I took a gulp of scolding tea, and it burned my tongue. I felt it scorch all the way down but it didn’t hurt half as much as knowing that Henry was right. My actions were rash and thoughtless and when I’d woken up it felt like Wile E. Coyote had dumped an anvil over a cliff and it had landed on my chest. Is that why I’d done what I did? I thought I’d let go of all the fear, but maybe I hadn’t. Obviously, I hadn’t because the going hadn’t even gotten tough before I got going.
“Fuck,” I muttered.
I dumped my tea on the outdoor table, raced inside to the kitchen, grabbed my phone off the bench, and raced back out to the chair. In a panic, I started to randomly punch numbers in.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I wailed. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, Henry. I need to ring Jared. I need to sort this shit out. What did I do? Henry, God, if you weren’t so wankered last night this wouldn’t have happened.” I pointed my finger accusingly at his chest to make my point. “You weren’t there like a best friend should be while I lost the plot.”
Henry snatched the phone out of my hand, calmly went to my contacts, and dialled Jared’s number before handing it back.
I stood up and started to pace, holding the phone to my ear, feeling my stomach churn.
“I feel sick,” I muttered.
It went to voicemail and I hung up the phone, closing my eyes at the sound of his voice. I already missed hearing it and missed him. Knowing he wasn’t mine anymore and the fact that it was on me made it all the worse.
“Voicemail,” I muttered. “Can’t say what I need to over voicemail. Shit, Henry.”
* * *
Over the next two days, Jared’s phone continually went to voicemail, so I didn’t text. I’d never not been able to get in touch with him. He always, always, made himself available to me. I felt like I should have been stripped nak*d and marched to the town centre and taken ten public lashings to atone for my sins. I cuddled Peter late into the night while he reclined on his back, snoring heavily and consistently, his furry belly heaving up and down. He liked to keep his little front paws propped over the sheets and his head shoved half under the pillow to avoid any light. He was now the survivor of a broken home. This meant he needed to be spoiled to appease my guilt, but I wasn’t sure how to do that considering he pretty much had run of the house already.
The night before we flew out to kick off the tour, we had a minor celebratory dinner, just the six of us, out on the back deck with the barbecue.
Henry stood up, holding a beer, and cleared his throat. Everyone went silent to listen, all assuming it would be a pre-tour pep talk. However, Henry turned until he was facing me, his eyes finding mine.
“So everyone by now knows that Evie was operating under a mental deficiency the other night, and what I want to know is―”
“Jesus, Henry, we did this speech yesterday morning. Are we seriously going to re-hash it?”
Henry finished taking a pull of his beer and sat it down carefully. “Tell me this, Evie, have you spoken to Jared?”
I pushed the food around on my plate. “You know I haven’t spoken to Jared.”
“And why is that?”
“Because when I ring it keeps going to voicemail, asshead. That’s why.” I passed off a piece of sausage to Peter along with pat.
“Have you left a message?”
Looking away, I answered quietly. “No.”
“What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”
“No!” I shouted.
Peter flinched and I immediately gave him another piece of sausage.
“We all love you.” He waved his hand around the table and everyone nodded their agreement. Mac glared because she was still in the throes of anger from my actions. “We all care about you. We’re all here for you.” The last comment was said with a pointed glance at Mac. “But Christ, Evie, look at you. You look like shit, you’re not eating, and…and…”
Mac entered the conversation. “And your shoes don’t match your freaking pants.”
All eyes swivelled to assess my silver sandals and mustard coloured capris as though we’d suddenly teleported into an episode of Project Runway.
“Jared’s a hothead,” I told them.
Everyone was silent, as though processing my announcement and wondering what it had to do with my fashion faux pas.
“You’re stubborn,” Jake responded.
“He leaves wet towels on my bedroom floor,” I pointed out.
Mac snorted. “It’s a wonder he can find clear floor space to leave it there.”
I glared at Mac, evaluating her sanity. “I’m tidy. You’re the one that leaves my clothes in chaos, you…you chaos merchant,” I hissed.
“Stop getting off track,” Henry ordered.
I held up my hand and rattled off each finger. “He’s opinionated, overbearing, violent, arrogant...” I finished with what I considered the death blow. “And he wants four kids.”
Even Mac sucked in an audible breath at that last one.
I nodded at her.
“Yet you still love him anyway,” Henry offered softly.
I pointed my fork at him. “Damn you, Henry.”
“Stop trying to convince yourself that it’s not going to work.”
“Newsflash, Henry. He’s not answering his phone. I don’t need to. It’s already over.”
“The man’s not an idiot,” Frog offered.
All eyes swivelled to Frog, and Cooper expanded upon Frog’s statement with a shrug. “What he’s trying to say is that only an idiot wouldn’t fight for you, Evie.”
