Awkward

Two days.

It had been two days since everything came to its end. Two days since everyone went their separate ways in Los Angeles, and two days since Tré had been forced to endure life spent in a tiny van with a handful of men that, by now, he would be perfectly happy not seeing again for a very long time. He came home, relieved with how things had suddenly changed for him, and for the smallest of moments, after stepping through his front door and letting his luggage fall to the floor at his feet, he felt…good. It was like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and his life was suddenly something to be enjoyed again.

He didn’t question it, though, when he was unable to get Benny out of his mind for more than a few minutes at a time, that first night spent at home. In his subconscious, he’d already associated the ability to sleep in an actual bed for a night with the fact that she would be there with him. It was odd. It was night, he wasn’t sleeping on the floor of a cramped van with men snoring on all sides of him, and yet he was still alone…sort of. The dog, newly returned from a friend’s house earlier that day, hadn’t let Tré out of his sight since he’d first walked into the house. He lay curled up at the foot of the bed that night, breathing heavily and snoring every now and then. It wasn’t quite the same as having a dreadlocked redhead sleeping next to him, but at least the sound was somewhat comforting.

If Tré was still thinking about her the following morning, well, he didn’t really think it was completely his fault. She stayed with him, for some unexplainable reason, and it was no mystery as to why. He’d liked her, and yes, he kind of missed her, but that feeling of relief…no matter how lonely he was, or how much he might yearn for her company, it wouldn’t have been worth it. Life was going to go back to normal for him. He looked forward to her letters, if she would ever dare to actually send them, but found himself thinking that he’d probably feel just fine about it, if that was the only contact he had with her again.

Or maybe that was just a lie that he needed to tell himself. Either way, he knew he’d get to that point eventually, so it didn’t really matter.

The next couple of days were his, and he was grateful for it. All he wanted to do was spend a little while living the hermit life inside of his house, his dog and his television there to keep him company. If he could go at least a week without hearing the words “tour” or “van” or “sound check,” and without having to deal with…well, people in general, he felt he could die happy.

Of course, it wasn’t really that easy. The third morning that he was home, he was awoken by something other than his alarm clock, or the dog’s high-pitched whining that usually signified that he needed to go outside. It was getting to be late into the morning; the sun was shining at that certain angle through one of the wide windows on the other side of the room, and through slitted eyelids he watched as rather blurry figures crept through doorway of the room and tip-toed their way toward his bed. He’d heard footsteps in the outside hallway, and it was enough to wake him up, but he was just too tired to care. The dog, still curled up at the foot of the bed, gave a small whine but he wasn’t barking; he knew the intruders. Tré groaned once, loudly, and pulled the covers over his head.

“Go away.”

“But I love you!” was what Tré managed to hear before his muffled world exploded in pain and discomfort, something large landing on top of him and cold hands suddenly invading his warm refuge beneath the blankets. They tickled at whatever exposed skin they could find, and though Tré fought back it was a losing battle; the covers began to twist around him until they were more cocoon than sanctuary, and one of his arms was pinned uncomfortably beneath what he assumed to be a hip or knee.

“I think you’re smothering him, man,” said another voice; one wracked with held-in laughter, but also tinged with just the smallest sliver of concern.

“He is!” was what Tré attempted to confirm, though his words were lost against the fabric of the bedcovers being pressed against his face. He gave up his struggles, at least, knowing from experience that it would all be over the sooner that he just gave up—it became boring, then, and his attacker would usually then withdraw. So he did, but it was with a rather disappointed sort of sigh. As soon as the pressure on his arm was relieved, Tré wriggled free from his cotton prison and pulled the blanket away from his reddened face. “Asshole,” he mumbled, forcing himself to sit up and massaging at his arm sorely.

