Life In Reverse(70)

A CHILL HANGS in the air, a welcome burn to my skin. The sky is pitched in darkness, the moon clouded over—a perfect representation of my mood. I take a drag of the cigarette I’ve promised myself is my last one, not exactly giving a f*ck tonight. Come to think of it, I don’t give a f*ck about much these days. Smoke scrapes the back of my throat before I blow it out in a wintery puff.

“Davenport, you’re up in ten. It’s a big crowd tonight.” Paul’s voice bellows from inside and I try to muster the enthusiasm I know he wants to see from me, but never manage to live up to. I can’t remember the last time I had that much enthusiasm for anything. Actually I can. And that’s the f*cking problem.

“Hurry up.” A girl laughs, rushing her friend inside. “I want to get a good seat. Hot musicians and all.”

I roll my eyes. Every week chicks come in and fawn all over us. Little do they know, I don’t want anything to do with them. Not that I haven’t been lured in the past—I’m only human. But it’s the follow-through I’m having the issue with lately. Mostly because I don’t want the emptiness that a quick f*ck carries with it. I want… well, it doesn’t matter what I want. Any chance of me having what I really wanted, I f*cked up a long time ago.

My mind kicks into high gear, reminding me of all the reasons we wouldn’t have worked out. The cards that were stacked against us; our parents, my potential illness. As I go through the checklist in my brain, the same one that played repeatedly these past few years, it doesn’t make me feel any better. It never does. My body sags against the rough brick and I expel a weary sigh.

“Hey, Vance. You okay?”

I angle my head to discover Chris peering out from the back entrance. Lucky for me, the absence of light out here cloaks the truth. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

“Yeaaaah. Okay. You can tell me l-later. You’ve got about five more minutes and then we’re on.”

Chris stares at me a second longer than necessary before he disappears. I should realize by now that I can’t hide anything from him—he knows me too well. Three years ago when… well, when I didn’t know where the hell to go, I showed up on his doorstep. He didn’t f*cking hesitate. He took me in as if nothing had changed, and I owe him big time.

It was Chris who stuck to my side when Mom passed away two years ago with complications from pneumonia. He helped me get through. Navigate the sea of devastation I found myself drowning in. Unable to get past my father’s betrayal, he and I were in a tense stand-off and Julian was an emotional wreck. Our mother’s death hit Julian harder than either of us expected. I found myself trying to lift him up, though I could barely keep my own spirits in check. Most of all, I missed Ember.

I still do.

Exhaling my regret into the frigid air, I flick my cigarette to the cement and stub it out with the heel of my boot. I head inside, making my way through the dimly lit hallway and out to the bar. Immediately, I’m assaulted by the scent of alcohol and too much perfume. Overly sweaty bodies are packed like sardines, dancing to music booming from the speakers as they wait for us to perform.

This gig isn’t anything glamorous, nor is the dive bar we play in. But it keeps me going. It’s something I feel passion for, and there is very little I can say that about these days.





BY THE TIME the set is over, I’m bone tired. Sweat drips from my neck, my t-shirt sticking to my skin. All I want is to crawl into bed and sleep for twenty-four hours straight. Not much different from what I’d like to do on most days. But I’ve been there, done that. And Chris won’t let me get away with it anymore.

We stow our instruments in the back room and Chris gestures toward the bar. “Come on. L-let’s get a drink. Of beer,” he adds with a wink, knowing full well of my aversion to heavy alcohol.

It’s almost two am and the place is still hopping, because it is New York City after all. It’s true what they say—no one ever seems to sleep here.

We squeeze through a group of scantily dressed women and grab two stools at the bar. Chris taps the counter to signal the bartender over. “Two Coronas p-please.”

“Corona?” I nudge his arm. “What are you, slumming it?”

“Nah.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the bar. “I just d-don’t want to make you feel bad.”

I smack him lightly on the back. “Thanks, man. You’re a good friend.”

“I know.” He smirks. “Just don’t f-forget it this time.” The bartender brings over our beers and Chris slides a bowl of peanuts down, popping a few in his mouth. “Do you remember when we talked about opening up a bar together?”

“Yes.” I take a long pull of my beer then set it down on the counter. “What a stupid f*cking idea that was.”

“I know, right?” Chris runs a hand through his dirty blond hair; longer in the front, shorter on the sides. “Of course, that was when you couldn’t get a job to save your freaking life,” he throws in, and I glare at him. “How the heck d-did we go from wanting to open a bar, to starting a consulting business?”

“Easy. We were always good at messing around with shit. Do you remember how many computers we took apart back in the day, just to see if we could actually put them back together?”

His mouth curves and he picks at the label of his beer. “I’ll never forget that t-time when my father came home and saw us on the floor of the living room with his laptop.” He laughs, giving me a sideways glance. “He nearly had a coronary.”