Chapter Text
The cabin is surrounded by trees on all sides, a gravel driveway pouring down a sloped hill to the front of the cabin, wooden steps leading up to the front deck. The cabin faces a sandy clearing a short distance away, a lake shining in the sun just beyond. A few trees drape over the lake, a small wooden pier sticking out into the water. A few other cabins dot the perimeter of the large lake on all sides, tiny specks across the expanse of water. Inside, five bedrooms are arranged, a couple facing east to be woken by the rising sun, and a couple facing west to catch the orange glow of the sunset.
And Brendon, the fucker, got dibs on the largest one.
He pats himself on the back, shit-eating grin stuck on his face as he stands proudly in the hallway leading out from the living room. Jon and Spencer congratulate him halfheartedly, both annoyed; Brendon had pushed past them through the paned front door, scanning each room for size and announcing his pick before they’d even set foot through the threshold.
Jon and Spencer busy themselves putting their luggage down: roughly three weeks’ worth of clothes, toiletries, and weed. We were told there’s a laundromat in the nearest town, but that’s thirty minutes out and a hell of a lot more work than any of us are willing to put in. Despite our bags being stuffed full, I imagine it’s only a matter of time before we all start to reuse worn clothing in the interest of saving the effort.
Meanwhile, Brendon, having raced in from the car, doesn’t have a single bag or hard case with him, and I’m stuck carrying his weight— literally— behind the others. “Good for you, Brendon,” I say, getting his attention with as much sarcasm as I can manage, “you got the biggest room, and didn’t bring any of your shit inside to reserve it with.”
His smile falters, and I laugh, walking over to him while readjusting the several bags I have slung over my shoulders. Stopping in front of him in the hallway, I hand him one of the soft guitar cases I brought in from the van— one of his acoustics. He takes it, rolling his eyes at me.
“Put this in your master suite and help us get the rest of the shit from the van,” I tell him, slipping past him to drop my bags in the smaller of the two rooms down this hallway. It’s not too shabby: small, definitely, but there’s a full sized bed inside, a couple nightstands on either side, and a large window facing the front deck. Looking out, I can see the van in the driveway, with Zack climbing out from the diver’s seat and Jon reaching in to grab more instruments from the back. Further out, I have a decent view of the lake through the trees.
I watch as Brendon steps down the wooden stairs from the front deck back down to the driveway. Stepping around my bags, I walk down the short hallway to get a look around. There’s a bathroom on the left wall, tiny but good enough, and a closet right beside it. Brendon’s room door is on the back wall, and through the open doorway I can see that his window has a view of a back deck, which overlooks the road a distance back behind the trees.
His room is bigger than mine, although not by much. It’s identical to my bedroom— a full bed and two night tables— but there’s an extra bit of open space when you walk through the door, currently occupied by Brendon’s guitar case on the floor.
“Out of my way,” Brendon’s voice calls from the hallway behind me, and I step further into his room, bumping into the corner of his bed as he piles more bags onto the floor.
“This is the giant room you were so excited to call dibs on?” I ask, gesturing to the empty space with a bored hand.
“Don’t be jealous,” he says, monotone, eyeing over his belongings, probably trying to figure out where it all goes. These rooms are cramped, and even the largest of the four doesn’t have a dresser inside. We’ll probably be living out of our suitcases while we’re here.
“Don’t take yourself too seriously,” I return easily, stepping past him and out of the room.
The four of us finish unpacking our things from the van, which Zack drives back up the sloped driveway to head back to civilization, leaving us with a car to get around while we’re here. We all settle in, having resolved to relax for the rest of the day. This trip is, after all, primarily for the purposes of unwinding and de-stressing.
We’ve been feeling more pressure lately to get our sophomore album done. The label, our manager, the fans, even from each other. We’ve been bickering more and more, snapping at one another from frustration and annoyance. The four of us unanimously and loudly agreed we needed a break, and Jon suggested getting away for a while. Zack did some digging and found the cabin, far enough out from anyone who might recognize us, and one with a spare room to set up some instruments in case the mood strikes us to write some music.