Dark eyes glinting with that playful malevolence that, over the years, the drummer had nevertheless managed to become so very fond of, Billie simply smiled broadly and rolled over to the other side of the bed. He lay on his side, chin propped up in his hand, and the expression upon his face was so adorable, so absolutely puppy-dog-in-love, that even though Tré was used to his little tricks by now he couldn’t help but let some of his irritation ebb away. The mattress shifted again, and his eyes slid to the foot of the bed, where a content Mike was now curled up with the dog and grinning widely. Tré sighed, and fell back on his pillow.

“Hey, guys.”

“Hey, Tré,” Billie mimicked him, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out. It wasn’t all that early, but Tré knew it was still too early to deal with this right now. “What, that’s it? No hugs? No kisses? Didn’t you miss us while you were gone partying all over the country?”

Tré let out a dry little laugh, which made the smirk slide away from Billie’s mostly clean-shaven face. “I don’t really think that tour classified as a ‘partying’ one, man, sorry to say…”

“Really? I’ve come to expect that any tour Reese and Cliff are on would be a partying one,” Mike laughed. He was scratching the dog behind his ears, and the longer he did so the more the animal leaned in to him, clearly enjoying himself. Billie was already grabbing at the covers so he could be beneath them as well, and soon enough he was covered up to his chin and batting his eyelashes at the drummer in a manner that Tré assumed was meant to be seductive.

“It was good, but it was just…long. Kind of rough.” Tré sighed, and pulled his pillow over his head. His voice, again muffled, managed to sound out, “And I was hoping to get some alone time after I got home…”

“Dude, we gave you like, two days.” Billie sidled himself closer to Tré, simpering quietly. “We missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” came Tré’s response, though it was a grumpy one. “Assholes,” he added again.

“Yeah, we can feel the love,” said Mike, rolling his eyes. “You barely responded to our calls when you were gone. What happened?” When he asked that, Tré knew to take the question as an invitation to talk about the tour itself, and anything interesting that he wanted to share about it. But his mind automatically went to Benny, and though he knew that Mike hadn’t so much as hinted to an accusatory tone, he certainly felt it.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, then, realizing how odd that sounded, he added, “nothing too exciting, I guess. It was cool to play the smaller venues, but man…I missed our bus. I think my back’s gonna be killing me for the next…I dunno, year. I’m getting old.”

“Oh, right. Thirty-seven. Real old,” Billie scoffed.

‘Seems pretty old when you’re always comparing yourself to a twenty-year-old girl,’ Tré thought, though he didn’t voice this opinion out loud. Part of him wanted to spill his guts out about everything that had happened to him on tour; about Benny and their…well, it hadn’t been a relationship, but it was something, about the guilt he still felt over it, and the utter frustration he had and which nearly overwhelmed the guilt. About how he still kind of liked her, and how it wasn’t fair that she was so young, and that it really sucked that when he finally did like someone it had absolutely no chance of progressing beyond a few motel room fucks…

And yet, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He didn’t want to have to explain himself to his best friends—his fucking best friends—why he went along with everything, why he willingly put himself through the pressure and the guilt, and why, most of all, he’d done such things with a girl nearly half his age. He felt sure that he wouldn’t be able to stand it, the reactions he’d get—and deserve—if he told them, and he didn’t want to be judged. They were his best friends, sure, but they were also usually brutally honest with him, and he had no doubt that they would tell him straight to his face what an idiot he’d been. He played through all of the possible scenarios of their reactions in his head, and not one of them was something he felt ready to deal with, at least not yet.

“Yeah. You’re right,” said Tré finally. “Not that old. I just felt it, I guess. Everyone else just seemed really young, on the tour. Especially the kids in Betty and the Goop. God, their guitarist is this twenty-year-old girl, right? And she definitely acted it. And their lead singer was cool, but he looks like a sixteen-year-old emo kid. Sometimes I’d just look at them when they were onstage and it was like…well, fuck, it reminded me of us when we were just starting out, actually. And it was just weird to think that way. Like, ‘I was like that, once,’ and then realizing how long ago that was.”

