Page 61 of Poetry By Dead Men
He’s certainly never offered it to me when I’ve had a sniffly nose.
He climbs the stairs. "Are we ready for the show, rockstar?" Harrison asks, walking to put an arm around my shoulders as if nothing ever happened. Bobby makes a noncommittal kind of grunting noise in the back of his throat, but his eyes are locked on Harrison touching me.
"Hey man, I need to apologize for earlier,” Harrison says. “Had a few drinks on the plane ride over. You know how it is." He pulls out his phone, swiping the screen to unlock it.
"Can’t say I do," Bobby answers, walking to the coffeemaker. He grabs the lavender from the cabinet, and a bit of my anxiety eases. A latte isexactlywhat I need right now.
"Elizabeth knows what I meant," Harrison continues. "Of course she's a writer. She went to NYU for it, after all. And she wrote for several different magazines."
"Premier magazines. An internship in Europe. Top of her class. There’s a reason I chose her," Bobby says, each word a sharp dagger aimed directly at Harrison as he pours steamed milk into my cup.
My stomach squeezes uncomfortably, my heart jolting out of rhythm.
"What internship in Europe? Elizabeth’s never even been to Europe." Harrison meets my eyes and holds his thumb and index fingers to his lips, as if saying,what’s this guy smoking?Bobby freezes at the counter, his knuckles going white around the mug, and I wonder if it’s about to shatter, but he recovers quickly, pouring some syrup into the mug.
"My mistake. I thought I read in my file that Beth spent a year in an elite study abroad opportunity for literature."
"I got accepted. It’s probably on my transcripts, but… I didn’t go," I add softly. This feels like a conversation that should be had in private, but I can't stop myself from sharing this little nugget of information.
Bobby stays by the coffeemaker for a few more moments, pretending to be busy. But my cup sits there, steaming and finished, fragrant with lavender and ready for me to drink.
He can’t even look at me, and for some reason, that breaks my heart more thoroughly than Harrison’s recent behavior.
"Anyway," Harrison continues, scrunching his eyebrows and once again looking at Bobby like he's lost his mind. "Beth's a great writer. I shouldn’t have insinuated otherwise. It was a bad joke. I just miss having her home with me. You can understand that, can’t you, man?"
Bobby finally turns around, and his piercing blue eyes meet mine. I expect to see anger there, maybe some annoyance that I’d turned down the internship he'd pushed so hard for me to take. But instead, all I see is grief swirling within the blue, so thick and heavy, it takes my breath away. I don’t think I’ve seen him look this sad since the day Michael died.
"Here," he says, but his voice is flat. He hands me my coffee and goes to sit on the couch.
"Seriously?" Harrison says, his voice tight. "Have you been drinking those dumb coffees the whole time you've been here?" Harrison rolls his eyes. "I always tell her serious people drink black coffee."
Bobby opens his mouth, the grief in his expression replaced by pure, fiery rage.
I hold up my hands. "You know what, Harrison? I need to finish getting ready for the show. Maybe you should grab us a room at a hotel. I really don’t think there’s enough space here." I don’t even try to hide the exhaustion from my voice.
That’s all I feel.
Exhaustion.
I’m tired from how he’s acted today. No, I’m tired from how he’s been acting forweeks, and now I can’t even enjoy my cup of comfort in peace without him poking and picking at me.
"Are you sure, babe? I think there’s plenty of room," he says, gesturing around.
"Actually, I threw out my back and had to take my bed back. Doctor's orders," Bobby chimes in. "Beth's just got a bunk in the hallway. Plus, the band normally comes over after the show, and they’ll act like idiots till the sun comes up."
It’s a lie. The bandnevercomes to the bus after the show, but I’m grateful he’s covering for me. Because I have no intention of spending the next three days on this bus here with Bobby and Harrison in a one sided pissing match.
I need to call Molly to get her advice on how to handle this situation.
I’m engaged to be married to this man in less than a year. Deposits have been paid, an announcement posted in the papers. I wanted to marry Harrison, but I don't want this—to be spoken down to. Belittled until I’m left raw, only a shell of who I used to be.
But for some reason, the idea of calling it all off makes me paralyzed with terror. Because as embarrassing as it is to admit, I’m not sure who I am without Harrison anymore. Our lives are so intertwined that I don’t know how I could even begin untangling them.
Harrison makes a face that looks like he’s just been offered uncooked brussel sprouts for breakfast. "Maybe a hotel will be better for us after all. How about I go sort out the details, and I’ll pick you up after the show?" he asks.
"Sounds great," I say, forcing a smile as he walks over and gives me a kiss on the cheek before sliding his phone from his pocket, completely unaware of how shattered I’m feeling.
By his words.
