It’s a receipt from In-N-Out. He flips it over and quickly signs,All the love, Trevor Blue. Then he says, “Here you go,” passing it back to her, the professional smile he honed many years ago now in place.
It looks like she might squeal in excitement when she takes it, but mercifully, she holds it together, thanking him and letting him get back to his shopping. He better make it quick though, in case she decides to call her friends and rush them over here. You never know.
When he gets home, he cooks up an easy pasta dish and takes it into the living room with a glass of red wine. Stella, his German Shepard, follows, planting her butt in front of the couch and peering up at him with big, hopeful brown eyes.
“Oh, come on. I haven’t even had a bite yet.”
She continues to watch him, and he ignores her. Lovingly.
Skyler’s last concert is tonight, right here in L.A. He always ends his tours at home. Well, one of his homes. He’s got a place in New York and one in London now, too, but Trevor imagines he still considers L.A. his home. His Malibu mansion is his most well-known residence. Fans sometimes campoutside the gate until his security has to shoo them away. Trevor’s seen it on the news.
Whenever Skyler plays shows in L.A., Trevor briefly lets himself entertain the idea of going. He’s in Santa Monica. So damn close. And these are huge, packed arenas, so he might be able to blend into the crowd unnoticed. But he always decides it’s too risky. If he’s spotted, the attention it would draw to him—tothem, to Blue Skies—would be insane.
Instead, he waits for fans to post the footage the next day. He finds the clearest videos and pieces them together, watching his own private Skyler James concert from the safety of his living room.
For tonight, he’ll have to settle for playing the album on repeat. The first one. The one with “Heartbreak Honey.”
It’s his guilty pleasure. His secret fucking shame. When the loneliness becomes unbearable, when he misses Skyler too much, he listens to his music. Lets Skyler’s tender, syrupy voice drip over him. Sometimes the voice is enough to help him pretend the real man is still here with him, especially if he’s had enough to drink. It allows him to live in a temporary fantasy world. One where he didn’t fuck everything up.
He’s aware how pathetic this is. But not as pathetic as the nights when he lets himself creep onto YouTube to watch the old videos. The ones that fans who ship him and Skyler together used to make back in the day. It was funny back then, even a little romantic, to see themselves in a montage of moments where they acted a bit too obvious in interviews or onstage. Those were the moments that got them in trouble with management, but they weren’t doing it on purpose. Most of the time, anyway.
It used to feel incredible knowing this amazing person loved him so much he couldn’t hide it. Now it’s just sad. A reminder of everything Trevor lost. And it’s all his fault.
So yeah, searching for Blue Skies videos now is something he does when he wants to torture himself. When he thinks he deserves it.
Those are his rock bottom nights. The nights when it hurts so bad, he can’t take it. When he considers lasering off all his tattoos to try to erase Skyler, to feel a different kind of pain.
Trevor eats his dinner while the music plays, only getting up to pour himself a second glass of wine. And then a third. The next time, he brings the bottleback with him. He leaves his empty bowl on the coffee table, unbothered when Stella sticks her long snout in it to lick it clean.
When the album ends, he starts it over.
He knows every note of “Heartbreak Honey” by heart. So does half the world. But half the world doesn’t know who it’s about. That it’s about him. If they did, they’d be shocked (most of them, at least), but they might think he was lucky—to be the one Skyler James was in love with.
But the key word iswas.
Skylerwasin love with him. Hewaslucky.
Not anymore.
Now he’s almost thirty and, not-so-funny story, he was supposed to have a wife and kid to show for it. Instead, he has a dog. And even though he thinks he loves Stella more than he ever really loved his ex-wife, it’s still depressing as hell.
But he probably deserves to be alone. Maybe that’s what happens when you’re a coward. When you’re too scared to have what you truly want.
He hums the opening notes of “Butterfly Blue” and finishes off the wine, his eyelids growing heavy. Giving in, he closes his eyes and braces himself for the pain of this one.
Used so many other people’s lips
Trying to erase the taste of yours
But here’s a little secret, darling
Just between you and me,
It didn’t work
Now I’m seeing blue butterflies, remind me of you
Elusive beauties I just can’t touch
