Page 11 of The Men of Summer
The mid-August Seaside Music Festival has been an anchor. For my music and fans. For Zayn and Jeremy. For friends and family…
The reactions to my relationship with Zayn have mostly been unexpected. People I trusted wouldn’t talk to me, and others sided with me. Can you believe that my twin brothers, who I’ve never been close to, supported me? Meanwhile, my asshole of a dad hasn’t talked to me since Elsie’s funeral. To add insult to injury, losing her fucked with my head so badly that I had to skip the festival for two consecutive years.
Thankfully, the locals don’t resent me for bailing on them. I guess being a native with a die-hard fan base has its perks. The only thing missing is my son, who stayed with my Aunt Rita, his biological grandmother; five is too young to partake in this, and yet, he’s old enough to start kindergarten in a few weeks.
Time flies…
“Guys, you’re on in five,” Sheila booms in passing. Her head swivels to oversee every detail of the backstage chaos, making her shoulder-length chestnut hair fly all over the place. Thisstage manager is even more energetic than my own manager, and that says a lot!
Gone is the time when my former band, Plot Twist, got lucky and earned a Friday night slot. Trust me, back then, performing on a much smaller stage was a thrill. It escalated when my cousin—then lead vocalist—Gael landed us a golden opportunity: to sub for Devil May Care, upgrading us from a side tent to an opening band on the main stage. From then on, it’s been a dream come true for me, since that performance brought my name to Mister Swagger’s attention, which in turn, led me to where I am today.
The rest of the band viewed music as a recreational pastime—or rather, a chick magnet. When my reputation in the industry solidified, they congratulated me on my success. Coming back to Seaside enables Zayn and me to see them all, including the miscreants I grew up with—at least the ones who haven’t moved elsewhere—that I used to refer to as my90210gang.
Our long-distance friendship that used to have the vibes of my mom’s favorite show has evolved over the years. Obviously, Elsie’s death took a toll on our bonds, and my depression—damn, I detest that word—that followed didn’t help. Still, we try to keep in touch, mostly on social media, since everyone went on with their busy lives and has different interests.
At least, Zayn is able to spend some quality time with his twin sister, Farah, and her family, as well as with Nicole Haywood, a Seaside local who was his summer fling during his first trip as an exchange student. What an unlikely couple they made! And yet, they managed to rekindle after losing touch for a while. I believe he made dinner plans with the extended Haywood clan and his sister for tomorrow night, but I’ve been too busy rehearsing for tonight’s performance to keep track.
Fun fact, though: Zayn’s co-worker and best friend, Sully, traveled with us to attend the festival. Apparently, his wife urgedhim to go since his mother hen tendencies were stressing her out. To give them both “the breather they deserved”—as Sonia called it—she basically kicked Sully out for an extended weekend and convinced her mom to visit while he was gone. Upon his arrival in Seaside, Sully admitted it was a welcome break from the overwhelming life of being a new parent, but, if you ask me, it’s his way of thanking Zayn for opening up to him.
“I’m not a guy, mind you?” Brea bellows, startling me out of my daydream. Amused, my eyes widen. Grunting her annoyance, she slides her right hand inside the left sleeve of her low-cut maroon T-shirt with gothic prints I can’t decipher to readjust her bra. Yep, she’s that relaxed! Well, her black leather jacket would’ve made it a challenge … Maybe it’s faux leather, considering the current heatwave in Seaside. Plus, she’s vegan, so she surely wouldn’t wear actual leather, even to complete her badass rock star look.
His bass strung across his taut torso, Gael approaches my music partner and snickers. There’s a stupid smile plastered across my stupider cousin’s face when he replies, “Nope, not a dude… You’re one hot chick, that’s what you are.” Then, he pecks her before jutting his head towards Rupert to inform the guitarist that he should head towards the stage. The latter follows suit, unabashedly checking out Gael’s ass as he walks alongside two female backup vocalists.
Interesting… How did I miss that before?
Storing that information for later, I gaze at my co-star. Gael’s gesture apparently stunned her, which is a rare occurrence. Her mouth forms an O. Taken aback, she remains frozen in place but quickly recovers. What did she expect? She and my cousin have been flirting since they met a week ago.
