Vegas Boys

It had only been a week or two since I had last visited Ryan Ross's house, but it had changed so much since then that I was hardly sure I was pulling into the right driveway. The entire house had been painted a pale sunshine yellow and the big tree in the front yard had been chopped down--several stick-like younger trees had been planted haphazardly to make up for its loss. The rusted mailbox (dented by an accidental blow from Brent's car) had been replaced with a brand new red one, ROSS embelished grandly on the side in shiny gold lettering.

I waited uncertainly in my car, checking my appearance obsessively (I had been crying, and Ryan always made me self-conscious about my looks anyway), until I grew paranoid that Ryan could see me from inside. I decided it was better for him to think me ugly than a vain narcissist, so I fixed my smudged make-up as best I could and got out of the car.

It was entirely possible that Ryan had been watching me, because I had hardly had a chance to ring the doorbell before the front door swung open and he was standing there looking at me. And he was just looking--not smiling, not frowning. Just looking.

"Hey," I said, and my voice wavered so that his expression softened into one of sympathy. "I just--"

"Yeah, yeah," said Ryan, nodding and stepping to the side to let me in. "Of course. Come in."

I stepped inside, and Ryan shut the door behind me; all the blinds were drawn, and it was startlingly dark inside, considering that it was ten o'clock on a Sunday morning.

"Shit, Ryan," I joked, but my smile was strained, "what are you doing in here? Shouldn't you be at church?"

"Church," he snorted, chuckling darkly.

He walked the length of the living room, to the first door on the left of a small hallway; he opened it and urged me forward. The door opened onto a darkened staircase, and I followed him down.

"Are you taking me to your dungeon?" I asked sarcastically.

"Yes. My dungeon of pleasure."

Rolling my eyes, I smacked him in the back of the head, and he just smirked at me over his shoulder; for the most part, he reserved laughter for only the most hysterical jokes.

We stepped onto a hard concrete floor, and I shivered and hugged my arms to my body--it was much colder down here. Ryan reached over and flipped a switch on the wall, and some lights flickered on to reveal two couches, an old TV, a radio, and a washer and dryer in a homey, lived-in basement. There were random pieces of clothing and dusty CDs everywhere, and Ryan kicked them out of the way as he walked around to sit on the couch. He patted the spot beside him, and I sat.

"So, um," I began awkwardly as I tried not to shiver again--he was sprawled out comfortably on the couch, and the cold didn't seem to bother him. "Your house looks different."

He smiled slightly, but it was a sad smile. "Yeah. My dad decided it was looking shabby last weekend and thought he'd do some renovations." He frowned. "You know how he gets. He has...spells."

I nodded quickly, hoping that was the end of that conversation--I had only picked that subject because I had hoped it would be a little more cheerful than the one I had come here to discuss. "Well...it looks good," I told him.

He made a little "hm" sound of agreement, and then twisted around in his seat to reach behind the couch. When he straightened up again, he handed me an electric blanket, which he had already plugged into the wall.

"Oh--thanks," I said, pleasantly surprised.

He shrugged. "No problem. I'm used to it, but I know it gets cold down here sometimes."

I stared at the walls--plain wood panneling--as I huddled under the blanket and waited for it to heat up. We were both quiet, and I knew that Ryan would have made conversation if the circumstances had been different. But he knew why I was here; he was waiting for me.

And I appreciated that. I was glad he wasn't pushy and overly sympathetic, like the few friends I had called in the past two days had been. He was there for me, but he wasn't forcing himself on me, either.

"So where did Pete Wentz sit when he was here?" I asked finally.

I had expected some kind of surprise or embarrassment or hesitation from Ryan, but he never skipped a beat as he said matter-of-factly, "Right where you're sitting right now, actually."

I looked down at my lap (which was kind of silly of me) in surprise. "Really?"

"Mmm-hm."

I raised up a little and examined the couch cushion behind me, as if searching for evidence--maybe a strand of dark hair, or some stray designer hoodie fibers--but there was nothing there. I pressed my face into the couch and inhaled.

"I can't smell anything," I reported when I felt Ryan looking at me.

He actually laughed then, which made me feel kind of proud of myself. "Do you even know what he smells like?"

"No. But I'm sure I would recognize his scent if I smelled it."

He just kind of rolled his eyes at me and shook his head, grinning. "You and Brendon were made for each other, that's for sure."

It was meant to be a joke, but it stung, and we both sat in silence for a while again. Then Ryan took a deep breath--too deep for his frail body--and said bracingly, "So I'm guessing he finally told you?"

"Finally," I agreed bitterly.

Ryan turned his sad brown eyes on me. "Don't be mad at him, Kelsey. He did his best. He didn't know--he didn't know how to tell you..."

I just looked down at the stained tan carpet--the same carpet Pete Wentz had probably stared at while thinking of how best to steal the love of my life away from me--because I knew that Ryan was right. I knew that I was being unfair. I knew that I should have felt differently.

"For a couple of days there, I was afraid he might quit the band," said Ryan grimly. I could feel his gaze on me, begging for my cooperation, but I refused to relinquish it. "He didn't want to leave you. He still doesn't."

I bit my lip. There were scuff marks on the edges of the coffee table, where the bottoms of countless feet had rested.

"But the thing you have to understand is...he really wants this, Kelsey. He's wanted it so much, for so long. It's his dream."

And I can't take that away from him. I knew it was true. I knew it was right. But I just felt all wrong about the whole thing.

"I know," I whispered. "He wants it, and he deserves it, and I'm happy for him...but I don't want to lose him. I don't know what to do, Ryan. What do I do?"

I finally looked at him then, but his face was as confused as mine. He was just staring back at me with a helpless expression as I silently pleaded for answers when we were both interrupted by the sound of the door banging open at the top of the stairs.

"Ryan?! Ryan, are you down here?!" called a strangled voice that made my insides clench with mingled emotions. He sounded almost on the verge of tears, and that made it so much worse. "Ryan--I need to talk to you--I tried to tell her, but it all went wrong, and I just--"

Brendon stopped mid-sentence as he reached the bottom of the stairs and looked up and saw me sitting there. He froze, his dark eyes darting back and forth between Ryan and I as he gaped.