He had been hesitant, I could tell. His hand was in his hair, and he looked away- just for a second. I don’t know what he was looking at. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was just avoiding my eyes, as I stared up at him, eager, like he had hung the stars in the sky, grinning so wide my face was starting to ache. At the time I didn’t think he really noticed how ecstatic I was to be with him but this moment now plays in my head on repeat- his quick glance to the side, the way they darted back to mine and I felt a swell in my chest, a sort of inflammation in the way that it made my blood rush, warm and vital, my pulse quickening like it was the final stretch of a race that I had put my entire existence into winning. He is who I have chased this entire time I have drifted through life, through fame, success, wealth. Or maybe a better analogy would be that he is a missed connection on a journey with no destination. Ryan Rowe has not ruled my thoughts for the past ten years, not even close. But he was there. Safe and hidden in the memories of hotel rooms and bus bunks, dressing rooms and lit-up stages. And then he was in front of me, and then we were outside, and then I was in his car, and then he was sat next to me, and then there had been a silence, full of things we never said, things we didn’t think we’d ever have the opportunity to say.

So, like an idiot, I had leaned in, but not fully, not committing to this ridiculous dream, pausing a few inches away from his face, my eyes searching, giving him the chance to process what I was doing and reject me if he wanted to. The next three seconds had been the most suffocating of my life but then he mirrored me, leaning in and meeting me halfway, and- it didn’t feel right. Kissing eachother after ten years of near silence felt like pretending we still had the right to feel like this, to act this way, when we’d grown up and moved on, and it was also like kissing a stranger I’d just met at some party.  We parted after a few moments and stared at eachother, and I could almost [i]hear[/i] his pulse, glad that this made him as nervous and dizzy as it made me. [b]“I’m sorry,”[/b] I rushed out, my voice hoarse, [b]“I shouldn’t have done that.”[/b] Terrified I’d ruined any chance at rekindling a friendship, I looked down, swallowing. [b]“I felt like that would fix everything.”[/b]

But what really needed fixing? Nothing ever broke, just wore away like peeling paint. No explosive argument, just troubles with the band and then the drifting that happened naturally because neither of us attempted to save our friendship. Or maybe we had just been scared to have this connection, because the excuse to our closeness before had been the band and commitments and constant proximity. I  remember feeling nauseous, not daring to look at him as he moved in the corner of my eye, his arm extending as he reached his hand under my chin and gently tilted my head up towards him. [i]It’s okay,[/i] He had said quietly, in his low voice, and it comforted me enough to lift my head and meet his eyes again. [i]I know what you mean. I think it’s just- we barely know eachother now, it’s so...[/i]

This had not been comforting, and my throat had closed up, but he wasn’t finished. [i]I don’t know. I wanted to kiss you. I was wondering how it would- I don’t know, whether it would be the same, or. [/i] A long silence. We never directly referenced our old behaviour. Even after ten years it felt like Ryan had committed a crime just by mentioning it out loud, even though it had just been the two of us, in his car, in the dark, watched by the moon and stars. [i]It wasn’t the same. But not in a bad way.[/i] 

After that, I had made my excuses and left, nervously, rejoining the party, leaving him in his car, but. Not before giving him both my phone number and my address. I told him come over anytime and I meant it. There is so much more we needed to talk about. 

Not a week later, I get a text from him. I saved his name in my phone as ‘Ryan Rowe’ then change it to ‘Ryan’, but I know more than one ‘Ryan’ so I change it to ‘Ry’ like a fucking fool. [i]Hi, Brendon, sorry for not texting sooner. I’ve been- well, not busy, I don’t do anything these days. But I was wondering if you wanted to maybe come over sometime. I’d love to properly catch up after you left kind of abruptly.[/i] A few minutes later another text came through. [i]Which I completely get, by the way. Sorry, I don’t know how to do this anymore.[/i] At least he was honest. I had closed my eyes tight but replied almost right away. ‘Why don’t we just go for a drive? I owe you that, I think.’ 

[i]In your Tesla, rich boy? No thanks. I’ll just pick you up tomorrow, okay?[/i] I agreed, but he didn’t ask for a time, so. Here I am. Sitting in my living room, a whiskey in hand, my muscles tense, jaw clenched, every part of my body wired and pent up like I’m waiting some kind of physical and emotional release, resting all my hopes for unwinding on the chance that Ryan might show up any second, make it all dissipate because despite the awkwardness last time, I had still felt amazingly comfortable with him. Like I could be myself and he wouldn’t judge me for it. And yet, the kiss still felt wrong. Flexing my fingers, I steal a glance at the clock on the wall even though he didn’t give me a time and it’s 5pm and I wonder if he’s just forgotten because surely he’d have texted me when by now. ‘I’m on my way’ or ‘is 8 okay’ or something along those lines, but, nothing. I stare at his name in my phone and change it back to ‘Ryan Rowe’, fearing the effect of the affectionate nickname staring me in the face. My eyes close. I’m so fucking stupid.