“The night at his house when I said I didn’t do drugs. It was Dex. He gave me his cigarettes at the end of the reception. I smoked when I was leaving Holliday’s.”
“Oh shit,” Tommy says, his hand in his hair, an expression of disbelief on his face.
“Oh shit is right. He’s fucking out of the band or I am.” Dalton turns, his gaze hitting mine. I step inside the bedroom cabin and move out of the way as he walks in and slams the door. He locks it as he tries to regulate his breath, his air still coming out harsh.
He kicks his shoes off and takes his jeans down, stepping out of them. After getting in bed, he says, “Let’s go to bed. I need this fucking nightmare to go away. Dreams, hopes, they all get destroyed in L.A. I expect it there. But I was blindsided in Paris.”
His back is to me as we lay in silence and I let him remain that way, feeling the distance he needs is justified. “Dare to dream,” I say, a mere whisper between us in the dark as I press my palm to his back. “For without dreams, we have nothing to look forward to.”
He repeats the quote, then asks, “Who said that?”
“I did. It’s a motto I live by, the reason I moved out to California and why I have my company today.”
“It’s good.”
I stand up to undress and he rolls over to watch. By the look in his eyes, I know we’ll have sex. I’m just wondering if he’s going to take his frustrations out or if he wants to make love.
Intimacy with an edge—he takes me two times and shows me both his gentle side that satisfies and the other that defines ecstasy.
Our breathing finally evens and in this tiny room that only fits a bed on a flight across the world, we try for sleep. Just when I’m drifting under, he touches my cheek, and says, “Don’t leave me, okay?”
Seeking him out in the dark, I place my hand over his heart, and whisper, “Okay.” Exhausted, we sleep the rest of
“Memories are best left for the living.” ~Johnny Outlaw
Five days feels like a lifetime since Paris. What I tried so desperately to hold onto disappeared without me knowing and everything has changed. There’s a growing distance between me and Dalton that I feel deep inside. I hate it. It makes me angry, but I don’t push for emotional chats about us. Not right now. I’m trying to be whatever he needs. I’m just not sure what that is, but I’m choosing patience. He’s choosing to be numb. I don’t like it, but I understand.
The public is mourning Cory’s death. The gate at the end of Dalton’s driveway is covered in flowers and mementos, cards, and little personal effects that people made to celebrate Cory and the band.
Kneeling next to the tub, I test the water around Dalton’s chest. The heat has turned lukewarm, but I decide to leave him be, hoping he soaks some feeling back into his body. I stop in the doorway when he says, “I’m not dead, but I’m being honored like I am.”
“They’re mourning Cory,” I reply, keeping my voice soft, not wanting to upset him any more than he already is.
“Have you seen my house? Seen the memorial fans made outside, the campout, the vigils? I’m already dead.” He yells, “The Resistance is dead. Cory’s gone and a thousand fans lighting a candle in his honor in front of my house won’t bring him fucking back.” His crystal glass goes flying across the room and breaks. The outburst doesn’t surprise me. It’s good to see him finally react, but I still walk out, shutting the door behind me. Anger surges—his anger over Cory’s death and my anger over the feeling that I’m losing him, our relationship strained under the pressure.
When I go back to the living room, Tommy is sitting there. He’s been coming by every day, telling me he’s just checking in and wants some company. But I’ve come to realize that it’s not what he’s telling me that worries me, it’s what he’s not.
“We need to get the gate cleaned up,” I say, sitting down on the couch across from him.
“It’s too soon,” he replies. “It’s a shrine. How do we remove a shrine without causing an uproar? It will seem like he’s ungrateful. I haven’t figured out what to do yet, so it stays until I do.”
“It’s a shrine to Cor—”
“No,” he raises his voice, but catches himself and calms down. “It’s a shrine to one of the greatest bands that ever lived, that will never be again.”
“His career isn’t over.”
“The Resistance is.”
Silence fills the room as reality takes over—what once was will never be again.