“Well…shit,” said Mike, after a thoughtful silence had passed between them all. “Now I feel old. Thanks a lot, Cool,” he said, scowling and pushing at one of Tré’s legs through the blanket. “Now whenever Stella tells me I’m all old and shit, I’m actually going to take her word for it.”

“The truth hurts, Dirnt,” said Tré, though he was smiling. This automatically seemed to brighten up Billie; it seemed to have concerned him, watching the drummer go for more than a few seconds at a time without grinning even once. “So. Did I miss anything important while I was gone?”

It was as though he’d flipped some sort of invisible switch between the other two men; both started to talk instantly, voices rising in pitch with every word that passed between their lips as they tried to drown out the other, like toddlers vying for the sole attention of an inquiring parent. Tré didn’t even bother to focus his attention on them, perfectly content to let them yell over each other as he lay back and closed his eyes, relishing in the comforting chaos that was this familiar territory. Even when Billie fought his way out from under the covers and tackled Mike right off the edge of the bed and to the ground—taking the dog with them—Tré didn’t move.

It was good to be home.

--

Somehow, through sheer cunning and craftiness on Mike and Billie’s part, Tré actually managed to find his way out of his house later on that night. Billie had goaded him to his house with the promise of a home-cooked meal and a poker game afterward, and though Tré might have thought that a TV dinner and a night spent watching movies with the dog was just as alluring, he felt that he owed his friends at least a little more of his time.

It was a fun night, even if he did approach it with a certain amount of dread. It turned into quite the event, wives and children all present after all; everyone apparently thrilled to see him, though in the back of his mind he had to wonder why. It wasn’t like he’d been gone that long, right? Maybe it was just low self-esteem talking, he thought. He’d been in a weird sort of mood ever since he returned from the tour, and he realized this, and so he just forced a smile whenever a genuine one was sent his way, and did his best to act “normal.” Of course, his version of normal involved drinking an entire bottle of Habanero hot sauce by himself after Jakob dared him to, and then trying to set his breath on fire with a lighter afterward (because Joey dared him to).

Still, even though he did end up having fun—which was inevitable anyway; he doubted anyone could have a dull time around that sort of crowd—it was something of a relief to hop in his car late that night and force himself to drive home. He wasn’t drunk; just a little tipsy really, and lucky the ride was short. He didn’t fancy the idea of spending the night on Billie’s couch—though that was a common occurrence, and vice-versa—and his bed was calling to him. He practically slunk through his own front door, barely remembering to close it behind him, and changed his mind about his bed before he’d taken five steps into his foyer. The couch was right there, in the adjoining living room, and it was so comfy…

“I am getting too old for this shit,” he mumbled, lowering himself to the couch with a groan of discomfort. His back was still sore, and he was starting to wonder if the damage done to it by spending those nights all cramped up in the tour van was more serious than he’d first thought.

He didn’t know how long he managed to sleep before he was abruptly jolted away from his unconscious state; he only knew of the instant irritation that came with his eyes snapping open and his ears ringing with the loud and piercing barks echoing throughout the house. He twisted around, narrowed eyes on the doorway leading from the living room and the step up into the foyer, and it was no surprise when the sound of paw pads thudding and nails clipping against the linoleum preceded the dog flying across the foyer and nearly sliding into the front door.

Tré sighed, knowing what the mutt’s actions meant. Someone was at the door, and the drummer wasn’t at all convinced that he could be bothered enough to answer it. His cell phone’s glowing screen told him it was almost three in the morning, and he groaned again, burying his face in the suede-like fabric of the couch. “Go. Away,” he mumbled for the second time in twenty-four hours, though he knew that, just like before, it wasn’t going to be that easy.

It didn’t take long for the panic to set in, once he put two and two together. The dog continued to bark, and between those frantic yelps for attention to be drawn to the front door by the master of the house, Tré felt sure that he could hear the faint sound of knocks. The only reason for anyone to be at his front door so late—or early—was if there was an emergency. But then, why didn’t they just call his phone?

