He shrugs, pulls on the cigarette again, and the tip glows for a second like it might last forever, then dies. "What’s your excuse for being here, man?" He smirks through the smoke. "I thought you were right behind them."
"Wasn’t really feeling it."
I want to ask if he’s seen Wendy. I want to, but I can’t. Give our guitarist more reason to make fun of me? No, thank you.
So I stand there and watch him, his focus shifting and scattered like the ashes at his feet.
"Got sidetracked?" he asks, blowing tiny clouds of smoke into the cool air.
"Something like that."
"Or someone?" Chance jabs, teasing, but not all wrong. "Zander swears he saw you with some little fox right before you vanished. Said she was cute. And orange."
The taste of Wendy’s lips burns through me like it’s too fresh, too close. "I guess," I say, a complete understatement.
Chance just grins. The grin that works for the fans. Cornflower-blue eyes are bright in his worn-out face. I envy him a little, how he does that, the act—or maybe it’s not an act. It’s just that nothing ever seems to get to him. He tears his soul open to write music, then goes onstage like it’s not a big deal. Like it’s his goal in life—to give pieces of himself to his fans.
We fall into the kind of silence where you can almost hear all the things we won’t say. "Damn, this gig’s nuts," Chance finally mutters, running a hand through his messy hair.
"Tell me about it. We’ve fucked up more times in two days than in our entire career."
"You hear those Sonic dudes talking trash? They think they’re punk, but they’re all talk, man."
"Sonic Trash?" I ask, though I know exactly who he means. Probably Jett fucking Vice.
"Yeah. The only decent thing about that band is your little friend," he goes on. "You trying to stir up shit with their drummer?"
"Not really. Besides, I’m way out of his league."
"String bean can punch, I hear."
"He can try."
Chance jerks his chin toward the festival grounds stretching out in front of us. And we’re kids, really. That’s what the fans don’t see, how it’s all games and fake seriousness and going through the motions until it isn’t anymore. But now, this time,it feels real and unshakeable, this thing that’s got its hold on me and won’t let go. This thing about the girl.
"So what’s your plan?" He needles me again.
I tell him I don’t have one. "I’ll figure it out."
He cocks an eyebrow and pushes away from the bus. "Give Zander and Justice a shout for me when you see them," he says. "I got some stuff to do." He winks, and although his voice was light, his face is drained.
"Right."
I start to leave, then turn back, and this time, I’m as serious as I can fake. "Watch yourself," I say. "We need you."
Chance grins, big and loose, knowing, like he always knows everything. "I bet you do, you three talentless fuckers."
Of course he doesn’t mean it. If anything, all of us are pretty damn good at what we do.
I pass lines of parked buses, techs pushing flight cases and breaking down the massive beast of last night’s show, before I get there. Sonic Trash. Worn stickers peeling from their road cases, ink-scarred bodies, and big egos scattered among the gear.
I should keep walking. Let it go. But Ramses is right in front of me, coiling cables like a prizefighter, his eyes sharp and quiet.
"You heading out today?" I ask him, and it feels like the wrong question.
"Yeah," Ramses says, unbothered. "This evening."
Usually, we wrap up a tour with the opening acts, but this summer has been a complete disaster. Management booked us for nearly every venue in Europe, with a few standalone shows in Monaco. But they only wanted us, not the other acts. Sonic Trash didn't quite match the vibe, and after this weekend, I can't help but feel a bit pleased about it. I believe the Germans even have a word for it—the joy you feel from others' misfortune.