It’s no warm, sunny vacation house on a beach or in a tourist town, but it’ll do. It’s quiet, secluded, cozy, and it’ll get the job done. We’re here to relax first, and be musicians second.
There is a loose plan in place to work on some stuff separately during our time here. Over the next three weeks, we’re to jot down lyrics when they come to us, scribble down a drum beat or a guitar riff when they play in our minds, and at the end of it all, we’ll come together and combine what we have.
We did, of course, have some ideas that were scrapped before coming here. Some songs we wrote in a hurry, hoping to get the album done and hoping to appease the label. But they weren’t quite right, and they didn’t feel authentic, so we saved some of the rough drafts and otherwise tossed them away. We can use the bones of those songs to work on the new ones, hopefully, rework them a bit. Some time away will help clear our heads and let us start fresh. I think.
There’s a small part of me that wonders if we’ve lost it. We had the one good album, some good tours, and now we’ve exhausted our talent. One hit wonders. A smaller part of me hangs onto the hope that being here, away from it all, will bring it all back.
I spend some time in the early afternoon exploring the cabin. The left half is almost identical to the right, with a hallway leading out from the living room. Jon and Spencer’s rooms are along one wall, and a closet sits opposite. Jon’s room, at the back of the cabin, faces east and also looks out onto a second, smaller back deck. Spencer’s room is similar, however, where my room has the view of the front deck, Spencer’s room is sandwiched between Jon’s, and the cabin’s other bathroom. There’s a window on one wall that faces a thicket of trees, but otherwise, he doesn’t have much of a view. I wonder what bet he lost with Jon while they decided their sleeping arrangements, and make a note to tease him for it later.
The living room has two couches back to back, and a thick woven rug spanning almost the entire floor. A wood stove sits on a raised brick platform across from one couch. It’s March, and while some days are expected to be warmer than usual, according to the forecast, most days will carry a bit of a chill in the air. A stack of wood sits beside the stove, and I know there are more log bundles underneath the front deck stairs for when we need them.
The whole cabin looks about the same— dark wooden floors and scuffed walls, lamps scattered throughout the place for light. The kitchen has a few splashes of modest color: the floor tiles are small and earth-toned, terra cotta and deep forest green. The cabinets look older and are wooden to match the rest of the cabin, but the fridge looks new, along with the stove. The kitchen’s not a separate room, but rather one open space connected to the living room. A cheap table and chairs sit halfway between the rooms, two legs on the tile and two on the hardwoods. It’s clearly an afterthought, but it’s homey.
Overall, it’s a nice place. I’ll have to commend Zack later. I do have to share a bathroom with Brendon, and a bedroom wall, too, so maybe I’ll lose some sleep and a bit of sanity, but it shouldn’t be too bad. Once you’ve shared bunk space in a shitty tour bus, you’ve kind of seen it all.
I’m rooting through a large crate on the front deck— filled with fishing supplies— when Spencer pokes his head out the door. “Hey, man,” he greets, and his eyes are a little glassy. “We’re gonna smoke for a bit to christen the cabin. First night festivities.”
I almost laugh, “You’re gonna smoke, or you’ve already started smoking?”
Spencer breaks into a grin, and I hear Brendon cackle somewhere inside, confirming my suspicions. “Get inside, man, or we’ll smoke it all without you.”
He ducks back inside. My bandmates can’t blow through all the weed without me— we brought enough for our entire stay— but I close the fishing crate and head inside nonetheless.
The rest of the day is spent doing a whole lot of nothing. An old television faces one of the couches, and we dig through the TV stand to find a stack of DVD cases. We sit through some movies that were probably pretty bad, but laughable as our heads were still filled with fog. For dinner, we cooked up some food we packed in coolers on the trip up, and afterward we retired to our rooms to unpack our bags and further settle in.
