I’m not a total loner, though, and a few of my past hookups have evolved into casual friendships, like with Marco.
“I’ve barely been home,” he says. “Touring.”
He takes me in a quick hug, slapping my back. Marco’s got lanky arms, messy chestnut hair, and puffy eyes that show he was out late last night. In a torn blue sweater and jeans, his look practically screams drummer. He’s just what I need right now.
The plan is for me to kickstart my career as a solo artist while I’m in New York. Fox came up with the idea and arranged all the details when a producer fromLive & Latereached out to him, looking for a replacement act. Itwill be me, my guitar, and my voice performing stripped-down versions of a couple older hit songs. Fresh takes for the fans as my second album hits its ten-year anniversary.
The show will be my grand reintroduction and a chance to shift the media story back in my favor, although whenever I try to turn my attention to music lately, it seems like I end up facing Spencer again, instead.
“Good tour?” I ask.
Marco scoffs. “Don’t try to change the subject. I want to understand how Mr. Single got married.”
I push a hand through my hair. “You and your man did the same thing two years ago,” I point out.
Marco used to love to party. He still enjoys being a rock star, and I see him out, but he’s usually either with his husband Domingo or about to go home to Domingo.
He chuckles. “Me and my man dated on and off for three years, planned a wedding, and exchanged rings.”
“Okay. Yeah. My scenario is a little bit different.”
Another problem with marrying someone. It’s incredibly difficult to hold Spencer at a distance when I’m forced to constantly think about him.
“Are you staying married?” Marco asks. “Or was this just like a stunt?”
“It’s not a stunt,” I say casually, but my brain is whirring. We still have so many details to sort out, and I’m not sure what I’m allowed to share with Marco and what I should keep to myself.
“Spencer’s a great guy,” I say, sticking to what’s safe. “And I’m as surprised that I’m married as you are.” I pick up the guitar and sling it over my shoulder. “But, you know, life’s funny.”
“Sure the fuck is.” Marco walks over to the drums to get himself set up. “Bummer that his fans hate you.”
I cough out a laugh as I strum the guitar. “They sure do.”
“Domingo showed me a meme. You were like some kind of werewolf-alien thing, and Spencer was a giant flaming heart that you were attacking. I don’t think I got it because I don’t know the cartoon, but it didn’t look good.”
“Yeah. That sounds bad.”
He gives me an apologetic half-smile. “I know you’re used to all the trash talk, man. You like to coast above it all, and that’s cool. But sorry you have to deal with the shit again. Especially all the homophobic, biphobicbullshit.”
I offer a sincere nod back, aware that he’s familiar with the stress of being gay in the public eye. “Sorry for all the times you’ve had the same, man.”
He shrugs. “So the playboy got married, huh? Am I going to meet this guy while you’re in town?”
I look up at the high ceiling above. “Honestly? I have no idea.” I turn my eyes back down. “I guess he’ll probably be at the show.”
“Locked up in the hotel together,” Marco says with an approving nod. “Got it.”
Pretty quick, we turn to the music. Playing music together is another type of companionship, a way to connect. As I wrestle my way through the old songs, reminders of the heartbreaks that sent me away from dating in the first place come flooding back.
Everyone thinks I’m this cool, collected badass. My music throbs with confidence, my guitar solos take no prisoners, and my fans swoon because of it. I like it this way. Playing the suave guitarist is fun.
A man who had his heart broken too many times? Not so fun.
Now I just need to prove to myself that I’ve got the talent to back my act up. That I’m not a kid wonder, fueled by hormones and melodrama. That the skill comes from me and me alone.
With Marco backing me up, I blister through the old songs, tearing them down to their core components and finding a way to make them new, make them mine again. By the time the session is done, I’m dripping with sweat and feeling a little more like myself.
I suck at relationships. I definitely suck at marriage.
