[these chapters are the best ones. After these, everything goes downhill because the slow burn was too slow for me even though it's supposed to be slow. Also, there are the best chapter titles I only state facts

Anyways I hope u like & have a good day & stay safe I lov you]

5 - Pavlov V.S. Sarah's Weird White Leather Couch

I was stupid and accidentally showed up fifteen minutes early. So I have to stay for an hour and fifteen minutes. I do it spitefully so I hog the entire white leather couch with my body while Sarah and Taylor finish sticking toothpicks through cubed food.

Sarah had brought me a bag, and in that bag was a pair of jeans and a white shirt with a little pocket. She wears a light blue flowing shirt with black jeans and Taylor wears something weirdly similar, but her shirt is yellow and a little tighter. We're the jeans crew now.

"So they have a hotel down the road for tonight. They're just staying in town until tomorrow afternoon." Sarah rambles aloud to herself while she impales more fruit cubes on toothpicks.

"How many people?" Taylor asks. Her voice is low, like I'm partially deaf and she's out of range. I'm not partially deaf.

"Just three. Both managers and the singer."

It's a one person band. I don't know very many single artists that are performing at Kent and Bend's. I can't even name any off the top of my head. Maybe I've gotten so used to getting wasted at her place, I just assume I'll be wasted in no time at all. It's the Pavlov effect, but instead of ringing a bell, it's the presence of the white leather couch that sets it off.

I wiggle my finger in the little shirt pocket. "How much longer? When can I leave? Does my countdown start when they're supposed to get here or when they actually get here? I think my time should start now—"

"Dallon, you sound like my three-year-old nephew." Sarah snaps. "Quit complaining and act like you want to be here, for my sake."

I don't want to be anywhere but my bed. I miss my bed. I've been out for twenty minutes and I'm already reaching my limit of social interaction.

Taylor's hand hangs over the back of the couch. She shoves a shot glass in my hand, packed to the brim with a frozen margarita. "Here. We added a little extra tequila. Get ready to socialize."

"No." I try to give it back but she crosses her arms and hovers over me.

"Do it."

"No."

"Do it or I'll jam the entire thing down your throat."

I down it all in one gulp. She isn't usually intimidating but she can really kick it up a notch when she needs to. I don't get why, I'm pretty sure we could get by the whole trip to Kent and Bend's without speaking a single word to the singer or the two managers.

Just as she snatches the glass from my hand, there's a knock at the door. Instead of getting it for Sarah, I watch her jog across the room in heels carrying a tray of fruit. She sets it on the petrified wood table and scrambles to the door with Taylor behind her.

I don't recognize two of the three voices, but I recognize the third immediately.

It's Brendon from Take Two. Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?

Some lost part of my subconscious still believes the rest of my brain is making it up and resurrecting my crush from a couple years ago, so I don't open my eyes until the door closes and I dare to glance over my shoulder to see him.

I haven't seen any interviews lately or really taken the time to really examine the difference between him now and him a couple years ago. Anyways, he got better. His dark hair is styled up and fluffy, and his smile is the same as it was from the last tour I saw him on. He's still fit as all hell.

Wait. He makes bad music and turned into an asshole. I hate him.

Brendon holds out his hand for me to take, and I do, but I glare at him in my mind. "Nice to meet you. I'm Brendon from—"

"I know who you are."

He frowns but doesn't let go of my hand. He just keeps shaking. His hands are soft as hell. "A-and you're Dallon, right? Last Nights?"

I hate the name of my band. —- is the dumbest name, but the worst part is it isn't even the full name. I was drunk as fuck and decided it would be a fantastic idea to name the duo Last Night's Party Gave Me Alcohol Poisoning And This Nasty Hangover. Further proof that I'm an idiot. I still can't believe Taylor didn't argue against it.

"Half of it." I point to Taylor, standing as the odd one out in a circle with three music managers.

"Ah," he nods, "Taylor. The one with the drumsticks. She's really good at it, isn't she?"

"Yeah."

His smile falters for a second. I pray with every ounce of my body that he'll realize I'm boring and will migrate to the circle, leaving me alone with my hour long countdown. "I loved your song, by the way. Listened to it a couple times on the way here."

"Thanks."

Just my luck, he pulls up one of the bungee chairs. Guess I'll die or something. "Are you excited? For Kent and Bend's?"

"Sure."

He just keeps on talking. "Tyler and Josh said you haven't played a real venue before — crazy that your first one is in front of thousands and thousands of people. But hey, you deserve it. I really mean it when I say your song was amazing."

