Page 26 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

Fuck.

Fuck!

His boyfriend is inside, probably crying his heart out, wondering what he did wrong. Why didn’t I stop him? I don’t want it. I don’t want this pain and devastation that comes with it. But I think deep down I do.

I fuckinglovethat he wants me.

God, the way he calls me baby is enough to get my dick hard, to make my brain short-circuit. Clearly, I’m beyond fucked up because I’m half tempted to find him. It isn’t that I’m horny, no it’s way more twisted than that. He has this ability to make me feel so damn special. Like I’m his first and only. The only spotlight I ever want to be under is the one he beams down on me. It’s like multiple gut punches knowing I’m not the only person he’s made feel that way. I’mnothis first and only.

I doubt I ever will be.

But behind that veil of pheromones and addicting effects on my body, there’s rot. The darkness I still don’t know what to do with or how to get over.

He’s anaddict.And it’s a disease.

It’s a horrible disease that most people never beat. They never recover. What’s it going to look like five years from now? Will he be worse? Sick?Dead?He isn’t wrong, I still want forever but he can’t promise that. He hasn’t even tried to accept his problem. He’s in denial he even has one.

Vomiting blood should’ve been a huge eye-opener for him. Did he even get seen? I doubt it.

I should’ve kicked him out of the room as soon as I saw him crying in bed. But I couldn’t. I just…couldn’t. I walked away before, and that rare vulnerability lured me in. I was hypnotized by such genuine emotion. Nothing clouded in sex or nonchalance. No lies or hiding. He said it’s quiet when I’m there, so I stayed. I gave him that peace.

I’m not sure the cost was worth it.

His taste is still on my lips, his scent in my nose. I can feel his hands on my cheeks and hear his voice in my ears. He haunts me every second of the day. If I could, I’d bleed myself just to wash away every ounce of toxicity flooding him. There’s a deep-seated pain that he’s bestowed on me; the shock of losing him still electrocutes me. I wonder if he knows how deep the wound cut. Does he know how lonely I am without him?

He gave me a taste of before. A taste of the old us, and as exhilarating as it was, I didn’t lie to him. I want more. I want beforeandafter. I want him to be healing and vulnerable like he was hours ago. We need to talk. We need to vent and expose all the cobwebs we keep pretending don’t exist. And that can’t happen as long as he’s with another man.

As long as he stays with Leon, I’ll stay away. I’ll force myself to because it’swrong.

I looked a few days ago, jealousy consuming me, and discovered Eli hadn’t posted since the beginning of the tour. Every video of him with Leon is gone, and his fans are pissed. That has to mean…something, right? Eli wouldn’t take them down without a reason. That’s his livelihood.

Chewing my lip, I flick my eyes back at the house. My stomach fizzles with some sick desire to tell Leon. Just walk into his room and announce, “He kissed me. He wantsme.” There goes that toxic possessiveness rearing its hideous head.

I’m not that person. But I am tired of being forgotten. I’m tired of my voice not mattering, even when I use it. I’m tired of watching the love of my life wither away with someone who doesn’t realize it’s happening. I have to do something, I just don’t know what.

The following week is a blur. We play the shows. I joke around with my band. I eat, sleep, shit—a body on autopilot.

It’s clear that Eli isn’t leaving Leon. He isn’t going back home. For whatever reason, he lingers.

Several times since Thanksgiving, I texted Oli. Because we both use Android phones, I know he’s seen them. Our relationship is estranged—it has been for eight years. Most of that distance is due to how badly I took everything. I love all my siblings, we are pretty close, but Oli could’ve been my twin when we were little.

He loves metal like I do. He loves playing his guitar. He’s pansexual, which made me feel so accepted when I first came out. We both love olives on our pizza, sleep with socks on in the winter, and we’re both allergic to grapes. Despite being younger than me, he’s always felt my age. We’ve always been able to bond over things my other siblings couldn’t. A lot factors into the relationship I used to have with Oli. But then he overdosed, and I backed off. I shut him out.I stopped trying.

Bottom line, I felt betrayed.

We would tell each other everything. I’m self-aware enough to know this tear in one of the most solid parts of my life directly affects how I handle Eli. Maybe that’s why I’m reaching out to my little brother. Maybe if I can fix things with him, I’ll be able to forgive Eli—let him go for good.

Just let me know you’re okay.

The text sends and delivers.

The ball is in Oli’s court now. I don’t know if he wants me as his brother anymore. I can’t say I’d blame him if that’s the case. Instead of trying to understand, I got bitter. I took it personally.

Google says that’s the middle child syndrome. I didn’t used to think I had that shit, but I may. My mom forgot me once, like that kid in Home Alone. Sure, she didn’t leave the country but left me in the grocery store. I was trying to decide which PopTarts I wanted, and the next thing I knew, she was gone.

My dad was not okay with me being gay for a long time. He was cold to me, a little mean, even. But when Oli came out as pansexual, he was better about it. I think he liked the possibility of my brother ending up with a woman at some point—that one hurt. I was a misfit because of how I was born, but Oli got an easy smile and the “I’m glad you told us” speech. I suppose I’m a bit jealous of that. I don’t think anyone even realizes how it molded me, either.

We’re getting closer to the East Coast. Only a handful more shows until we circle back for Christmas, and then we’re getting on a plane to Europe. The scenery changes, but it’s the same routine. Drive, park, sound check, set up, play, pack up, drive. Rinse and repeat. I’m lucky to be a part of this. Lucky to be living a life that so many people never get to. So why don’t I feel lucky? Why do I feel so fucking empty? Part of me wonders if this is what creeps up on some musicians.

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