“Like an erection?”
I snort. “Like a blister.”
“Ruude.”
I smile and squeeze his hand. “Just come back, okay?”
“Sure, thing.”
Two weeks without Seymour…I’ll be fine. It’ll be just Stan and me watching the TV shows I like and eating something that doesn’t contain bacon as the main ingredient.
We’ll be fine.
Fine.
19
MIK
THEN
“Wait up,aren’t we like an hour from Mik’s hometown?” Bastian asks.
We’re doing a small tour on the West Coast to promote our new album before we start the big tour next month. Usually, we travel on the big tour bus, but this time we’ve hired a van, which Bastian insists on driving everywhere.
“Looks like it is,” Fox says. “I can look on the map. What is it called? Port Haven, right?”
“If only Mik was here…”
I throw Stone athere’s no need for sarcasmlook. The truth is that we’re not an hour from my hometown, we’re driving right past it, and I have no desire to make a pit stop.
Ever since our manager, Tony, gave us the list of venues, I’ve been dreading this leg of the tour.
“I’m sure this is the one. I’m taking the exit.”
I want to protest, but it’s too late. We’re leaving the highway and catching the road straight into Port Haven.
“How long since you’ve been home, Thor?” Fox asks.
“Six years.”
Two heads turn to me, and a pair of eyes stare from the rearview mirror.
“You haven’t been back since…” I flinch at Fox’s unfinished question. He doesn’t mean it like it sounds, but fuck if it doesn’t sting. He comes from a perfect family. Two loving parents, an awesome brother, who will join us as our tour manager when he graduates from college, and a couple of cute dogs that seem to adore him no matter how long he stays away from home.
“My parents see us on the big city tour stops. No need to come back here.”
They seem to accept my answer. Fox and Stone move on to talking about the song lineup for the next gig. Bastian is quiet, but every so often, his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.
We drive past the pub that belongs to an old British couple. It’s so out of place in the Californian countryside. Tyler’s dad took us there once. He said they made the best bangers and mash outside of England. He spent the meal talking about all the places he visited in Europe with his band.
I wonder how he is. The last time I saw him, he was frail, but Tyler was confident in the treatment he was receiving. Maybe he got on the donor list.
My throat grows tight. This is why I haven’t been back here in six years.
I thought I was doing what was best for us, but in the end, I lost not only Mik but the man who came close to treating me like a son.
So many times over the years, I’ve wondered what would happen if I just turned up at their doorstep. Would they be happy to see me? Would Ty be angry?