Brendon got to our shared bathroom before I did, showering and thankfully not using up all the hot water. I pass him by in the hallway when I head in after him, towel and toiletries stacked up in my arms. He greets me with a wave, his other hand keeping his towel up around his waist. I nod back, unable to lift a hand, and once in the bathroom I let my shampoo and soap fall out of my arms and onto the small sink counter.
I sleep quickly and easily at night, not having done much today, but weed always makes me tired. The cabin is close enough to the lake that I can’t tell if it’s crickets or frogs I hear, but regardless, the sounds soothe me to sleep.
***
When I wake up, it’s early morning, birds chirping outside my window. I open my bedroom door to the smell of bacon and eggs being fried up in the kitchen. Spencer stands at the stove, and I’m not surprised he’s the first— and only— one awake.
I start a pot of coffee in the old machine shoved at the corner of the counter, and Spencer tells me how he’s shocked none of the eggs cracked in the cooler on the way up to the cabin. He and I talk shit while he cooks, and it’s nice, having some time just me and him.
Eventually, after Spencer and I have already started eating, the others trod out from their rooms. I assume Jon and Brendon were lured out by the smells of coffee and bacon, respectively. The four of us eat and wake up a bit, reminiscent of huddling around a cramped bus lounge together on tour, eating fast food breakfasts and drinking countless cups of Starbucks to keep our energy high. We’d better get used to that again, if we’re going to be putting another album out and touring again.
We’ll get there, back to the high energy and the busy, packed schedules, all in due time. For today, we walk down the sloped hill outside to the lake, where the grass and gravel peter out and are replaced by coarse, muddy sand. It’s a chilly day, but every now and again the sun peeks through the tops of the trees and warms us up for a while.
There’s a bit of a path winding around the perimeter of the lake, unpaved but marked in the dirt by people having walked it over the course of probably decades. Spencer and I take it, walking down slowly and taking the chance to enjoy one another’s company. One thing I hated about trying to record this album was how frustrated we all were with one another. It was all just stress from overworking ourselves, but still, it was uncomfortable arguing with Spencer so much. It’s nice to get away from the others and spend some time alone, assure each other that we’re still friends.
From the distance I can see Jon and Brendon skipping rocks, hanging around in the sand. I wonder what they’re talking about, if at all. I know that they think one other as a brother, like Spencer and I do, so I hope they’re getting the same reassurance.
***
I wake up on Friday in the late midmorning. I didn’t sleep much last night, picking around on my guitar until late, but not coming up with anything new. I bump into Brendon on my way out to the living room, and he looks as though he’s just woken up, too. “Morning,” I greet him, and he hums as a tired response.
“I didn’t keep you up with the guitar last night, did I?”
“Nah, I barely heard it,” he says, clearing his throat and rubbing his eyes, “It was nice, though.”
After breakfast— a much smaller meal today compared to yesterday’s spread— the four of us sit around for a while, not doing much. We’re here for twenty-one days, and only being day three, we figure we’ve got time to relax before we need to buckle down and get any work done.
Later in the day, once the sun has warmed up the air a bit, Jon and Spencer suggest going for a walk in the area. They spotted some trails nearby when we drove up the other day, paths through the woods, and thought a nature walk sounded nice. Brendon and I share a glance, matching confusion on our faces. “Nature walk?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at them.
Jon reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a joint and a red lighter, bringing the joint to his lips with a smile. “Nature walk,” he repeats, speaking around it.
Ultimately, the walk turns out to be a good idea. Jon and Spencer take the lead, laughing about something as they pass the joint back and forth between them. Brendon and I hang back, having taken a few hits apiece, enough to feel relaxed and a bit giggly, but remaining sober enough to wrangle the others back if need be.
