“Uh-huh. I planned on telling the congregation what a good sport you were the time you found out I replaced your pocket-sized hand sanitizer with KY Jelly.”
Confusion furrowed my brows. “What are you talking about? I don’t remember that?”
“Oh well, then… never mind.”
Eyes narrowed, I took in my nemesis. “Shawn, I swear, you’d better be kidding.”
Not only did he not appear to be kidding, but that smirk told me he was proud of his prank. “Remember a couple of months ago when you kept getting sick? Like one cold after another?”
“Yeah?”
“It was then.”
Grabbing his jacket, I shoved him back. “You asshole! I had no protection.”
“Technically you did. I used spermicidal lubricant.”
Raising his hands in surrender, Shawn patiently waited for the beatdown he deserved.
I didn’t disappoint.
And while holding the prankster down in a headlock, I listened to Dane’s idea on how he’d planned to celebrate my life. Unsurprisingly, his send-off would have been heartfelt and unique.
Always the sentimental type, Dane spoke of dividing my ashes into tiny urns and placing them in necklaces to distribute among our closest allies. These trusted few would then take my ashes on adventures around the world before releasing me into an ocean or sprinkling me over a mountain.
“I have a question.” RJ chimed in as Dane was finishing his inspiring send-off. “If Bodhi had burned in a fire, how would you know what were his ashes and what were —say—that of a kitchen table? You know what I mean?”
Dane made a face, perhaps considering for the first time the flaws in his plan. He ran his hand over his jaw. “Yeah. Huh. That could be a problem.”
“Right? Because you might think you are spreading Bodhi’s ashes in the Amazon but, in reality, it was just some junk from Ikea.”
“You guys are horrible.” Hunter cringed. “I hope you know, Bodhi, I took this seriously. I wrote a eulogy that meant something… because you were one of my best friends and you deserved so much more than dying the way you did.”
“Uh,” Shawn cut in, still gagging under my chokehold. “News flash, idiot, Bodhi’s still alive and currently suffocating me to death.”
Satisfied Shawn had paid his dues, I let him up.
“What about you, RJ?” I asked, curious what my best friend had to say about me. “How did you plan for my funeral?”
RJ shifted his feet. “I wasn’t going to go.”
“Seriously?” How could RJ, of all people, not show up? “You weren’t going to show up to my funeral?”
The other guys exchanged odd glances before RJ headed over to the row of chairs and took his seat at the end. I narrowed in on my friend. Something had happened in my absence that had him avoiding me like the plague; which, incidentally, I might actually have, since I’d apparently been sanitizing with lube for some time now.
* * *
The cameras started rolling and we took our seats, side by side, as we’d done a thousand times before. As musicians and friends, we melded perfectly into the characters we played on stage, ripping into each other to the delight of our overflowing fan base. Muscle memory kicked in and I went through the motions, even mugging for the camera as I’d done countless times before. It was all so familiar yet, at the same time, I could feel change was in the air.
I was like a ghost, looking down on the guy who used to be me. It struck me that I’d already closed this chapter of my life and had moved on to the next—the one with Breeze and my guitar and the songs that actually meant something to me.
Running my hands over my arms, I felt the words I’d written for her burning me through my long-sleeve shirt. These lyrics, they were my future and, before they faded from my skin for good, I needed to absorb their influence and learn their meaning. Breeze had been my teacher, opening my eyes to a new way, free from the trappings of celebrity. Our time together was a tiny stitch in the fabric of my life, but her impact had been monumental, proving to me I could be happy without the spotlight, the fortune, and the fame.
* * *
“Okay, I’m just going to put this out there, so please don’t judge,” Shawn whispered, his head partially concealed by a mannequin’s billowing skirt. “But is anyone else as turned on as I am right now? I mean I know they’re plastic and all, but these are some high-class dummies.”
The five of us were in hiding. Minutes earlier, we’d been driven into a women’s clothing store after thousands of fans descended upon the television studio, overrunning our security detail as they’d been attempting to herd us into the waiting vehicles. Hands had been everywhere—grabbing, scratching, and pinching. It was like running barefoot on a beach filled with crabs.
