Awkward

It had seemed, to Benny, the incident in the basement had only affected her in that unexpected and somewhat sickening way. As she sat at the counter a few mornings after, Tré fluidly moving around the kitchen, it had become clear that she was alone; stuck in some thickly tense air that only seemed to hover around her own head and settled into her lungs, suffocating and heavy. This air, this gaseous awkwardness, had been following her for the past few days, making her nervous and estranged, and it seemed that Tré hadn’t even noticed.

She was over-thinking this, she just knew she was, but that didn’t help to put her at ease. I’m not that kind of girl, had become her mantra. She repeated it every time she thought of that moment, her face just inches from his and the air around them static and different in a way she couldn’t quite pinpoint. It was just a moment. One of many. It didn’t mean anything. She hadn’t changed, her feelings were the same. She’d be alright. It was just too much Tré, she thought. It’d been weeks since she really interacted with anyone but him and even then, when she was on tour and had the opportunity, she hadn’t exactly been friendly with anyone else.

Perhaps he had become somewhat of an obsession. The more she thought of it, the more frighteningly possible it seemed. She couldn’t really remember the last time she had a real friend before Tré. On the tour, while she was okay with most of the band she didn’t think she could really call them close friends. They hadn’t known much about her, definitely not as much as he did. Back home, before the touring and before the band even, she didn’t keep many friends then, either. Damn, she thought, with eyes wide, Is Tré my best friend?

“This is fucking pathetic.”

“What?” Tré had turned, bottle of Gatorade pursed against his lips. He stared at her, head tilting back and eyebrows raised. “You want some?”

“I said,” Benny started, “this is fucking pathetic.”

“…I could get you your own bottle if you want. There’s plenty in the fridge…”

“Not talking about the goddamn juice, Tré. I’m talking about me. I’m pathetic. This is sick.”

At that Tré stared. He didn’t know what this was but was sure that whatever move he made would be wrong. If his former marriages had only taught him one thing, this was it: when a girl started talking badly about herself, it wouldn’t end well for him. He watched her for another moment, searching her face for some hint as to what he should say next. People, women, only spoke that way for one of two reasons, right? Either she was fishing for compliments or there was something he needed to fix. But Benny wasn’t, he didn’t think, the type of girl to make such comments just for the attention. And even if she were, how much more attention could she possibly want? She was already living in his house, and her presence alone had made it impossible for him to keep her out of his mind. So something was genuinely wrong, but what it was he didn’t know.

“What?” It seemed to be the only safe place to step in what was sure to be a minefield of words.

“This. This! I’ve been boarded up in your house for weeks, Tré, and I think I’m getting The Syndrome.”

“The Syndrome?”

“Stockholm…”

“Stockholm? I’m not making you stay here. You’re not a hostage.”

“Aren’t I?” she nearly yelled, thinking better of it at the last moment and straining to keep her voice calm in spite of the growing hysteria. “Look, I’m not sayin’ you’re keeping me here against my will or anything like that, but other than a couple of very awkward encounters with your friends – by the way, do they ever call before coming over? -”

“Benny…” Tré warned.

“Sorry…sorry. I’m just saying, other than that, I haven’t really spoken to or been around anyone that wasn’t you and I’ve barely even been out of this house. I need to get out. I feel like I’m losin’ my mind.”

“Then go.” Tré’s tone, bordering on cruel, was definitely defensive. Whatever she was babbling about, she was blaming it on him, and he wasn’t going to deal with that. He wasn’t forcing her to be there in his house, in his mind. He certainly hadn’t forbid her from leaving and he doubted very much that he could even if he had wanted to.

Benny sighed. This was going wrong. She shouldn’t have even brought it up, not before she had more time to think it over. “Tré,” her voice was almost a whine, as much as a whine as she could muster with that feeling strangling her. “That’s not what I mean. You know I really do appreciate you letting me stay here and I know that none a’ this is your fault. And I’m sorry I blurted it out to you. I…I wasn’t even really talking to you. Not really - I just need some air.” And with that, she stood, pushing the stool back as she did so, and exited the house.

