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I stare at the entrance and the small stoop below it. Behind that door are all of my dreams, everything I’ve built my life toward.
It should feel better than this, I think.
At the entrance of the alleyway, there’s a whirring noise, and the driver sticks his head out the window. “You okay, mate?” His car’s blocking the sidewalk, and I’m not sure if he’s waiting for me to go in or waiting for the traffic to give him room to pull out.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
He pauses, squinting at me, and then gives a half-shrug before disappearing into the car again.
I take a deep breath and sit on one of the steps instead of going in. A few minutes later, the car pulls out.
This would be an ideal time to smoke, but I don’t have any cigarettes on me. I think I’m over the withdrawal now because Sara leaving would have been the ideal time to fall back into that trap.
I almost bought some at the airport but thought better of it.
Part of me, an arrogant part that’s let fame get to my head, thinks that maybe Sara will realize what a mistake she made. If she were to turn up at the end of the alleyway right now to tell me that the band didn’t matter to her, that she loved me in spite of the music and not because, I would be ready to pull her to me and . . .
A dark shape enters the alleyway, bundled up with their head ducked down, and it’s a one-two hit of my heart fluttering, wondering if I manifested Sara here, but my head telling me I know that walk.
Ram’s here.
He slows when he sees me sitting against the door. “Is it locked?”
“No,” I say and start to get up.
With a gentle shove, Ram pushes me back down. Then he sits next to me, letting out a deep sigh.
I get a good look at him. Ram’s eyes are bloodshot, worse than at the concert. I had noticed in Berlin that he’d gotten thinner too. He looks like shit, honestly.
A heavy weight sits in my stomach. Looking at Ram now, with Sara’s concerns in my head, I think we’ve fucked up. It’s easy to brush Ram’s addiction aside when you’re in the industry that takes it as due course. I remember the first time I watched someone do ecstasy in the bathroom after a show. The first time I discovered Ram blitzed out of his mind.
When I met Ram, he was practically a kid—he was seven years younger than me, married, bubbly. Now he’s hardened, by drugs, by divorce. His whole life is the band—and the parties.
“I’ve got this idea for a drum solo,” Ram tells me. He air drums, mimicking noises as he goes, and I close my eyes and listen to him.
When he’s done, I open my eyes, and we’re both grinning.
“It’s good, right?”
I have no idea how this man’s mind works. Sometimes I think he’s a savant; sometimes he irritates the fuck out of me. “Yeah, it’s good.”
He blooms under my praise, and I see that kid again.
We both lean our heads back against the door, and Ram nudges me with his knee. “How’s Sara settling into London?”
I sigh. “She’s not. She’s gone back to the US.”
“Oh? And when’s she visiting?”
Jesus. Read the room.
“She’s not. We’re not together anymore.”
Ram’s face falls, and his eyebrows draw together in concern. I instantly feel bad for being exasperated at him, even if it was in my head.
“Shit,” he says, head falling back against the door.
We’re quiet for a moment until Ram draws his knees into his chest and shuffles around to face me. His back goes against the wrought-iron rails and his elbows rest on his knees. “I thought you two were in love.”
