Casual Affair

People don’t scare me very often when they’re angry. If anything it only fuels the fire in my blood and puts me immediately on the defensive and raring to go with any fight they wanted. One of the only things that freaked me out was when people went quiet, armed with nothing but a sinister smile and a soft voice. Those were the kind of people you wanted to be careful of, the ones where you couldn’t tell when they were going to blow.

That’s what Leslie was like when one of us did something wrong, and that’s what she was like when we walked into the green room at the venue in Philly after Brendon’s most recent visit to my room after hours.

She was perched on the counter top, black hair flipped over her shoulder and ankles linked above her thin five inch designer heels. Louis and Greg waved and offered small mumbles of greeting. Matt nearly fell over when he walked in and saw her, and immediately moved to recover.

“Oh, hey, Leslie,” he grunted. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked away, looking like a sad attempt of posing like an Abercrombie model.

“Matthew,” she nodded. Her pupils tightened when she noticed me and she slid off the counter. “Elizabeth.”

“Grigsby’s in trouble,” Louis sang from the couch, flicking his drumsticks around as warm-up.

Leslie ignored Louis’ tauntings and nodded towards the door. “Elizabeth. Matthew. A word?”

“Ooooooooh shit,” Louis giggled. His paradiddle grew in tempo the harder he giggled until his sticks got all kinds of tangled. “You guys done fucked up now.”

I rolled my eyes and followed Leslie and Matt out of the room. “What’s up, Les?”

“If it’s all right with you, I’d rather wait to discuss until we’ve found a more private setting,” she said. Her voice was even and calm; we were in deep shit.

She led us into some hallway off the main trek of backstage, saying nothing despite Matt’s uncomfortable coughing and hurried apologies every time he accidentally stepped on the back of her shoes. Finally she pointed at one of the walls with her finely manicured nails and stared at us, waiting for us to enter her line up like we were some kind of criminals.

“Is there something the two of you want to tell me?” she asked, crossing her arms across her perky chest with a soft smile. If you listened closely, you could hear the ticking of the bomb behind her eyelids.

Matt’s eyes flicked over towards me in a panic; I could feel the heat waves of his nerves shooting off between their synapses. Instead of feeing in to his gaze, I remained stoic under Leslie’s scrutiny. I shrugged and crossed my arms, trying to appear unaffected by her tone.

“Can’t think of anything. Why, what’s up?”

She smiled, and I swear in that moment fifty fairies must have died. Her smile was more sinister than Captain Hook, more heartless than a bold declaration of not believing in fairies. “With all your touring I’m guessing you two haven’t gotten a chance to pick up a copy of In Touch, huh?”

Cue attractive snort. “Please. I don’t pick that shit up even when we’re not touring.”

Forget Captain Hook, that smile was Maleficent sinister; I almost worried she was about to curse my first born child. “Grigsby, while normally I find your attitude most endearing, I’m afraid you don’t entirely understand the repercussions behind your actions or cruelty.” She untangled her lecturing limbs to dig into the oversized purse strung over her shoulder and reemerged with a rolled up magazine, which she offered to me with a straight face.

The only celebrity magazine I really trust is People; if Pete Wentz sells them his wedding photos, you have to figure it’s probably a legit ‘zine. InTouch? Probably one of the least trustworthy. I unrolled the cover after accepting it from Leslie’s grip and my immediate reflex was to roll my eyes. There was a picture of Matt and I across the front during one of our close moments on stage, with my head thrown back on his shoulder and the mic close to my lips. In great bold lettering were the words “Grigsby and Diggory: Making sweet music?”

“That is the lamest headline ever,” I snorted. “I hope those writers are pleased with themselves.”

“Grigsby,” Matt mumbled. “Check the bottom.”

My eyes dragged down to the lettering below our picture to a little bubble in the corner accompanying our story. In it was a picture from our show the other night when I came on stage with Panic! and sang with Brendon. It was when I had leaned in at the end and pressed my lips against his cheek, only now I could see the huge grin on his face as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder. And below our picture were some italicized words: Is she playing two guys?

“These puns are too much,” I said. I couldn’t stop looking at Brendon’s smile.

Leslie sighed. “I don’t think you are picking up on the possible severity of the situation, Elizabeth.” She snatched the magazine back from me and flipped through a few pages. “You seem to have pissed off the wrong person. Both of you.”

“Who?” Matt asked.

“Who else?” Leslie shrugged. “Teal.”

I groaned. “Of course. So what exactly is she saying?”

