The Joke's on Me

You know how I had asked Ian to call me so that we could see each other at least once before tour started? Yeah, well, he hasn’t.

Bastard.

He hasn’t called, hasn’t texted, hasn’t Facebook messaged me, hasn’t Tweeted me- nothing.

And frankly, it’s starting to piss me off. It’s like he’s trying to avoid me.

Here’s how conversation went the first time after I hadn’t seen him or talked to him in about 3 days.

Hey. I miss you. :]

Me too.

What are you up to?

Practising.

Oh. Well… do you think we could see each other again?

Possibly.

Well… alright.

And then he didn’t text back.

And then after that day, he just didn’t bother replying to any messages or phone calls or anything. I’m so confused. What have I done to make him angry at me?

I just… really miss hugging him and kissing him.

But apparently he doesn’t miss me like he said he did.

~

“Knock knock, Sean-y poo. Come on, the bus is waiting outside for us. You seem so out of it.”

I blink and look down at my silent phone and look back up at Gavin. “Why hasn’t he called me or anything?” I ask Gavin miserably. He sighs and sits down on the bed next to me.

“Maybe he’s busy. You know him. Everything for the tour has to be perfect, yeah?”

“I guess…”

“Come on, we’re going to be late, and you know how Bob gets when we’re late. We can talk about this later, alright? And when you see him later-ish, you can confront him. There’s no way he can ignore you then.”

I bite my lip.

“M’kay.” I mumble, standing up and grabbing my bags. I walk downstairs and give my parents hugs and kisses and then I slump out the door to the bus where Rhys is wildly slamming his fist down to honk the horn twenty million times.

The old lady next door is glaring out her window at it.

I’ll admit, it’s a bit of an eyesore sitting in the middle of this tiny little street and the fact that the horn is going off every second is probably really annoying.

By the time everyone’s on the bus and we’re driving away, I’m already back to moping in the bunks. Gavin comes to the back and drags the Xbox with him so that I can get my mind off of Ian. I pretend that every Spartan I’m playing with online on the opposing team is Ian.

I shoot their pretty faces off with a headshot every time.

~

We arrive around nine at night, so it’s pretty dark outside. But some dumbass insists on having a headcount for every band, so everyone’s piling out of the buses looking dopey as ever, slumping against each other.

I count the five guys from Young Guns, the six guys from The Blackout, the six guys from Lostprophets… and one very clingy girl standing the Lostprophets boys.

But I can’t help but stare at her hand.

It’s clutching my Ian’s hand tightly.

You fucking bastard.