[center][b]SEVEN YEARS PRIOR[/b][/center] Rob had about five more minutes to call time. Which meant he still had time to finish a drink or two. He was in Molo Zero–some bar on the river on the outskirts of Rome, just a block or two’s walk back to the main concert venue, the Stadio Olympico. Prior to today, he wouldn’t have known any of that information. And tomorrow, on some jet flying to some other country Rob had never been to and would likely never be again, he would get another briefing, with more place names to quickly remember and forget, remember and forget–endlessly. At least some things were constant, which were his relative anonymity apart from Mae and MAE, and his credit card working at every dive bar, tavern, and watering hole around. Typically, before a call time, he would feel at least some pressure to practice. But today Mae had picked Setlist D–the setlist that was quickly becoming the most popular choice for the tour. It was a collection of four on the floor songs Rob could play since he was six, piano ballads he simply rolled on some cymbals for, and a handful of songs where he’d press a button on his stage computer and let Pro Tools take over for him. He’d drum, of course, but almost entirely for show. His kit would be turned off, and he’d play, big grin across his face, acting like the grooves he played were audible to anyone but a few hired roadies. On D-Days, as he had come to know them as, he mostly just drank, sat around, and kept to himself. Mae was getting busier and busier–no doubt due to wanting to end the concert series in sparkling fashion. They had two more weeks of then, and then, as far as she had told the press media, she was done forever. Privately, Mae had told Rob she wanted to do five-and-ten year tours to keep the “magic” alive, as she put it. Rob had his own doubts about how thoroughly she would be keeping to that idea. But there was something else–she had started acting strange, in a way Rob wasn’t entirely sure how to handle. Mae had always been someone who seemed to be in the same room with you, but never actually talk to you. Speaking to Mae was like speaking to an apparition–¬some words seemed to stick to her, but others would pass through to the other side, smash against a wall, and crumple to the floor. But recently, she seemed quite the opposite. During the three hours of alone time per week they had arranged (with Rob getting her to up the number from two), she would hyperfocus on him. Hang on every word. Wait to see if what he said passed some internal test. He felt analyzed by her, and it wasn’t a good feeling. [i]”Come stai?”[/i] Rob turned his head quickly to look to where the voice had come from. One seat over from him was a man around his age–thick beard, olive skin, and dressed simply–looking towards him through thick shaded glasses. “Scuse…I am Dante.” He held out a hand, which Rob shook. “It has been some time since I used English. But you are Rob, no?” Rob quickly tried to transition into “fan” mode, which usually meant answering tons of questions about Mae, warding off weirdos asking about bra and shoe sizes, and occasionally thanking them for hearing of In Bloom. “Yeah, Rob,” he replied. “Here to see the show?” “No, not see,” Dante replied. “Work. Hired help for stage work. It is good to see you again!” Rob looked to the man¬–thinking¬–before he continued. “It was three…four? Years ago. I worked for Vicarious. We spoke once on that tour.” Rob continued to think, embarrassment beginning to swell on his face. Dante, ever the smiler, seemed unfazed. “It is okay, brother!” He almost yelped. “It was a long time. It is good to see you succeed.” “Thank you,” Rob said. His “fan” mode lowered, somewhat. He took another long drink of whatever well was put in front of him. “Are you still work Vicarious?” “When they come to Europe, they come to me,” Dante explained. “Next year we will tour again. Play in Rome, maybe not here!” Rob thought briefly about Zoe. [i]How was she these days?[/i] Rob pushed the thoughts aside. “That’s cool man, I’m happy for you! It’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t just asking about my girlfriend.” Dante simply shrugged. “I don’t know her. I know you. And In Bloom. How are my other friends?” Rob’s head turned. