The Young and Lost Club

Two weeks ago, a girl, probably 16 or 17 had approached me when we were signing after the show. Usually, the guys were more than swamped by girls, and usually after an hour of signing, I was not as busy, while the guys were still swamped. This was the case, and as I was sitting on the counter of our merch table, laughing as two girls took silly pictures with Taylor, the girl approached me. She was really pretty, with light brown hair, pulled back into a ponytail and no make-up, biting on a chapped lip. “Hi…um, Clark Abrams?”
I smiled at her, uncrossing my legs and leaning closer to her. “That’s me, what’s your name?”
“I’m Elle…I don’t have anything to sign, I just wanted to thank you I guess.”
I cocked my head at her.
“Just…you wrote Wishes Are Weeds, right?”
“I did.”
“It’s just so gorgeous, and I love the words, they really meant a lot to me. It’s just so…healing, you know? My parents got divorced last year, and I was so angry all the time, and felt lied to, and betrayed…it just really helped me. So…thank you.”
I couldn’t help but smile at her. “That means so much to me, Elle. Thank you.”
She smiled back. “I know you hate talking about it, but I just wanted to tell you how much that song means to me.”
“What do you mean I hate talking about it?”
She flushed. “Just on the message boards…people say you kind of close off about talking about it…and it doesn’t get played at shows…I mean, it’s a deep song…sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I told her quickly. “I don’t really like talking about it. I wrote it when I was really hurt, and it’s still kind of…painful to hear I guess.”
“Maybe someday it won’t hurt as bad…maybe someday it will actually help you like it did me.”
I forced a smile. “I hope so.”

I should have seen it coming after that. While I was laying in my hotel bed the other morning, talking to Alex, the guys and Cate had decided that our set was missing a key element: an acoustic. More specifically, my song. Fans had been asking for it, it was on the album, it was a good song.
And even as they kept repeating these facts to me, trying to convince me to their side, I knew, deep down that I couldn’t avoid this for forever. Brendon had to hear it. Maybe he had already heard it. Maybe Ryan had given him our album already. I never asked.