“Fuck it,” he sighed, rolling himself off of the couch and slouching his way to the foyer. He walked slowly, deliberately, as though that was his silent and rebellious protestation against whoever was daring to show up at his door so late. If they were going to disturb his sleep at this hour, he figured, then they were going to damn well wait until he was good and ready to acknowledge them.

It was when he saw the flashes of red and blue through the long, tall glass panels set to either side of the door that he really began to worry. The police? ‘Oh, fuck.’ Briefly, he wondered if they somehow knew about the pot he had not-so-hidden in a baggy in one of his kitchen drawers. Probably not, but those lights were starting to make him itch, and he vaguely speculated if it wouldn’t be a smart idea to run and grab it real quick, so he could find a better hiding spot for it, just in case…

He was being stupid, and he realized that. Taking a deep breath, shaking his head to ward away the last remnants of sleep and very slight intoxication, Tré grabbed the dog by the collar and precariously opened the door.

The uniformed man that stood there seemed surprised that Tré had finally answered, though the drummer’s nervous smile as he continued to try and hold the dog back warranted no such gesture in return. Never a good sign. Tré gulped, and spoke loudly over the dog’s continued and frantic barks. “Can…I help you, officer?”

“Frank Wright?”

“Erm.” Now there was one he didn’t hear very often. “Sure. Is there something wrong?”

“Call from your neighbors.” Tré couldn’t see much of this imposing, and possibly young officer very well; he stood tall on the porch, the flashing lights from the car parked at the head of the long driveway casting him as mostly a dark silhouette in Tré’s eyes. He could just barely make out dark hair, and a mustache—what a cliché, he thought, and he almost had to hold back a smirk—that heavily grace the upper lip of a mouth that seemed as though it was somehow barred from ever smiling. “The one across the way,” he said, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder, “noticed a car parked out on the street earlier tonight, then phoned in when she thought she saw someone coming out of it and walking around on your property.”

“Holy shit.” This was news to him. If there had been a car parked anywhere near his house, or the gate—which he never closed, though now he was thinking that he might start doing so—when he got home, he certainly hadn’t noticed it.

“—says she knows you, though. Can you verify?”

“…What?” Tré hadn’t realized that he’d allowed his mind to wander, thoughts of men clothed in black and carrying crowbars breaking into his house equally intruding the more actively paranoid parts of his imagination. “I’m…sorry, who say she knows me?”

The officer moved aside and nodded to the smaller figure that had been standing beside, and a little behind him. Hunched over and visibly shaking, Tré might not have noticed such a slight form when compared to the daunting officer even if she’d been standing right in front of him.

“Do you know her?” It was asked again, though this time with a little more gruffness. The smaller person flinched, and shrunk away slightly when Tré, reaching back around the doorframe and fumbling for only a few seconds, flipped the porch light on.

Red hair, blinking fluorescently purple whenever the obnoxiously blue flashes from the police car struck it. Dark eyes, caught between wanting to be wide with fear, but not able to handle the light from the porch. Arms shaking, boots almost knocking together. Skinny, and tattered jeans. More noticeable: the one eye that was swollen, the skin around it more discolored than usual. He couldn’t fucking believe it.

“Holy shit, Benny…”

--

It was a fitful sleep that Tré was forcing himself out of, blinking his eyes at the opposite wall and yawning deeply, mind and body both still achy and sore. It was going to be a few days before he’d fully recover from all of the knocks he’d taken, being cramped up in that little tour van so much. He was starting to believe he’d taken Green Day’s tour bus for granted all those years.

He was too warm, and there was a weight on his chest. He sighed, closing his eyes and forcing himself to believe that he could muster up enough strength to get the dog off of him. It was a comforting sort of feeling, though, and he hesitated. Around him, everything was just quiet. It was something to relish in, lying down on something soft and relaxing, neither the sounds of the road flying by beneath him nor the goings-on of any motel room neighbors there to irritate him. No bandmates were blowing smoke in his face or throwing things at him, and no dreadlocked redheads were tiptoeing around the room, gathering up clothing and slipping away as he pretended that he was still asleep.