In her wake, Tré leaned into the fridge, swapping his Gatorade for a Weiser, and wondering what the hell had just happened.

--

“Fuck.”

She was sitting at the end of his driveway, hot asphalt burning her exposed thigh; her car in his garage, her keys in his house.

“Fuck.”

She sat there for a while, staring out at the house on the other side of the street. You can really tell how rich a person is by how far away their neighbors are, it was something Cliff had said when they were on tour. He wanted to move out of the city someday and buy a big house in the ‘burbs, nothing like the apartment he had grown up in. Gonna have a big-ass backyard with a pool and sprinklers. And an attic and a garage. And a lawn… Tré had a lawn and a garage, she thought bitterly.

All Benny really wanted was to play music. It was so simple and, even when she said it to herself, it sounded stupid and false. Everyone said they were in it for the music, but fuck if she wouldn’t give anything to be on a stage with her band right there and then. She missed the thrill of it, the adrenaline pumping through her veins leaving her head spinning and body light. The blisters on her fingers, healing now, and the euphoric pain of gaining new ones. She missed the heat of all the lights and all the bodies packed so densely into a too small venue. The sweet scent and slickness of sweat clutching to her skin. The weight of her hair whipping against her shoulders. She wanted that, that beautiful discomfort. Not Tré’s place. Not the quiet air-conditioned house, the soft queen-sized bed and that meticulously clean kitchen now stacked with soda and deli-meats so that neither of them would starve.

And she wanted her life back. She wanted to be in her own tiny room, slumped on the floor against the wall amidst her dirty clothing and crumpled up notebook pages. She wanted to feel the slight, warm breeze coming in from her curtain-less window, wanted to hear the rustling of Sicily in the other room. She even missed the sound of Lucy’s shrill voice shrieking at someone over the phone.

She craved coffee from the shop around the corner from their dingy apartment and the heavily bearded guy who worked the machine behind the counter; the fatty cheeseburger from the diner down the block and the seasoned fries smothered in cheese. She wanted to go shopping, peruse the nearby thrift store and find a great shirt or pair of boots; or search through Sticky’s for records while listening to whatever new band the countergirl found interesting that day.

She just wanted normal back. She wanted her life off pause, to resume at its normal pace. She didn’t know how much longer she could take this stagnant vacation gone awry.

--

The sun had drooped, leaving the sky a dark blend of purples and oranges, and the weather had cooled. Hours had passed and Tré hadn’t come out after her. A part of her expected it, and that part was slightly disappointed.

With a sigh, she stood, hands fixed in her hair, pulling a hairband off her wrists and wrapping her locks into a ponytail. She thrust some bounce in her step, swinging her arms back and forth as she made her way to Tré’s front door, determined to at least behave like things were better, even if the time alone hadn’t lifted her spirits. Before she could raise her arm to knock, Humphrey was on the other side barking and scratching at the door. Soon after, it opened and she was greeted by Tré’s back.

“Tré, wait.” She couldn’t help but roll her eyes. He ignored her still, walking further into the house and making a left into the living room. As he turned, she noticed the phone pressed to his ear.

“Oh.”

So she waited patiently, moving to the kitchen and opening a pack of Ho-Hos. Humphrey followed, standing on his hind legs, paws patting at her hip as he tried to reach the treat.

“Don’t give him that. Chocolate’ll kill him.”

Benny froze for a moment, nudged Humphrey away, and then looked up at Tré. He didn’t look angry or upset, but there was no trace of humor either. “Yeah, I know,” she said uneasily. “You want one?”

He declined, stepping further into the kitchen. The thought suddenly hit Benny, this seemed to be where they had all “serious” talks and from the mood in the room, she could see that they were about due for another one.

“I’m not going to apologize again,” she said stubbornly.

“I wasn’t going to ask you to. Just…what the hell is your problem now?”

That surprised her, though by now it really shouldn’t have. She was beginning to see that Tré certainly had his moments of bad temperament and she was usually around to witness them.