I do not deserve it. I don't know why me, of all people, is the one that gets hit with fame. I hate crowds, I hate people, I hate anything that has to do with speaking words to someone I don't know. Fame is my own personal nightmare, and I can't escape it anymore. Fame is the hungry lion and I'm dressed in a meat suit bathing in a tub of fragrant barbecue sauce.

When I do quit imagining that, I start hearing something other than white noise, and it takes a moment to register that Brendon is still talking. I don't know about what, I probably don't care, but he's still going.

"...but I guess that's just my experience with festivals. They aren't too bad unless you hate crowds and photos."

"I hate both of those things."

He stops himself from finding a response to frown and glance over his shoulder to Taylor, who's happily chatting away with everyone else. "Well, then why are you in a band?"

"That's a personal question."

"Yeah," he mutters, "I suppose it is."

I would leave it at that and roll over for a nap, but if I'm going to shake him off, I should probably insult him or something of that sort. However, I can't be too mean, but I have to make it clear I don't want to be friends with him or anyone else, ever. "Like music. Hate people. Hate socializing. Hate leaving my house. End of story. No more personal questions."

"Social anxiety then?"

"Did you not hear a word of what I just said? And no, it's not social anxiety. That's another personal answer. No more."

Instead of getting up and leaving like I so desperately want, he shrugs and stays put. I want to slam my head against the petrified wood coffee table until I pass out. I don't know why he's still sitting with me.

"Alright, that's fine," he says, "I get it. But we're sharing a bus together so we should probably start to socialize and be friends."

I disagree, but I don't exactly tell him to fuck off and never speak to me again. I hate people, but I hate Taylor a little less, and I wouldn't want her dream to be ruined because I'm an asshole. "Hm."

"You ask me a personal question then, and I'll answer it. Fair trade?"

It's a fair trade but I'd rather there be no trade at all. I've been boxed in though. "Favorite city to play in."

I see him grin out of the corner of my eye. He sits on it for a few seconds and squints off into the distance like he's starring in a movie. "Chicago."

"Cool, now go—"

"—It's pretty cold and sketchy but the food is fantastic, but I also like New York a lot," he keeps on talking like a broken fucking record, "because the pizza is way better there than anywhere else. However, Idaho has a bunch of places to see and take photos at, and I love all the beaches in California—"

"Chicago was a long enough answer already."

"I know, I know," he says, "but you gave me a personal answer, so I thought I'd give you one."

"Thanks. I didn't want it, and I certainly didn't ask for it."

Brendon frowns again and before he can retaliate, his two managers make their way over for an introduction. I'm glad I don't have to continue the conversation, but peeved that I have to start a new one.

The guy with the yellow sweatshirt and dark hair holds out his hand for my first, but I high five him instead of shaking his hand. It catches him off guard, but the other one is prepared and high fives me right back. I'm a little confused by the wardrobe choices considering it's the middle of summer, but it's not my decision.

"I'm Tyler and this is Josh," Josh waves to me, and I can see the edge of a colorful tattoo underneath his blue sweater, "and I guess you've met Brendon already."

"Unfortunately."

Everyone laughs like I've made a joke but I did not make a joke. Sarah leans over the sofa to touch my shoulder lightly, but she discreetly stabs her fingernail into my skin and then yanks me upright by the collar of my shirt.

"So funny," she tries her best to smile through gritted teeth, "what a comedian. We were just talking about you and what a talent you have, Dallon."

I hope I don't have to tak about myself. I've tried it once or twice and it never went very well. "Okay."

Tyler's resting smile falters for a moment. His knuckles gently nudge Josh in the side and they share a worried glance with each other.

Taylor sees it. And she doesn't like that. "He's pretty tired, he was up all night recording new music. He's actually got a studio in his basement, put it together all on his own."

"That's cool! I've been trying to turn my shed into one but it hasn't worked out very well." Brendon jabs his elbow into Josh's thigh, the man who can't seem to catch a break, and they laugh about it together.

God, I want to leave. It's been less than twenty minutes. "It took a long time."

"Yeah, it's really some commitment. I think I'm going to be sticking to my friends' studios, maybe the one from the record label every now and then."

I forgot about record labels. We have our own, so it isn't a problem. I wonder if his songs suck ass because of his label and all the rules and shit.

Taylor picks up the slack on my end of the conversation. "So what's your favorite part about festivals and touring?"

"Press tours." Brendon doesn't even have to give it a second thought, and that's the worst part, because I forgot about those and since I forgot, I will be forced to attend them.

