Page 110 of The Comedown

He freezes, air pouring in and out of him, but doesn’t meet my eyes, only tilts his head to the side. With him not looking, I grasp his hand and get the thick silver ring over his knuckle before he can stop me.

Red, scaly skin covers the bottom half of his thumb. I had no idea.

Looking the ring over, I ask, “What is this supposed to be?” The top is layered with cloaked faceless figures and it’s an eerie, gaudy ring.

Swallowing, he grits, “All Souls’ Day.” He says it as if it’s more painful than biting the skin off his own thumb.

“The day the lost are remembered?”

“All Souls’ Day is for the souls stuck in purgatory.”

Like Osiris waiting for Isis to find him.

I press a kiss to his raw thumb, and whisper, “Come back to me and you can stay.”

His head whips my way. “What?”

I drop his ring on to the bar, its obnoxious clang an intrusion to the already tense moment.

“You can take my bed, and I’ll sleep on the pull-out couch in the living room.” Just like his bus, his suite has too many temptations waiting for him to use against himself, especially now that he feels rejected, cast aside, hurt, alone. “Leave purgatory…for me.”

Of all the things Julian can overdose on, I’m not one of them. I won’t even be around long enough for him to try. His birthday’s approaching, then shortly after that the tour will be over. This will all be over.

“You’d give me your bed… Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I repeat his own response regarding his tattoo, and trace his honeypot, making sure I linger at the top where the honey is—where his pulse is. “To keep you in my reach.”

Collette

The basketball bounces off the backboard, landing in Holter’s waiting palms under the net.

“Damn,” he mumbles to himself, and I grimace, both at the curse and his inability to make a single basket.

Right after this morning’s parade, Julian and I bought beignets and chicory-flavored coffee for everyone, and after making sure I ate two myself, Julian left, saying he needed to go shopping.

Holter and I decided to utilize the hotel’s full-size indoor court so he could get some actual practice in, and it’s…not going so well. Holter wants to try out for his school’s team, but there’s been very little time, or space, for him to practice real drills on the tour so far. Sometimes during dance rehearsals, he’ll dribble a ball around, but without a hoop, he hasn’t been able to work on his jump shot. Or free throw. Or whatever it’s called.

I hold my hands out in front of me. “Want to work on passing instead?”

“I almost got it,” he says with a headshake, sweat dripping from his hair on to his forehead.

A couple years ago I would’ve wiped it away myself, then stole the ball from him. I’d run down the court and he’d chase me, laughing, forgetting all about the technical rules of the game, and we’d just have fun.

Now though, he wants to shoot a three, holding his hand smugly in the air as the ball meets nothing but net—or something like that—while I sit here being impressed but not too impressed. Enough to raise my eyebrows but not enough to clap, because that’d just be humiliating. And if I even tried to wipe the sweat threatening to fall into his eyes, he’d jerk away and stare at me in disbelief like I’m some sort of alien trying to snatch his brain from his head.

How I long to play a made-up game with non-existent rules with my little boy again.

Holter tosses the orange ball, missing the hoop altogether, and it ricochets off the backboard, boomeranging right back at us.

I manage to duck my head out of the way just in time, turning to watch as it sails past our to-go cups from breakfast.

“I should probably throw those out before they spill,” I say before returning the ball to him and grabbing the cups off the shiny hardwood floor. Holter’s is empty but mine still has some inside, so I sip the now-tepid chicory coffee on my way to the door. I swirl it around my mouth and let the milky, slightly nutty flavor tease my taste buds. Mechanically, I spit it back out, then push into the bathroom just outside of the gym in search of a garbage can.

After throwing them away and washing my hands, I’m just returning when I hear two voices echoing into the hallway—Holter’s and…Julian’s?

Slowing my approach, I linger at the door, watching from the threshold.

“What’s your why?”