Vegas Boys

The months passed more quickly than ever. Panic! grew and developed, even in such a short period of time, and wrote some new songs and made demos in preparation for the real thing in June. After Mom found out that Brendon was leaving and I would soon be alone again, she no longer nagged me constantly, and we started speaking over the phone almost nightly. The frequent phone calls kept her from missing me too much, since I had decided to stay in Vegas with Dad even after Brendon left. After everything, I had grown to love the city.

And Brendon said he was coming back. Even though I knew it wouldn't happen, I let myself believe it--enough to stay, and wait for him.

-----

No one was more excited about the record deal than Ryan. He didn't show it very much, of course (he just wasn't an expressive person by nature), but he had already dropped out of college and now kept himself busy with the band. He checked and updated their Purevolume account obsessively, and spent hours schedueling gigs and spreading Panic!'s name. And all his promoting worked--a little too well.

It only took a few short weeks for everyone at school to have heard all about the record deal. Of course, the story had been glorified quite a bit: according to most kids, Pete Wentz had been out clubbing in Vegas and heard Panic! playing, and knew right away that he just had to sign them; he and the boys of Panic! had hammered out the details of the contract over a hand of blackjack, surrounded by hoardes of wannabe Playboy Playmates.

Brent found the story hilariously irritating, but didn't argue against the attention it earned him; Spencer perpetuated the gossip, and basked in his newfound popularity. Brendon was disgusted, but for his friends' sake, he didn't contradict them--or, at least, that was the excuse he gave me.

Almost overnight, Brendon, Spencer, and Brent had skyrocketed up the social ladder from their former place at the bottom to the very top. The very same girls who had once looked down on me for dating Brendon were now hitting on him constantly; every time I left him alone, I found him surrounded by at least a few giggling blondes when I returned. It really got to me--especially since I had always hated them for putting him down before. Now they had completely changed their minds about him, just because the great Pete Wentz, D-list celebrity at best, knew his name.

And what was worse was that Brendon wasn't nearly as bothered by this as he should have been, in my opinion. He brushed them off when they gushed about how soft his hands were (for him being such a great musician and all), but he tolerated it pretty well. Secretly, he was probably enjoying the attention as much as Brent and Spencer were; I wondered from time to time if he would have already slept with a couple of the girls if it weren't for me. Lately, I wondered about a lot of things.

-----

One dreary day in March, I had to pick up some paintings I'd done from my art teacher after school, so Brendon said he'd wait for me at the locker we shared while I walked down to the art room. The whole school was almost completely deserted by the time I had tucked the paintings under my arm and started walking back to our locker. As I rounded the corner, I saw him standing at our locker, just like he'd promised--but Carly, the redhead who had always been my favorite of the popular girls, was standing there too, much closer to him than she should have been.

There was no one else around, and they were speaking in low voices to each other, their speech interrupted only by the occasional soft giggle. Their eyes were locked on each other, and it was obvious they didn't know I was there, so I ducked back around the corner, out of sight.

It didn't even occur to me that what I was doing was the least bit unethical as I strained my ears to listen in on their conversation. It was no use, anyway, though; I couldn't make out what they were saying. I moved my head around the corner just enough to see them: they were even closer now, her hand was on his hip, how could he do this to me?

As if sensing my presence, my thoughts, Brendon glanced up suddenly and saw me there. His expression--one of cool contentment--twisted into one of sorrow and regret, but I turned away before its image could be burnt into my memory too clearly.

I turned on my heel and stalked off down the hall, and I heard the echo of his footsteps bouncing off the empty walls as he came after me. I had almost reached the big doors that led out into the student parking lot when he grabbed my arm from behind and whirled me around to face him.

"Kelsey," he grunted.

I dropped both of the paintings in my hand and slapped him.

He released me at once and took a step back, rubbing his jaw with a shocked, pained look on his face. I stared him down heartlessly, but even as I refused to show remorse, I felt it swelling up inside of me: I had jumped to conclusions and overreacted, again.

He must have realized that I wasn't going to apologize, because he bent down to pick up my paintings for me and then handed them back to me. Coldly, I took them from him.

"Is this how it's gonna be, Brendon?" I demanded. I had meant to sound angry, but I just sounded like I was about to cry (which I was). "How can you expect me not to get upset and worry about you being gone for months and months when you can barely keep it in your pants even when I'm standing right in front of you?!"

"It's not like that, Kelsey," said Brendon angrily. He always hated being accused of these sorts of things--it got to him so much more than anything else. "It's not like that, and you know it."

"I know what I saw," I corrected him bitterly.

"You didn't see anything!" he yelled. "There was nothing to see!"

"Oh, okay, so I guess it's just all in my head then?" I said sarcastically.

"I guess it is."

I glared at him for a moment longer and then turned and stalked out into the parking lot. Again, he followed.

"Kelsey, please," he begged. He grabbed my arm and stopped me once more, his dark eyes studying mine intently. "You know I would never do that to you. I've told you a thousand times, you're the only one I want."

I jerked my arm away and averted my gaze, determined not to let his chocolate brown eyes turn me soft. "Talk is cheap."

"Well, I don't know what else to do!" He threw up his hands in frustration. "I don't know what to do to make you believe me. I don't know how to make you understand."

"Well, you could start with not flirting with every single pretty girl in the whole fucking school," I suggested sharply. "And then maybe you could quit spreading rumors about yourself and then strutting around like some kind of big-shot rockstar."

He flinched slightly, and I knew I hurt him. But then he said, in a small voice, "Okay. You're right. I'm sorry. I'll stop."

I looked at him. I knew he wouldn't stop--not because he didn't want to or didn't care, but because he was Brendon, and that was just the way he was. But I also knew that I would still love him anyway. I would always forgive him, as long as he was around to forgive.

I gave him the best smile I could manage, and he pulled me into him and held me close. He kissed my forehead, and his strong, warm arms felt so good wrapped around me that I prayed to God to let me believe him when he told me everything was going to be alright.