I lean my head back to shoot daggers at Sarah for leaving that out, but she just takes another sip of her drink and smirks. She knows what she's done. She knows.

Taylor smiles too, but for a completely different reason. "Ah, I'm so excited for those! I want to do the ones with all the dumb challenges and games so badly."

"Really? I like the ones when you get fan questions and you have a nice sit down and talk about them all." Of course he'd like to do the boring interviews. Not that I would want to play games or compete for nothing, but I also wouldn't want to sit in front of a camera and jabber away for a while.

Taylor pokes my shoulder. "What about you, mood-killer? What're you looking forward to the most?"

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I'm miserable just thinking about it. I wish I hadn't given away my right to protest, because now I'm being forced to play at a huge festival in front of thousands of people while traveling with some has-been idiot who likes to talk. Is this the worst case scenario? Yes, yes it is. I've successfully and singlehandedly screwed up the rest of my natural born life.

"Scenery."

"It's gorgeous out in SoCal," Brendon nods absentmindedly to himself, a little smile tugs at his lips, "I'm excited to go back. Something over there just makes everything so much better."

"I went to visit family once," Taylor grins at the thought too, "the beaches are beautiful, there's so much to do. We should take Dallon around down there."

His slight smile only splits into a bigger one. "Definitely. The sun might cheer him up a bit."

Suddenly, I hate the sun.

6 - Never Base a Friendship Off a Business Scheme, Pizza, or Travel Preferences

I get a good solid week to refuel before we have to meet up again. We leave in two weeks, take a two day road trip, have one day to track all the instruments and equipment from planes to vans that should transport everything to the venue, and then one more day to spend in Southern California until the first day of the festival. We're scheduled to play on day two, immediately after Take Two's set, but we have interviews scheduled for the first day, and even more on the next.

I don't get any calls or texts from anyone besides Brendon. He shoots me two messages, both apologizing for pestering me because it seems like I had a bad day. Every day feels like a bad day, but he doesn't have to know that. Either way, I still hate him and I wish I could have opted out of the festival and drive.

And then that idiot, that absolutely daft piece of shit, has the nerve to show up at my door just after lunch, with a box of pizza and a little cardboard box. He's smiling and whatever, and I'm still wearing my pajamas and I haven't even touched my hair since I rolled into bed last night. It looks like someone tried to electrocute me.

On the other hand, he tried. The olive green jacket is nice, the ripped jeans are nice, and his face is nice but very punchable.

"Taylor gave me your address and said I should visit you. This was her idea." He stops me from slamming the door in his face with his toe. I'm pretty sure I would've crushed his foot if he wasn't wearing shoes with dumb rubber soles.

"Cool. Leave." I tell him. His smile falls and he glares at me, then nudges the door open to push past me.

My house isn't a mess but I don't want him in it. It's my stuff, my decorations and photos in plain frames, my couch, my chairs. Taylor is allowed to come over, Sarah is on occasion, and that's it. I'm not violated that he barged in but I'm pissed about it.

He drops the boxes down on my coffee table, in the center of it near the magazine pile and the bowl holding the television remotes and a couple mints. "Taylor and Sarah said I should do this. I don't normally let myself in someone else's house, but I'm being paid twenty bucks to do it. I even brought you some of your favorite food."

I know what they're trying to do. I'm not making friends. "I'll give you fifty to leave right now. But leave the pizza."

Brendon puts his hands on his hips. His foot taps against my little rug like he's thinking about it, but he clearly didn't sit on it for very long because within ten seconds he takes a seat on my couch. Specifically, he sits in my spot where the pleather has started to wear and it's all broken in.

"Nah," he leans back and kicks his foot up on his thigh, "I think I'll stay."

I have to resist the urge to throw him over my shoulder and throw him out of a window. Either that or I could punt him like a football. "What're they paying you to do?"

He shrugs. "Talk to you. Try to befriend you. They said you're—"

"Anti-social, right? I know. Look, you can just hang out there for a bit, remotes are in the bowl on the table, and I'll go back to my bed. Feel free to let yourself out whenever. Just don't talk to me." I leave before he can say anything, and slam the door to my bedroom so he's just a muffled holler of confusion.

I don't even have the time to press play on my video until he nearly kicks the door in and crosses his arms in the frame. "I'd like to make an effort. We're sharing a tour bus together for a couple days, and going to interviews together. Sarah, Tyler, and Josh booked us all together so it was easier or something like that. We don't have a choice. It'll look bad if we don't gel together."

