“Okay,” Shane says. “So you don’t want to tour. What about the albums? You could still write music and record with us. I could send you recordings, and you could send stuff back. We could do all that over the internet, and then when we have enough material, we could come out to Denver and rent some studio space and jam for a while and then record. We have the contacts out there. Hell, we could build our own studio in Denver and you could run it when we’re not recording, renting out to other people, you know? And you wouldn’t have to tour. We could get someone else to travel with us, but you could still be part of the band.”
Shane looks at me, and to my shock, I think maybe he’s going to cry. I think maybe he’s going to beg me to stay, to just give him this.
When really, it’s more than I could possibly ask for.
“You’d really let me do that?” I ask. “I thought if I was leaving, you’d want me gone.”
“What the fuck? I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay in the band until we’re too old to be cool anymore, man. Older than that, even.”
I laugh.That always was the dream, and we worked really hard for it. I don’t want to walk away from it, but this life isn’t for me, not forever.
If I could keep just the good parts, though . . .
“But if this is all you’ll give me, I’ll take it,” Shane says. “I just don’t want you to leave completely.”
I shake my head. I’m not sure how to take all this in. It could work, I think, but I’m scared to trust it now, with so much up in the air. “Can I let you know after I talk to Maya?”
“Yeah,” Shane says. He nods and seems relieved that I’m not turning him down right now. “Of course. And if that won’t work, don’t just quit, okay?There are other things we can work out. Give me a chance to think about it, and we’ll figure out something.”
I look up at the ceiling. God, I’m the one who’s going to cry. I spent so long thinking that Shane was going to vilify me when I left, the way he did Anna-Marie. And that was its own thing, and someday we’re going to have to talk about what happened there.
But Shane’s still my brother, and he loves me, and he’s going to work with me.
For the second time tonight, I’m unbelievably relieved.
Shane asks if I want him to fly out to Denver with me. He could hang with some of our friends there while I go out with Maya, he says. Be there to get wasted with me in case it goes bad. I think part of him just wants to be close enough to keep me from changing my mind about the band and quitting entirely, but the rest is that he wants to be there for me because he cares.
I tell him no.This is something I have to do by myself.
I’m regretting that as my plane lands at the Denver airport. It’s effing huge, and even though I know it like the back of my hand, it still takes me the better part of an hour to get my rental car and get out of there. I drive past the familiar, enormous mustang statue on the way out of the airport. It’s bold and fierce, both things that I’m not but wish I was. (Though I could live without being thirty feet tall and blue, so you win some and you lose some, weird-ass horse.)
The truth is, I’m terrified.The closer I get to picking up Maya, the more I want to play this whole thing off, let her make the first move. I could pick her up and take her someplace a friend might take another friend and act like I don’t care which way the chips fall.Then she can have whatever she wants, and I get to keep my dignity intact.
Except it’s me trying to keep my dignity that got us into this in the first place. I might not have been ready to be bold months ago, but I need to be now. I know what I want. I’m ready to give up what I need to in order to get it.Though if that’s not my two best friends and all involvement with my band, I’d be ridiculously happy about that.
I can’t let myself panic and pretend this is a friends thing, that I could ever be truly okay with that.That’s why I spent my hour at the gate in the Los Angeles airport on Yelp, looking through all the nice restaurants near Maya’s place. (And, okay, asking some fans if they had opinions, when they stopped me to take selfies with them.)
I have one more stop, one that will help me be clear about my intentions without having to say a word. I go by a nice flower shop in Maya’s suburb and walk right up to the counter.
“Hey,” I say. “I need some flowers.”
The girl behind the counter looks like she’s about eighteen. She’s got short blond hair and a wide smile, and her tag says her name is Kirsten. “You’ve come to the right place.”
I sure hope I have. “They’re for a date,” I say.
“Ah. I could have guessed that. You look super nervous. What kind of a date is it?”
I blank. I don’t know how to describe this. “It’s a first date. With my best friend.”
“Oh!” Kirsten says. “Those are the best kind. What do you want the flowers to say?”
Oh, god. So many things. “I love you?”
“Red roses are good for that.”
They are, I suppose. “Those seem a little . . .”
“Cliche?” Kirsten asks. “Or too serious?”