That night, a particularly hot, sticky night somewhere in Kentucky, Max decided for me that we would play my song. I didn’t say anything, it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. The venue was a nice one; one that Alex told me he really liked, and it even had a smaller dressing room for me, which was nice to have some privacy and not have to change in a broom closet. Our guitar tech knocked on my door to tell me I had 5 minutes, and I leaned my head against the cool mirror and took several deep breaths, trying to calm my nerves.
He was going to know. Instantly. And I was torn between wanting to hurt him with it, and wanting to protect him from ever hearing it. Brendon always stood at the side of the stage to watch our show. He’d never missed a single one. Tonight I kept hoping he’d decide to sit the rest of them on tour out.
I met the guys on the side of the stage, seeing Brendon with Jon on the other side and quickly avoided eye contact, and flexed my shaking hand as we made our way to our spots on stage.
Too soon, far too soon for my liking, Max nodded to me, giving me silent encouragement, and with a heavy sigh, I started the opening as Max introduced the song as written by me, saying it was our first time playing it live, so to cut us some slack.
Max started singing. Tonight the words cut me as deep as they did the night I had written them, sitting in a hotel room in Chicago, writing on post it notes because that was all I had. I wasn’t playing it well right now, too many other things on my mind, but I had let Max take the lead guitar part so I wouldn’t be able to fuck it up too much.
And then, I stupidly looked over to Brendon. I couldn’t help it, I had to know if he understood, I had to know…
His face was something I’d never forget. He looked physically sick, had I ever seen him that upset before? Had he ever looked that angry before? We made eye contact and I almost lost it: big and brown, filled with tears, looking utterly tortured.
Suddenly, I was crying silently too, and I had to turn away from him, and quickly turn off the mike at my mouth so no one in the audience could hear me.
It took everything I had to make it through our two remaining songs. I barely remember playing them. I felt bad, letting down the fans, but I couldn’t keep my focus when Brendon was still in the wings. As soon as it was over, I handed my guitar to the tech and walked through the wings, deep breaths, deep breaths. A hand reached out and caught my arm. I looked up quickly to see Brendon, his mouth open, unsure of how to say what we both knew he was feeling. I wanted to run away. “No.” I said quietly, and pulled away, turning sharply on my heel to head to my dressing room. Brendon, hot on my heels, caught the door before it could shut, and slipped inside. I wouldn’t look at him, focusing on the small vanity where I had dumped all my shit. I heard the click of the door as he slid it shut, locking it.
There was silence, I could feel him staring at me, burning holes into my face.
“I don’t regret writing it.” I said suddenly.
“You shouldn’t.” He agreed.
“You deserve it,” I said and I was glad my voice wasn’t shaking but loud and clear. “You deserve that song, and you know it.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
I didn’t want him to agree with me, I wanted him to yell, or be angry, anything but this horrible voice that sounded like I hurt him, like I broke him. My head shot up and I glared at him. “Do you? Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me Brendon?”
He looked at me oddly. “I expect it feels the same as what you did to me?”
“What I did to you?” I snarled. “I didn’t cheat on you, Brendon, or did you forget that?”
“You left.” He said simply, but his voice trembled and he pointed at me. “You left, and gave me nothing, no number, no idea where the fuck you were, you could have been dead and I’d have no clue-“
“There was nothing left to say! You ruined it!”
“You never gave me a chance, Clark! You never let me try to fix it! You just left, and not just me, but all your friends, your brother, no one knew where you where! I had no way to contact you, no way to even see if you were okay-“
“Like it would have mattered to you!” I spat.
“Of course it mattered to me!” He yelled back, running a hand through his hair. “I love you Clark, how could I not worry about you?”
I flinched as he said it. “Don’t say that to me. Don’t you dare tell me that!”
His jaw clenched. “Why shouldn’t I? You know it’s true.”
“I don’t know anything about you.” I said coldly.
His face twisted in pain, but he shook his head. “That’s not true, you don’t mean that, you’ve always known, you’ve always understood, Clark, please…”
“I don’t know you anymore,” I said again, cutting off his babbling. “And you don’t know me.”
At this, Brendon looked up, his face dark with sudden anger. “Bullshit.” He said quietly, and stepped towards me. I tried to back up, but he moved far too quickly, catching my arm in his hand. “I see right through you. Same old Clark, still putting up tough fronts, still angry at everything, still vulnerable as fuck.”
“Don’t,” I said, gritting my teeth against the sudden tears in my eyes.
He moved closer, his face barely inches from mine. “Be honest with me, just once, please, Clark, just tell the truth. Don’t you get tired of it all? Don’t you get tired of fighting it? Don’t you get tired of lying?”
A few tears escaped and a quiet groan from my mouth. His hands moved from my arms to my neck, holding me in place, his thumbs gently wiping away tears. It hurt to be touched by him, a physical burn, but at the same time, it was like being intoxicated just being around him. His hands felt like they belonged there. “Yes,” I breathed.
His lips pressed against mine suddenly. “I love you.” He sounded like he didn’t want an answer.
I gave him one anyway. “I hate you.”
He considered me. “I know,” he said and kissed me again, much more urgent this time, and it took me a moment to realize that I was pushing back at his mouth with just as much force. There was too much emotion in the kiss: lust, anger, so much anger at each other. We were kissing so hard I thought my lips would bruise. He was holding me so tight it hurt. I found myself wishing he would leave marks.
I needed him closer, I needed a fix of this fire, this urgency that no matter how wonderful Alex was he could never give me. Not like this. I yanked on his hair with force, eliciting a delicious noise from the back of his throat, his grip on my thighs tightened, digging his nails in.
We were fumbling with clothing, his mouth found the spot on my neck as easily as if he had kissed there just yesterday, my hands knew every line of his back. And abruptly, we were nearly at the point of no return. “This is wrong,” I whispered, hoping he wouldn’t stop, but it had to be said, or I would be a horrible person.
He looked up at me, his face eyes dark with emotion, his eyebrows pulled together tightly. “I don’t care,” he said slowly. “Do you?”
I should have. But I didn’t at that moment. “No,” I said.
We didn’t know what we were doing, but our bodies did. And wrong or right, we both needed it more than we realized.

The moment we were done, I pushed him away from me, like he was a disease, and started adjusting my clothes, refusing to look at him. I turned around and started packing my stuff to hide the fact that I was shaking.
Brendon was silent for a moment, watching. “Clark,” he said finally.
“You need to go,” I said steely.
“We need to talk about this.”
“This didn’t happen. You need to leave. Now.”
Brendon’s face twisted in a scowl. “You aren’t being fair. You’re never fair. I want to talk to you about this.”
I spun around quickly, and even though I was so much shorter than him, it was still intimidating because he backed down. “Get. The fuck. Out.” I spat. “You…you manipulated me…you are…get out!” And with that, I shoved him hard, and he let out an exasperated groan and left, slamming the door extra hard behind him.
In return, I sunk to the ground and started sobbing.
How fucked up was it that that had felt so good? How fucked up was it that I didn’t stop him? What was wrong with me?