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse. "Okay. Leave me alone."

Brendon crawls up on the edge of my bed, the door still wide open. It's the perfect time to punt him. "I'll give you the money they pay me if we can have a nice, in-depth, personal conversation."

Ah. Is it worth twenty bucks? That's just about three fast food meals. I could last a whole day or more at McDonald's.

However, I would have to get personal. It's not like I give out one fact and I get the twenty, it's a whole conversation. I'm going to have to recharge for another week to prepare for the festival and everything leading up to and following after.

"Five questions each. No more than five unless you cough up extra."

He doesn't think for more than a second before he agrees, leaves to grab the pizza, and pulls out a slice. On my bed. In my house, he eats pizza on my bed. Not that I don't do it, but whatever.

"Question one," Brendon's eyes trail along the posters tacked to my wall, "why music?"

"Music is the one thing I can do while holed up in my own studio, finish a project all by myself, and give it to someone else to do whatever they want with it. Good outlet for built up anger."

His brows dip into a frown. "What do you have to be angry about?"

"Everything. Hate lots of things. Wanna be alone."

"Got it," he says, "so that's two down. Umm... I'd ask if you're seeing anyone, but you pretty much just answered that.  What's your favorite movie?"

"Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Instant classic."

While he sifts through his options for the next question, I shoot Taylor a text from under the blankets.

To: Taylor
Why did you give him my address. Are you trying to kill me.

"Okay, I got one. If you could go on a vacation right now, where would you go?"

"Bahamas. I want to lay out in the sun with a drink in my hand with nobody around to bother me for miles." It's been a dream of mine for a while. I wouldn't mind big cities, just as long as I wouldn't have to speak to anyone and they wouldn't have to speak to me. I also hate the cold weather, because I tend to run cold, and I just get even worse in low temperatures. The hotter it is, the more comfortable I am.

From: Taylor
He asked for your address. He's there because he wants to be there.

I want to kick him out even more. The anger boiling in my chest is common but scalding.

To: Taylor
He did not

From: Taylor
Ok fine

From: Taylor
You're right, he didn't. Anyways. Have fun, loser.

"Last one, then. Well, I guess I'll break the news that the bus only has a certain amount of beds. Tyler and Josh are sharing, Taylor and Sarah said they would share, and there's only one bed left for the both of us. How do you feel about sharing?"

My worst nightmare. I don't toss and turn when I sleep but I like to be able to spread out and curl up simultaneously. There's no telling how much of the bed I'll take up each night, and there is certainly no boundaries on how much blanket I will steal.

"Not happy. We're putting up a pillow fortress, we sleep as far apart as we possibly can, and we don't talk after nine in the evening." I can feel my eye twitching. I'm pretty pissed off this wasn't mentioned beforehand. I really would've insisted on canceling the trip out to the festival, hell I would've paid for the round trip flight tickets and transportation fees.

"I'll be respectful of your boundaries, I promise." He scoots closer to the end of the bed just to try to reaffirm it. "Your turn now."

I prop myself up on my elbows to stare him down for every question and answer. "Taylor said you asked her for my address. What's the truth?"

Any and all light and excitement in his eyes fades pretty quickly. He stares at the carpet and lets out a long sigh. "I thought we could go well together. I just wanted to make more of an effort to get to know you, maybe you'd be more open to—"

"Next question," I'm already fuming, but only on the inside, "why the interest in me? I don't want to talk to you or anyone else, much less have a friendship or anything like that. Do you understand what it means when I say I want to be left alone?"

Brendon nods. "One hundred percent."

I desperately want to clock him over the head with a solid metal baseball bat. It hurts me on the inside to know he knows I don't want to be friends with anyone, yet he still wants to pursue it. It hurts deep in my chest. "God, I hate you. Do you like me or Taylor better?"

"You." He says without hesitation. Not a fan of that. I hoped it would be Taylor, but whatever. It just explains why he want to get to know me so badly. It also explains why I hate him already.

"I'm really fuckin' tired of this, so last question; what happened to the lyrics behind your last two albums? They sucked."

He doesn't get upset like I expected him to, not that my intention was to tick him off, it stemmed from pure curiosity and pissing him off was an afterthought.

His lips don't twist into gritted teeth and an angry frown, but to a lazy smile and sad eyes. "Didn't have anyone to write about."

"Okay, cool, thanks for the answer. Now don't explain it and leave."

