Page 29 of Grave Misgivings
I mean, it is true. It is nice to hear him, but clearly not talking for ten years has only made me forget how to actually hold a conversation.
It’s just Zeb. Conversation should be easy. It was always easy before.
I can hear movement on the other end of the phone as I undress myself, crawling into bed.
I know being in bed before nine o’clock is like a kiss of death for most people, and as a rockstar, I’m supposed to be out at places like Saint & Sinner having the fucking time of my life.
But something about this—curling up my covers, listening to Zeb’s voice—this feels a thousand times better than being drunk at Saint & Sinner.
Zeb lets out another long sigh, his voice softer. “Yeah. It’s good to hear your voice too, G.”
A smile threatens to form on my lips as I get comfortable.
“How...” He pauses, and for a moment I feel panicked.
“How did it go at the... studio today?” he asks, his tone shifting, his deep, smooth voice full of caution.
A part of me knows I should be careful, because this—calling him, pretending we’refriendsagain, falling back into his orbit—is too tempting.
On speaker, his voice fills the room, and it feels like he’s here.
And if I close my eyes, I can pretend he is.
So, I close my eyes, my shoulders relaxing as I lean back in bed, and I answer him.
“It sucked, actually,” I say with a sigh. Something about that confession, as mundane and dull as it is, feels like I’ve shattered glass.
Like I’ve broken a barrier of some sort.
Zeb shifts, and I hear his deep breath again as he asks. “Do you want to talk about it?”
His words are careful, but I don’t miss the familiarity in them, either.
My mind wanders for a moment to all those days Zeb showed up for practice, clearly pissed off or bothered by something that happened at school.
My mother always said in order to get anywhere in any career, you needed to leave your shit at the door.
When I walked through the door of the studio, or the trailer, or set foot on a stage, there was no room to be distracted or bogged down by angst and drama, as she said.
But I always thought if I could have talked about what was on my mindbeforeI assumed my role as Geo Graves, maybe it would have helped me sort my shit out better.
So, any time Zeb came rolling through those doors with tight shoulders or a glazed look in his eye, I made him tell me what was wrong so we could move past it and focus on our music together. I wanted to give him the space he needed because he was my bandmate, but also because, well, I wanted to make him feel better, if I could.
Pissed off, angry or frustrated Zeb always made me feel the worst. Like even though I knew it wasn’t possible, it felt like it was my fault somehow, and I wanted to make it better.
I know I shouldn’t go down the road of Hollywood gripes with the man I left for Hollywood, but something aboutthe familiarity of his voice, mixed with that soothing, almost hypnotic deep breath... I just can’t help myself.
“It’s just this tour, I guess. We kick off in a few weeks, and I’m just... I think I’m having a mid-life crisis or something.”
He chuckles, the sound smooth and warm. It makes me feel a fraction better.
“You know, technically, you don’tknowif you’re middle aged. Because no one knows when they’re going to die. You could die in like ten years, and middle aged at that point would have been twenty-five.”
I roll my eyes as I lay down in bed, getting comfortable on my side, propping my elbow up so I can rest my head in my palm.
“So what you’re saying is I’m already ancient. Thanks, Z.”
Zeb chuckles. “No, I’m just saying the whole being middle-aged thing is subjective.”