Maybe I’m not the only one who thinks performing is an aphrodisiac after all. Speaking of being turned on, I notice my man observing us all from afar. Incapable of resisting, I stroll tojoin him, fist his T-shirt, and plant a scorching kiss on his plump lips until we’re both panting.
His manhood grazes mine. “Go,” he pleads, “before I molest you right here and now.” Slapping my butt, he adds, “Show ‘em what you got.”
The summer sun dips below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the festival grounds. Here we are. I’ve been looking forward to this gig since last year. My heart swells with pride. This is my moment. Not to sound ungrateful, but it means more to me than Coachella or any other prestigious stage I’ve had the pleasure to grace. The proximity of the sea makes this venue enchanting, and it carries so many emotions that I had to explain it to Brea so that she could understand my state of mind before facing the Seaside audience.
The crowd’s enthusiasm is palpable as the band crosses the stage. My body hums with excitement, and buzzing anticipation electrifies the air. Standing to my right, Brea snatches her mic, and people scream in encouragement. Her auburn hair catches the last light of the day, shimmering like fire under the stage lights. We exchange a brief, knowing glance, a silent promise that tonight will be unforgettable. Our blatant connection can’t be denied.
The first chords of our latest single,Humankind, reverberate through the speakers, and cheers follow. My fingers move effortlessly over the guitar strings, the music flowing through me as naturally as my breath. My skin is ablaze, a feeling that almost compares with the one I get when Zayn and I touch. Almost.
Next, we introduce the rest of the band, including tonight’s special guests. First, I offer a warm welcome to Rupert Smith, a gifted artist I had the pleasure of seeing at several music festivals a while back. Then, Brea bows playfully when she mentions Gael. I can’t believe I haven’t played with him in over a decade.This gig will definitely be special. With Rupert covering guitar, Gael is playing bass instead.
Sauntering from the back, redheaded Rupert stops short of my left side. Heaven forbid the well-behaved performer would allow himself to steal our show, no matter how famous he is. Discreetly, he brings his own rhythm and texture to the sound that Brea and I created. Her voice joins in, rich and smooth, weaving seamlessly with mine. We sing about love and rebellion, each note a testament to our chemistry. Rupert, Gael, and the backup vocalists add layers to our harmonies, lifting the chorus to new heights. The audience sways and sings along, lost in the music. I see faces illuminated by the stage lights: eyes closed, smiles wide, completely enthralled by the magic we’re creating together.
During a brief instrumental break, I lean over to Brea and whisper, “You ready to blow their minds with the next one?”
She grins back at me, her eyes sparkling. “Always.”
We launch into our next song. This time, I take the lead. My voice belts out the opening lines, raw and powerful, while hers harmonizes perfectly with mine. Rupert’s guitar solo cuts through the air, electrifying the atmosphere even more.
A few songs later, I gesture for Rupert to come to the forefront to perform a song that I’ve recently rereleased with Brea. His brow spikes up, and his hand runs over his buzz cut. I hope he’s still on board with the plan. After all, he once confided that he actually misses having the chance to sing, so I offered him this unique opportunity. He grins, so I guess that’s a yes. Brea shoots us a mischievous smile and shrugs off her leather jacket as she retreats backstage for a moment. With long strides, my British friend—now a US citizen—grabs a couple of stools and sits opposite me. Once I’m ready, I glance backstage.
This one’s for you, Zayn.
“Let’s give them a night to remember, shall we?” Swamped with emotion, my voice cracks at my own suggestion. I blink back the impending tears. Fuck! I swallow, screw my eyes shut to focus, and quickly recover.
The first notes resonate, and the crowd goes wild. The first lyrics slip through my lips, and they quiet down. The first time two male singers perform it, and they have no idea about the actual implications of the song.
Rupert’s green eyes bore into mine. The concertgoers sing along with Rupert and me. Their passion feeds ours in an endless loop. Brea stays behind, sticking by Gael’s side.
Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, Rupert high-fives me, mouths a thank you, and holds the mic closer to his mouth to harangue the fans in his flawless and long-perfected American accent. “The Boys of Summer, everyone!” With that, he passes the mic to Brea and resumes his previous position in the background, his long fingers already strumming his guitar in sync with mine.