Brendon keeps the stupid grin and falls back on my bed with his arms outstretched. He's hit the level of upset where you think it's funny. It's a bad sign, very bad. "It's just me, myself, and I. I used to have people to write about but they all left, and I'd rather die before I recorded any of the songs other people wrote for me. I want it to be me, and I guess... I guess I just don't have that anymore. I'd rather it fuckin' blow and be mine than be flawless and somebody else's."

"Huh," I murmur to him, "sucks." I want nothing more than the conversation to be finished and forever done with.

"Yeah. You have to have someone to write about, right? Your song was something else, it was gorgeous." He rolls on his side to face me. "How'd you do it?"

I just watch a lot of television. I wrote a love song for a fictional couple. "It was about Phoebe and Mike from Friends."

He breaks into a genuine smile, warm and happy. It almost makes me crack a smile too, but I hold my breath. "Does anyone else know that?"

Not even Taylor. I curse myself inwardly for telling him. I can't let my guard down. No friends allowed. "No."

"Oh." He whispers and we both fall into silence. My silence is more because I'm unbelievably pissed off at myself for letting my guard down for less than five seconds. I think his silence is more because our chat is over and I'm about to kick him out.

And I am, I'm really genuinely about to toss that sucker to the dirt so I can eat the pizza, but I stop myself. He just said he doesn't have anyone to write a song about, and I'm not saying it should be me, but that's peak loneliness. For gods sake, I don't speak to people for weeks at a time and I wrote a love song about a couple from Friends.

"What's the beach like?"

Brendon shrugs. His lips purse while he turns over the words tumbling around that could describe such a grossly sandy place that people actively search for. "It's nice, but then I always have an existential crisis when I think about how deep the water gets and how big the ocean is. Parking is always hell, too."

I think it's against all common etiquette to build a parking garage near a beach, which is why they don't exist — at least in the pictures and movies. I've never been, so I couldn't give an honest opinion. "Everywhere?"

"Everywhere," he confirms, "neighborhoods are packed, streets are packed. People will park almost a mile away and walk to the beach rather than try to find a closer parking space."

Disgusting. That's too many people for me. "Where are we going to go down there then? I'm not walking a mile to go stick my feet in some sand and leave ten minutes later."

His smile only gets wider and wider the more we talk. "Well, there's a good ice cream place near the pier, and at the end of said pier there's a nice restaurant. Um, there are a ton of seafood places and loads of places with great food. It just depends on what you like, really."

"So we're going there for food and not much else? Sounds good." For the first time in almost a day, I make an attempt to fix my hair. It doesn't go too well, but it's all I could do without looking like I'm trying really hard to seem like I'm awake and alive.

He holds his hands up defensively. "That's all I do when I'm there. We have a shit load of interviews to do also, so that is going to take up a lot of time."

If I have to hear anything about interviews again, I'll blow my brains out. I'm definitely going to be the worst guest they've ever had, it isn't even open for debate, it's just the truth.

I reach for a slice of pizza. It's cold by this point and pulls apart easily. It also tastes gross. "So you said you like Chicago. Tell me about that."

His dark eyes light up, he thinks he's gotten through to me. He hasn't, I just feel ridiculously bad for him. An effort is being made, and all that matters is that I know I could shut him down at any time. I'll let him believe we're friends until he fucks up or something, which will be soon.

"Chicago is wonderful," he says dreamily, "I wonder if you'd like it there too..."

7 - Homemade Renovations and Altercations Never Last Unless Chris Evans Lends a Hand

Thank god, everyone left me alone for two weeks. It was the best two weeks ever, but the last few days had been politely ruined with texts and calls from everyone in a group chat trying to set up a place for pickup and coordinating who takes what where.

Of course I ignored all of it. I packed up my stuff, set it all on the porch, and Sarah swung by to pick it up. I only needed to take a backpack and my wallet on the bus.

Tragically, those two weeks are done. I'll never live in such blissful peace ever again, and I know it for a fact because Sarah drives to the pickup spot, and it's just me and Brendon in the back seat. Tyler and Josh had other shit to do, and Taylor decided to walk.

"So..." Brendon nudges my foot with his, "how were those two weeks?"

"Better, knowing you wouldn't barge in and kill my social battery again for twenty bucks."

Sarah snickers in the front. "It was actually twenty from each of us if he actually did it, so forty total."

I shoot Brendon a glare out of the corner of my eye. He only gave me twenty, and he tries to avoid any contact. Even after I elbow him in the ribs and dig my heel into his shoe for his attention, he doesn't say a word. It's only twenty bucks, but it's twenty bucks. "Ass—"

"Are you ready for the interviews?" He asks, puppy dog eyes on full blast, but the jokes on him because I hate him. Not sure where the eyes are coming from, but I barely know him so that shit isn't working.