“I’m just homesick,” the easiest answer, and probably the truest, “and I’m going a little stir-crazy. I miss being around people.”

“What? I’m not ‘people’?” Tré joked, pouting and pointing at his chest.

Benny smiled, a small pathetic quirk of her lips and rolled her eyes up to meet his. “You know what I mean.”

He did. Nodding thoughtfully, he waited for her to continue.

“Like…I just need to get out of the house for a bit. You know, mix and mingle.” She almost added, as a frantic after-thought, ‘Not with you and your friends.’ She didn’t want him to get the impression that she was trying to force her way in. She wasn’t. Not at all. She’d actually prefer if he and his friends were nowhere near. But before she could:

“Look, Mike just called me down to Spoons, you wanna go?”

She tried not to cringe. Mike, he was better than Billie, at the least. “Spoons?”

“Spoontonic. It’s a bar a few miles from here.”

“Erm…”

“Well, if you decide to come,” he started, turning away and walking towards the staircase, “be ready in a half-hour.”

And she was. Dressed in a pair of slightly flared, dark grey jeans and a green racer-back tanktop, she hurried down the stairs, sneakers softly padding against the floor and hair bouncing as she did. She looked kind of pretty, Tré thought. Pretty in a way that seemed foreign against the memory of the girl he knew. Around her was a head was a hair thing. It kept the locks pushed back off her face and mostly off her shoulders. It was simple, pure black and stretchy, but she knotted it closed with a kind of bow that lay just behind her ear, its tails trailing down her front and stopping just short of her breasts. She was wearing earrings too; brassy colored, long and dangling. It did something to her face, made it seem softer, maybe, or was it something with her nose? Her lips were red, sort of. Brighter than usual and a tad bit shiny, the subtle color somehow emphasized her freckles and brightened her eyes.

It was nice, this slight change in her appearance, and he told her so. “You look nice.”

She almost blushed. In all the time she’d known Tré, she couldn’t remember him handing her such a simple complement with such innocence and sincerity. “Thanks…I guess. You look, um, interesting…”

Interesting was the word. Not that she wasn’t used to Tré’s special kind of style, it just seemed different now that she would be with him. The jeans weren’t an issue, just plain blue and loosely fitting. The shirt, in itself, wasn’t so bad either, a short-sleeve black button-down. It was the tie that did it. The jacket didn’t help. Where he had found a purple corduroy blazer was beyond her and why he thought the green polka-dotted tie would be a good addition was even more baffling.

He smiled, taking in her expression, and proceeded towards the door. “Come on.”

They arrived at the place less than fifteen minutes later. It was a shack. Built with cream colored wooden planks and a dark red rooftop, surrounded by a wooden porch with old splintering benches laid against the outside wall. It was quiet, as they climbed out of the car, feet crunching against the gravel covered lot. There were a few other cars, one Benny recognized as Billie’s. She sighed and trudged behind Tré as he walked towards the entrance.

There was no guy at the door checking IDs, she noticed, Tré had just pulled the open door and they walked in. On the inside, the place looked substantially better. It was dark, of course, with blue walls and a black ceiling. The bar was being tended by a couple of guys, neither handsome nor particularly attractive. Pushed against the far side of the wall were a group huddled around a table, a waitress scribbling down orders as they all shouted and laughed.

Before the door closed behind them, someone was already calling out to Tré.

“Hey! Over here!”

It was someone Benny hadn’t met, a girl, and for that she was somewhat thankful. She seemed a bit younger too, younger than Tré and his friends but still older than Benny herself. As they neared the table, Benny could make out the others. The girl was sitting next to Mike. They were both cloaked in black, his arms bared and colorful tattoos exposed upon his. Between his lips was a tiny red straw and when the girl reach for it, he yanked his head back quickly and smiled.

Next to them, sitting on a dingy metal chair turned backwards was Billie. He waved, sort of, eyebrows raising a full inch when he spotted Benny emerging from behind Tré’s large frame. The girl with him, ‘His wife,’ Benny thought, though she couldn’t place her name, smiled brightly.

