, and we both finally slept for longer than three hours.

The next morning, the arrival of room service was announced by the knocking at the
door. I went and answered it, and was greeted by an excited smile that quickly fell
when his eyes took me in. Greg, according to his nametag, gamely pushed in the cart,
and set it up, straightening out the white linen tablecloth with precision, testing
the heat of the insulated carafe of coffee, uncovering the basket of croissants with
a flourish. I had a feeling he would have waited around and offered to feed us. He
looked like a sweet guy though, a kind of sick hopefulness still dancing around his
eyes. I took pity on him, and gave him a quick smile before calling out. “Tristan!
Come sign the bill, ok?”

We heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the door to the bedroom opened, and
out came Tristan, in a pair of low-cut briefs and an Iggy Pop t-shirt. I glanced over
at Greg, who looked as though he had just seen a ghost. I hid my smile, and hoping
I wouldn’t have to catch him if he fell, I prompted him. “Hey Greg, thanks for setting
it all up so nicely. Have you got the check? And maybe you’ve got something you’d
like to be signed, if you wanted an autograph—for you, or a friend, maybe?” I tried
to be casual. I didn’t think I’d read him wrong, as he looked like he was hyperventilating.
But I wanted to give him an out, in case he didn’t want to.

Tristan was smiling. “Hey Greg, thanks a lot man.” He held out his hand. Greg stared
down at their hands joined, and then slowly looked up. It was easy to forget, being
around Tristan all the time, that he was usually at least an inch taller than everyone
around him.

Greg looked like he was having trouble talking, but he finally got there. “Tristan,
man, wow, surreal. We…I’ve…down in the kitchen, drew straws…so awesome to meet you,
man.” He gasped for air. “I’ve been a fan from the start, dude…uh…thank you.” He pulled
out a copy of the first CD from inside his uniform coat, and handed it to Tristan.

“Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve seen one of these. Nice. The Japanese pressing.”
He signed his name with a flourish. “Are you coming tonight?”

“Fuck yes!” He blushed a bit, and lowered his voice. “Yeah, totally. Really looking
forward to it.” He stood there for a moment, just kind of stunned, until Tristan spoke
again.

“Well dude, thanks so much. Go over to the merch table tonight, give them your name,
we’ll have a t-shirt for you.” Tristan started walking towards the door, and pulled
it open. Greg still looked slightly dazed. Tristan put his hand on his shoulder. “Good
to meet you man. All the best.” And he closed the door, shutting out the image of
Greg’s face, still looking bemusedly at Tristan and the CD in his hand.

I went and sat down at the cart table and poured out some coffee. Tristan was still
standing there. “You want some coffee, Tristan? Sorry about that. He just looked needy.”

“Shit, yeah. Please. No, he seemed a nice guy. You usually get a couple of fans in
the hotels. Not always.” He laughed. “Like the other day. But mostly. I’m glad you
called me in, that was nice of you.” He sat down and started idly toying with the
end of a croissant, dunking it in his coffee, and taking a bite. I watched him swallow.
He ate like that, in silence, then shook his head. “Coffee not great.”

“No.”

“Croissants kind of bready too.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a hotel,” I replied. “The usual.”

“Maybe he didn’t deserve the t-shirt.” Tristan laughed. “No, I’m kidding. That’s the
trouble with sleep. It gives you energy to complain. But it makes you crazy. The dissatisfaction.
You know? I’m glad you’re here.” He drank some more coffee and made a face.

“You want something else?”

“It’s ok. There’s always the minibar.” He glanced over, and passed a hand in front
of his eyes. “You know, anything I want, I can get it? Someone will bring it? If I
want drugs, sorted. Women—almost easier than drugs. I can start doing almost anything,
and someone will come and either help me do it, or remind me I need to be on stage—and
help me afterwards.” He flung an arm out. “Anything. I want. No one will stop me for
any reason—except to perform. My fucking contractual obligation. That’s it. The smallest
portion of the day.”

He got up, and before I could stop him, he had pulled open the minibar, and grabbed
the bottle of champagne on the bottom shelf. “The rest of the day to fill with anything
I want, all the time, and twice on Sundays if I claim I need it to get on stage. Or
through the day. Or to write a song.” He twisted open the cork, and drank from the
bottle, before handing it to me. I looked at it, uncertain. “Go on Lily, I want you
to.”

“And if I don’t want to?” I said slowly.

Tristan came closer. “But you do want to. I know you do. You’re here to see it, see
it all. You didn’t realize that’s why you wanted to come along, but I think you know
it now. You wanted to see how we change on the road. See what most people don’t see.”
He thrust the bottle at me. “Take it.”