Leslie sighed and glanced down at the article. “Oh, just what you’d expect. Apparently she caught the two of you—“ she gestured between us, “—being intimate at a rest stop on tour. And she claims to have picked up on a few moments between you and your tour mate, whose wife is apparently none too pleased at the accusations.”

My stomach dropped at the mention of Sarah. I could feel Matt’s eyes flicker over towards me and watched as Leslie’s eyebrows rose as she watched for my reaction. I couldn’t give myself away; the concerned look Matt was giving me was damning enough.

“Well, people should know by now that if half the rumors of my paramours were true I’d be a lot more of a pleasant person,” I laughed. I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall. “She’s just looking for her fifteen minutes of fame.”

Leslie nodded and watched me cautiously as she slipped the magazine back into her purse. “Mmm. That’s what I thought. I just needed to at least pretend I had had a discussion with you before I commented.” She looked between us. “So there’s nothing with you two?”

Matt laughed, a little too quickly, and shook his head. “No, definitely not. Totally not. I am one-hundred percent single.” Poor babe. He had it bad for her.

Leslie smiled and tossed her hair back. “Matt, why don’t you go wait for us in the dressing room?” And like a dutiful puppy he took off, leaving us alone and engaged in some of the most intense eye contact known to mankind.

She waited until the echo of Matt’s footsteps disappeared before turning back to me, her fake smile dropped from her face and her Disney villain frown in its place. “End it,” she snapped.

“What?”

“Do not bullshit me, Elizabeth,” Leslie said. “I think I know you well enough by now.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. It was becoming hard to look at her in the eyes.

“Spare me,” she said. “I’ve got enough damage control dealing with what Matt’s bimbo is blabbering on about. If I or anyone else finds out her tales are actually true it’s only going to end poorly for all of us. So you tell me—what is going on?”

When had it become so easy for my friends to be able to pick up on my emotions so well? Ever since I had actually started having them again, I guess. Leslie’s eyes pierced into my soul and scorched my shame, and for one of the first times in my life, I had to break eye contact and look away.

“Nothing,” I said. “There’s nothing.” Tears again, burning my eyes and the back of my throat. But the lift of her eyebrows told me it was the right thing. “I’ll end it,” I promised.

“Do that,” she said. “Trust me, that’s not the kind of publicity you want before the album comes out.”

I nodded and crossed my arms, trying to look away and seem incredibly bored with the conversation. “Can I go now? I need to warm up.”

She nodded and reached forward, patting me on the shoulder like I needed comfort like a child that had just lost her favorite toy. “Only three more shows, Grigsby. Keep it in your pants until then, and then this whole thing will just be like a dream.”

Just a dream I had never wanted to wake up from.

--

Sarah flew home after the show that night, all smiles and showing no signs of being even remotely bothered by the rumors Teal had tried flinging around. To keep her smiling, I had avoided Brendon and the boys through the entirety of the evening, and then the evening after that, and the one after that, only popping up when it was time for the Rolling Stone interview. Luckily no one seemed to believe in the rumors Teal was spreading, and so I wasn’t asked about them; questions stuck to warm up techniques and touring with boys and the like.

The next day would be our last show of the tour. I couldn’t say I was terribly excited; the second our set ended we would be whisked away back to California to finish recording our album, which we were expected to release in the upcoming months, and I still hadn’t figured out the lyrics for half of the songs. Honestly that’ why I wasn’t anxious for the tour to end. The only reason, in fact.

I was heavily considering writing up a song about what a bad liar I had become. It would probably suck.

But anyway, the night before our last show was a day off. A much needed day off. Everyone split up to explore the city as was usual, and as was also usual, I went off on my own—to brainstorm, to relax, to get away and avoid any temptations that Phoenix may have held.

And of course, as was usual, Brendon found me wandering around in a small park just after sunset, alone and with a sad smile on his face, precisely where I both didn’t want him and needed him to be.

“Hey,” he said. He kicked up a tuft of grass by his foot and looked away like a nervous school boy. “Wondered where you had gotten off to.”

“Well, here I am,” I shrugged.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Here, obviously.”

He nodded and rolled his eyes. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?” I asked.

He walked closer and leaned against an old tree not far from where I stood. “Every time you start feeling something you pull away and act cold as shit.”

Leslie’s warnings rang in my ears and I bit back any emotional response I may have had brewing. “Did you ever think maybe I only get friendly when I’m horny?”

His eyes narrowed and he uncrossed his arms. “That’s not true.”

I looked away and glared at the grass. “Believe what you want, I guess.”

He groaned and walked closer to me. It took everything in me not to run away. “Stop doing that!” he hissed when I twitched away from his grasp.

