Nobody speaks, and I sigh.
“We understand,” I say, but I'm not sure that my friends do. Josh is a middle class dude who got lucky, handpicked by Milo and thrust into our mess. Turner, Trey, and Jesse are down on their luck kids with shitty pasts and no clue how to exist in the real world. This is, like, real world shit on crack. I take a breath and close my eyes. I just got sober. I'm just figuring out how to live without Asuka by my side. It almost feels like it's too much, like my body's going to break under the weight of all this stress. “We also know that we're definitely not fucking into doing a reality TV show. Can you imagine having cameras following us around all day? Fuck that.”
“Come on, Ronnie. Don't be a Goddamn downer. At least think about it.” I give Turner a look and purse my lips.
“You told that woman that Lola and I were engaged, Turner. Why the hell would you think that was okay?” He gives me a blank look, and I sigh. Getting that man to realize his own faults is damn near impossible. Seems like the only person on this earth who's capable of it is Naomi Knox. Huh. I miss her already. “And that you and Naomi were engaged. You better be telling the truth on that one, asshole. Don't mess around with Naomi. She's not the type of woman who takes shit and smiles.”
Lola snorts and glances over her shoulder at me.
“Yeah, whatever,” Turner growls, stalking away with Trey attempting to roll his wheelchair after him. I put out a hand and stop him, looking down with all due seriousness.
“Where's your fucking nurse?” I ask and he shrugs guiltily.
“I fired her. I didn't like her. Why does it matter? I don't even need a nurse anymore.” I slap a palm to my forehead and shake my head, wondering how the hell I ended up with these idiots. Trey watches me as Turner disappears up the stairs and Jesse sighs dramatically. “Hey Ronnie,” Trey says, and I feel something horrible coming my way. I look up and thank the fucking Gods that I found Lola. Without her, I don't know if I could handle this shit. “Is it … true?”
“Is what true?” I ask as my friend's face crumbles in pain and his breath hitches violently.
“That America killed Travis? That she's the one that ran him over with her car?” I stare back at Trey and try to find the right words to say. I haven't given much thought to the revelations that plagued our concert. I have to find a really good, really frigging stable place in my life to go there. “Because, you know, he should be here with us right now and he's not, and that is fucked.” Trey sniffles and looks away for a moment before grabbing onto the wheels of his chair and dragging himself out of the living room.
I sigh and drop my hands to my sides.
Milo's giving me a sympathetic look that I'm not sure how to take in. What can I say anyway? Trey's right. This is fucked. Because of America – and Stephen – Lola's going to have to feel the same pain that I did when my brother was taken away from me. We might not have been related by blood, but I loved him all the same.
“Hey.” I move around the couch and kneel by her side, trying to force a smile. If she's thinking at all about her sister, she doesn't let on, twisting her lips up at the corners and returning my expression. The look's a little blank, doesn't quite reach her eyes, but that's okay. I don't expect it to. The only thing that numbs pain is love. Some people think it's time, but I'm living, breathing proof that that's not always true. “You want to look around?” I nibble at my lip for a moment in thought and let my gaze catch on the intricate woodwork that lines the ceiling. I pray to some distant God of craftsmanship that Turner doesn't ruin it. “Pick out our room or whatever?”
Lola chuckles and adjusts the stretchy fabric of her dress. It's weird, seeing her in this flowing white gown. Normally, this chick's got painted on leather pants and barely there tops. I let my eyes trace the sweetheart neckline at the top and then rise to meet her gaze.
“I haven't picked out a room since I was six and my family moved into the farmhouse.” Lola runs her hands down her face and pulls them away, her smile a little more stiff this time. No doubt she really is thinking of Poppet right now. I hold out a hand and she takes it, following me to the stairs and pausing as we both gaze up at the swirling steps with trepidation. Even though I grew up dead center middle class America, I'm still a little weirded out at the grandiosity of this place. It doesn't feel right, like it's too good for me, like I don't deserve it. What have I ever done to earn this? I'm not a humanitarian. I don't rescue orphans. I didn't invent a cure for cancer. I'm just a mediocre drummer who got wrapped up in somebody else's shit.