“I’ve got to write.”

“Yes, true,” said Tristan. “But you want this for you. You want it all. Go on. Take
it.”

“You make it sound like it’s all bad.” I took the bottle. “Like it’s always too much.
It was ok at first.”

“It always is. But no. It’s not all bad. Or too much. Not at all. And some of the
experience you can take home with you. Some of it you do take home with you, whether
you should or not.” He did a twirl in the room, his hand gripped around an invisible
microphone. “For example, I get off on being worshipped. Watching people get nervous
around me. Tricky thing to bring home.” He stretched his arms over his head. “Drink.”

And he watched me take a sip of champagne. It was cold, and slightly bitter, and I
felt instantly better having the bubbles pop on my tongue, the familiar sensation.
I took another drink. I looked up at him. “Maybe. But you’ve been through it all.”

He laughed. “Have I? I guess I have. But I still want more.”

“Not like this.”

“Yes, just like this. You don’t even realize, but you get it. Most people just read
about it, the mix of fantasy and lies. Or they’ve had it, but they’re too fucked up
to remember.” He knelt down in front of me, his eyes alight. “I think you’re able
to do it all. Fantasy, lies, and truth. Maybe.”

His eyes were almost changing color. There was that strange intensity in his look,
as he ran his hand down my face, along my neck, over the rise of one breast. “What
do you think?” He slowly untied the cord of my robe, and opened it. The cool air in
the room hit my skin, making me shiver. His eyes were locked with mine. “Alone, or
together? How do we go down?” I shook my head. “Not sure yet, are we? What can I do
to help make a mind up?”

His fingers hooked under the thin elastic band of my panties, and pulled them down
over my thighs, until they slid down and came to rest at my ankles. He took the bottle
of champagne from me, and took a swig, then dropped his head between my legs. He let
a tiny trickle of the champagne spill out over the heated skin there, and the cold
wetness made me jump. His hands silently held me down, and another burst of wetness
poured over me and down, soaking into the robe. I tugged on his hair, but he didn’t
stop. Over and over, until my grip loosened, and my head fell back. Finally, he came
up to face me. I licked his face. “Like ‘Sea of Sin,’” I whispered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he poured some of the contents of the bottle
into my mouth, until it trickled down my face onto my breasts. I licked my lips. He
smiled, and it was a fearful sight. “I knew you’d understand. ‘It gets better and
better,’” he sang. Then he took another swig, and pulled me roughly up by my legs
until my thighs reached his shoulders. Slipping off the panties and throwing them
aside, he then hooked one leg over his shoulder, pushing the other one over the edge
of the chair. He opened his mouth against me, and the liquid slid out of his mouth.
I could feel it, slightly cool and wet, inside, a different kind of wet. His tongue
followed, entering me, slowly. I moaned.

Tristan raised his head slightly. “That’s it. This is what I want. Control. Don’t
move. Don’t say a word.”

I closed my eyes as his mouth touched me again, his tongue insistent. Then his fingers
were there, opening me up, until there wasn’t a part of me he hadn’t touched, tasted.
He stopped for another drink, and again the coldness of the liquid startled me. He
pulled away and watched me twitching under the slippery roughness of his touch. I
felt, rather than heard him say “No.” Then his teeth followed his tongue and I jumped.
His arms held me down, and I couldn’t move. My back was cramped against the chair
but every attempt I made to shift was stopped with the pressure of his strong forearm,
and I was pinned there, against his teeth, his lips, his fingers, moving. There was
too much to process. My skin felt like it was dissolving beneath him, straight to
nerves, blood flowing. He pulled at the delicate skin and his tongue found another
part he hadn’t explored.

“So close, so close,” escaped, and one of his hands stopped what it was doing and
slowly slid a long finger into my mouth. I ran my tongue around it. His quick intake
of breath went through me like a shock. He started fucking my mouth with his finger,
then added another. “Quiet. I’ll let you come. Trust me? You shouldn’t.” And his mouth
began an endless series of patterns, slow, fast, circling around in some magical diagram.
His hand left my mouth and returned to explore, and I was open beneath him, larger,
smaller, a house of rooms I was lost inside. “Now. Now. For me. Show me,” Tristan
murmured, and something within sped up just enough that I barely realized I’d been
thrown over the abyss, the tension exploding as I writhed against his mouth and cried
out, unintelligible noises. His voice was a low whisper. “That’s it, that’s it—let
it go, let it all go. Give it to me.”