I'll get the cash later. "Yeah. That's what the two weeks were for. Duh." When did I start talking so much? What happened to my one word responses? I miss them.

"And did you see the bus yet? That's a stupid question. I'll give you a tour before we get going."

There's no point. Even if I don't like it I'll be forced to live there for a bit. The tour is useless. I'll be in bed the whole time anyways, and maybe I'll sleep on the couch when it's time for everyone to hit the sack. I'd rather die than sleep next to him. "Can I opt out?"

"No."

🎼

The hour drive felt like fifteen minutes when I start dreading the required bus tour. I just want to curl up in the bed for three days, skipping the interviews, skipping the food and fun around the city. I'm already exhausted by this whole trip.

The bus sucks. It's plain black with tinted windows lining the sides, but the tinted windows are caked in dirt and dust; someone has scrubbed 'wash me' into it with their finger, and a thin layer of grime has already settled over that. The right side of the door has a hairline crack running from a height that matches Brendon's head perfectly, and the logo on the wheels are covered by pieces of gum cemented to the plates. So the outside sucks.

Brendon puts his hands on his hips and sighs proudly beside me. He's sporting a tank top and basketball shorts, sweating profusely in the heat while I watch and keep my jacket on.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" He elbows my side and eyes my jacket. He doesn't approve. "Take that off. It's summer. Tank top and shorts season, baby."

I shove my hands in my pocket and try to look anywhere but the ugly bus. I focus instead on Sarah going over a long checklist with Tyler and Josh while Taylor leans against the hood of Sarah's car on a call with some guy she's been seeing for a couple weeks. "Sure, and no."

Brendon tugs at the strings to my hood. He's getting ticked off by a grey sweatshirt sewn to a jean jacket, and it's funny. "It's the middle of summer and I'm roasting like a turkey in the oven. Aren't you on fire?"

I shrug. "Not really."

After Brendon gets another long sigh out of his system, he grabs my bicep and drags me up the steps into the bus. It's definitely a lot nicer inside than outside, but it still sucks. I don't say that aloud, though, in fear that he'll grab the nearest object and straight up clock me over the head with it.

A thick black curtain separates the front of the bus from the chaos in the back, or assumed chaos. The wheel is covered in a black fluffy cover, and the seat is a nasty camouflage tiger stripe print. On the dashboard, I am delighted to find a chunk of piss-colored gum with a dime sticking straight out of it, and a solar powered figure of a woman wearing a hula skirt with her eyes scratched out in red sharpie. I almost puke in my mouth when my eyes take a permanent snapshot of that monstrosity.

Brendon latches on to my hand and pulls me through the curtain to the rest of the bus. He doesn't even mention the atrocity up front, which I guess means he doesn't like it either.

The bus is poorly lit. It may be due to the shutters strapped across the windows, but the only lights on are the strips along the ceiling flashing in a rainbow pattern. He first points to a silver refrigerator, a little microwave, and a counter all packed below a couple cabinets.

"This is the kitchen. We don't cook anything. Ever. It's morally illegal." He says. He's still holding on to my hand.

"Then why do you have it?"

Brendon shrugs. "It's built in. Last year I tried to rip it all out but I couldn't. Not strong enough yet."

"Tried?"

"Shots don't sit well on an empty stomach. Anyways," he spins me around and presents a table and its booth in its full, torn, stained, and ugly glory, "dining room table."

It looks nasty. The edges of the table are covered in tinfoil glued to it, and I can tell because it shines like a disco ball underneath the lights above. "Amazing. I can see you try your best to keep it in tip-top shape."

He frowns and shoots me a glare, but he smiles. "Alright, we'll see how long it takes until you break something."

"I think you're just reckless, there's no way this shit breaks easy." I reach out and gently, keyword gently, shake the edge of the table, and a huge chunk breaks off into my hand with a muted snap.

"Wow," he says, squinting at the nonexistent watch on his tanned wrist, "a whole three seconds. Good job."

God, I hope I can just glue it back and not need to pay to fix it. I'll be coughing up a lot more dough if someone suspects I destroyed the rest of it. "Show me the rest so I can break it and petition to get you a better tour bus."

He takes a step to the side and shows me a whole wall of cabinets, four in a square, two larger ones beneath it, and then a set of six little drawers underneath. There's a shit load of things carved into it, but my favorite is an oddly detailed sketch of Chris Evans. "Clothes go here, and not much else. With everyone on board, I think it'll be packed."

