Page 12 of Wish We Were There

“Pancakes, huh?” he chuckled, and Taylor shrugged. “You and your sweet tooth. Those do sound great, though, to be honest.”

Taylor nodded, but he was staring down at the margarita in front of him. When Zach had finally decided to get sober, Taylor had promised to stay sober with him, too, in solidarity and support. He’d never had a problem with alcohol, but Zach was notorious for throwing himself completely into whatever he did, vices included. There was no need to abstain now, but it still felt strange—a finality to that part of his life.

He pulled the heavy glass up to take a long, slow sip. It was cold and sweet and refreshing: a hit of strawberry first before the bite of the tequila, which made his eyes water. The first sip made him cough, setting the cup down so he wouldn’t spill. The burn was already fading, but his eyes still watered.

“You alright?” Parker asked, his tone concerned, as Taylor coughed and cleared his throat. His eyes were burning, and he wiped them hurriedly. He’d cried so often in the past months that he almost didn’t register the tears blurring his vision—it wasn’t the alcohol, but the swell of mixed emotions that burst to the surface of his consciousness when the taste of it hit his tongue. “Oh—Taylor.”

His name hung in the air between them. He was sure Parker was starting to say something like, it’s okay or don’t cry, but caught himself. Instead, it was only those two words that came out. Oh. Taylor.

“I’m—I’m okay,” he croaked, shaking his head. “Sorry. I don’t know... It just feels like a lot. Final. You know?”

Parker was silent for a long moment. When Taylor’s eyes stopped watering, he glanced up nervously at the other man again, but Parker’s expression was only one of concern and care. He wasn’t pulling away—he wasn’t uncomfortable. Maybe, Taylor thought, he did somehow understand what Taylor meant, despite the mess of words he’d used to unsuccessfully describe it.

“Yeah,” Parker finally replied, his voice just above a whisper. He didn’t say anything else, but reached across the table and squeezed Taylor’s left wrist, the one not in the cast. It was a short, tight, supportive squeeze, but somehow it felt unfathomably intimate, enough to make him feel like his face was burning.

“It’s... It’s really good, though,” Taylor finally forced out. Parker stared at him for a moment, then chuckled, the smile breaking across his features with relief. Taylor took another sip, and this time it felt like a weight being released from his body. Cold, and sweet, and refreshing. “Yeah. It’s good.”

Parker’s gaze was soft and affectionate now. “Told you this place was good.”

What if he just told Parker now? Taylor’s heart started pounding. He wanted to tell him—to tell him everything—but if one sip of a margarita could make him tear up, maybe it would be better to wait. No, now wasn’t ideal. It could wait. It would have to.

Instead, he smiled in return. “You were right.”

When he got home later that afternoon, Taylor stood in the entryway of the house for a long, long moment, staring across the hall into the living room. So much of Zach’s stuff was already packed away, but there was still a half-filled duffel bag of clothes in the closet, and a pile of random books and electronics in their studio. Even without seeing them, Taylor knew they were still there—could feel their presence acutely, like splinters stuck in his skin. He hadn’t had the heart to finish packing them away yet.

But something in him had changed at brunch. No, it had started sooner than that—it had started when he stood in the empty pit of The Bridge, remembering the first show they’d every played on that stage and simultaneously imagining what it would be like when it was his. It was the first time he could clearly see what his future could be like without the band, without his life orbiting around Zach and his gravitational magnetism.

He ended up in the studio first, staring at all their recording equipment and keyboards that made a maze of the room. He could get rid of it all. What good was any of this to him now?

On the desk that had once housed Zach’s computer, there was a clear plastic bin that had a few assorted microphones and guitar pedals, some notebooks with scribbled lyrics that had never made it out of the brainstorming stage, a mess of tangled aux cords, and some self-help books. Taylor could still so clearly see Zach curled up on the couch with one of those books in his lap, eyes locked on it with the intensity of a man who truly believed it might hold the key to fixing everything wrong in his life.

He’d been obsessed with these sorts of books when he got sober; Taylor didn’t think he’d ever seen Zach re-read one, though. He didn’t know how much they’d ever helped him, if at all. But he could still clearly see Zach here—his dark hair pushed back messily, the small tattoo under his eye crinkled and distorted as he squinted in concentration—and despite everything, it made Taylor’s heart squeeze to remember.

Taylor turned away from the box of stuff that he still had to get rid of, instead scanning the walls. He didn’t play guitar, so he’d probably give them all over to Kylie or Angie, or sell some of them. There were some mounted special editions of their albums and the handful of awards they’d won—those he might give to the other members of the band, too.

There was only one thing he really wanted to keep. Carefully mounted in a small frame, the handwritten lyrics of Wish We Were There hung on the wall above the desk where Zach used to work. The final version of the song had changed a bit, but this was the first iteration of the song that had launched them into fame and success. It didn’t look special. He’d written it in pencil on lined paper ripped out of a 99-cent notebook that they had probably picked up from a drugstore somewhere in the Midwest while on tour. The paper was marked with both Zach’s messy scrawl and Taylor’s more careful handwriting; Zach had written the opening and the bridge, and Taylor had come up with the chorus. He didn’t even remember where they were when they’d worked on the song—here at home, or on the tour bus, or maybe even some random cafe or diner in another state that he would never visit again.

But he knew what he’d been feeling when he wrote the lyrics. Maybe he’d already known then how things were changing. Baby, don’t you wish we were there?

With newfound resolve, he finished packing. He took the pedals out of the box—Angie had her own preferred pedals, but he figured she should get first pick before he sold them—and filled the rest of it with remaining cords and books, until he could barely get the locking clip over the lid to keep it closed.

“Sorry, babe,” he said softly once it was done, then carried it out into the garage. The last of his clothes were next, tossed haphazardly into a bag before joining the box. Tomorrow, he’d take it to the donation center, drop it off, and never see any of it again. Then everything in the house would be his, before the rest of the band came for dinner. Before Parker was here. Something in that felt refreshing, somehow.

Bittersweet, he thought, closing the garage door behind him. There’s a lyric there somewhere. But he shook the idea away before his mind could start puzzling it out. He was done with music, with songs, with the band. And Zach. He didn’t need any of it anymore.

Chapter Six

Parker

This is so stupid. It’s dinner with the band, not a date.

Dinner with Taylor and the rest of the band was in less than an hour, and Parker had spent the last forty minutes staring at himself in the mirror and trying different outfits. Despite how much he repeated to himself that he was overthinking this, none of the things that he would usually wear seemed right. His go-to dressed up outfit was too nice; something more casual felt too flippant. Texting Taylor to ask him about a dress code was entirely out of the question—he was sure no one was thinking about it as hard as he was.

And then there was the matter of his hair. Short and dark brown with a tiny hint of a natural wave when it started getting a little long; he rarely gave it a second thought, but sometimes he wore it all pushed to one side, and sometimes he wore it slicked back. It was at a length now where the waviness wasn’t really visible, but he could always squish some mousse into the length to help accentuate it—or should he just wear it to the side like normal? He had a little bit of scruff, too, but in his panic ended up shaving his face.

In the end, he left his apartment five minutes later than he’d meant to: clean-shaven with his hair pushed to the side with pomade, wearing a gray and black patterned button-down shirt, black jeans, and his brown leather jacket draped over one arm to ward off the outdoor autumn chill.

It wasn’t his nicest outfit, but it would be nice enough for a dinner party. Hopefully. Maybe he should have just worn a nice t-shirt instead, something less formal...

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