I’ve spent a lot of time with Spencer so far, and Jon and I talked some shit in the front seats on the drive up, so it feels good to catch up with Brendon now, too. He and I fell back behind Jon and Spencer automatically— let them have their fun, and we’ll have ours. It’s a nice day out, and we walk through a trail we picked up a small distance away from the mouth of the driveway on our hill. It’s a mostly uneventful trail, tall budding trees and a few red birds here and there, but otherwise, not overly exciting.
While it is nice hanging out with Brendon for a while, our conversation isn’t too lively, either. He asks what music I was playing last night, and I tell him the songs that had been stuck in my head. I ask if he’s feeling any inspiration yet, and he admits he doesn’t. I agree. He says he’s glad we don’t get cell service in the cabin, because then we’d have to hear Jon and Spencer on the phone to their girlfriends for the entire trip. I laugh, say, “At least we can probably convince them to do all the grocery shopping for us. They can use the good reception in town and sit on their phones while they shop.”
“Yeah,” he grins, “And you and I can sit in the cabin and be bitter we have no one to talk to.”
“We won’t just talk to each other?”
“Course not, I’m already tired of you,” he jokes, and I laugh, turning to look at a blue bird that flies nearby. “I mean,” he amends, “we won’t have anyone to talk to in quite the way they’ll be talking to Haley and Cassie.”
I hum in agreement. “It figures we’d come out to the middle of nowhere, just the four of us, and still be reminded we’re single.”
Brendon makes a face, watching Jon and Spencer stumble over rocks in the path ahead of us. “Yeah, fucking figures.”
***
Jon does end up volunteering to go to the store, but he takes Brendon with him. We only packed enough food for a couple days, figuring we could use the weekends to stock up. Zack left us a car, after all, shitty as it is. Jon can be trusted to get the essentials, in between cell phone breaks, but he and I both agreed Brendon should go along, too, because he can be trusted to pick out the good snacks.
When they leave, Brendon falls a step behind Jon, peering back over his shoulder and mouthing motherfucker at me, clearly annoyed that I volunteered him to go. I give him my best shit-eating grin and wave a hand at him as he closes the door behind himself.
I waste some time jamming with Spencer in the makeshift practice space— the fifth bedroom, which we requested from the cabin’s owner have the bed taken out while we’re here. Placed at the end of the left hallway, across from Jon’s bedroom, it holds Spencer’s drum kit, Brendon’s keyboard, and the other instruments we brought with us. The large window looks out to the back of the cabin, at the top of the hill. There are two windowed doors on either side of the room, which lead out to each of the back decks.
We spend time playing some songs we know how to play, written by anybody but us. We figured we’d get into the swing of playing music on this trip, without thinking too hard about our own band just yet. While neither one of us is a singer, we sing along anyway, the way we used to when we were younger and practicing songs in Spencer’s garage. It’s nostalgic, playing just he and I. If we never get any work done while we’re here, at least we’ll have had some good times anyway.
We’re midway through an old Fall Out Boy song (which we don’t exactly know how to play, but we’re winging it, laughing as we fuck up the notes) when the front door opens. Brendon’s voice calls out to us, beckoning us to the living room. Spencer and I both roll our eyes as we head out.
There’s a pile of plastic bags in the living room by the door, and Jon and Brendon collapse onto the couch nearest to them. “Fruitful shopping trip, then, huh?” Spencer asks, eyeing the bags full of food.
Jon gives a thumbs up, mostly ignoring us tiredly with his eyes shut. For a moment, I think he’s being dramatic, but figure a shopping trip alone with Brendon must have been pretty exhausting. Brendon looks up at us from his place on the couch. “Since we did the shopping,” he says, waving a hand at the groceries, “you guys can put it all away.”
Spencer and I begrudgingly start unloading the food, and Brendon walks over to oversee our work. “You guys do anything interesting while we were gone?”
Spencer says, “Just played some music in the back.”
“Anything good?”
“Chicago Is So Two Years Ago,” I call out, shoulder deep in the fridge, arranging groceries.
