Awkward

The couple of days following Benny’s arrival were tense, to say the least. Tré, ever the worrier, had spent the hours suffering in silent paranoia, nervous and wary of any unexpected visitors that might drop in. He was home now, and his friends knew it. He’d hardly been able to get two days of down time before Billy and Mike were breaking into his home and nearly smothering him to death, and even after spending an evening with them and their families, he was sure they wouldn’t be satiated of his presence for long.

And he had other friends, though he was feeling very unfortunate about that at the moment, who were bound to start calling and requesting an audience with him. It was only a matter of time and he could only put them off for so long. For merely a moment, as he sat at the kitchen table across from Benny and the phone let out a shrill wail, he thought that maybe he could just ignore everyone for a while - disregard any phone calls or text messages they would send - but that wouldn’t do. If he didn’t answer, they would simply start showing up at his door. Persistent buggers.

So he posed several preemptive strikes against them, feeling very sneaky and almost triumphant in the ingenuity of his plan, calling them first and making plans to meet outside of his own home. There were several places he and his friends could go, and several reasons why they should go there, he thought. His house never had any food anyway, and other than the game station in the living room and the Jacuzzi, which no one ever really used, there wasn’t much by means of entertainment to be found.

The first day after Benny’s arrival, he'd managed to avoid everyone. That morning, or afternoon – depending on when a person usually started their day – he’d taken Benny out to a not-so-local diner. It was a forty minute drive away and had a reputation for slow service and less-than-mediocre food, but it wasn’t a place anyone he knew frequented and business wasn’t exactly booming; the chance of being spotted was minimal. So minimal, in fact, that the usually antsy Tré was relaxed enough to actually enjoy the presence of his unexpected guest. Not that Benny was being particularly good company.

She brooded.

Tré had been around her long enough to bear witness to her sullen moods, but this was nothing like anything he’d ever seen. Maybe it was the ruddy old clothing she wore, probably her second or third day of wearing it despite Tré’s hints that she change or take a shower at the least, or maybe it was the ugly bruising around her eye, the purplish blue-black a reflection of her nasty mood, that made her look so…depressing. Or it could have been the unkempt state of her normally vibrant hair.

Now, Tré really had no clue how Benny, or anyone else for that matter, went about keeping the clumpy locks neat and presentable-looking, but he knew that in the past, Benny had managed. Her hair was now messier than ever. The lack of brushing or waxing or whatever it was that she did, had allowed a bright red wispy halo to form at the edges of her hairline; her hair had become fuzzy and with the fluorescent light beaming from a jukebox behind her, she looked very much like a psychedelic damaged angel.

When they’d walked into the diner together, Tré looking stressed and wary, eyes darting nervously around the place to see if he spotted any familiar faces, and Benny edged far enough away from him so that he couldn’t casually touch her, they’d gotten a few stares. The way Benny ignored his gaze and refused to look at anyone, and the distance she kept between them…well, Tré knew what it looked like. A big man like him, not only in age but size, and a tiny, pathetic, young little thing like Benny, with a bruise on her eye to boot...it didn’t look good. Not at all.

The waitress had seated them, cautiously watching Tré and questioning Benny with her eyes, before excusing herself to get a couple of menus and some silverware.

“She thinks I beat you,” Tré whispered, slightly embarrassed by the accusation in the waitress’s eyes and irritated at Benny for, well, for being Benny.

Though she was looking down, staring at the linoleum top of the table, Tré could see her cheekbones rise as she tried to hide a smile. “I know.”

“Then do you think you can stop acting like a battered hooker?”

Before Benny could respond, the waitress was back. She cleared her throat, grabbing their attention, before giving them their mats and setting the table. Tré watched, somewhat relieved, as Benny fought back giggles as the waitress read the day’s lunch specials, still eyeing him with ill-hidden disdain. At least she was in a better mood, he thought, when he heard Benny snort and then break out into full-fledged laughter.

“You’re a moron,” he mumbled, when the waitress had walked away with their orders, and Benny’s head dropped onto the table with a noticeable thud. She was still laughing, one hand clutching her stomach and the other underneath her head, her shoulders shaking in a way similar to how they moved as she’d cried the night before. If it wasn’t for the sound of her laughter and the snorting, he might have thought she’d fallen into hysterics. “Benny, stop it.”