It was…nice. For a small moment, Tré wondered why he was so restless at the end of that summer. He’d jumped at the chance to tour with Pudding because he was bored, but now he couldn’t imagine wanting to leave the comfort his house ever again. Of course, he surmised, he felt this way after every tour he returned home from, but it had just been so different this time…he couldn’t remember any other tour that had been quite so stressful. And yet he’d willingly put himself through it, though everything, and so he didn’t feel as though he really had the right to complain.

“…Shit.”

It wasn’t over, he remembered. He sighed, realizing he was lying on his couch, not his bed. To his right, the dog was sleeping in front of the television and snoozing serenely, his back legs twitching. And curled up in the smallest form apparently possible and tucked up against his chest, was a dreadlocked redhead that looked as though she’d seen better days. “Fuck,” he mumbled, shifting slightly so as to be more comfortable.

She was haunting him. But he felt sorry for her, so what could he do? She’d looked so pathetic, standing on his front porch with her swollen eye and vague mumbles about “stuck-up goth bitches” when Tré had attempted to stutter some sort of enquiry as to her sudden appearance on his doorstep. He had to invite her in, though mostly because if he didn’t admit to knowing her, he feared that the police officer would haul her away. He’d been a skeptical fellow, unsure of why someone who looked so young and who was in such a state would be on the doorstep of someone so…not quite so young, but she admitted to nothing that attested to her black eye and Tré’s concern must have appeared genuine enough. (Though Tré had to assume that the other man hadn’t notice her bruising face in the dark, otherwise there probably would have been far more questioning done.) The officer left them be, and Tré–only somewhat reluctantly—let her into his house.

She sobbed on his couch, and he hadn’t been able to get a legible word out of her after that, so he just tried to comfort her the best he could. He didn’t even remember falling asleep with her. At least they were still fully-clothed.

She looked so small. Not young, for once, just…small. He wasn’t used to this, and it was beginning to creep him out. Of course she was a skinny little thing, and she’d always been a little shorter than him, but it just wasn’t noticeable most of the time. She was loudmouthed and slightly obnoxious and larger than life, so to see her in such a downtrodden state, finally brought down by a force bigger than she was…it was eerie. He wondered how he could help her. If she would let him help her.

The sun was just starting to come up; through the high windows he could see the sky beginning to lighten outside, and he groaned when he realized how early it still was. He couldn’t have been sleeping for more than an hour or two. At his sound, she stirred slightly but didn’t wake up. Her arm was across his chest, the top of her head nuzzled beneath his chin, and in her unconscious state she seemed to find him very comfortable. ‘Now is this so hard?’ he found himself thinking spitefully.

More than anything, he wanted to wake her up and demand that she finally explain herself. If someone had hit her…what was he thinking, of course someone had hit her…then he wanted to know who. Why? He wasn’t sure, and short of convincing her to press charges he doubted there was anything he could really do about it. He just hated not knowing what had happened, and his concern was doubled just by knowing that it had an effect on her. He’d personally witnessed her throwing herself off of the stage and hurting herself, emerging again with blood on her face and torn clothing, but that was just physical pain, and she could handle that. She knew how to take a knock or two and still come back grinning. For her to get hurt and not be so…Benny about it was just weird, and quite frankly it sort of terrified Tré.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to wake her. It was selfish, but this just felt…nice, really. Not much to do with personal attachments, but just the feel of a woman lying there with him, sleeping soundly…he missed that. And she was so frustrating, absolutely refusing to let him hold her at any other time, that he felt he was sort of owed it by now. A childish rationalization, perhaps, but who would honestly be able to judge him for it?

An explanation could wait, for the sake of just another hour or so of this. Tré sighed slightly; a contended sort of sound that nevertheless carried with it a tone of exasperation, and further wrapped his arms around the girl. One of her dreadlocks managed to wedge itself between his fingers, the rather coarse texture tickling at his skin, but he didn’t mind it much. She was warm and he was comfortable, and right now that was all he could ask for.

