Dear Spencer

Dear Spencer,

Sometimes when you weren’t watching, I liked to reach for your hand. Extend for it, but not touch it. There were always cameras around, fans screaming though they didn’t know us, didn’t know anything and rumors were okay, but confirmations weren’t. We could do it so long as everyone believed we were faking. Your hands were rough all over, calloused and bruised by drum sticks reverberating in your palms and only the pads of my fingers were calloused, but they fit together, the soft skin of my palm smoothing out the creases in yours. We still can’t touch though. Rumors are okay. Confirmations aren’t.

We sat on the roof of the tour bus one night in a city I can’t remember after a show that left us shaking and exhausted, a glimmer of sweat still licking at your neck. We could hear Brendon and Ryan below us, talking in whispered tongues before they went silent and we both knew what they were doing, but they never said anything about us so we never said anything about them. It was a secret, not a lie. A secret we all knew about. At interviews, we sat like that, Brendon next to Ryan, me next to you, and that was as far as we took it in public. If the reporter looked closely, she’d see my foot pressed protectively against yours, but I was the bassist. You were the drummer. Brendon and Ryan always got all the attention. I was always thankful for that.

You asked me once if I missed her. I asked you if you missed Haley. You said it wasn’t the same thing. I still don’t understand how it wasn’t.

She met me at the airport, wrapped her arms like vines around my shoulders, said she missed me, over and over until I began to believe I had missed her too. You kept talking to Ryan who kept looking at Brendon who kept looking at me and I wouldn’t meet his eyes. Sometimes I like to believe that was a changing point in whatever we were doing. We had a month until our next tour and she wanted to know everything so I told her. Well, almost. We were faking after all. She didn’t need to know about something pretend.

You called me twice while I was in Chicago and I answered the second time. She answered the first and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t amazed you called again. I’m sorry about what she said. She saw a hickey on my neck and I never said anything, but she’s not an idiot. I’m sure she made the connection. I’m sorry that I didn’t end it there, but you didn’t break it off with Haley either. You can’t blame me entirely for this.

Do you think Brendon and Ryan ever fought about us? They always seemed to fight. Brendon would start singing Aladdin and Ryan loved that movie, but I guess it nagged on him after awhile. There’s only so much happy ever afters you can take before you beg for tragedy and disaster. Maybe that’s what Ryan was doing; adding a little drama to Brendon’s wonderland. I don’t think he meant to break Brendon’s heart, but when he came to me asking for my opinion on a song, I couldn’t say no. It was beautiful. It really was and Brendon hated it, but mostly hated Ryan and the rip started. I couldn’t decide which way to lean and that night when you were kissing me breathless against the wall, pinning my hands at my sides and biting at my lips, I could taste the heartbreak on your tongue. Even now I’m not sure if it was breaking for us or for Ryan. Maybe it’s the same thing.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I shouted. I’m so sorry I hit you and I’m sorry you hit me and I’m sorry we both looked at the bruises along our skin and still didn’t say anything. Cover up does amazing things. Unfortunately, cover up only works on the bruises. It apparently doesn’t do anything to cover up the reasons you were crying that night or the reasons Ryan locked himself in his car or the reasons Brendon turned on his iPod and didn’t talk for hours. I keep hoping I’ll find something for all that internal bruising. I guess I’m an idiot like that sometimes.

I’m not sure when it happened. Maybe it was happening all along, a subtle crack forming between us, all of us, not just you and me. Ryan kept asking me for help and Brendon kept taking you upstairs to play a note for him and after all, that’s all we were. Brendon and you. Ryan and me. I didn’t think about it much. Haley kept calling you and Cassie kept calling me and we were never real anyway. Can you tell that I’m lying? You always could tell. I hated that about you. I’d tell you I was okay and you wouldn’t say anything, but you’d raise an eyebrow and purse your lips and I’d know I was caught in the lie. You could always read me. Fuck, that was annoying.

Ryan ended it with Brendon and we had sex in the tour bus that night because we knew it was the last time we could. You hugged me close and bit my ear and whispered something I couldn’t pick up. When Brendon burst in through the door (I thought I’d locked it. I promise I did), he was red eyed and didn’t look surprised to see us together under the sheets of your bunk. He grabbed your arm and dragged you outside, still crying as you stumbled after him. You only had your boxers on, but you didn’t object and I should have realized then. I should have. I already told you I’m an idiot sometimes.

Brendon threw his guitar. Ryan screamed that you were such a bitch. You hit me with a well aimed drum stick. I sat on the couch and made coffee and sucked it down like it would make everything better. You always said you loved how I smelled like a Starbucks, rich and warm and soothing, a freshly brewed cup on a rainy day and I prayed the smell might end the screaming. It didn’t and you poured out the latte I made you, dipped it into the sink while I watched from across the kitchen, made sure I saw it. I’ve never wanted to hit you more. Instead, I called you an asshole, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and got high with Ryan on the porch. We ended right then. We both knew it. By the time the scent of coffee faded from the house, we were two bands stuck in the same building. Ryan and I left. Brendon and you watched us go from the window. And that was that. The Young Veins began and Panic got the exclamation back.

She still doesn’t kiss like you and I miss the way you’d twirl your fingers through the belt loops of my jeans and joke about how you liked that I wasn’t as thin as Ryan. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder if you kiss Brendon like you used to kiss me.

I don’t kiss Ryan.

I know it doesn’t change anything, but I thought you should know.

-Jon

P.S. Cassie says hi.