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CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE
The interview with Jason Ambrose had somehow felt like meeting up for coffee with a long-lost friend. I couldn’t explain why I had a connection with him, but he was the kind of person who made me feel at home the second we shook hands. His office was comfortable and quaint, and I breathed easily through the topics he brought up.
After the interview, he told me that he was gay, too, and though he had been out for a long time, it was an honor to help me tell my story. It felt like too much respect after all I’d done to those around me—but I tried to accept his kind words.
That’s something I’m trying to learn more each day: how to accept myself, accept the things I did that led me to the present, and to forgive myself. The forgiveness will take longer, but I’m trying.
After my issue ofGQwas released, everyone went wild. People who didn’t like or follow our music had a newfound interest in April Renegade. I was overwhelmed with the outpouring of love from other celebrities (Sir Elton John included). Most April Renegade fans seemed to support me, though a handful were taken aback by the news. Each day, I get more tweets, DMs, and letters encouraging me and thanking me for being brave. A few people messaged me and told me I’d given them the courage to come out to their friends and family. Those are the only messages I respond to, because I want those individuals to know that I see them, hear them, and support them.
Some fans dropped us without a second thought. It was expected. I’d done my best to brace for it—but, despite it being 2022 and all the progress that’s been made to treat LGBTQ+ individuals with the acceptance we deserve, some people can’t get behind it. It’s been a hard pill to swallow. Instead of wallowing in the hate messages, I try to focus my attention and energy on those who do support me and the band.
Before the magazine was released, I texted Lizette and gave her a heads up. She didn’t respond, but she did send me a message after reading the article. Despite everything I’d put her through, and the things Drew had told her, she told me she hoped I was happy; hoped that being out in the open gave me everything I always wanted. After that, it took me two hours to respond–I didn’t know how to reply to her kindhearted well-wishes. I ended up sending her a long text of all my hopes and dreams for her, and ended it with how sorry I was, again.
I didn’t get a reply. I didn’t expect one, but I hope that she read it and knew I meant every word.
My parents evidently saw or heard my mention of them inGQ. They tried to reach out to me about it, and threatened to appoint legal counsel. “I’d like to see them fucking try,” is all Drew said about that. I couldn’t agree more.
As for Pete—well, we hadn’t heard much from him, which either meant he was handling it okay, or that he was conspiring to break the news to us that our contract would not renew next year.
The magazine has been out for a little less than a week, and tonight we are set to have our final show of the tour at Madison Square Garden. It’s been ages since I’ve suffered such sickening stage fright. As I dress in my massive dressing room, it’s hard to ignore the butterflies, moths, birds, and whatever other winged creatures flap around restlessly in my gut. I’m too afraid to take a shot or a Xanax or a puff off Sean’s vape for fear of fucking up on stage, so I deal with it as best I can. My breathing exercises don’t bring me much relief, so I try to focus on the fact that soon, this tour will be over, we will have some time to rest before we begin making new music in the studio, and tonight, after we exit the stage, Drew and I get to leave together and go home. To our home.
Tonight, I will wear something a little out of my comfort zone. The decision to do so isn’t helping my nerves, but I’m going to stick with it. I was allowed to keep the blinged out rainbow loafers from myGQshoot, so I saidfuck itand brought them with me in the bag that housed all of my stage clothes. I paired the shoes with black skinny jeans with tears in the knees so severe that they almost ripped apart completely, along with a simple, white muscle tee covered. Over the tee, I threw on a black button-down. To top off the look, I put on one of Drew’s beanies that I grabbed from his drawer before we left. It’s worn in, and less of a vibrant orange in color than when he first bought it, but I think having a piece of him on my body tonight will help with my nerves—like a security blanket.
There’s a knock on the door. “Come in!”
Drew comes in, looking hotter then ever, like pure sin. I wag a finger at him and turn back to look at myself in the mirror, adjusting the beanie on my head. “Don’t come in here looking at me like that. I’m trying to stay calm, cool, and collected.”
