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He always seemed to want me around. It was taking some getting used to. Hell, even using the word dating had taken some getting used to.
The venue smelled of beer and dust and the still-clinging echo of smoke, and I claimed a spot near the wall so I wouldn’t have to deal with a bunch of strangers bumping into me.
The band was good, I thought, but I only had eyes for Rhys. He looked alive and carefree and effortlessly cool. Worn denim hugged his muscular thighs as his boot heels stomped the stage, and a faded plaid snap-front shirt and his brown leather guitar strap stretched across his broad chest. Blond hair glowing under the stage lights and blue eyes snapping, Rhys sank into the music like it was the most natural thing on earth.
He sang confidently, voice full of life and texture, but never once did he overpower the lead singer, never once did he pull focus. Not on purpose, anyway. It was a testament to the man he was, as well as the musician. He was passionate about what he did, but he wouldn’t let his passion for it diminish anyone else’s. It wasn’t grasping or greedy, but respectful. And I admired the shit out of it, especially since I knew he wanted his own shot.
He was a fucking star, even if the world didn’t know it yet.
Backstage after the show, Rhys’s face lit up when he saw me, and he dragged me into a huge bear hug, arms so tight around me he lifted me off the ground. I could feel the heat coming off him through his clothes, and he was damp with sweat.
“Hey!” he called to the rest of the band, grinning. He slid his palm to the back of my neck, callused fingers playing with my hair for a moment before he pulled me tight to his side. “Come meet my guy.”
* * *
—
The rest of the first week after Rhys left for tour was busy days and sleepless, empty nights. On Wednesday I took the train into the city earlier than I usually did, and took a later one home. By Friday, I was out of the house at six and wandered around Harlem after work until nine before I headed home. Bonus, off-peak ticket prices.
When Rhys called on Thursday before his show and heard the city in the background, I told him I had stayed late to get caught up on some work. When the same thing happened on Friday, I said it was because I was going to see a movie.
How could I tell Rhys I was twenty-five years old and I didn’t want to be in the house alone?
Although we’d spent a lot of time talking about his tour, this was the part I hadn’t let myself consider. The alone part. Rhys had brought it up a few times, mostly at night, with the lights off and his hand in my hair.
“I don’t want you to be lonely,” he’d said, and I’d buried my face in his neck.
Because I’d told myself that wasn’t me anymore. I told myself that there was a before and an after. Before, I was Grim, with no family, no prospects, no future. Never precisely lonely because I didn’t know any other way.
But this was the after. Now, I was Matt Argento, with a job I loved, a husband I loved, and a home. Like, a for real house with a backyard and a fence and a grill that had a cover for the winter. And that meant I had a future. Yes, Rhys might be leaving on tour for a little while, but he would come back. He’d promised he would come back. So I just had to float through the time he was gone, and everything would be okay again.
I told myself over and over that I was fine. I was Matt. I wasn’t Grim. Not anymore. And I had truly believed it.
But now, things that I had pushed down so deep I thought they had collapsed under the weight of my disregard were beginning to scratch at the corners of my mind.
On Saturday morning, I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. As I was stirring sugar into my coffee, my phone chimed with a text from Rhys.
Don’t be mad at me! I love you and I wish I was there to kiss the shit out of you.
I sat, staring at the screen, trying to figure out what I’d done to make him think I was mad at him. Had he known I was lying about seeing a movie the night before? Sometimes I did things that I thought were nothing, and Rhys thought they meant I was angry, or upset, or depressed. So it wasn’t unrealistic that I’d done something.