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I texted Austin and Sam a few times since we broke up. Jane, I haven’t seen since–well a while.” As they spot, Rob slipped out a pack of Newports. He offered one to Dante, who accepted, and the two paused as Rob lit both their cigarettes. “She’s probably not too happy about your new girlfriend,” Dante mused. “Yeah, I don’t think she cares, Dante.” Rob shot back, almost defensive. Jane was a sore subject. A deeply sore one. Mae was like speaking through someone, but Jane–especially at the end–was a different person entirely. “She cares, friend,” Dante replied, cool, then: “so do you.” Before Rob could reply, Dante excused himself and headed to the show, heaving Rob alone to think about whatever the hell he had meant by what he said. [center]---[/center] [center][b]PRESENT DAY[/b][/center] Rob was flying through his practice set. It felt different than it used to–knowing he was playing specifically as practice and as a warm-up for an In Bloom writing session. He wondered how the others would take to using their instruments again. He figured a few of them would think of it as putting on an old pair of shoes, or getting back into a familiar groove. But it wasn’t like that for Rob. Not now. He started out initially practicing some classic tunes he typically used to loosen up his grip and get into a good pocket. The final groove about 3:50 into [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZHUN6BP4W-4]Blackest Eyes[/url] was a favorite of his–letting him work to fill in the spaces with grooves but not interrupt the flow of the song. But as his anxiety grew, and he knew he’d have a few familiar faces here sooner, he picked up the pace. He swapped over to [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DIsZmGbXCRI]Dead Poet Society[/url], beating out faster rhythms. He had developed a nasty habit over the years of getting too firm with his grip on the sticks. He used to play with far more control. It used to feel like synchronizing with a song, riding on the top crest of a wave, enjoying the experience... These days, it was more about control than anything else. Rob bent the songs to his will–locking onto a beat like a metronome, refusing to ebb and flow, driving it forward like a dictator. It didn’t help that his bad leg would always act up–and he often found himself playing through the pain. The blisters from last week’s Seattle show were beginning to rupture again, and just as he hit the final crest of the song-- “Rob.” His name hung out like an embarrassing call in the air. Drumsticks flew out of his hands as his grip loosened–too fast–clattering onto the hardwood. Rob caught a glimpse of J’s profile. Not fast enough to see much more than a blur of blonde, but it was her. [i]Wow,[/i] Rob thought for a moment. Not shocked, not anxious, or much of anything at all. For a moment, it was just novel to see her again. Then the tension came roaring back as she turned back around. She looked much the same as she always had. Her posture always seemed tilted in some way–with her shoulders facing one way and her head another. She was almost willow-like, a tanned tree on the Californian coastline. She was small–it was always one of his first thoughts when he saw her–but never weak. She had an aura about herself that had always intrigued him. He remembered sharing a bed with her, staring at a tangled mess of blonde hair and skin, thinking to himself, [i]who was this person?[/i] He hadn’t felt like he had ever really known her. At one point, he had found that perhaps the most fascinating thing of all. The idea that they could spend a lifetime together as he learned more and more about her, the way she’d think, the places she loved, the minutia of everyday life that she felt so strongly about. But in the end, that final night, that last moment, as he stared down at her with the last bag of his stuff on his back and a plane ticket crumpled in his right hand, her unfamiliarity stung like a white-hot knife. Who the fuck was she? He looked to her, flat, as she spoke and said her peace. [i]Apologizing.[/i] ... [i]...Apologizing??[/i] Rob filled with rage for a moment, and a decade of buried resentment came rushing back. What the fuck was she thinking?? He had told her a time and time–a thousand FUCKING times exactly what would happen if she EVER-- “I’m so proud of you.” That one cut deep. Deeper than he thought or ever expected. His eyes filled with white-hot tears. She wasn’t looking at him but now it was he that turned away. It took a moment to bury it–swallow it–and look back to her. He gave her a gentle nod when she mentioned Evan’s request, and locked eyes with her until she broke for the door. He then leaned back, exhausted, feeling like he had just been released from some vice’s grip, and thought for a moment. --- He toked up in the backyard soon after practice. There was a nice pool back here–and hot tub, for that matter, built right into the earth. A shaded lounge-esqe area was here as well, and a wet bar he had snagged more whiskey from which sat on the table by his deck chair. Getting cross-faded on night one probably wasn’t the best of ideas, but it was a Friday night ritual