Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,70

him, and we shake hands, a gesture that never ceases to be awkward in situations like this. Then I just stare at him and wait for words to come out of his meager little mouth.

“Thanks for the tickets, man,” Robert says, his voice rising slightly. He is way too excited. I can tell she is embarrassed.

“Sure,” I say, hands on my hips. Then I am done with him, so I turn to Her. “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

I pull Her into the dressing room before she can even answer. Robert stands in the hallway with his hands in his pockets. Frozen. The door latches behind us and I turn to Her, eyes wild. Part of me wants to throw Her down on the couch and remind Her what she’s missing. Another part of me wants to cry. I feel so betrayed. So angry. I have no idea what is about to come out of my mouth.

“Are you serious?” she spits before I even have the opportunity to speak (she knows me pretty well by this point), then, again, just in case I didn’t hear Her the first time, “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“You fucking bring a guy to my show?!” I yell, loud enough so Robert can hear me. “I can’t fucking believe you’d do that. Why would you fucking do that?”

“I’m not even going to fucking talk to you about this. I don’t need to. We fucking broke up. I fucking broke up with you. I’m with Robert now, so what? Get over it. Grow the fuck up.”

She goes to leave, but I grab Her arm. I pull Her close, just as I did the first night we met. I feel Her body against mine for the first time in months. It’s not the same, but I’ll take what I can get. I am out of my mind again. I want to ravage Her. I want to hit Her. Her eyes are wide. She is afraid.

“Look . . .” I trail off, not knowing what to say next. “Meet me later.”

She pulls Herself away, leaves the room. I imagine Robert greeting Her on the other side of the door, asking Her, “What’s wrong?” Being tender and supportive and weak. He probably wants to break down the door and break my neck, but he knows he can’t. Not because he’s too weak, but because my security guard is standing in his way. I wonder if they’ll even stay for the show. I decide I don’t care. Instead, I concentrate on getting incredibly, incongruously drunk. This is easier to do than you’d imagine, especially when you’re the headliner on an arena tour. By the time we take the stage, I’m out of my head. I shimmy around the stage like an idiot. I climb my stack of amplifiers and leap down, crashing hard on the stage. I probably break something, only I don’t feel it. The kids squeal and shout my name. My parents are watching from the side of the stage, backstage passes hanging around their necks, stupid smiles on their faces. I grab the microphone and dedicate the last song to Robert. The guys look at me like I’m insane. I am a terrible drunk, especially in Chicago.

That night, we have an after-party, at the same place we had our record-release party. The same place I got drunk and passed out in the bathroom and went home with that chick. She’s probably here tonight, probably looking for one more opportunity with me. She won’t get a chance this time because I am behaving myself tonight. Or at least trying. I keep calling Her phone because I want to hear Her voice, because I want to hear Her lips curl around the receiver. I want to tell Her about my plans of destruction. I want to be with Her. She doesn’t answer, so I call back again. She says she’s on the phone with Her aunt, and that she’ll call me back, but I know she’s actually talking to Robert. Nobody’s aunt is awake at this time of night. I call back to confront Her with this fact, but it goes straight to voice mail. I leave Her a rambling message that’s part accusation, part apology. Midway through, it occurs to me that I am still plenty drunk. I don’t expect Her to call back—not ever—but, to my surprise, she does. She agrees to see me. I take a cab back to my parents’ place,