“If you’re that curious, I could take you there after this.” There’s a hint of suggestion in his voice, but only the usual amount. I really thought I’d be immune to it by now, but if the zip of electricity up my spine is any indicator… No luck. It’s only compounded by the fact that this is the longest we’ve spent alone, outside of sitting together in a car, in weeks.
“Pass.”
Wes moves so his body is positioned between me and the door, his playful expression turning serious. “I regret to inform you there’s been an infestation in this room.”
“And naturally you’re bringing me here to see it instead of adhering to any safety regulations.”
“It’s not just any infestation.” He taps the key card he’s been given against the black pad next to the door and the lock swishes into the unlocked position. With a twist of the handle, he swings the door wide. “You have a bear problem.”
Teddy bears. One hundred and five of them. I know this without having to count.
I step into the room, mouth agape. They clutter the vanity and are lined up on the couch. I pick one up, brushing my fingers over the impossibly soft fur.
“Please tell me you remember. If not, I’m going to feel like a complete idiot who should have just gotten you flowers or something to celebrate.” In the mirror, out of the corner of my eye, I see him scrape a hand nervously through his hair.
I clutch the stuffed animal to my chest, like if I squeeze it hard enough, it will push under my skin and lodge into my heart. This thing that I joked about wanting because I never thought there would be a world where something so ridiculous would matter. But if someone were to tear this bear away from me, I’d probably attempt to claw their eyes out, which would be impressive because of how short I keep my nails trimmed to effectively play guitar.
“I can’t believe you did this for me.”
“I wish I could have done it sooner. And after these last few weeks, you’re probably sick of me being the first thing you see every morning and then answering my calls after spending a whole day with me.” He laughs nervously. “But the tour is about to start, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to make up for all the time we’ve lost before February.” Regret etches in the lines of his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and cutting into his forehead.
The papers. How at the end of this he thinks I might hand him a pen and say “It’s marked where you need to sign. And remember, once you’re done, I never want to speak to youever again.” While I was comparing whether I liked maple or hardwood smoked bacon, he was sitting next to me with a countdown going on in the back of his mind.
I wish I could promise him forever. Permanent. Just like our tattoos. It was so easy back then to commit to him.
But I can’t. Not yet.
I settle on letting him in a little more. “We can make up for a little more time tonight. What if you come over?”
“You still have it.” Wes reaches out delicately brushing his long agile fingers over the neck of my first guitar, where it rests in my living room. He silently looks at me for permission.
“Go ahead.”
Gingerly, he picks up the instrument. It’s a touch out of tune, but he quickly remedies that. I cross the living room and lean against the arm of the leather couch. The one teddy bear I brought back with me is resting on the glass coffee table on top of a stack of decorative books. The rest are in the back of Wes’s car, and he promises to donate them before we leave LA.
I’ve heard Wes play hundreds of times. But it’s always different with this guitar. The wood that soaked up his blood from the time he played his fingers raw. The scratch on the body from when we weren’t nearly as careful as we should have been, bumping it against the sandpaper-like roof tiles outside his room.
It holds memories that seem to tangle with the music. It’s hypnotizing, and I don’t know when, but I start to hum along. When he’s done, his fingers tighten before letting go, as if giving a hug to an old friend.
He puts the guitar away, and I show him through the two-bedroom home.
“It’s different than I would have imagined,” he says when we get to the back porch. He's seated in the rocking chair that I refuse to use because the first time I sat on it I rocked back so far that my stomach plummeted like I was on a roller coaster.
“You can say it’s ugly.”
“It’s clean cut. Simple. Serene,” he rushes to say, and I can’t help but laugh at the attempt.
“Clinical and pre-furnished,” I continue. “I’d like to say it’s because I’m traveling so much that it feels like a waste of time to care about places I mostly use as crash pads. But I think it’s more that if I try and it doesn’t feel like home, I’ll just be in this space where I’m disappointed and comparing it to the house in Caper.”
“Have you ever looked into buying it? I bet if you gave a good offer the owners would take it.” There’s something unreadable in his face and he sounds physically in pain at the thought of me floating from place to place.
New owners. His neighbors.
It’s weird to think about how he probably knows their names. George has likely had them over for dinner and if they have kids I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been given horse rides out back.
“It wouldn’t be the same. Unless they managed to maintain all the furniture, I’d probably hate it. They’re doing me a favor. I find ways to bring a little home with me.”
I decide I’ll show him one final secret tonight. One last part of me.