It was the last thing I fully remembered. Then I felt his arms wrap around me and
lift me up, carrying me through the door into the bedroom, and placing me down on
the bed. Then he was naked, over me, his hand wet from me and wrapped around himself,
hard and slippery, and then he was crying out¸ coming hard. The heat of it hit my
skin, and he was on me, in me, liquid, dissolved. He collapsed with a shout, and pulled
me to him, and we were both wet with each other, dizzy, delirious with the speed that
it had all flooded through us. Breathing hard, he pulled the sheets over us, and buried
his head against my shoulder.

* * *

The repeated buzz ring tone of the hotel phone finally broke through my sleep, followed
by a groan from Tristan and a squawk from me as he rolled over to get the phone. We
had been completely stuck together. I rubbed my hand up and down my stomach, as I
listened to the conversation.

“What? Oh fuck, that’s right. 10 minutes? Well, I’ll try.” There was a silence. “That’s
your job. That’s right.”

It was James, of course, reminding Tristan he needed to be downstairs in 10 minutes—the
car was booked to take him to the radio station for today’s interview. I knew that.
I didn’t realize how late it was. Tristan slammed the phone down. “Fuck. Not in the
mood. Fine.”

I reached out and squeezed his arm. I still felt dazed.

“I’m sorry Lils. I’ve got to jump in the shower.” He gave me a quick squeeze. “We’re
good, yeah?”

I nodded, but it was clear that his mind was already on the business of the day—interview,
sound check, quick signing at a record store in town. I lay back down on the sheets.
I had the terrible feeling something had gone wrong, somehow. Or maybe it was just
the abrupt shock of reality. The shower had already switched off, and Tristan burst
through the door, towel wrapped around his hips, and proceeded to fish through his
suitcase for suitable clothes. Except he was throwing it all on the ground. “Shit.
Where are those jeans? Fuck.” He spun around and pulled a pair of jeans off a chair
in the corner. “Right.” He dropped the towel, and pulled them on, tucking in his balls,
and keeping a hand in front as he zipped them up. He grabbed the Iggy Pop t-shirt,
and a leather jacket from the floor next to the suitcase. He scooped up all the clothes
and threw them back into the bag, then jogged over to me and kissed me quickly on
the mouth. “Sorry Lil. See you later, yeah?” and patting his pockets for wallet and
phone, he ran out of the room. The door closed behind him.

The room seemed very quiet after he left. I was tempted to turn over and lie there
for the rest of the day. Instead, I made myself get up. There was a little champagne
left in the bottle. I finished it. I hated folding, but I took every shirt and pair
of pants and tried to put Tristan’s suitcase in some kind of order. Then I got in
the shower, and washed us off. What was left of the insanity. I didn’t know why, but
I felt frightened. Like Tristan had moved on to an entirely other level. It was sudden,
strange. And I couldn’t put together the pieces. Had I liked what we did? Yes and
no. Yes. Mostly. But there was something about Tristan, something that maybe he hadn’t
even noticed.

I kept turning it over in my mind, as I dressed, as I called for maid service to make
up the room, as I waited for the elevator, as I walked out the door, avoiding a small
group of three women, who were trying to look nonchalant, but one of them had a tattoo
and another had a telltale Devised album poking out of a shoulder bag. I skirted the
potted plants, fake I noticed, watched the doorman get a cab for a businessman with
a shoulder garment bag and a laptop, and watched the buses go down the avenue as I
walked past buildings, shops, sandwich places. I finally stopped at a coffee shop.
I stared at the cup in front of me as though it would provide some answers. All I
could do was watch him. Keep an eye out. But he was on the edge. The question was,
the edge of what? Was it just tension, the end of a short bumpy tour? Artistic personality?
Me? There was no doubt that the added stress of having me along on the ride was another
strain, even as it provided some ways to relieve it. I thought of this morning, and
blushed, remembering him, the intensity. Was it quick and crazy like that with AC?
How easy had it been before to get that kind of release, without me? I picked at the
cardboard of the cup. Abruptly the place seemed small, tight, the line of people waiting
for coffee another barricade keeping me from the outside. My chest grew tight, and
my throat went dry. Grabbing my coffee and my bag, I pushed my way through the crowd,
my eyes practically shut against the lights, against the people that kept coming in.
I forced my way outside and walked away as quickly as I could, trying to take deep
breaths. Was it just panic? Was that what Tristan was feeling too? I went around the
corner, and saw a concrete ledge setting off a pedestrian area. I made my way to it,
and sat down, refusing to look around, just trying to get my bearings, to settle down.