He looks at me like he doesn’t believe that for a second, and I don’t insult him by pushing it.
“I just have one small favour to ask,” he says.
“What?” I turn to face him, sucking on my cigarette.
“Don’t push me away completely. I still want to be in your life. I think I could be a good friend to you regardless of what the future holds for us, for you, Pia.”
I’m speechless. It’s the most heartfelt request anybody has ever made of me, and I don’t know how to feel or how to react. It’s a blessing that Jon apparently doesn’t expect much of me in terms of an equally heartfelt response.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, but I suspect Jon can hear the possibility of a lie in my tone just as much as I can.
“We’ll see,” he says cryptically. “We’ll see.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I push his shoulder, wanting to shake some of the uncharacteristic gravitas out of him.
He nods at me once, then twice, his eyes still soft but now a little distant. “Let’s go rehearse, yeah?”
He walks towards backstage before I can even reply.
“Pia!” Martin grabs me as I walk off stage. “That was fucking brilliant! The best night yet!”
“Thanks, Martin,” I say, hoarsely. The tour is starting to take its toll on my voice and my body. I’m learning the hard way that alcohol was indeed an effective painkiller for me. But even so, I have to admit that I like performing sober. I like being more aware of everything. I like being able to hear myself a little clearer. I like losing myself to the music, because I want to, not because I don’t have a choice.
“That new song—” he starts.
“Yeah, look,” I interrupt him quickly. “I know I was a dick about it, but you were right. It felt right to do it here. Jon and I have been working on it and…”
“No, it was awesome. Perfect. The best. It’s going to be a hit record, for sure! And I love the title, ‘Trying to Forget You.’ It may be a departure from our previous releases, but I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling more relief than I expect. “Okay, cool. Thanks.”
And then I start to cough because my throat really is dry and I really did sing my heart out, imagining Cassie could hear me.
“Drink this”–he thrusts a bottle of water into my hand and leans in closer to speak directly into my good ear–“and don’t go out tonight.”
“Huh?” I ask him, but he’s moved on, giving Geert a towel and Jon his cigarettes. Jakob is already ahead of me, his arms hooked around two blonde women I pray are over the age of twenty. “Martin!”
He turns back and shouts. “Go back to your hotel room!”
They all file away, back to our dressing rooms, which are just as pokey and rancid as they were eleven years ago, but I stay where I am, confused and conflicted.
Because how dare I feel what I’m feeling. A spark of hope. For a phone call.
For Cassie.
Eleven years ago, I would have chopped my own arm off and thrown it in the Keizersgracht for the opportunity to spend a night in the Amstel Hotel, but here I am tearing through the lobby and taking thestairs two at a time like it’s a crappy motel. I could be anywhere. I don’t care. I just need to get to my hotel room as quickly as I can. I pray I haven’t missed her call.
When I’m finally through the door, I slam it shut and start to shake off my leather jacket and kick off my boots, but I freeze when I have the bed in sight.
Because I am not alone.
There is an angel sitting on my bed. A real-life angel in white and gold, looking at me with big blue eyes. Her hair is wild, her smile is small, and her hands are clasped in her lap, like she’s sitting in a church pew.
Oh, how I’d like to find her like that in a church one day – literally, fuck the religious bullshit out of her.
“Cassie?” I ask, stupidly, pathetically, but I need her to move or to speak, to prove that she’s real. Because she shouldn’t be here. She should be in Utah or Colorado or one of the other square states we all dread playing in.
“Hello, Pia,” she says, standing up. But she doesn’t quite get to full height, because I charge at her, taking her in my arms and knocking her back onto the bed.