for him and especially after seeing J, was one he wasn’t keen on giving up. He took one long drag from the joint before tossing it into the ashtray. He figured one was enough, and was about to rise before a familiar voice rang out behind him. “Is this your place?” Turning around, he could see Austin in the doorway. He looked different, of course–ten years will do that to you. He hair was gone, for one. Either shaved off or fallen out he couldn’t tell, but in it’s place was an unruly beard that grazed the collar of his shirt. His arms were coated in ink–good ink–and he was almost top-heavy from time at the gym. He looked older, sure, but good. Clean. And based on his look, he seemed far more comfortable than either Rob or J had been about getting the band back together. “You think I can afford this place??” Rob asked back. Austin’s face didn’t flinch. “You can and you know it, asshole.” Rob looked to him another moment before bursting out in unprompted laughter. He rose and the two warmly embraced. “Yeah, maybe I can get Mae to buy it for me,” Rob joked, releasing him and offering Austin a joint. He shook his head and made his way to the wet bar. “Look man, I don’t know who she was fucking, you’re a goddamn moron for divorcing her.” Austin said as he made himself a drink. “She divorced [i]me.[/i]” Rob shot back through a smile. Seeing J was like a white-hot fire. But Austin was, and really had always been, cool, collected, and dispassionate. Rob thought for a moment, then started to apologize: “Look, man, it was shitty of me to not--” “--call me sometime?” Austin finished for him. “Relax, Rob. I know you would have never spoken to me again if it wasn’t for this. And I get it. You had to go follow your bliss on some world tour and make a shitload of money. And I needed to go get a master’s and teach biology.” “You’re kidding,” Rob said. “You’re not a teacher.” Austin was all smiles at this. He took a shot of rum and continued: “I am. I do Life Sciences at a community college in Phoenix and I do online Organic Chemistry tutoring for Arizona State.” “Holy shit!” Rob couldn’t stop laughing at the thought. “You’re a fucking teacher. I would never have called it.” “Sam hadn’t either,” Austin mused. “And before you continue to beat yourself up over being an abandoning dick, Sam and I hadn’t spoken in four years.” “How is he?” “Go ask him yourself,” Austin replied. “I think he’s practicing in the basement.” -- The two continued to talk for a bit, sharing quick back and forths about what their day-to-day was like. Austin explained what Phoenix was like and Rob told him all about Elle. Before either of them knew it, night had fallen, and the two turned inside to see the others. Rob was good and drunk now. He felt loose enough to even see J, if she happened to be nearby. But entering into the kitchen, all he heard was the pattering of feet and hummus hitting the floor. Watching her form disappear up the stair, it reminded him of Elle–sneaking into the kitchen and using his cajon to get the Oreos he kept on his top shelf. Austin looked to Rob as Rob bent down to pick up the hummus. “I take it you two aren’t talking?” Rob shot Austin a glance before making his way up the stairs. “Not yet.” He admitted. As he ascended, he was almost grateful he wasn’t in a sober mindset. He figured maybe the two could at least break some of the tension. But if he was being honest, he wasn’t entirely sure if he would start a fight in this mindset, either. But he just barely got to see her in the hall before her door slammed shut, and a muffled [i]sorry![/i] rang out from her room. He walked to the door and paused, for a moment thinking. Should he go inside? Would that be proactive or just a massive invasion of privacy? Back when they were friends, they used to come and go from either other’s homes like they owned the place. But that was ten years ago. Instead, Rob gently turned the knob, and knew it was unlocked. He opened the door just wide enough for the hummus to fit through, and slid it across the carpet into the room, before shutting the door again. Through it, he called out “you dropped this,” and thought of saying more, before giving up and heading back downstairs. “You and Jane being weird as fuck,” Austin joked as he dug his hand into a Pringles can in the kitchen. “Nothing changes, huh?” “Fuck off, Austin,” Rob replied, almost defensive. “We’re almost forty.” He mentioned how he’d be up early practicing before getting some snacks and heading up to his room. He’d had to meet with Sam tomorrow. For now, all he wanted was to sleep. Pushing the door shut without bothering to lock it himself, he put the snacks on the nightstand, stripped nude, and slipped under the covers. He was out in seconds.