Page 17 of Grave Misgivings
But Zeb and I viewed “success” very differently.
I didn’t want to make music without him, but he was just nineteen, and hadn’t really performed on his own, and he didn’t want to sell out. He didn’t understand that it wasn’t selling out. Not to me. I’d worked my whole life for that record deal, and I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way of what I wanted more than anything.
So, I told him fine. I told him I didn’t need him.
I didn’t need anyone. I’d make it on my own.
And I thought about that day, thought about him often, because it’s the one thing I regret about choosing this life.
That I fucked over the one person who mattered more than anyone else in the grand scheme of things. My best friend, my music partner.
I finish up with my hour long piss, washing my hands anxiously.
What the fuck did I say to him?
I don’t even remember.
One look back at my phone shows me that our conversation lasted thirty-five minutes.
What the fuck were we talking about for thirty-five minutes at two in the morning?
I run a hand through my hair, biting my lip as Kevin texts me.
Saw your photos from last night. Gotta say, Geo, hitting up Saint & Sinner was genius.
I bite my fingernail, worried about what he might have seen. What I might have done.
Memories flash hazily in my mind of angel boys in tight shorts, one specifically, who I’m ninety-nine percent sure was hitting on me.
Which is weird, because I’m not gay.
I mean, I’m famously straight.
And a fucking virgin.
Maybe he thought I was someone else.
I know as I try to convince myself, it’s just desperation. I sigh as Kevin sends another text through.
Sure enough, there’s me, Mateo, and Dare all hanging out in the booth with our glasses of champagne.
Well, and Dare and his overflowing glass of strawberries, too.
Thankfully, the photos don’t show anything except me drinking, which is a huge relief. No angel boys in tight pants to be seen.
Thank the lord.
I’m sure whatever had my briefs in a twist was probably just the amount of alcohol in my system.
Right?
I stare at the number in my call log, those three little letters heavy and magnetic.
Zeb.
I debate if I should call him. On the one hand, I could just... not. Pretend it never happened; move on with my life because it was a mistake. Unintentional.
People drunk dial their exes and stuff all the time.