“Can’t you ever just leave me alone?” I snapped. Maybe if I was super mean it wouldn’t hurt as bad when I took off after the show tomorrow night. It could be like nothing had ever happened and the past two months hadn’t mattered.

“No,” he snapped back. “Not when you’re being like this.”

“You’re so stupid,” I groaned. “Most intelligent people would know to leave me the fuck alone when I’m in a mood like this.” I can’t tell you how many times Greg feared for his chances of one-day fatherhood after bothering me when I was in a ‘tude.

Brendon glared at me and threw up his hands. “Well then call me an idiot!”

“I just fucking did!”

I could see his chest heaving the angrier he was getting, and I wondered why exactly I was being so horrible right off the bat. I never really learned how best to utilize my defenses without being a dick.

It killed me to see him appear to be in pain. But I had to dig the knife deeper.

“Listen, Brendon, I don’t know what you think you feel for me, but it’s not real,” I said. My words felt robotic, like they were coming straight from some terrible romance novel or Soap Opera script. “Please, just go.”

“No,” he growled. He looked around and pointed at a nearby tree with a new fire in his eyes. “Here, I’ll show you.” He stormed over to it and dug in his back pocket, pulling out a pocket knife and flipping it open.

“Jesus Brendon!” I cried. “Mind telling me what you’re just doing with a knife in your pocket?”

“Consider its name,” he chuckled as he ran his palm against the trunk. He fingered the ridges of the bark, searching for a tender spot until finally some broke their grip and fell to the ground, making way for the smooth wood hidden behind it.

I groaned and walked after him, watching him pick away at the bark until he had a decent circle cleared away. “What are you doing to that poor tree?”

He glanced over at me. “Proving a point.” And he stabbed the knife into the bark.

“Brendon!” I shrieked. I grabbed onto his forearm and tried pulling him away as he carved into the bark, but he effortlessly shrugged me off. I helplessly watched, still holding onto his arm, as he ran the blade through the wood. “What are you carving anyway?”

“Look.” He stood back and pocketed his knife, then wrapped his arms around my waist and faced me toward the tree.

He had carved our initials. Our fucking initials. Like some old-time movie where the guy promised the girl the moon. His chicken scratch looked like it belonged on that tree, dipping just like the ridges of the framing bark. Like it had always been on there.

Like it always would be.

“You see this?” he asked, and he reached forward to trace a finger along the carved E. “This isn’t going anywhere. This is staying. This is forever.” He stretched his arm and gently turned me around until our chests pressed together, and he reached between us to gesture his finger from him to me. “Just like this, Elizabeth. This, this feeling we both have? This is forever.”

My mouth felt dry, and suddenly his proximity made me feel claustrophobic. I looked at the tree, and the way his BU looked hovering over my EG, and I could feel my heart sink. “People could scratch it out, Bren,” I whispered. “Someone could cut it down.”

His hand gripped my waist tighter and his other hand jerked my chin to look at him. “I will never let them,” he whispered.

I wondered if I would ever get tired of speaking in metaphors to him. Probably not.

“We can’t though, Bren,” I whispered. “Sarah…”

He sighed and pulled away, and my body instantly was washed with a tremendous cold at the loss of his body heat. He kneeled down onto the grass and poked his finger around in the dirt, his lip caught between his teeth as he focused. I looked over his shoulder and felt my stomach drop—he was doodling more initials in the dirt: BU and SU.

When he was finished he stood up and brushed off his knees. He surveyed his handiwork for a moment, arms crossed and lips in a pout. Then, he dug his toe into the dirt, brushing away the initials like they had never even existed.

He turned and looked up at me, an odd smile on his face. “Wears away,” he shrugged.

He was unbelievable. Here he was with a gorgeous wife—a woman who, had I decided upon a different lifestyle, I would happily be all over—and yet he continuously told me how much he liked me more than her. And for the first time, it felt completely and utterly shitty.

“I’m done,” I whispered. I wrapped my arms tight around myself and shook my head. “This is over. We’re done.”

His face fell, and I could tell that certainly wasn’t the response he had been expecting. “What?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Go home to your wife, Brendon. Go home and wake up.” I tried brushing past but his hand shot out and gripped my arm, spinning me around to face him.

“But you’re my June Carter,” he whispered. “I love you.”

There it was. Those three words. It hurt more than I thought it could to hear them, and I could feel my stomach cramp up and my side felt like my appendix was going to burst. My throat felt raw from impending tears, but I shook my head.

“Goodnight, Brendon.”

Damn him. Damn him and his initials carved all over my heart.