When he woke up again, she was gone.

It wasn’t beyond his manner of thinking to assume that he’d dreamt the whole thing up, and for a few seconds he wondered what that really meant to him. He was kind of disappointed, but also a little relieved. She was probably back in L.A., with her non-swollen eye and lack of uncontrollable bouts of crying, and wasn’t giving him a second thought. Well, he thought irritably, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, that just plain hurt his feelings.

“Oh.” Her voice made him freeze. “You’re up.”

“Oh…” he unintentionally mimicked her, blinking his eyes rapidly and then fixating them on the sliding doors on the other side of the room. They led out to his little side patio, the long and vertical blinds usually covering them and emitting no natural light into the room through them, but they’d been drawn back. It was late morning, at least, the sun bright and shining and a glare from the glass bouncing against his face and the most of his couch. He squinted, cupping a hand over his eyes just to see clearly.

She stood there, paused in her walk and with the dog standing next to her, tongue hanging out and tail wagging wildly. They brought the outside in with them, a fresh breeze cutting off as soon as she closed one of the doors behind her. God, it was weird to see her standing there in her loose jeans and her little tank top, eye darkening more with every hour that went past but otherwise looking as apathetic and bored as usual. She was still…different somehow, though. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it…ah. There it was. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Sorry, the…dog looked like he needed to go out,” she said, as though he really required the explanation.

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” Tré clapped his hands together and the mutt bounded over, jumping onto the couch next to his master and instantly trying to lick at his face. “Good boy.”

“What’s his name?” She was filling the air, uneasy with the possibility with silence. She picked her way around the room cautiously, keeping to the walls and turning back, continuing her slow steps whenever she got too close to the couch. He simply watched her for a moment, noticing the slight tilt of her head, made in an effort to keep him from seeing too much of her face.

“Humphrey,” he said finally, offering a small grin when she actually did look him in the eyes, rolling her own slightly. “It…fit him more when he was a puppy,” he explained. “You know, pre-snip.”

“Charming,” she mumbled, shaking her head. She paused at the glass doors again, pushing the blinds aside and peering out on to the patio. When Tré joined her there she didn’t walk away, like he thought she might have, but she made her discomfort known and kept her eyes trained outside, and not on him.

“You have a hot tub…”

“Uh. Yeah, I do.” He kind of chuckled at that, sliding the door open all the way and nodding his head to the side, indicating to the hot tub built in to the floor of the long wooden deck. “We all do. Billie and Mike and me, I mean. Kind of a running joke. I mean, how we named the Foxboro Hot Tubs and the history there…we all gave ourselves the present of one after we started.” He was conscious of his babbling, but couldn’t make himself stop.

“Cute.”

“Is not.” He frowned. “It’s very manly. And like…gruff, an’ stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, snickering slightly. “Whatever you say, Tré.”

She wandered away from the door, eyes again taking in her surroundings. She stepped carefully, as though afraid the flooring would give away if she didn’t, arms crossed so she didn’t accidentally bump into anything. He hardly saw the need. Maybe his home was considered somewhat luxurious to her, but he’d always seen it as rather quaint when compared to what he probably could have, if he’d ever really cared enough about it.

It wasn’t like he had clay busts settled atop stone pedestals, or expensive paintings scattered all over the place, or anything like that. His entertainment center, the pride and joy of his spacious living room, was impressive, and the leather couch that ran the length of a full wall and then turned a corner for another few cushions was nice, but otherwise he just liked to keep things simple. His belongings cluttered the place slightly, but it wasn’t messy, and there wasn’t much else of value lying around.

“You’re a clean bachelor,” she said finally, stopping in the doorframe halfway between the living room and the connecting hallway, and glancing into the kitchen. “Weirdly so. There aren’t even any dirty dishes in the sink.”

