Page 24 of Unholy Confessions
I appreciate him trying to save me, but it just makes the contrast between us more obvious. He's confident, charismatic, born for the spotlight. I'm the guy who needs his older brother to rescue him from interview questions.
"Well, that's what makes a great band," Marcus says diplomatically. "Different strengths coming together. So what's next for Grey Skies?"
The rest of the interview blurs together – questions about our tour, upcoming album, favorite venues. EJ handles most of it while I nod and smile at appropriate moments, counting down the minutes until we can leave.
When it's finally over, Marcus shakes our hands again and asks for a quick photo. I paste on my best fake smile and try not to think about how many times this picture will be compared to other shots of EJ looking effortlessly cool while I look like I'd rather be anywhere else. It always is, which is why I don't spend much time on the internet anymore. There's always comparisons and competition between fans. It's a popularity contest that I prefer not to be a part of.
Outside, the Denver air is getting cooler as nighttime approaches. Our driver is waiting to take us to dinner with the rest of the band – Jake, our drummer, and Mitch, our bassist. They've been doing press all day too, hitting up local TV stations while EJ and I worked the radio. Being a newer band, we're grinding for everything we can get, even with the power of our parents and last names.
"You okay?" EJ asks as we settle into the backseat. "You seemed a little off in there."
"I'm fine." It's my standard response, the one I've perfected over months of people asking that exact question. "Just tired, and already missing Montgomery."
He studies my face for a moment, and I can see him debating whether to push. We used to talk about everything, back before I was a teenager, before the band, before the pressure started building, before I started needing little white pills just to get through the day.
"You know you can talk to me, right?" he says finally. His eyes reminding me so much of our dad's. "About anything."
The concern in his voice almost breaks me. Almost makes me want to tell him about the extra pill rattling in my pocket (just in case), about how I haven't slept more than three hours straight in weeks, about how sometimes I feel like I'm drowning while everyone else is swimming just fine.
Instead, I nod and turn to look out the window. "I know. Thanks."
The restaurant is one of those trendy places with exposed brick walls and Edison bulb lighting that makes everyone look vaguely orange. Perfect for social media photos, I guess,when I see our marketing person setting up to take a few. Jake and Mitch are already there, looking not as drained as I feel. Touring takes it out of all of us, but they handle it better than I do. Always have.
"How'd the interviews go?" Mitch asks as we slide into the booth.
"Same old questions," EJ says, flagging down the waitress. "Legacy stuff, what's it like being Thompson kids, blah blah blah."
"At least they're still talking about us," Jake points out. "Better than being ignored."
"Speak for yourself," I mutter, then immediately regret it when everyone turns to look at me. "Sorry. Just... long day."
The waitress appears with menus and that practiced smile service workers perfect. She's probably in her early twenties, cute in a girl-next-door way that reminds me painfully of Montgomery.
"Can I start you off with some drinks?" she asks, her eyes lingering on EJ just a beat too long. They always do. I can't tell you the number of women who flirt with my brother, along with how many he takes back to his hotel or the bus. Literally one in every town. He's having a great time while we're out on tour.
We order – beers for everyone except me. I stick to water, knowing alcohol won't mix well with what's already in my system. The guys dive into conversation about tomorrow's show in Kansas, discussing if we should change up our set list while I push food around my plate and check my phone for messages from Montgomery.
Nothing yet. She's probably still in the air, or maybe dealing with the time change. I try to calculate where she'd be by now, but my brain feels foggy, sluggish. I need something. That pill is burning a fucking hole in my pocket.
The thought hits me like a slap. I took my regular dose this morning, then another one before the interview because I was nervous. I shouldn't need more for hours yet. But my hands are starting to shake slightly, and that familiar anxiety is creeping up my throat like bile.
"Earth to RJ," Jake says, waving a hand in front of my face. "You with us, man?"
"Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?"
"The Kansas venue. Remember? We played there last year and the acoustics were shit on stage left."
I nod like I remember, but honestly, all the venues are starting to blur together. Same crowds, same screaming, same feeling like I'm watching my life happen to someone else.
Dinner drags on forever. By the time we pay the check and head back to our bus, waiting for us to hop on so we can head to tomorrow night's show, I'm practically vibrating with the need to be alone. The guys are still talking, voices carrying in the cool night air, but it sounds like they're underwater.
The bus is our home away from home – six bunks, a small living area, and a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. It smells like coffee, stale air freshener, and the particular mixture of four guys living in close quarters for weeks at a time.
"I'm gonna crash," I announce, not waiting for responses before climbing into my bunk. It's the bottom one on the left side, chosen specifically because it's the furthest from the living area and offers the most privacy. Montgomery stays with me a lot, and we've done so many things together in this bunk that it makes me hard just thinking about it.
I pull the curtain shut and lie on my back, staring at the ceiling that's maybe two feet from my face. My phone shows 11:47 PM. Montgomery should be home by now, probably getting ready for bed, three time zones away. I text her anyway: Hope you made it home okay. Miss you already.
Then I wait. And wait. The bus starts moving, the gentle rocking motion that usually soothes me, tonight just makes me feel more restless. I can hear the guys talking quietly in the living area, their voices mixing with the hum of tires on asphalt.
