“What kind of story?” Benji asks.
I wave a dismissive hand at him. “Anything.”
Benji’s lips purse thoughtfully as he thinks about it. A few moments pass by before he grins again, obviously having thought of something.
“I almost drowned when I was six years old.”
“What?”
“So there’s this pond on the commune and apparently I just assumed that I could swim. I’d seen the older kids swimming. My moms had me in the shallows sometimes. So, I was out wandering alone, which was pretty typical for the commune. But, anyway, I was wandering around and just decided to swim. I got undressed, waded out, and when my toes couldn’t reach, I just kept going… but then I got scared. The water was so dark and the bottom of the lake disappeared…” Benji trails off with afrown, lost in the memory. He shakes himself loose from it. “One of the older boys was passing by and saw my hands waving. He came in to save me. After that, he spent the summer teaching me to swim. My first crush. Cody Carrol.”
“That’s a serious name,” I say but really I want to ask him why he was wandering alone around this commune he speaks about.
A crimson blush dots Benji’s cheeks and suddenly I’ve never wanted to murder someone I don’t even know so badly before. Fuck Cody.
“He was sweet. He left for college and never looked back. I think he’s a doctor now, the last my cousin told me. Well, she’s not really my cousin. But all the kids that grew up with me are basically my cousins.”
I lean forward on the table. “This isn’t some polygamy thing, is it?”
“No!” Benji shouts frantically, waving his arms around. “No, it was very normal. My moms are just fucking hippies.”
“If you say so.”
“What about you? What about your childhood?”
I scowl just as the waitress returns with her arms laden with food. Thank God. The food smells delicious and my traitorous stomach growls just at the sight of it. What was I thinking? Ordering all this damn food. Hopefully Benji won’t notice when I eat just a few bites.
“This is a lot of food,” Benji mumbles right before digging into his plate of steaming food.
I pick at my own plate, carefully moving food around so it looks like I’ve eaten a lot. I’ve been a professional at appearing to have eaten a lot over the years. It’s not that I don’t want to eat. Not even that I don’t like food. My anxiety just constantly makes menothungry. When hunger does finally hit me, I feel like a garbage disposal that can’t stop consuming until I’m sick with it.
The bread is good at least. That’s a safe choice. I dip the bread into the stew, watching as the thick brown gravy drips from it. Flavor bursts on my tongue, rich and hearty. It’s not too bad.
“Good?” Benji asks around a mouthful of food.
“Good,” I reply, because it is good.
We eat quietly, the conversation ebbing as Benji gorges himself on the spread before us. Every time we share a meal together I’m always surprised just how much he can put away. But I don’t knowwhyI’m surprised considering how often he works out. If we aren’t fucking, going on these stupid dates, then he’s at whatever hotel’s gym working out. Not that I’m going to complain because he has the body of a Greek god.
Benji pays the bill with another shy grin. I stay quiet on the ride back to the hotel, some odd feeling creeps up inside me that’s threatening to break loose. Most days are a blur. Every day takes so much effort just to keep on going. Sometimes, I think about stopping it all together. That deep, dark seed of something inside me that whispers terrifying thoughts into my ear. Thoughts about going to sleep and just never waking up because the world would be a better place without me in it. What a fucking thought.
I didn’t know there was a word for what happens to me before a show until I googled it a few years ago. My brain disconnects from my body until I’m just going through the motions, just barely hanging on. On stage, I become someone else. I become Nolan the rock god that they all clamor to tear apart. Every single person seated in the crowd wants Nolan Hastings. They either want my voice, my body, or my money. Something about me belongs to them. And the entire time I’m singing, it’s for them, not one single moment of it is for me.
I miss when singing was mine. When it belonged to me. Nothing belongs to me anymore. Nothing has for a long time, except for Benji.
The arena blurs in front of me until all I know is the microphone in my hands, the sound of my drummer behind me. If Chris didn’t carefully curate the people backstage, I know there would be no way for me to remain sober. Despite years of sobriety, the temptation would be too much with how my brain feels off-kilter by the time I stumble off the stage after a three-hour set.
“Nolan,” Benji says loudly, hands gripping my shoulders.
I blink everything back into focus. “Hi.”
Benji’s smile barely meets his eyes and I hate that. I can’t explain why but his smile being dimmed when he looks at me is like a cloud passing over the sun. Miserable. Covered in sweat, feeling like I’m dead inside, I reach up to push the corner of his mouth up with my thumb.
“Smile like this,” I instruct him.
Benji’s lips quiver as he fights a smile. “That was a good set.”
I look back out to the emptying arena, feeling some weird, too-big emotion that I can’t put to words. Pieces of myself remain out on the stage, pieces I’ll never get back. Everyone out there is leaving with a part of me.