“Hey! You must be Benny,” she said, still smiling even though Billie Joe was looking at her with a discernible look and reaching for the half-empty mug that sat in front of her. Benny nodded, waiting for Tré to take a seat and then plopping down at the furthest available spot. “I’m Adrienne.”

Benny mumbled something resembling ‘Nice to meet you,’ before turning to the waitress. “Rum and cola, please.”

The waitress, a middle-aged woman with oddly fire-colored hair, gave Benny an odd sort of look, but didn’t say anything; she simply nodded, and then took Tré’s order. Benny often thought that she had the tendency to look younger than she was, which meant she got kicked out of a lot of bars, but this didn’t really seem like the type of place that was particularly concerned about the law. Benny didn’t know how she was supposed to feel about that.

She was aware that everyone was staring at her. No…not staring, just…glancing over. Furtively. A lot. It her made paranoid to look away from her lap, because she knew she would catch the back-end of each glance, see their eyes quickly darting away from her, and to Tré.

“Aren’t you a little young for rum?” The pretty blonde next to Mike spoke. Benny felt herself tense, but when she looked up she saw that the other woman was smiling. “Kidding…if they’ve never carded me, they won’t card you, and I look like ten years younger than I actually am, so…” She laughed, and Mike gave her an amused kind of look.

“Um,” Benny said, because really, what else was there to say?

Tré did introductions before long, once he finally realized that Benny’s cheeks had grown to be nearly the same color as her fiery hair. The blonde was Brittney, Mike’s wife. For some reason, this surprised Benny. She never really knew much about what went on in the lives of the men from Green Day, much as she didn’t about any other band—she wasn’t the nosey type, and things like that ever really seemed to matter.

She figured that the man, Mike, had to be married, but his wife looked so young and so…blonde. Strangely, it kind of made Benny feel a little better, knowing that she wasn’t the only one sitting around the table that wasn’t in her thirties. Brittney didn’t look like she was even out of her twenties yet. It was odd, perhaps, but Benny suddenly felt a little less nervous being around her.

She also found herself rather drawn to Billie Joe’s wife, who was nothing like she had first assumed. Her hair was absolutely wonderful, Benny thought; all knotted up, and not completely dreaded through but rather left loose, the dreaded bits threading through rather unruly strands in a way that was both wild and very complimentary. Benny didn’t know many other people who were also fond of dreadlocks, and she spent much of that night holding her tongue instead of blurting out how much she adored Adrienne’s hair.

It was odd, too, how different Billie Joe seemed to be when he was around his wife. He was far cheerier than Benny remembered upon their first two meetings, taking time out of every few minutes to kiss Adrienne’s cheek or the top of her head, his arm around her and one hand gently stroking her shoulder…it was almost too sweet; like no one else was meant to see this and Benny was somehow intruding. Maybe she was.

She remained quiet throughout the first part of their time spent there, sipping at her drinks—for there were multiple—and allowing that familiar feeling of warmth and dizziness to flow through her body. She was vaguely aware that she probably should have stopped two drinks ago at one point, but didn’t really care that much—she was a girl that liked her distractions, and right now the rum was doing a fine job of acting as one. It allowed her words to flow more easily, for her tense shoulders to droop and for a less nervous expression to cross upon her pale face. She felt dizzy, but comfortable, and a little happier than she could remember starting out. The people around her seemed like less of a threat, and even Billie Joe didn’t really annoy her anymore. True, he kept casting those same odd glances her way, but his wife did a good enough job of keeping him busy otherwise and Benny found it easy to ignore him, eventually.

Brittney and Adrienne became her companions of the evening. After only some initial hesitation, Adrienne soon convinced her husband to switch seats with her so she was a little closer to Benny, though still across the table, and she and Brittney played the polite guessing game; how was she liking Oakland? How long was she planning on staying? How did she and Tré meet? Tré, Benny thought, had purposely excused himself from the table when that one came up, so he and another man that Benny didn’t know could fiddle with the jukebox. (They proceeded to play “Barbie Girl” almost four times before one of the gruff-looking men behind the bar threatened to kick them out, at which point they switched to a decidedly country style of playlist, which Benny honestly didn’t mind too much.)