"We're only going to be gone for a week."

"Girls pack more than necessary. You just wait."

Clearly he has never met Taylor. She may dress fresh and stylish, but she tends to bring less than she needs and makes do. When we went on a trip to Las Vegas for my twenty-first birthday, she brushed her teeth with her finger and my toothpaste every night for four days because she couldn't be bothered to spend five bucks on a new toothbrush or bring her own.

"The huge door behind us leads to the bathroom. It's just one with a little shower so don't take too much time in it." He brushes it off and squeezes through the rest of the bus without, I don't know, explaining how to turn on the shower. That's pretty important and complicated but I'll figure it out another day, I guess.

The beds are arranged weirdly. Two beds shoved together on the bottom with a tragically tiny staircase between them that leads above to one bed. The two on the bottom have a shelf to hold whatever goes on a nightstand, whereas the one on top is surrounded by polished wood flooring that all acts as a nightstand. I don't know which bed would be worse.

Brendon points to the top bed. "That's my bed," he waves his finger down to the left bed, then the right, "and that'll be Taylor and Sarah's, and Tyler and Josh's."

Taylor climbs through the curtains before I can request to be removed from the festival. "This is one big ass bus."

"We're supposed to live in it for a while, so I'd hope so." Brendon calls back to her. He has to raise his voice so she can hear him from all the way across the bus. I can't imagine how loud we'd have to be when the engine is running.

She flips her phone out from her back pocket and unclips her sunglasses from her shirt collar. "I'm gonna post this on that dumbass Instagram story thing."

"Taylor, please, I don't want people to—"

"Say hi, Dallon!" She holds up the camera and reaches in front it to catch her pointing us out on video like viewers would miss us. Brendon waves and I try to cover my face as much as I can. It's too late to pull up the hood and tie it shut.

Her flip flops squeak against the tile floor as she continues walking and filming, grinning more and more with each step. This is a dream come true for her.

She pauses at the cabinets across from the bathroom. "Is that Chris Evans?"

Brendon heads off the join her, running the pad of his index finger over the carving. "Yeah, but don't tell the bus owner it's there. I did it when I was wasted out of my mind on tour a few years ago and I'll have to replace it if she finds it. We cover it with a poster."

Taylor laughs and the camera finds his face stifling a wide smile. "Are you serious?"

"Yes! I had to pay for the ceiling tile, the one on the middle," I follow his gaze to find a tile a shade different than the others, "some friends and I were playing Chicken and my face broke it. The ceiling is high, but not enough for two people stacked on top of the other."

"I would hope not. We'd be too top heavy and the whole bus would go sliding down a cliff if we took a curve too fast."

I hope the bus slides down a cliff. It's atrocious. I'm not a neat freak but I want to scrub every inch of the place with a steel sponge. I'm sure I'd be sick if I brought in a UV light.

I've heard the rumors about how many people have committed sins wherever a human being can touch.

I'm not stupid.

Taylor pauses while taking a thousand photos with Brendon wearing her sunglasses to holler my name at an impossibly high volume to tell me some important information. "Sarah wants to talk to you outside. I forgot to tell you."

They let me by and don't snap any pictures of me while I do it, I shield my eyes passing through the driver's seat, and take a very deep breath when I step outside. The bus doesn't smell like shit, but it smells like burnt Chipotle with extra guacamole that costs extra, it screams dysfunctional,  and I couldn't find a single television or outlet near the beds.

Sarah flags me down and waves me over to a circle of her, Tyler, and Josh. They're both standing with hands in the pockets of their matching khaki pants. "Did you like the bus?"

"Well, I—"

"Stupid question," she pats my back when I finally make it over there, "I know you hated it. We all hate it. Anyways, we've decided to cut you a deal."

"Alright," I mutter, "shoot."

Tyler sighs and leans back to the sky. His eyes stay shut when he starts speaking. "We know Brendon is a pain in the ass, and we know the bus is old and gross. Believe us, we know."

I hope they didn't come to that conclusion because of me. It doesn't really suck that badly, but to be fair it's awful. "It's not that bad."

Josh rolls his eyes and smirks, reading my mind. "You don't have to say that. Taylor likes it, Brendon likes it, the three of us can barely tolerate it, but we know you can't stand it. It's totally fine."

"I don't want to be the cause behind a new bus. I can tolerate it."

