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I will probably never see him again. The thought hits me hard and fast, creating a desperate need to hold on to this moment.

It’s only when the door shuts that I let myself feel the full weight of my loss. My chest aches. I want to cry but it’s as if the tears are stuck there, too painful to be dislodged at all.

* * *

When I wake the next day, there’s nothing to open my eyes for.

Very soon—in a few hours, in fact—I will need to pay the price for my defiance and face Davis. I was so brave, so joyful when Josh was here because I was leaning on him, even if I didn’t admit it to myself, and now is when I fall. Now is when the label comes down on me for blowing off interviews, when Davis tells me I’m in breach of contract and extracts concessions to make up for it: extra shows, extra appearances. He will drive me until I don’t know what city I’m in and pass out on stage because I’ve forgotten anything matters more than keeping the machine running.

I get to the airport that afternoon. We travel by private plane when we’re on tour—a luxury, in theory. In reality, it means Davis gets to spend the entire flight bitching at me. I close my eyes and for once I don’t see myself sitting on a bus, alone and frightened. I see myself sitting at Île Saint-Louis with Josh, watching the sunset and feeling absolutely free.

I’d work myself to the bone for that feeling, except Josh was right: I don’t have to. I was born entitled to it. Everyone has a right to be happy, to feel peaceful. And the most successful third album in the history of third albums won’t give me any more of it than I had yesterday.

Maybe it’s time I truly consider getting off this particular ride at last.

When I’m in my room, I grab my phone and text Ben Tate, the attorney Tali’s been on me about. He agrees to meet me in New York when I’m there next month. I write the info down on the hotel notepad, oddly terrified. It’s as if I’m trying to escape a cult.

And as tangled up as all my business dealings are, escaping a cult might be easier.

39

JOSH

I go from snow and Paris sunsets and Drew’s breath mingling with mine to armed guards pointing guns at me in a customs line. And this is the safe part—if there is a safe part—of Mogadishu.

I used to feel like I wasn’t giving up too much coming back here. The work was interesting and I liked my coworkers. Today, though, I’m not interested in the faint pleasures of living within the confines of the camp: getting to know the families, camaraderie with the rest of the staff, the occasional hookup with a cute nurse. The assurance it provided that I’m not like my father is no longer enough.

I want my weekends back. I want a modicum of safety. I want to be able to go to a pastry shop to buy breakfast for the girl waiting back at my place. I want a huge soft bed, where that same girl will be stretched out beside me, suggesting I become a gravedigger.

My shirt clings to my back as I get my first whiff of dust whipping off the dry plains outside the city. The drive to Dooha is the most dangerous part of leaving and returning. I’m normally hypervigilant, looking for signs of trouble, but today I’m just gazing at the picture I took of Drew outside the patisserie—steam rising from a cup beside her face, her sweet, surprised smile.

We are in a shitty, unfixable situation. Soon, she’ll find someone who can actually see her. Who can actually admit he’s with her. Cutting this off now would be easier than reading about her and the guy she replaces me with in a week or a month. But when she texts, I’m thrilled.

It means I still exist somewhere in her world.

I’m also thrilled because she says she’s meeting with a lawyer about getting rid of Davis. I video call her the second I get to my tent, abandoning any attempt at restraint. She’s in her hotel room, smiling wide. I never once saw her smile like that for my brother. “Give me a tour of your tent!” she demands.

I laugh. “That would be a really short tour.”

She flops down on a big bed, soft pillow, her hair splayed out around her. “How was your trip?”

I decide not to mention the bombed-out hotel we passed on the way, a hotel I once stayed in, or the illegal road block we encountered. “Uneventful,” I reply. “But I missed the sunset happy hour.”

“Did everything run smoothly without you?” she asks.

I sink into the chair next to my desk. “Not really. Some supplies were stolen. It’s a problem.” I don’t mention that there was also a bomb threat, or that whoever took most of our pain medication from the supply closet must still have a key and it will take another week to get a replacement lock.

“It really doesn’t sound safe there,” she says. Her top teeth worry her bottom lip.

She doesn’t know the half of it. The situation has gone dangerously awry over the past year. But it’s not the danger that has me thinking of leaving, and it’s not my mom’s illness. It’s her. It’s the thought of her moving on without me, when I wouldn’t have anything to offer her even if I was there.

I can’t believe I’d consider abandoning people who need me for a woman I can’t even admit I’m dating.

It sounds exactly like something my father would do.

40

DREW