Page 46 of Poetry By Dead Men
"We're going to have to, Beth. You’ve ignored me for six years." Bobby says, sitting back down, this time on the coffee table in front of me. "You owe me a chance to explain. To make things right." His fingers twitch as if he wants to reach for me, but he squeezes them into a fist.
"No. Not today." My bottom lip trembles.I will not cry. I will not cry."Please," I whisper, a soft breeze away from shattering completely, and his eyes soften.
Bobby presses his lips together, then sighs, his face falling. "For now, we can table this." He doesn’t break eye contact for several seconds, so I do. Because looking at him makes me feel like a peeled orange, my insides exposed and vulnerable.
Bobby stands, grabbing my bags. “I have a few things to work out with my tour manager, anyway. And I have a feeling you were up late last night. You should rest."
My shoulders relax. In less than a second, without the impending conversation hanging over my head, the tears are easier to hold at bay.
"But, Beth?” Bobby pauses, searching my eyes. “Wearegoing to have to talk about this," he says gently, and I wish I didn't know him so well. His mannerisms, and tendencies. Because beneath that voice of honey is the same pain I’m feeling trying to bubble up to the surface.
"I know." I can't look at him, because he's right. Neither of us can handle two months of unspoken history and tension. But if he keeps talking, Iwillfall apart. I'm too tired from my fight with Harrison. Too raw being around him. And seeing him here, onthisbus, makes everything feel too fresh.
Bobby nods at me, the lines on his face betraying the extent of how much this must weigh on him. He leads me to the back of the bus, but surprises me when he walks right past the bunks and into the main bedroom.
"There’s not a chance inhell—"
"Calm down," Bobby says, dropping my bags. "I'll take a bunk. You need your own space, and you know I can sleep anywhere."
I do.
I've seen the man sleep standing up, but it doesn't feel right to take his bed. He's the one performing for sold out stadiums in between recording sessions and writing and God knows whatever else rockstars do. But his arms are crossed, and his jaw is set, and as much as I wish it weren’t the case, I can read this man well enough to see that I won't be changing his mind.
"Thank you," I say, and I mean it.
"I'll be around, but call me if you need me. Welcome back, Beth." Bobby turns and leaves before I can answer, leaving me standing there speechless.
I collapse backward on the bed, needing a moment to calm my racing heart. Maybe a nap will clear my head, give me enough strength and resolve to face the next two months. Not to mention it will shut off my brain, give me a reprieve from the blade of doubt trying to carve through my memories.
I waste no time and roll over, reaching to turn off the lamp bolted to the nightstand, but freeze when I see what sits next to it—a photo of Bobby and me frombefore. It’s the same one that sat there six years ago, his smile so genuine and broad that it makes my heart hurt. We were so young, so full of joyin a way that feels foreign and unattainable to me now.
I reach for the picture, some deep part of me needing to inspect it closer, but when I pull on the frame, it doesn't move. It's bolted to the nightstand. A permanent fixture. Just like I was supposed to be.
NOW
August 2024
Your futures wrapped in paper
Full of ink and sweat and tears
You say you’ll do it later
I can’t watch later turn to years
—An excerpt from "The Application," written and performed by Robert Beckett
Bobby’s gone for the next several hours, and I’m excessively grateful. It gives me time to rest and collect my thoughts—something I desperately need after anxiously tossing and turning all night. It also gives me some time to break the news of where I am to Molly, whose calls and texts I’ve been avoiding for the last twenty-four hours.
Molly: If you don’t answer in ten minutes, I’m calling the police.
I sigh, taking a deep breath as I type out a message I know is going to send her into a tailspin.
Me: I need you to not freak out. I believe in you. I’m going to tell you what I’m doing, and you’re going to stay calm.
Molly: What have you done, Beth?
I rip off the metaphorical band aid.