“I’m sorry.”

And she didn’t sound very sorry at all.

***

Later that day, after he had Benny move her old car into his garage and had shown her to an empty room where she could stay, Tré left off to meet with “the guys,” as he put it. The two hadn’t spoken much about their current situation, but it seemed to be decided that Benny would stay, if only for a little while. Benny had noticed, as Tré scratched his head awkwardly in the bedroom’s doorway and explained that he’d be gone for a couple of hours, that he had no immediate plans to introduce her to his friends. And she was fine with that. She hadn’t come here to integrate herself into his life. She just needed a place to stay while she figured out what to do next. Most likely, she thought despite herself, she’d eventually head back to LA and the band.

Though she hadn’t had much time to really think about it, getting back with the band was the logical thing to do. It was the best of her options. Though she loved her parents, she couldn’t move back in with either of them. Not only because of the shame and the disappointment, but because she’d tried so hard to assert her independence, finally choosing (and sticking to) a career path and propelling herself out from under her parents’ thumb. She couldn’t go back to her mother's house, back to her small room with all the posters on the wall and no lock on the damn door; back to all her mother’s rules about coming in late and calling in to let her know where she was; back to having to listen to those rules because, honestly, it was her house, no matter how old Benny was, and the least she could do would be to respect that. Her father had never been much better, either, whenever Benny stayed with him. No, her parents were by no means horrible, but she’d tasted independence and she wouldn’t give that up.

She could get a job, some shitty job at some shitty store. Maybe her experience in a band and with touring would impress someone, and get her a decent gig at a record store or a club or something. It wouldn’t pay well but it would be better than nothing. Besides, touring hadn’t really brought in the “big bucks” anyway. She wasn’t exactly living the luxurious life as it were, so working a regular job again wouldn’t be much of an adjustment. Maybe her brother, whenever he got back from his little trip, would allow her to stay with him until she figured things out…and that thought left her mind as quickly as it entered. She definitely would not be staying with her brother.

It wasn’t long before her thoughts turned to Tré. He had been bewildered, rightly so, at her appearance, and a little reluctant, but he'd let her stay. No questions asked. Well, he asked questions, of course he did, but he didn’t push and he didn’t pry. That was nice. And he offered her a temporary room of her own, though that may have just been about common courtesy and not any real willingness to let her stay. Tré was always considerate.

Maybe he’d ask her to stay if she told him she had no plans to return to the band and nowhere else to go; a possibility she feared. Tré’s house was nice and so was he, but damn it if she’d find herself stuck living with some boy (well, man) she’d fucked on a tour. She wasn’t that kind of girl, not by a long shot, and she didn’t even want to be with Tré, not like that. And the whole idea was stupid anyway, he would never ask.

“I need to get out of here...”

Scooting off the bed, devoid of any textiles other than a plain green fitted sheet, she made her way over to the plastic bag in which her clothes were thrown. After scooping them up from the sidewalk, courtesy of Lucy’s most outlandish tantrum, she’d simply chucked them into the backseat of the car, along with the other belonging she’d ventured into the apartment to retrieve before her departure. After Tré insisted she move her car into the garage, mostly to ease the minds of his neighbors, who had spotted the strange car and called the cops the night before, he’d thrown her a box of heavy-duty garbage bags. You should…um… clean your up car, you know, so you can get some clothes, he’d said. She wasn’t stupid. She hadn’t showered since the morning before and she was on her fourth day in those jeans.

After fishing out clean underwear, a pair of perfectly intact bootcut jeans, and an old oversized hoodie, she shuffled into the bathroom. It was modest; something that still surprised her, despite having already seen the rest of his home. Just a white porcelain sink and matching tub, a little black garbage pail next to the toilet, a silver towel rack against one wall, and a red net hamper. The faucets, on both the tub and the sink, were the cute kind that looked like funny little splatters of molded silver. The cabinet above the sink was nearly empty except for the tube of toothpaste, a mini bottle of Listerine and some over the counter remedies; aspirin, Maalox, and a half-empty foil packet of Nyquil. The cabinet under the sink held rolls of toilet paper, quite a few still-in-the-package toothbrushes, and some first aid supplies.