Frog nodded.
“Okay, I’m over this conversation. Evie, get upstairs, ring Jared, and leave a message this time. We don’t wanna see you ‘til it’s done.”
At Henry’s order, I stood up, picked up my plate in one hand, Peter in the other so he was tucked under my armpit, gave them all a glare so frosty icicles should have been forming off their interfering eyelashes, and exited the deck.
Contrary to popular opinion, the fact that my calls kept going straight to voicemail told me that Jared was not going to fight for me. As I picked up my phone, I flopped across my bed sideways and wondered how long it would take for the anvil to go away.
Deciding not to try ringing again, I sent off a text message instead. I thought it fitting really, like the circle of life. We began via text, we finished via text. Sort of like live by the sword, die by the sword, only less dramatic really.
E: Current popular opinion is that I am a daft idiot. This is not news. I was the one talking about trust, and in the end, I didn’t trust what you and I had together. I’m sorry.
I left off the clichéd “maybe one day we can be friends” part. In some part because that would’ve turned my whole message into lame rubbish, but mostly because I wasn’t sure I could handle friends with Jared after everything that had come before. I would likely bitch slap the next girl he started seeing into next week, and that would just be embarrassing and awkward for all involved.
Because our flight left at a cringe-worthy time in the morning, I switched off my phone, set my alarm, tucked Peter into the sheets, and drifted to sleep listening to the song Africa by Toto. I liked to listen to this song on repeat under times of great distress because it was better than a shot of Berocca. It was one of my most embarrassing and best kept secrets, along with my love of Rupert Grint from Harry Potter.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning I woke looking hideous enough to earn myself a best actress Oscar. Charlize Theron from Monster was staring back at me in the mirror, only with darker hair and more of it. The only way to pull off the Oscar was to transform back to golden swan in the blink of an eye, so there I was at dawn, once again pulling out my arsenal to perform magical deeds.
After much pounding down of the bathroom door, a minor scuffle over the last two slices of bread between Mac and Henry, another chewed stiletto unearthed from the lounge, forcing Peter to run from Mac’s laser death stare, and another scuffle between Jake and Mac for the front seat (Jake won), we finally hit the road to the airport by way of Steve and Jenna’s place to deliver Peter. I was driving, Frog, Henry, and Cooper were in the back with Mac unhappily wedged between Frog and Henry. Peter was on Jake’s lap, head stuck out the open window, ears flapping like Dumbo and mouth wide open because he was trying to eat air.
Peter was being dropped off at their place for the duration of the tour before we hit the long term airport car park, meeting up with Coby and Travis, my personally designated security for the tour. Jimmy’s messages hadn’t died off, but they hadn’t escalated either. No recent attempts on my life led me to believe that he’d either given up or was just happy to drag the process out to epic proportions, but the wait for something to happen was mentally exhausting.
Handing over Peter was a bit traumatic; the past two days of emotional vulnerability had secured our bond. Jenna, obviously up to date with the whole “it’s over between us” Jared situation, kept eyeing me with grief-stricken disappointment, clearly stuck in the throes of a major grandparentdom setback. I offered her reassuring nods and smiles, a giant box of Peters things (Peter didn’t travel light), and a long list of instructions for his care. Peter was fussy and liked routine. Offering a quick goodbye and a teary cuddle with both Jenna and Peter, I rushed back to the car, and we squealed off to the airport.
Later that morning found the eight of us touching down in Perth, the other side of the country along the west coast of Australia. As we leisurely coasted down the street in a black limousine towards the stadium we’d be performing in that night, a long line of people already snaked down the designated pathways. Spying the limousine heading for a side entrance, the crowd started squealing and shouting. Clearly it was a major quandary as to whether they should risk their head start in the line and attach themselves like barnacles to our car or keep ferociously to their line, thus securing the best standing spot in the mosh pit later that night.
Mac and I giggled and I lowered the window offering a wave so they would know to keep to the line, and it was just the support act. I was startled when I heard shouts of “Oh my God, that’s Jamieson!” and “Evie!” and “That’s Hottie Henry!” People started to surge and I paled. Inside, the limo went silent in shock, so I hastily put the window back up. Everyone eyeballed each other in disbelief.
“Holy shit,” Henry muttered.
Mac tittered. “Hottie Henry?”
My eyes were wide. “How do they even know who we are?”
“Who cares? Did you see how hot those girls were?” Cooper’s eyes were still glued to the window. “Perth is the f**king shit.”
From then on, we were introduced to the world of touring and waded through the thousands involved in putting together such a massive production. There were tour managers, production managers, stage managers, engineers, guitar techs, lighting techs, pyrotechnic techs (basically about four thousand, seven hundred and twenty-nine different types of techs, give or take). Then there were the engineers, security, merchandise crew, and caterers.