‘I’m kind of a germaphobe about my own belongings,’ didn’t seem like a great response, and so he simply shrugged and mumbled something about liking to keep his own house clean, because “it’s better than hiring a maid, and having her snoop through my stuff.”

“Skeletons in your closet?” she teased him.

“Nah. Basement. I keep all of my illegal weaponry and torture equipment in the closets.”

“Makes sense.” She turned back to him, arms still crossed but her hands rubbing at her opposite upper arms as though she was cold. She bit her lip, a reddening face beginning to match with her dyed dreadlocks. “Um.”

“Um…?”

“I…shit.” She sighed, burying her face in her hands for a small moment. “I shouldn’t be here. What the fuck am I doing?”

Truthfully, he was wondering the same thing, but he wouldn’t add to her angst by pointing it out. Instead, he did the nice thing—the instinctive thing, really—and just hugged her, decidedly letting her say what she needed to in her own time. He wasn’t even sure how they ended up back on the couch within only a few short moments, and it didn’t surprise him that she was just as suddenly kissing him. It surprised him even less that he was going along with it.

He was eventually able to resist, but it was with great hesitance. “No,” he said, pulling away and sighing, eyes closed and expression pained. “We can’t.”

“…I know.” She untangled herself from him and scooted back, settling herself on the couch with her knees drawn up under her chin. Her brown eyes were wide and sad, the skin around one darker than before, and still a little puffy. “Sorry. I just…”

“I can’t be that kind of distraction for you right now,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “What happened? And don’t say something lame, like you ‘ran into a door,’ okay?”

“The door ran into me.”

“Benny.”

“…Lucy.”

“Bitch.”

This surprised her. He’d been so careful to avoid the topic of Lucille unless Benny was the one bringing it up. He never said a word against the other girl, even after Benny once admitted the ‘starfucker’ comment that Lucille had become so fond of during the tour. Benny had just assumed that he was above making petty insults about her, even if it was behind her back.

“Whatever,” she mumbled, hiding the bottom half of her face behind her knees, only allowing those eyes to be visible to his. “It doesn’t matter. Hopefully I’ll never have to put up with her again.”

“She quit the band?” His voice was filled with that false hope that Benny knew so well; it reminded her of the way her father had always asked, ‘So, did you do good?’ whenever she presented her report card to him—he knew the answer wasn’t going to be a good one, but he asked it anyway.

“I did. Well, I mean…” She paused, brow furrowed in irritation. “I don’t know. Maybe I was kicked out. I don’t really remember. Lucy threw all my shit out the window. That kind of sucked. My turntable was destroyed, but I think most of the vinyl is still okay…” She trailed off, babbling quietly to herself about the belongings she knew she had crammed into the back of her tiny little car.

“The fuck? One member can’t just kick you out, Benny. Especially not without talking to everyone else. Shit just doesn’t go down like th—”

“Yeah, well,” she cut him off with a derisive snort, her voice then taking on a bitter tone, “maybe it’s like that with the guys you play with, but not with them. I was never really…in the band. I mean, I was, but…fuck.” She sighed, burying her face in her knees and breathing a muffled, “this sucks.”

He didn’t understand, but was beginning to realize that even she was still having problems grasping what had happened. She didn’t even seem to know what she was doing in his house; he wasn’t going to get answers out of her this way. He stayed silent, trying not to pressure her. He felt sorry for her, and more than anything he wanted her to feel better, to stop swearing and mumbling under her breath, to stop fighting away those tears—she couldn’t hide them from him completely, even if they never fell. She didn’t really trust him, and he supposed that he couldn’t blame her for that. But then what was the use in coming to him when in such a state? It was a good five or six hours worth of driving to get to Oakland from Los Angeles, and he had to doubt she would have bothered unless she truly felt like she had nowhere else to go…

“Um,” he said eventually, choosing his words carefully, “I mean, not that I’m saying you shouldn’t be here, and all—”

“No, I shouldn’t be here…”

“…Anyway, is there a reason for this? I mean…your parents…someone closer to you…?”

