he’s left everything up to me—Gwen, cooking, the fucking spray paint on our garage—and I don’t feel so bad.
* * *
—
“Have a drink. Relax.”
Conor stands on the other side of the tiny room where the band is hanging out backstage before their show, holding out a red plastic cup to me. And by “the band,” I mean Conor: the only one here so far.
We’re somewhere in downtown LA at a club, although I couldn’t tell you where if my life depended on it. Conor managed to steal his dad’s old rattling truck for the night, and once we got off the freeway, he drove us through the city streets like a complete madman, his equipment secured in its open bed by a couple of buoy ropes, while I held on to the dashboard for dear life. Los Angeles traffic is a nightmare, especially once you get into the city proper, and Conor really embraces it whenever he drives. Left turns through lights that have already gone red, weaving back and forth between lanes on the freeway to get three car lengths ahead of where we would be otherwise. It’s like being on a roller coaster, except less safe.
“Dude, I’m too nauseous from your driving to put anything into my stomach.” But I take the cup from him anyway, and sniff it. “Yo. Is this beer? Where’d you get it?”
He smirks at me. “Chill. You sound beyond lame right now.” He motions around the room. “I mean, we’re in a club, you know. When in Rome.”
“I thought this was an alcohol-free club….Why else would they let you guys play here?”
“Oh, little Zachy. Don’t you know by now, I have my ways?”
God, he’s so pompous sometimes. He settles on a speaker with his legs crossed, like he’s the king of the world.
I’m about to take a sip from my cup when the door swings open. The cocky expression falls off Conor’s face, fast as lightning. He waves over to me, but I ignore him. He drops his cup behind the speaker and then bolts to the door and jams his shoe under it. He stage-whispers at me, “Hide the beer!”
So much for the arrogant bastard act.
I pretend I don’t know what he’s saying. I can’t help but mess with him sometimes. He’s so easy.
He lunges at me, trying to grab my beer, but he can’t quite reach and keep his foot against the door. For a split second, I’m tempted to keep ignoring him to teach him a lesson about being a prima donna egomaniac, but I decide to choose the route of least resistance, per usual. I hide my cup behind the speaker I’m sitting on.
“Yoooo! Who’s blocking the door?” Matt’s voice rips through the relative calm. Perfect. Now I wish I’d thrown my beer at the door instead of hiding it.
I look at Conor and he shrugs like Sorry, Zach and moves his foot. Five seconds later, Matt barges into the room, followed by Rosa.
“Conor, what the hell? We’re carrying a ton of stuff—that wasn’t cool….” Rosa sounds super annoyed, but when she sees me, she trails off.
Conor’s eyes dart in my direction, and a flash of concern runs across his face. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. His poker face is beyond good. “Sorry, yeah. Got something jammed under the door for a sec. Sorry ’bout that.”
Rosa dumps the armful of stuff she lugged into the room onto one of the ratty chairs behind Conor and perches on another one. She starts biting her thumbnail. These are the closest quarters we’ve been in since we broke up last year. The other times we’ve been in the same room, people and square footage have separated us.
Last fall, after my mom decided to screw my life up, Rosa had a big problem with her decision to take the case. Like, to the point where she wouldn’t come to my house anymore. I get it—trust me, I do—but at the same time, it’s my mom. What was I supposed to do? Never speak to her again? Not defend her when Rosa started ranting some really mean shit