“Fancy,” she murmured quietly, as she pulled back the pale green curtains that enclosed the tub. She was almost surprised to find that the tub’s bottom was clean, really clean, but when she thought of it, so was the rest of the house. The showerhead was removable and had several different jet settings, and hanging from it was a plastic fuchsia shower caddy. That was weird, or at least it would have been if it were anyone other than Tré.

It was kind of comforting to see the odd splash of pink. A lot of the house hadn’t really reminded her of the Tré she knew on tour, and it made her a bit uneasy. It was all kind of muted and relaxed, unbefitting of her Tré and seemingly out of character. Unrealistically, she’d imagined his home to look a bit like a funhouse, checkered walls and crazy patterns on the furniture, but she supposed it was a good thing that his decorating style didn’t mirror his fashion sense. The house was homey, and after some thought, she figured that was best. It was a place to relax, and not something he used to impress his guests.

Briefly, as she stepped into the shower, she wondered if maybe the people here called him “Frank.”

They did not.

Call him Frank, that is. And Benny learned that as she sat in the living room and listened as the phone rang and rang and then the messages started to record on the answering machine. She’d always thought that Tré was that strange mixture of shy and almost obnoxiously energetic. He was a guy who needed his space, and though he seemed to get along with everyone, she never imagined he’d have so many friends. But if the phone calls were any indication, Tré was a very popular guy.

It was around four, nearly two hours after her shower, when the phone calls and the foreign voices emitting from the small recording box got to be too much for her. The thought passed her mind that she could simply lower the volume on the answering machine. She’d looked it over and saw the very small volume control at the side; it would have been an easy thing to do. But then there would still be the problem of the ringing, and though she didn’t think Tré would mind too much if she lowered the volume on the answering machine (she thought he might actually appreciate the privacy it would lend), she couldn’t know if he’d feel the same way about her running around the house and shutting off the ringers on all his phones. She didn’t risk it.

Instead, she ventured into the kitchen and snooped around the cabinets. Just as Tré had warned, the kitchen was practically barren. The refrigerator was empty, aside from a stray bottle of Heineken and some condiments. The overhead cabinets had a selection of practically useless goods, nothing she could eat on its own and even fewer items she thought would be safe. At the side of the counter, though, were two huge bags of dried dog food. At least the dog is well-fed, she thought, and immediately after, Where the hell is that dog?

“Humphrey,” she called in her sweetest voice. When she heard no sound of response, she bent low, tapped her fingers against the tiled floor, and called his name again. With still no response, no pattering of paws heading her way, she simply shrugged and went back to her searching.

Around seven, the phone rang again. It had been relatively quiet for a while and Benny assumed that Tré’s friends had either gotten a hold of him on his cell phone or had given up. She was watching television from the couch, slumped into it and nearly swallowed by the cushions. It was an old couch, large and completely warn in, and probably the most comfortable thing ever - though, admittedly, her standards for comfort had been dramatically lowered since her latest tour.

After only two short rings, the answering machine clicked on with its automated message and quick beep, and despite herself, Benny couldn’t help but listen to the message being left. To her surprise, the voice leaking from the small device belonged to Tré. “Uh, hey. Benny? Benny, you there?”

“Oh!” Stretching towards the other end of the couch, she picked up the sleek black cordless phone and pressed it to her ear. “Tré?”

“Um…yeah, hi.” And his voice echoed, the answering machine still running and recording. “Uh…look, I won’t be back for a, ah, a while. So maybe you can order yourself some food?”

Benny rolled her eyes, and kept back the urge to mock him. He was letting her stay in his home and the least she could do was be nice.

“Yeah, it’s no…it’s no problem.” As she responded, she distinctly heard a voice yell out, Hey, Tré, man! Who you talking to over there all secret-like?

Tré seemed to ignore whoever it was. “There’s take-out menus in the kitchen, right on the island. And I don’t know if you have any cash on you, but um,” and here he treaded lightly, “I left a few bucks under the jar near the sink, you know, in case you needed it.”