Brendon hums in response. He hangs around to watch us gather up empty shopping bags for a moment before padding off to his bedroom, singing to himself, with every breath I wish your body will be broken again, again.
***
It’s a mild Sunday, and I decide it’s time to buckle myself down a bit and get some work done. Of course, it doesn’t go quite to plan, as I end up filling my notebook mostly with doodles as I sit by the lake. I lugged one of the wooden deck chairs down with me, its worn feet sinking into the sand. Clouds cover the sky, white and without impending rain, and every so often a break appears to reveal the blue sky and let some light shine down onto the water. A couple birds land on the tiny pier a distance away.
A breeze shakes the trees that surround the lake. A few words come to me here and there— candled swans, wax ponds, floating flocks— but they’re free-floating and not anything substantial.
“Writing a hit?”
I startle a bit as I turn and look behind me, Brendon walking down the grass towards the lakeshore. He stops a bit away. I get shy with my notebooks; the others all know this by now. Brendon probably doesn’t want me thinking he’s reading over my shoulder, and I appreciate it.
“Eh, probably not,” I say, shrugging.
“Well,” Brendon offers, “it’s more than the rest of us are doing. There’s food inside, if you want.”
With that, he heads back to the cabin, probably hungry. I stay where I am, looking out onto the lake, trying to get back to my train of thought. Candled swans, wax ponds, floating flocks…
I can’t seem to find the inspiration anymore, my mind having been interrupted, now only thinking of Brendon. Not what I need right now.
I jot down a few more lines— throwing a line out to sea, to see if I can catch a dream— and close my notebook, heading back to land.
***
When I wake up Monday morning, it’s to the sound of faint acoustic guitar. I rub the sleep from my eyes and rise out of bed, following the sound to Brendon’s open bedroom door. I lean my bare shoulder on the door frame, and he glances up at me, still strumming. “Morning,” he says, and drops his gaze back to the frets.
“Morning,” I return. He’s still in his pajamas, glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, his contacts not in yet. I stand and listen for a while— he’s not playing anything new. I begin to recognize it as a song from the radio, which he’s probably figured out how to play by ear. The song finishes, Brendon trailing off unceremoniously, and he looks at me, almost expectantly. Like he’s waiting for questions, comments, concerns. I don’t have much to say, still tired. “I’m going for a shower,” I supply, and he nods, pushing his glasses up with the back of his hand and fiddling with his guitar pick. I leave, into the bathroom to stand in the hot water and hopefully wake up a bit.
Afterward, I glance into Brendon’s room, but he isn’t in his bed where I left him. Toweling off my wet hair, I go to my room to dress.
Jon and Brendon end up going for another walk around the area, resolving to take a different path than last time, although I think the scenery will be exactly the same. Spencer and I stay in the cabin, keeping warm in front of the wood stove. The cabin stays warm enough on its own, even on the cooler mornings, but it’s nice to cozy up in front of the fire.
“I just feel like I should be doing more,” Spencer laments. “But with drums, what can I really do? It’s easier to hear the guitar and bass first, get a feel for the song. Then I can start coming in with my ideas.”
“I hear you,” I grant him. We’re at the end of our first week in the cabin, and not much music has been made within our walls that doesn’t already belong to someone else. That’s one third of our trip gone, and only a few lyrics and a riff here and there to show for it. “Just wait until Brendon is ready to write drum parts with you, though. He’ll be bouncing off the walls with ideas.”
Spencer laughs, and I reassure him it’ll get done in due time. “I’m not doing much work out here, either, so really, no sweat.”
“I won’t stress it if you wont,” Spencer says, eyeing me, and I can tell he’s reading me like a book. I’m not doing much to hide the fact that I’m worried about the album. “That’s not what we’re here for, anyway. This is supposed to be vacation time. Relax first, write music second.”
“Yeah,” I say, my eyes fixed on the low flames in the wood stove as I think. Spencer’s right, I know that. We’re not here to stress. That would defeat the purpose. We’re here to clear our heads and write music if we feel like it, so we can come together later with fresh minds.
