can only assume he wishes he’d hooked up with Cole instead of me at this point.
“Sure,” Cole says. “Either Travis or Ron. Ron has serious charisma.”
“You’d hook up with Ron?” Joey says. “What about me? I’m the one who carries your damned bass cabinet around every weekend.”
“You’re not my type,” Cole says with a shrug. “I like light-haired guys.”
“Dave Grohl isn’t light-haired,” Joey argues.
“Now you guys are just fucking with us,” I accuse them, but I still can’t tell. You never can tell with the beat brothers.
“Let’s play it again,” Travis says, and turns back to his amp, so we start the song again. This time it doesn’t suck at all. In fact, this time we play phenomenally together. Maybe clearing the air with the beat brothers helps, I can’t say, but I think there’s also something about Travis and I being so angry and in that tight space with all that loud noise that makes the set take off and get to a whole new place. We sound like we’ve been touring for years. The problem is, as good as it sounds, it doesn’t make me feel any better.
Travis leaves right after rehearsal. There’s no small talk, no shop talk, no shit talk or anything. He doesn’t even say good-bye and I never, as long as I’ve known Travis, have seen him be this much of a dick to anyone. I guess I deserve it after everything that’s happened, but I had higher expectations, I have to admit. I thought beyond everything else that’s happened, he and I were good enough friends that we could work through this. I thought beyond the sex and the confusion that goes along with it, Travis and I had a bond, a friendship that was unbreakable.
But this is breaking us. I can feel it.
Chapter Thirteen
Somehow, miraculously, Stars on the Floor doesn’t fall apart. Five weeks have now passed since I first fucked Travis, or maybe “fucked with” Travis is more like it. I’m always worried Travis is going to quit, but three more weeks pass from the last time we hook up and he doesn’t. He keeps coming to rehearsal, on time, every week. I don’t know how we all manage to suffer through with Travis permanently on his man period, but I have to give him credit because he doesn’t quit, and that’s all I can ask of him. I guess I can’t even ask that much, but I do because that’s just how I am.
But while he may still be in the band, our friendship has taken a serious shitter, and this is slowly sucking my soul away from me. I knew he’d need time to get over things, but I really did think he’d get over it and we would just go back to being friends and move on. I keep thinking maybe, hopefully, this is going to happen, because he’s still here—he’s still in the band. But he doesn’t call me, ever. He doesn’t hang out with me outside of rehearsal and shows. There are no trips to Sam Ash. No flyering, no breakfasts at Neubies, no more parties. After we played the Demarest basement and the Dead End show he just dropped me off and went home. He’s not really being a dick or anything, he’s just distant, and even though I still see him three times a week, I miss him. Desperately.
I know I should get him alone and explain that I’m just an asshole. I’m just afraid. I’m just not good at boys, at all. I’m good at bands, or at least I used to be. But he knows all this already anyway, and since he hasn’t actually quit yet, I figure my best bet is to not rock the boat further with my mouth. Give it time, like George said. Give him time. It’s not easy, though. Being quiet about these things, especially with him, is maybe the hardest thing I ever try to do. But he’s still around, so I think it’s working.
It’s April now, the Saturday before Ag Field Day, when Sonia comes to my door with the cordless phone and tells me it’s Billy Broadband.
“Next week is the Ag Field Day gig,” Billy says. “Can you come on the show tomorrow night to talk about it?”
“Sure,” I say. Billy plugs all the local bands on his Sunday show. We’ve been up there plenty.
“Great. You and Travis should play a song on the air.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say and feel my stomach twist because