“Thanks, Tré.” Benny couldn’t muster up more than whisper. She had needed it, the last bit of her cash was poured into the gas tank of that damn clunker of a car, but she hadn’t thought he’d take such precautions to ensure her comfort.

Once the line went dead, she placed the phone back on its dock, careful not to use any unnecessary force. “Fuck.” Of course Tré would just keep getting nicer and more accommodating. She trudged into the kitchen and found the menus and the money in the jar, exactly where Tré said it would be.

By the time the sun had set, Benny was resting lazily on the floor of the living room. She sat on the soft area rug, her head leaning against the couch and her legs spread out in front of her. Her stomach ached, filled with dough, cheese and too much orange soda, and Tré still hadn’t returned.

It had been hours, and she was bored. Though Benny wasn’t one to complain - and she knew she had no right to - she couldn’t help but think that it was rude of Tré to have left his guest alone and without proper entertainment for so long.

She had thought, more than once as the lonely day progressed, that she could pull her car out of the garage and go for a drive. But she didn’t know the area and she couldn’t navigate a map any better than Columbus. She’d barely managed to find Tré’s place at all, despite the detailed directions she’d gotten from MapQuest, courtesy of a quick turn on Sicily’s laptop before she’d vacated the apartment.

When eight o’clock rolled around, she told herself she’d wait one more hour before going to bed and trying to fall asleep.

***

As Benny lazed around his house, Tré was sitting in the backyard of his friend’s place, sipping from a bottle of beer and evading questions about any tour flings he might have had. As expected, his friends – guys he’d known in high school and had kept in touch with - prodded and pried into his tour life, wanting to know every sinful detail. They were “regular guys,” as they relentlessly reminded him, and liked to live vicariously through his experiences. It didn’t matter when Tré insisted that touring for him wasn’t all sex and alcohol (and usually, that would have been a truthful statement), they refused to believe him, or at the least they pretended as such.

By the end of the night, he’d relented and shamefully divulged a few details about his and Benny’s on-tour exploits, being sure to tactfully leave out his minor qualms with their situation and the fact that the girl was currently hiding out in his house. He embellished, of course. In his stories, Benny was a couple of bra sizes bigger and had the fullest lips - “God, did she know how to use her tongue, and those lips,” – and he made her out to be just a bit older; twenty-five seemed an appropriate enough age, still young enough to impress his friends, but old enough to not seem so scandalous.

He told them about that first night, making sure to mention the stud in her tongue and the way her fiery red hair looked from that angle - “Just brilliant,” he’d said – and made it known that she had been the one to seek him out. He mentioned the nights he’d snuck away from the band, renting his own room and planning secret rendezvous with the twenty-something-year-old; told them about the few times they’d met backstage after concerts, when they were both dizzy and intoxicated with adrenaline, and “hooked up”; of course he’d stretched the truth there too, what were only heavy petting and sloppy kisses were turned into supply-closet blowjobs and quickies in dirty bathrooms. At the end of tour, he’d said after some prompting, they’d simply walked away.

“I don’t even have her phone number,” he’d said almost sullenly, heavy-lidded eyes staring into a thick glass beer mug. “She doesn’t even have a cell phone.”

***

Just as the ten o’clock news came on, Benny shut the television off and stood to make her way back to the guest room in Tré’s house. She took a moment to stretch, bending and feeling her joints crack, and then put the living room back to sorts, making sure to return the pillows to the couch and wipe up the little ring a glass of soda had left on the coffee table.

Gathering up her plate and the almost empty box of pizza, she tip-toed into the kitchen; the hardwood floors were chilly, the air condition had been on high all day and she had no idea how to change the setting. It didn’t take her long to dump the box haphazardly into a trash can, though the box was more sitting on top of the trash than in it, and wash the few dishes that she’d used. As she tidied up the last bit of mess she created, stuffing the restaurant fliers back into their little nook on the counter, she heard a banging noise at the kitchen’s back entrance. It led into the garage, the kitchen entrance, and she didn’t remember hearing the large and noisy hatch open or a car drive up, so she cautiously neared the door and stood aside it while deciding what to do.

“Tré?”

She only called once before the door opened and a mess of black hair tumbled in.