“On tour,” said Benny, a little blearily. Then, realizing this was the obvious answer, and one that they already knew, she was quick to tack on: “We just started hangin’ out, I guess…he’s good company. Better than most a’ the rest of them assholes, anyway.”

“Gee, thanks, Benny,” came Tré’s voice from the jukebox’s lone corner.

Benny rolled her eyes, and finished off another drink. “I dunno. The first time I ever saw Tré, actually…I dunno. I was walking into the parking lot of the first venue, and there was this crazy dude with weird hair beating the shit out of one of the vans with an oar…I don’t know where he got an oar, but he had it, and no one was going near him…”

Both women began to laugh, and out of the corner of her eye she thought she could see Mike and Billie Joe trading a grin. “Yeah,” said Adrienne, “that sounds about right.”

“My bandmates were afraid of him,” Benny recounted, straining a very muddled memory to a glimpse back to that first day. “They just ran inside. But he came right up to me and smiled, and he gave me the oar, and then just walked away. It was weird. I think he was high.”

“Was not!” came the same voice, apparently quite affronted. “I was drunk.”

“You?” said Mike, cocking an eyebrow. “Drunk on tour?”

“Never,” Billie Joe countered, though it was a garbled sort of response, mumbled into the rim of his half-empty mug.

Benny was leaving a part of this story out. She knew it, Tré knew it, and for the most part it seemed to be agreed between them that if she continued to not mention that one small part it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. He’d kissed her, was the one thing that she remembered somewhat clearly. The first in a long line of play-kisses that he’d done only to annoy her, to get into her head, to incite her in that way that only he usually could. She’d been so surprised that she hadn’t even found herself able to react until after he’d gone, left there to stand with an oar in her hand and a reddened face, almost alone in a strange parking lot. It seemed like ages before she’d been able to move again, and when she saw him next he acted as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened.

“What did you do with the oar?” Brittney asked with a giggle.

“I…believe I beat my bandmate, Oliver, up with it for a while when onstage that night, and then rolled it into the crowd or something…I dunno.” Benny shrugged, brushing some of her long, knotted hair out of her face and not appearing entirely concerned with the matter. “I remember the venue manager yelling that I’d given the crowd a weapon, but whatever…that place sucked anyway.”

By the time she excused herself outside for a smoke break—no one was smoking inside, and she was hesitant to start a trend lest she have to go through the embarrassment of being told to stop—the dark, seedy one-room bar was spinning in a delightful way, and there were two Tré’s looking at her in mixed amusement and concern as she pushed herself to her feet.

“Can you even walk?” He had one hand pushed against the table, ready to get up and follow her, but she waved a lazy hand in his face and started a non-too-proud sort of slouch to the front door. “Well…call if you fall down and die, I guess…”

The main doorway to the bar had barely snapped shut behind her before they were on him, the girls’ eyes inquisitive and the men staying put as they had been all night; strangely guarded, but intrigued.

“She seems nice…” It was the polite thing to say; the go-to conversation starter, and Adrienne could tell how lame it sounded even as it tumbled past her lips and into the air between them. “A little…awkward, but really nice. I like her.”

“She has fucking awesome hair,” said Mike pointedly. “Stella couldn’t stop talking about it the other day. She wants hair just like it now. Took me the rest of the night to convince her not to dye it red, at least.”

It took everything Tré had, not to join in with a wholehearted agreement that seemed to murmur around the table. He fucking loved her hair, too. There was barely a time he ever saw her walking around, the thick knots bouncing against her shoulders, thumping against her back, that he didn’t want to reach out and touch the fiery strands…but to admit to that, he thought, would put more attention on him than he was sure he needed right now.

He was glad to allow the subject to travel away from the redhead, and when it did he held no complaints. This was nice, he thought. Just quiet amongst the loud chatter of his friends and some unfamiliar music…relaxing. He’d forgotten about moments like this.

