“Sure you do!” Cline takes a step forward and points to Royal. “You think she left because we broke up and she couldn’t stand to be around me. You told me it wasn’t a good idea to get involved with her from the beginning, and I didn’t listen. You think I ruined a good thing for us.” He points to Lucie. “You think she made the right choice to leave. You probably even encouraged her to.”
“I didn’t—” She raises her voice, but he shouts over her.
“And you.” He points to Stokes; his skeleton face paint and harsh fluorescent lighting enhancing his frightening expression. “You wish I’d left instead of her.”
Stokes stares at him, unflinching.
Finally, he points to Jamie. “And this is the guy I blamed.” His voice chokes up at the end. “Jamie, I’m sorry for that. I blamed you for taking her away, but you didn’t.” His voice shakes as he speaks, and his hand falls to his side. “You can’t steal someone away. They either want what they have or they want something else. Pascha didn’t want me. It wasn’t about you guys. I’m sorry, okay?”
“I don’t wish it was you who left instead of her,” Stokes says. “The four of us started this thing together. You’re my family. Pascha became a part of it, too, but she’s doing what’s right for her. So are we.”
“I know we’re all under a lot of pressure and stress since she left.” Jamie takes a step forward, creating a circle among the group. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, make sure Pascha’s safe.”
Royal approaches Cline and pulls him into a big hug. They pound each other on the back before letting go and Cline shrugs, picking up his beer bottle.
“She took her opportunity,” Cline says, raising his bottle. “Let’s not miss ours.”
Royal nods, grabbing beers out of his backpack and passing them around to each of us, including Jamie.
“Give ‘em what they want to hear,” Cline shouts, as we all twist our caps off and call back.
“Pour ourselves a pint of beer,” Lucie says, raising her drink.
“Pour ourselves a pint of beer!” we all chant.
“Give us all a double shot,” Royal says, pulling on Cline’s neck to complete the small circle.
“Give us all a double shot!”
“Give the fans all we got,” Stokes shouts.
“Give the fans all we got!”
“Cheers!” we all shout.
“To the band,” Stokes shouts.
“To the fans,” Royal and I both shout, laughing after.
“To the motherfucking drinks in our hands,” Cline shouts.
We all clink our beers together before drinking.
For the first time, it feels like we’re a real band. I smile, soaking in the moment as we funnel down the hallway to a door with a sign that reads To the Stage. The noise of the crowd grows louder than the last venue by five times at least.
We open the door and a security metal gate lines a walkway for us to the stage, separating us from the crowd. As we walk along it, several patrons wave and cheer, lining the gate. We climb a few steps onto the stage and the crowd is huge.
Several spotlights move slowly over the stage, and I brace myself for the chants of Pascha’s name as I reach my mic. But as Stokes guessed, the audience doesn’t seem to mind that I’m filling in, if they realize I’m not a permanent member at all.
“Hey everybody!” Stokes shouts into his mic. “We’re Haddonboro! We’ve got us here Bane on the drums! Ripley on the keys! Skeleton on the bass! And finally our dead bride and Jigsaw, singing just for you tonight—”
“Tonight,” Cline interrupts. “We dedicate this show to the people who show up. The ones who are there when you need ‘em.” The crowd quiets down as he speaks. “The ones who were there from the start. To all the assholes who left, thinking they took your world with ‘em when they went—guess what? They didn’t!”
“Yeah!” some of the crowd cheers.
“’Cause guess what?” he shouts.
“What?” a smattering of the crowd answers.
“You don’t need ‘em and you’re better off!”
Hoots and hollers fill the air, overpowering the melody from the keyboard. Cline points to Royal, he hits the drums, and we roll right into our set with the cheering crowd.
The electric energy from the audience and the chemistry of the band fuels me as we play song after song to the huge music hall. The ones who don’t sing right along at first soon learn the chorus, and as we reach our last song, and the final verses, they sing with us.
“She’ll take her love away from me,” Stokes sings, “and while she’s at it, she can take her jealousy.”
As Stokes and I finish the final chorus of the last song together, a face stands out among the crowd, staring right back at me.
Howard.
“Leave me, leave you, leave it all behind,” we both sing, and I look away from Howard to Stokes as we share a glance. “Finding some peace of mind, but it’s never the same.”
“Leave me,” he says, as I sing, “Leave you.” And we all sing, “Leave it all behind.” I open my eyes and Howard is still staring at me, the only body in the crowd I can see not moving to the music. “‘Cause when you took me, you took your time, and I’ll find my peace of mind once you’re really gone.”
Cline steps forward for his guitar solo and as I sway to the music, I can feel Howard’s eyes on me. Just his, amongst all the people who could be looking at me right now. I know he’s still looking like I knew someone was following me on the sidewalk, and by the street, and in their car.
The music overwhelms me, and I grab the mic for something to hold on to, to keep my hands from shaking. Closing my eyes, I hold on through the end of the solo when the guitars and drums stop, and we’re left
