“See, that part I believed.”
“Ass.” Jeff rolled his eyes. One of the smaller logs cracked and spit. “I was a little…. It was hard for me when we moved. Mom had just died, I didn’t have any friends, Dad was—well, you know what he was like.” Inattentive at best, abusive via neglect at worst. “I barely graduated high school. Probably would’ve dropped out if I hadn’t met Max and Trix and Joe. Not that we didn’t get into trouble, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Carter echoed gently.
“It was kid stuff at first—underage drinking, weed. Joe never did any of it, ’cause he said if he did, Child Services might take him away from his parents. I thought he was exaggerating back then, but these days….” He shook his head. “Trix’s stepmom had a prescription for… I don’t even remember what. That’s where it started. But I don’t think any of us were addicted to anything until we finally got an album deal my second year of college.” College he’d gotten into on sheer luck, with his high school grades.
He needed a break there, and Carter must’ve sensed it, because he redirected. “What were you even studying?”
Jeff smiled in spite of himself and tilted his head toward the sky. “Man, you’re gonna laugh.”
“Try me.”
Well, maybe Carter wouldn’t. “English language and literature. Focus in poetry, especially the poetry of the mid-twentieth century.”
He didn’t have to look to see the moment it connected for Carter, all the little pieces. Jeff’s love of music had come from Carter’s father and his love of poetry had too. Even when he couldn’t bring himself to call, even when he was actively self-destructing, he couldn’t turn away from the two things that brought him comfort.
And he’d pulled them together when he came up with the name for the band.
“Angelheaded hipsters,” Carter said quietly, reaching out one long arm like he was going to ruffle Jeff’s hair the way he had when they were kids. Instead he just touched a stray curl and tugged gently before letting go.
Jeff made his heart start beating again through sheer force of will. “Yeah, well. If I’d had any sense, I’d have named us something else. I forgot about the way the poem starts. ‘I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked.’ Should’ve been a warning.”
Carter considered this in gentle silence and then offered, “I don’t think that’s what they mean when they say life imitates art.”
Oh, what did he know; he’d studied environmental science. But Jeff allowed himself to be soothed. “Anyway. We managed moderation for a while. I got busted for cocaine possession once, though, on our second tour, and that was enough. A very expensive lawyer kept it out of the press and got the charge dismissed. But Max and Trix… I don’t know. They’re out of control.” Or Max was out of control, and Trix was along for the ride. The difference seemed academic.
“High onstage?” Carter asked.
“Shockingly, no. At least not so far.” He took a swig of his beer; even in the chill night it was getting warm. “And then there’s Tim.” Their asshole handler. “Back when we were young and stupid and he headhunted us, he told us the boilerplate contract terms sucked—his modified one would suit us better. We signed directly, no independent representation. Guess whose favor the contract turned out to be in.” It gave Tim way too much control… and a lot of the tour proceeds and merch sales that should’ve gone to Howl—a big deal since recording artists made peanuts on royalties these days. “He’s usually hands-off, but with the next album due and the dollar signs of the next tour in his eyes, he’s decided to crawl up our asses and act as our tour manager.”
Fucking Tim. Jeff finished the bottle. He hadn’t even known how shitty their contract was until a movie studio had offered him a deal to score a feature animated film. Tim didn’t represent Jeff, just the band. Jeff had made more on that than he did in a year of touring.
The conversation lulled, and the sounds of the night crept in—the steady crackle of the fire, the occasional off-rhythm snap of a twig or burr of rodent feet on pine needles, the drone of an early mosquito or two. Finally Carter said, “You didn’t answer my question, though. Why’d you comehere?”
The million-dollar question. “I came here to lie on my back and look up at the stars and play ‘Bobcaygeon’ until I turn into Gord Downie or die, whichever comes first.” After a moment he raised his head. “I love my band. I love being onstage. But I don’t trust Max and Trix anymore, and… I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. But they’re all I’ve had since I left here.”
He wanted so badly to reach for the naked empathy on Carter’s face, to allow himself to hold fast to someone who wouldn’t let him sink.
He’dwantedto be coming back to grieve his mother, but he’d done that. She wasn’t here.
She wasn’t really the one he came back to find.
“So I came back,” he finished, “to remember who I was before them and remind myself I can stand on my own.”
Carter reached out and touched his wrist, and Jeff’s heart beat allegro. “You don’t have to.”
“I do, though,” Jeff said. “Not, like, because I think people wouldn’t help me. I need to do it for me. Just like I need to decide what to do about Howl forme.” He blew out a breath. “I meant to come out here and write an album, but once I got here, I don’t know. I’m half afraid I’ll write another Howl album, and half afraid I won’t.”
“So you haven’t written anything,” Carter finished.
He’d always understood Jeff better than anyone. “Getting pretty good at ‘Bobcaygeon,’ though.”
Carter squeezed his wrist once more and let go. Jeff wondered if he’d been able to feel how fast Jeff’s pulse was racing. “Well, then,” he said, “let’s hear it.”
Chapter Five
FOR TWOdays Jeff didn’t see hide nor hair of Carter, even in the park. At least not in person. The night after their campfire, he got a texted picture of a garbage-strewn campsite, followed by the facepalm emoji.