It is tough, though, being idle. It’s not in my nature. The last album was so much of my doing. My vision, carried out with help from the others. My writing, dating back to high school, polished up and put to the music we wrote. I got us signed to the label, and I picked out the name for the band. I don’t think I’m imagining the pressure that’s on me. Of course I share the spotlight with my bandmates— mostly Brendon, as the singer. But I’m one of the front men. I feel like it’s up to me to kick us into gear, to get the ball rolling on the album. To do the bulk of the work.
I’m not used to relaxing.
“Just take it easy,” Spencer adds, and I try to listen. “Let whatever happens, happen.”
***
As it turns out, a week of unwinding was all anyone really needed. The four of us wake up throughout the morning, cooking breakfast and eating it sat on the couch over another old DVD. We sip coffee until the movie ends, and after cleaning up, Jon and I decide to jam on our guitars for the morning, hoping to string together some good melodies.
We head to the practice room and pick out our instruments, and Jon sets up his cell phone. We don’t have any reception in the cabin, but we can still use our phones to record any of the music we put together. I bring my notebook in with us, too, to jot down any notes to use for later.
Spencer likes the setup, and promises to use the space when Jon and I are done later in the day, already itching to sit behind his drums and jam. He sets out for a run around the lake for the morning, leaving the rest of us to do some work.
Brendon doesn’t go for his guitars— rather, he mills around the cabin, cleaning up and hanging around his bedroom. He does stop in for a while to watch Jon and I play. Every so often, I look over to find him nodding along to a melody.
He jumps in here and there to offer some insight or an idea on how to blend a verse to a bridge. He’s got good ideas. Jon and I work well together— something we’d discovered while messing around in our spare time on tour. We think the same way, and music flows easily between the two of us. But Brendon finds a way to make each song unique, interesting. He has a natural way with music, an intrinsic skill. His input is invaluable.
After a while, Spencer returns from his run, and as promised, Jon and I leave him the practice space. He taps away at the drum kit for some time, mostly just jamming but every now and again pausing, presumably to jot down the notes to a beat he’s created. The rest of us retire to our respective rooms, taking our guitars with us. I play some music for a while, coming up with a few good riffs, but I set my guitar down after a while. In an effort to keep a good balance between work and rest, I lie in bed for some time, relaxing in the middle of my day.
At some point, I drift off to a lullaby played next door, Brendon’s voice singing me to sleep through the wall.
***
I shouldn’t have expected for us to ride the wave of productivity for too long. That was wishful thinking on my part.
I’m not upset— I appreciate the break, too. The four of us have decided that one day of rigorous work was enough for us. Spencer and Jon cook a meal for dinner, and we drink beers that Brendon had the good sense to pick up when he and Jon went shopping. We watch another movie on the old TV, laughing and shouting at the screen.
It feels almost like being a teenager again— not that we’re that much older than that now, but there’s something about sitting around on a couch together, drinking cheap beer and purposefully avoiding the real world. We’ve been thrust into a spotlight at a young age, and it’s hard sometimes to remember how young we all still are. Spencer’s only 19. Jon is the oldest and he’s still just 21.
It might be the buzz from the beers I’ve had, or the way we’re all crammed into this cabin like it’s summer camp. But something about being here, especially tonight, makes me feel… lighter. Alive. The de-stressing element of this trip is working its magic on us already.
After the movie ends, Spencer announces he’s going to bed. Jon follows soon after. Brendon and I hang back to clean up a bit, putting the movie away and clearing up empty beer bottles.
Brendon locates the blue recycling bin in the cabinet beneath the sink, tossing the brass-colored bottles inside. I cringe each time a bottle is haphazardly thrown in, glass clinking loudly inside. “Brendon,” I call out from the living room, “The guys are going to sleep. Maybe be a bit more caref—”
“Oh, shit!” he shouts, and I roll my eyes to myself. I turn around to find him holding up a bottle of whiskey, half-full and golden brown. His eyes are wide with a smile stuck on his face.
