Dichotomy.

I don’t realize how fast my heart is pounding until the lights are dimming and it’s time to get off stage.

We’ve already played our encore, and we’re done for the night.

But tomorrow’s another city, another show.

Spencer smiles at me and I smile back, following him to the dressing room.

I feel Brendon’s eyes on my back but he doesn’t say anything at all.

One day.

Barely a day and I can’t even hold myself together around him off-stage.

The truth is, I wish we hadn’t been interrupted earlier.

And I hate that that’s the truth.

We all head back to the bus after packing up, and it’s not long before someone brings out the alcohol, but I decline and head for the back of the bus to give myself some alone time.

I’m still trying to sort out my thoughts when –big surprise- Brendon appears in the doorway.

“Hey,” I say, trying to be nonchalant, but my stomach is twisting itself into knots, which I hate.

“Hey,” he replies. “Do you feel like writing?” he asks abruptly, nodding towards the acoustic guitar across from me. It’s then that I notice he has a notebook in his hands.

“Sure,” I answer, relieved. A faint smile ghosts over his lips and he slides the door closed and locks it.

“So they won’t bother us,” he explains. “They’re getting pretty drunk up there.”

“And you’re not?” I ask, since he looks pretty sober. I reach for the guitar and he sits down across from me.

“I don’t feel like it.” He flips through the notebook silently for a few minutes, until he comes to a page with a bunch of cross-outs and revisions. “Here. I wrote this the other day, I wanted to know what you think,” he says, taking the guitar from my hands to demonstrate.

His voice sounds different reverberated in the back lounge. Still strong and expressive, just different than in our practice space back home or on stage.

I study his hands as they move up and down the frets, trying to memorize what chords he’s using meanwhile looking for anything I can improve.

“What do you think?” he asks, handing the guitar back to me. I adjust it so that it’s even more tuned than it was and attempt to replay Brendon’s song from memory.

“What?” I ask, slightly annoyed, when I’m finished nit-picking his song in my mind. He’s
staring at me.

“Nothing.”

“I think you should change around some of the lines in the second verse,” I advise, peering over at his notebook. He shuts it. I can’t think of any other ways to berate his song, frankly, it’s fine how it is.

“Alright,” he agrees, leaning back on the couch. I’m confused.

“That’s it?” I ask. He shrugs but doesn’t move.

Now he’s just irritating me with his sheer presence.

I ignore him, hoping maybe he’ll get bored and go away.

“Stop it,” I say, irritated all over again when he starts whistling.

“Stop what?” he retorts, raising an eyebrow at me.

“Stop staring at me.” He looks surprised for a few seconds, then lets out a laugh.

“You’re so vain,” he concludes, smirking. “Do you see yourself in everyone?”

“I don’t know if there are enough words to describe how much I hate you right now,” I seethe in irritation.

“Right,” he retorts. He stands up, a suddenly sinister smirk on his lips. He leans down close to my ear in a way that makes me tense up. “Goodnight,” is all he says as his lips brush my ear and make my nerves dance frantically. I glare at him.

I hate how much I want him right now.