By morning, Nikki was dead.
39
GRACE: THE PHOENIX
“Rory?”
I stepped into the hotel room and looked around, calling his name again. No response. I checked the bathroom and the balcony, but he wasn’t here. I pulled out my phone. No text. I sent one off, then checked his location. It was off. I considered the possibilities. Where could he have gone?
Hours earlier, I’d left him on the couch in a half-comatose state to meet my mom for dinner. He said he was going to order room service and just chill in front of the TV. It was a well-deserved break, considering the punishing schedule he and the boys were operating under. Six months. Eighty-three shows. Of which they were now at the halfway point, but with plans for a European and Asian extension of the tour already in the works, Sketch Monsters could see themselves on the road for over a year.
This week, though, we were back home for a scheduled mid-tour break. I hadn’t gone home, choosing to stay with Rory in the same hotel we’d had the night we officially got back together. The weekend we’d walked to his street sign. The weekend his foster sister had ended her life. The death certificate listed it as an unintentional overdose, but Rory and I knew the truth. She had planned it, the ticket to the show serving as her last meal. Going through her phone for recent contacts, the police had called me, and I was the one who was forced to break the news to Rory.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word. Just nodded and walked away. Of course, I tried to talk to him about her death, but he wasn’t interested, insisting he was fine and that it was a relief. Certainly, it didn’t seem to affect his work any. He played with both precision and charisma, his popularity rising with every show. Quinn was the first one to be surrounded by excited mobs, but Rory wasn’t too far behind. And he took his newfound celebrity in stride, exuding a childlike excitement for any new experience that came his way.
To the naked eye, he was fine—great, even—playing every concert and going to every meet-and-greet with a smile on his face. But I knew Rory. Something wasn’t right. Some of his tics had returned despite the medicine he took to control his anxiety. Granted, much of it could be explained by the stressors of his hectic life. But there was something else, something only I would notice. The grace notes were gone. The subtle embellishments to a song that he added without even thinking that made each song, each performance, unapologetically his own.
Grace
Hey do you know where Rory is?
Quinn
No why?
Can’t find him. He’s not in the room where I left him
He’s not a dog. He doesn’t stay where you leave him
I realize that. But he turned off his location and hasn’t answered my text
??
Quinn’s non-answer meant he was thinking like a guy, assuming Rory had something to hide. If he did, he’d be a magician because the two of us rarely left each other’s sides. It wasn’t that I didn’t give him his space, it was just there was no space to take. We worked together and lived together and traveled together. No space. But if he’d wanted some, why didn’t he just tell me?
I walked down to the lobby and then to the bar. No Rory. I even asked the doorman, who hadn’t seen him, or if he had, he wasn’t talking. Something felt off, and I chewed on my lower lip as I returned to the room. Where could he be? I opened the balcony door and stepped out into the warm evening air. Pressing my body to the railing, I looked down. So many floors. It was then I heard the faint sound of a pounding rhythm.
Beats.
* * *
I followed the music,instinctively knowing those buckets were set up on the sidewalk where I’d first seen him drum. I was right. He was there, a small crowd circled around him. I was surprised it wasn’t a mob. Rory was recognizable now. Not a household face or name like Jake, but to music fans, he was well known. Although, when I got a closer view, I understood why he’d been able to blend in. Rory had disguised himself—not enough to fool a hard-core fan but enough for the casual onlooker not to recognize him. His hair was tucked into a baseball cap with a fake mullet attached to the back, and a pair of phony glasses completed his undercover efforts.
Stripped to the basics in a tank top and shorts, sweat rained down his body. I wondered how long he’d been out here, but more curious than that, what had made him revisit this sidewalk and play for his life like he had so many times before. Rory kept his focus down, not engaging the audience like he had when he was dependent on tips. I wasn’t sure if it was to keep him from being noticed or if the weight he was carrying prevented him from lifting his head.
At one point, he did look up, scanning the crowd until his eyes landed on me. He seemed almost too tired and beaten down to be surprised. Oh god, how had I not seen this before? He was sad. I choked up. Rory looked away, despondent. If he was struggling, why hadn’t he told me? Why come down onto the streets and take it out on the buckets when he had me, the woman he loved, who had proven she’d support him every step of the way?
Rory performed one last song before wrapping up the set. I waited off to the side for the crowd to disperse. Only when he was alone did I walk up to him.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“I heard you from the hotel balcony.”
A faint smile appeared. “Shit, no wonder people hated when I played out here.”
“I, for one, loved it,” I said dreamily, remembering the wild kid he’d been. “Why’d you come down here, Rory?”
He nestled his buckets into each other before dragging the tip bucket over. He counted out his cash and shoved it in his pocket.