“Good stuff,” I say, walking up to get a closer look at the label. The owner or a previous guest must have left that hidden under the sink. “Too bad Jon and Spence left before you found that thing.”
“We’ll have to save them some,” he says, pulling the cap off the bottle. He holds it up to his nose, taking a deep breath and immediately scrunching his nose at the smell. We got used to drinking after shows on tour, but we never quite matured when it came to good liquor.
I smirk, and Brendon hands me the bottle. I grab the cap from his other hand and start closing off the bottle. “And here I thought we were about to turn in for the night.”
Brendon snatches the cap back. “The night’s just beginning!” he says, smelling the liquor again, from a safe distance this time. “Midnight on a… what day is it again?”
“Wednesday.”
“Ah, shit. Well, it’s the weekend somewhere.”
With that, he brings the bottle to his mouth, tipping back and taking a swig. I watch in amusement as his mouth twists up, and I swear I see his eyes start to water. “Smooth,” he croaks.
I gesture with my hand for him to hand me the bottle. I’m not much of a liquor drinker. I’ve tasted some whiskeys and brandies in my childhood, my father laughing down as he let me have a sip on holidays. The older I got, the more careful I was around it, though, as it turned out my father had a bit too heavy of a relationship with the stuff.
I mostly stick to beer, but I’ll never turn down an opportunity to show Brendon up. I knock back a tentative sip, and hold back the urge to make a face.
I fail, though, wrinkling my nose, and Brendon grins. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
We continue to clear up the cabin, which tends to accumulate some mess at the end of each day. Spencer and Jon are gracious enough to cook most nights, but they leave Brendon and I some work to do in cleaning up after them.
Once most of the space is clean, we sit at the table, talking shit and keeping the open whiskey bottle between us. We talk about the movie, and about music, and about home, and about the album. I tell Brendon I’ve got a few guitar melodies written, and some good lines, too, that I came up with by the lake.
“Ah, so you were writing a hit back there, then,” he says, and I shake my head.
“Just some little phrases that sounded good. I still need to make some actual lyrics out of them.”
“Well, you’ve got time.”
I hum, taking a chance and reaching for the whiskey bottle. I have another sip, trying not to grimace.
Brendon continues, “I’ve tried writing a couple riffs, and I always think they’re really good, and then I realize I’m just playing a song I heard on a CD a month ago.”
“Was that what you were playing the other morning?” Brendon quirks an eyebrow, and I add, “When you woke me up playing your guitar?”
“Ah.” He smiles then, eyes locked on mine, and I slide the bottle over to him across the scratched wood of the table, just for something to do with my hands. He taps at the glass with his fingertips, picking at the label. “Maybe. I woke up early and couldn’t sleep again so I was just playing whatever.”
“Playing whatever a bit loudly.” I mutter, watching him take a sip. “Some of us could have slept in more.”
He clears his throat, wiping a hand over his lips. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“Nah, not really. I’m just fucking with you.”
Brendon smiles. “So, was it, then?”
“Was it what?”
He clarifies, “Something from a CD? Was it familiar to you?”
I laugh. “I was half asleep, I don’t remember what you were playing.”
Brendon stands, and I watch him wobble a bit. “Well, come on. It’s been stuck in my head, so I need to know if it’s actually worth using or not.”
He grabs the whiskey and starts off toward his room. He stumbles over the rug a bit, and it’s good we’ll be further away from Jon and Spencer’s rooms. We don’t need them waking up and complaining about any noise.
I stand up too— the liquor reaching my head when I do— and follow Brendon down the hallway to his room. I laugh to myself at Brendon’s haste; he already has his guitar in his hands by the time I reach him.