This quieted her far more than anything else so far had. It was a short moment of silence, punctuated by a small sniffle and the uncovering of her face. “I thought about it,” she said, her tone far more somber than he was sure he’d ever heard from her thus far, “I even started off for my dad’s house first and foremost. But…I don’t know. You know they’re actually kinda proud of me?” She smiled through her sadness, brushing at one eye with the back of her hand. “Like, my dad is still pissed I never went to college, but the band was doin’ good, I was doing that whole independent…thing…and they were comin’ around. My mom even told me a few weeks ago, in a letter, how proud she was of me. At this point, I don’t think I could go back to living under one of their roofs again. I’ve come too far, though that seems like such a fuckin’ joke now. Does that…make any sense?”

It did, actually. It still didn’t explain why she was in his home instead of someone else’s, even if not that of a parent, though. “Your brother…?”

“Out of state, as far as I know. Visiting friends, or something like that.”

“There’s no one else?” He was aware how absolutely insensitive he probably sounded, but by now curiosity had gotten the better of him.

“Would you expect there to be?” Her voice suddenly went rather cold, finally matching the perpetual iciness of her eyes.

He thought about it for a moment or two, the dread beginning to build up inside of him as he realized the truth of the matter. He’d insulted her; unintentionally, but harshly, by assuming she’d ever had anyone else in her life that was not immediate family or connected with her band. She broke ties, she didn’t build them. She liked her privacy, and what few “friends” she might have had were in the band that she no longer had anything to do with. It was shocking that she could live her life with so few others to turn to in her times of need—which was obviously the way of things, since when things went bad she could think of no one else to turn to other than a fuck-buddy that lived in another part of the state.

“Um. Jeez, Benny,” he sighed, rubbing his fingers under his eyes for a moment to further help rid them of sleep, “you know I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just…I mean, you show up at my door in the middle of the night, escorted by a cop…I’m still just trying to get over the surprise of everything, okay?”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, mouth pressed against her knees. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I can go, if you want.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he sighed. “You’re already here. Just wait a minute.” He got up, motioning for her to stay put, and walked out of the room. Humphrey watched him go, then seemed to consider for a second if it was worth following him out, or if it would be better to stay in the room with this interesting stranger. Benny was more appealing to the mutt, apparently, and he jumped up on the couch and settled himself into Tré’s vacated spot.

“Hi,” she said quietly, extending a hand out to the animal and letting him sniff her. “I’m sorry that your owner named you Humphrey.”

He licked at her wrist and then pushed her hand back with his snout; a gesture that Benny took to mean, ‘Oh, that’s all right. He doesn’t know any better.’ She smiled at her own deluded joke, though the grin dropped from her lips as soon as Tré walked back into the room.

“First things first,” he said firmly, handing her a plastic bag filled with frozen green peas. “Put that against your eye. And god, please tell me that you did worse to her,” he added, gently shoving the dog aside so he could have his seat back.

“She fights dirty,” Benny muttered darkly, which Tré took to mean that no, she hadn’t. Pressing the bag against the side of her face, Benny stuck her tongue out and shuddered. “Don’t you have ice, or something? This thing smells.”

“Ice machine is busted,” said Tré. It wasn’t beyond Benny’s powers of perception to note that there was almost a tone of amusement stuck within his sure words. “Keep that there for a few minutes, at least.” He paused. “You know, I haven’t gone grocery shopping since I got back, and that’s pretty much all I have left in the house, in terms of food.”

“I feel very sorry for you,” said Benny blankly.

“Funny.” He leaned back on the couch, absentmindedly petting the soft brown fur of the now gently snoozing dog. There was silence for a couple of minutes, though a rather contended one, and he chanced to peer over at her. She almost looked comical, hunched over and obviously miserable, with a bag of frozen peas being pressed against her eye. He fought back a chuckle, reminding himself that no matter of the imagery, the situation was still pretty serious.

“So,” he said finally, “wanna get some breakfast?”