--

“You drank too much, you know.”

“Your…face…drank too much.”

Tonight, it seemed to Tré that the driveway was far longer than he normally knew it to be; that his usual parking spot, when his garage was not to be used, was a mile from the front door of his home. Humphrey already knew his owner was back; the curtains in the front windows rustled and a series of high-pitched barks were already straining to be heard.

Benny could hardly walk. It was hilarious, though unsettling. Tré had to bolt from his side of the car just so he could beat her to opening up the passenger side door, and help her to her feet. She wasn’t fighting him, at least. Though her somewhat dazed expression suggested that it disturbed her to do so, she kept a firm grasp on his arm as they marched their way up the paved drive.

“I like your friends,” she said vaguely, taking each step at a time and then pausing with him at the door. He nodded, mumbling his appreciation of her words, fumbling with the keys as Humphrey truly went crazy just a few feet in front of him. Benny could see the mutt through the glass, jumping up just high enough for her to glimpse his floppy ears and pointy snout, eyes wide and bright. “Billie wasn’t even being all asshatty…”

“I’m glad,” Tré sighed. He unlocked the door and grabbed the dog’s collar before he could jump on Benny, fearing that he would just knock her right down in her state. “C’mon, boy, I’ll let you run around the backyard in a moment…”

Once the girl was safely inside, Tré didn’t seem to find the need to keep her next to him quite so closely. It was an unneeded gesture, anyway; muttering to herself she simply wandered away into the living room. He saw her when he and the dog passed by, already curled up in a small ball in one corner of the large couch, eyes closed. She was smiling. Always a nice thing to see upon a face normally twisted up in contempt or misery.

It was a quiet few minutes with the dog, after that. Just a little buzzed, Tré slumped against the doorframe at the back door leading out from the kitchen, watching the dog do his business and then enjoy a blissful couple of minutes of freedom. He ran from one side of the backyard to the other, pausing only to mark another tree before he came back for more attention from his owner. “I know,” he crooned, bending down to ruffle the animal’s ears and scratch at his neck. “You missed me. Not even any Benny to keep you company. Must have been so terrible.”

‘It certainly was,’ the dog’s small whine seemed to say, but if anything he didn’t seem to hold anything against Tré for it. In fact, in another moment he apparently forgot that the man even existed, and trotted past him and into the kitchen before Tré was even done petting him.

“Ungrateful mutt,” Tré sighed, getting to his feet with a slight wince.

Benny was still in the living room when he returned. No surprises there. “Benny,” he said quietly, putting a hand on her shoulder and gently attempting to shake her awake. “Benny, c’mon…do you wanna sleep here or in your room tonight? I’m not carrying your skinny ass, either way.”

“Mmph,” was her answer, and she buried her face in the cushion below her.

“Suit yourself,” Tré said with a shrug. She grabbed his arm before he could pull away again, and suddenly those brown eyes were looking up at him, slitted and a little red, but staring right through him in that way that only her eyes could. She was hungry, he could tell. “Benny,” he started warningly, almost annoyed that he even had to say it. It wasn’t going to happen like this…not while she was this drunk. He doubted she would at all regret it later, when she chose to reflect upon it with a little sobriety, but he wasn’t one to take advantage.

“Stay,” she mumbled, closing her eyes again and pulling him down as much as her skinny little arms could manage.

“Benny.”

“Just stay,” she said into the cushion. “Just stay. That’s all.”

It was strange, he thought, how powerless he was against her small and calloused hands. Like there was some other unseen force in the door directing him to lift her up so he could slide between her and the backing of the couch, his arms following her pull until they were wrapped around her and her face was buried in his chest.

“You’re warm,” was apparently all she had to say about that. She was probably asleep before he even fully realized that she only wanted him there for this—just this. It was nice, though. Unsettling, but very comfortable. Humphrey, perhaps not wanting to be left out, hopped up on the couch and settled himself upon the next cushion, his chin resting upon one of Tré’s shoes.

“Yeah,” he said, quiet words breathed into her knotted red hair, “you too, drunky.”