“Okay, tell me if you recognize this.” He sits on the edge of his bed, guitar on his knee. He begins to strum a melody, and I sit on the far end of the bed and listen. He strums a sour note (“Wait, hold on, shit.”) and continues on. While he plays, he looks up at me through his lashes, makes sure I’m listening, then looks back to the strings.
I know I’ve got a stupid, half-drunk smile stuck on my face, but I don’t really care. I sip some more of the whiskey and watch Brendon’s thumb pluck over the strings.
The melody trails off and Brendon waves a hand. “Something like that,” he mumbles, and I tell him I don’t know the song.
“If it is something from a CD, I’d need to hear the words. But I don’t recognize it, no.”
Brendon fiddles with the guitar before reaching out and making grabby hands at the whiskey. I hand it over and he takes a slug, and sets the bottle onto the nightstand. “So, it is original? I’m just that good, then?” he teases, playing through the tune once again with a drunk grin.
“Guess so,” I grant him. The riff is catchy. I pay close attention, hoping I’ll remember it in the morning. I can try putting some words to it.
“You really haven’t written anything?” Brendon asks, his hands stopping on the strings and looking at me with questioning eyes.
“Not really, no. Nothing serious, anyway. Here—” I reach out and gesture for him to hand me the guitar— “Just simple stuff, like this.” I play a quick couple of notes, a short tune I thought up. “I like the way that sounds. But no, no real songs yet.”
“Show me again?”
Brendon scoots closer to me on the bed, and I play the tune again. I end up winging a melody after, something short and simple, and loop back to my riff. Brendon starts humming along, and nodding his head to the rhythm. “Do this—” he reaches out and places my fingers along the frets, but my hands aren’t cooperating, and he sighs in frustration before giving up. He shifts a little so he’s behind me, and he takes the guitar in his own hands, only it’s still in my lap. He hugs me from behind as he plays some notes on the guitar. “Like that,” he commands, and lets the guitar go, and I grab it with my own hands, and try to replicate what he’s played.
I fuck it up, though, and I laugh, because this is ridiculous. Brendon laughs, too, says, “Do it better!” and moves my fingers on the fretboard again. He’s still behind me, pressed flush to my back, his chin resting a bit uncomfortably on my shoulder.
I’m not entirely sure what happens next. I can try to replay it, but there are pieces missing. It’s like a movie, but the disc is scratched up and the scenes are skipping around. Brendon and I stay in his room, sitting up close on his bed. We each have a few more sips of the whiskey— small ones, but probably still a little too much, on top of the beers we drank hours ago with dinner. We take turns trading the bottle and the guitar, working clumsily and drunkenly on makeshift songs, laughing and making fun.
Apparently, I’m more of a lightweight than I thought when it comes to liquor. I don’t black out completely, but I only remember certain moments of the rest of the night, coming and going in split-second shots.
One, Brendon cackling openly and loudly at a joke I don’t recall telling. I tell him off, because while his room is far enough from the others’ to hide any sounds from the acoustic guitar, surely they’d hear Brendon’s voice carry. He laughs some more and points at me accusingly. “You’re yelling!”
“I am not,” I whisper back, and Brendon giggles, and I smile, too.
Two, looking out to the foot of the bed where the guitar sits, forgotten after some time. To my right, Brendon sits cross-legged, his shoulder and his elbow and his knee all pressed right up against mine. He’s talking, and I let out a laugh, but I don’t know what he’s said. His voice buzzes in my ear, muddled. He rests a hand on my knee. My eyes stay fixed on the guitar.
Three, and this one’s quick: his face close to mine, gold in the light from the lamp on his nightstand. His eyes are cast down, eyelashes dark. He’s smiling, white teeth. His lips are wet and glistening in the light and I smell whiskey. He’s warm.
Four. I stir awake at some point during the night. I’m not in my bed, there’s no window on the wall opposite me. It’s unbelievably warm, and I realize I’m still in all my clothes. I kick the blanket off my legs and turn to face the wall. Someone behind me stirs. I fall asleep.