He stalks toward where I stand in front of the mirror, then brushes up behind me. Drew wraps his arms around my waist and kisses my neck. My body immediately responds; it has a mind of its own when it comes to my partner. Drew wears cut-off shorts stained with blue and white spatter paint, bright yellow Vans, and a long sleeve black t-shirt that I know will end up somewhere on the stage halfway through the show, if not before. My man gets hot when he’s drumming. For once, he’s not wearing a baseball cap or beanie, and I like it. His curls frame his face wildly, which makes him look like a devilish angel sent here to torture me with his good looks.
Drew’s cocky grin fades as he turns me around to face him. “Are you ready, babe?”
He’s been calling me babe, sweetheart, lover, and a string of other endearments since I broke up with Lizzy and officially become his, andonlyhis. I love it—especially when we’re in bed.
“As ready as I can be.”
He spins me around and pulls me into his broad chest. We stay like that for a couple of minutes until we agree that it’s time we get our asses to the stage.
Before we leave, Drew turns to me from where he has a firm grip on the door handle, and motions for me to come closer. I inch into him, and he kisses me tenderly. “You’ve got this. And I love you. Don’t forget that.”
I laugh against his lips. “I will never forget that, Drew. Ever.”
He kisses me a little bit deeper before releasing me, then we leave the room, go through our “Before Show Checklist” with the rest of the gang, and run onto the stage like it’s any other show.
The bass matches the vibrations dancing throughout my nerve-ridden body, but I force myself to focus on Drew’s drumming, and that eases me into what I do best: I sing harder than ever before. I release all the pent-up, anxious energy from the past month into my performance. At one point during the climax of one of our faster songs, I stare up at the lights above us, and I think how lucky I am to be on this stage, right here, right now, with the love of my life behind me.
It’s at that moment that I make one more bold decision.
There’s no funny business during our break before our encore. Instead, I take the time to thank Mike, Drew, Sean, Brian, Trish, and everyone else nearby for supporting me. We hug and cry a little. Well, Sean is the one who cries the most, but I swear I see Mike tear up at one point, too.
The encore goes harder than ever before. All members of the band and the audience sing alongside me. It’s like all of our overlapping lifelines have interwoven and tied together, and it replaces my lingering doubts with a strong, energetic feeling of hope.
Once I’m in the crowd and surfing, I get a better look at the signs that surround me in the sea of people.We love that you love freely, Ash! Say GAY! LGBTQ+ and PROUD! Stop the hate, love the gays!The list goes on, and I can’t help the tears that stream down my face. I cry alongside many in the audience and try my best to hold onto and squeeze each hand that I can reach while I’m among them. I blow kisses and fist pump, and they send them back to me.
When my feet are back on stage, my friends come stand next to me at center stage, right before our final bow. The crowd is screaming at the top of their lungs; I can hardly hear a thing. Confetti and smoke surround us in a cloud, and the music bumps and blares throughout the square.
Now’s the time.
As the others bow, I keep Drew from doing so. I turn him toward me and take his face in my hands. I look him straight in his wide, shocked eyes and I devour him in a heated kiss more appropriate for the bedroom than on a stage in front of thousands of people. The crowd is silent for a millisecond, and then they go ape-shit crazy with cheers and screams that fill up the venue, almost overpowering the music. When Brian, Trish, and Sean come up from their bow, they jump all around us, hooting and hollering. Drew deepens our kiss and slides his tongue in, obviously incredibly fine with–and turned on by–myverypublic display of affection.
We break apart and beam at each other like it’s the first night we met on that chilly April evening when his laughter changed my life forever.
Sean’s face is littered with tears. He and Brian hug onto Drew while Trish clutches at my midsection. I reach for the mic that I’d abandoned before crowd surfing and bring it up to meet my lips.
“My name is Ash Lancing!” I scream into the mic. “I’m in love with Drew Dawson, and we love every person standing on this stage tonight! We’re April Renegade! Good night, and rock on!”
