Page 4 of Wild Obsession

“We met,” he says.

Everyone waits, but he doesn’t elaborate. I could, but it’s way more fun to let him wonder how much I’m going to reveal.

I shrug. “It was a long time ago. Nice to see you again, man. Guess you’re doing pretty alright for yourself, huh?”

“I guess,” Tim says.

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t be modest. You’re a big rockstar now!”

I sling an arm around his shoulders. I mean to startle him, but the sudden proximity hits me harder than I expect. I keep thinking I’m immune to this, that I don’t remember how many freckles span his cheeks, don’t remember the smell of his hair, won’t care that he sucks in a sharp breath when I hold him.

I’m wrong.

I release him a bit too hastily and stride away, making a beeline for the stage.

“What the hell was that?” someone mutters behind me.

“No idea.”

“Tim?”

“It’s fine. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Nothing. Yeah, of course. Of course I’m nothing to him. That’s been the problem all along, hasn’t it? Why would it have changed after all these years?

I plop myself down behind the drum kit he was just using and pick up his sticks, trying not to think about his hands holding these very same sticks mere minutes ago. I tapthem together like I’m counting out the beats at the start of a song, then shout, “We doing this or not?”

Then I slam the sticks down, banging out eight years of resentment.

THE REHEARSAL DOES NOT go well. We get through it, sure, but everyone is off-balance after that awkward round of introductions, and I’m too pissed to care. I do absolutely nothing to make it better, antagonizing Tim at every turn. He takes it all, barely reacting except to hunch deeper into his shoulders. He doesn’t even say anything when I suggest I’m going to out-drum him during this tour. He accepts the declaration as fact.

An exhausting six hours later, my nerves are frayed to tatters. Everyone is eager to get out of the rehearsal space, but this is the first practice of many. We’ll be doing this for weeks to get ready for the tour. Thankfully, not all of it will happen in such close quarters. Partially, that’s because Baptism Emperor isn’t a big enough band for us to take all the extra time off from our day jobs. I’ll need to squeeze in shifts at the record store around all these practices, though scheduling is the least of my concerns at the moment.

Seeing Tim was a lot. A hell of a lot.

I wasn’t ready for it.

It hits me when I get home to an efficiency apartment crammed into a narrow tower of similar apartments in Seattle. The space is just one room, though I do at least have a loft to make it feel like my bedroom is somewhat separate from the kitchen and living room.

The moment the door shuts behind me, the silence hits me.

I don’t bother turning on the light. This place is small, and no one is here to smell me as I climb the ladder into the loft and go directly for my bed. It takes up almost the entire loft, with just enough space at the foot of the bed for a pile of clothes. I add my leather jacket and everything I was wearing under it to the heap before flopping onto my bed.

For a while, I lie there staring at my ceiling, gazing into the dark. The windows let in an ambient glow of streetlight. Occasionally a passing car breaks up the silence. Otherwise, it’s just me and my thoughts.

I bet Tim has some fancy apartment downtown. He’s famous now, or at least a lot closer to famous than Baptism Emperor. The sting in my chest isn’t only jealousy though. Even knowing I had to see him again, the experience was like transporting back into high school. I remember every smile, every kiss, every single God damn freckle. I was always so much harder and rougher than Tim. I’m the one with the tattoos curling down my legs and across my shoulders. I’m the one with the edgy undercut and the eyeliner. I evenstarted dying my hair so it could go from naturally black to perfectly pitch black.

Yet that soft face flecked with freckles almost put me on my knees today.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. The moment I found out management forced both bands together for this tour, I envisioned my glorious revenge, a chance to finally hurt Tim the way he hurt me. I didn’t expect to find a contrite and cringing shell of the boy I dated in Baltimore. Why isn’t he acting like a high and mighty rockstar? Why isn’t he lording it over me? Why does he have to look so damn good even in a T-shirt and jeans?

Why is my heart aching?

I growl at myself, pushing myself up to sitting. My apartment is dark and small and cold and empty. I don’t have fancy things. I still work a day job. I’m not a rockstar and probably never will be. But God damn it, I can drum. I know I can drum. So I’m going to make it my personal mission to out-drum Tim in front of the whole world during this tour.

Maybe it’s a hollow victory, but after all this time, I’m not above it. It’s not like I have anything else to comfort myself with. My life is contained in this shitty apartment, and it’ll probably never get better. I don’t even have a goldfish for company, let alone fame and fortune. No matter how well Baptism Emperor performs on this tour, we’ll never rise to The Ten Hours’ level. I’ll always be nothing.This is little more than a front-row seat to my ex’s glamorous rise to stardom.

It strikes me that nothing has changed. Absolutely nothing has changed. I’m still the loser fuck up; he’s still the good boy getting straight As. We’ve been apart all these years, but life placed us in the very same roles that made us incompatible back then.

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