"And we need you to, which is why we're going to compensate for you. Believe it or not, we feel sorry for you." Sarah holds out her hand for me, a handshake. I don't take it.

"Thanks for the recognition. It means absolutely nothing to me."

"We have a proposal for you. You stick through the shitty bus, the interviews, Taylor and Brendon being annoying dumbasses, or whatever shit Brendon pulls, and we'll pitch in to get you a nice and quiet weekend at a resort, up to a week if he takes anything too far. Room service, private jacuzzi, private cabana on the beach. Nobody will contact you unless it's a dire emergency, and you'll be alone."

I'd be an idiot to say no to that. I take her hand and we shake on it. I think I can put up with a week or two of shit for the perfect week. Not weekend.

I know for a fact I will be getting a week of relaxation.

8 - I've Always Wanted to Play Poker with Actual Chips But I'm in College and Unable to Afford Chips

I'm not completely sure where my strong dislike of social interaction stemmed from. Really, it came from nowhere. One day I was having a great time staying out with a dozen strangers until two in the morning, and the next day I didn't want to leave my bed ever again.

See, my problem is that both Taylor and Brendon have always been the type of people I would've broken into someone's house with. They have not changed, they have only grown to become twice as wild, and then they gained the crushing weight of adult responsibilities.

Which is why, the only reason why, they're playing poker with actual chips instead of the plastic discs, and live-streaming it to social media. I can only see Brendon head-on from the bed, Taylor's back is to me, but I know she's smiling and laughing just as loud as he is. Sarah, Tyler, and Josh stoke the top bed to spread everything out a little easier, and so graciously let me use one of their beds.

"I see your two Pringles and I raise you a Dorito." Taylor flings two Pringles and a cool ranch Dorito into the pile between them.

Brendon holds his two cards up to block his mouth from view. You don't have to be a genius to know that's his tell — he has a decent hand. "Alright," he slides in a nacho cheese Dorito, "Show me what you've got."

"Sure thing." She spreads out two cards and folds her hands under her chin, proud. "Flush. Good luck, asshole."

Brendon grins and slams his cards on the table, standing and gesturing violently to the hand laid out in front of him. He could've flipped the table if it wasn't bolted to the floor. "Four of a kind, two and two queens!"

"No! You cheated!"

"The cards don't lie, I win. Give me the chips. I deserve them."

Taylor wastes no time to deal the next game, screaming at the top of her lungs as her chips get sorted into Brendon's neat stacks.

They're both startled when I appear to pop into existence at the edge of the table. Taylor holds her hand over her heart and nearly flings the deck of cards into the air, while Brendon just freezes up and jumps in his seat.

"How's the game going?" I ask. I glance at the livestream and accidentally make eye contact with the camera broadcasting to almost thirty thousand people. That number doesn't include the people who are asleep, or busy, or simply choosing to view it later. The digits send a chill down my spine, but I know I'll be at a quiet resort soon.

Taylor shoots Brendon a glare. "Not good."

"You're just jealous," he picks up a Ruffle, "that I'm better at Poker than you are."

She slips into a wicked grin. "I'm not jealous that you're winning, I'm angry that you're cheating!"

"I'm not cheating! I play with integrity and honesty, unlike some people." It's all banter, but it's nasty. They both play a brutal game when it comes down to it.

"At least I can bluff. I've won over half these hands because you have to cover your face when you have something decent."

"It's called a poker face, something you don't have."

"Better than a lying face."

"Ladies, ladies, you're both pretty." I say and grab one of the sun chips from Brendon's pile. He doesn't even react until it's chewed and gone.

His elbow digs into my side as he stares up at me, eyes wide and mouth agape. "Hey! That Sun Chip was worth a hundred!"

"A hundred what? Dollars? Grapes? Pencils?"

He rips into a little baggie parents give to kids for school lunches, spitefully adding a chip as a replacement for the one I ate. "A hundred something's. We aren't playing for money, but we have to have a currency."

"It's a hundred experience points," Taylor says monotonously as she begins to deal out the next game, "I'm at level sixty nine, Brendon is at four hundred twenty, you're at... you're at two. Play us, Gumby."

Gumby? I didn't feel the need to join in ever, but now that I've been compared to a clay stick figure, I have the strong urge to absolutely annihilate both of them. That name had to be a joint effort. "Fine, but I'll have you know I kicked ass at this game in college."

She slides two cards around to each of us and sets the deck between us. "Sure, during your one year of community college. Ante is a Pringle, no exceptions."

Brendon passes me a mound of assorted chips, Pringles being the lowest in imaginary value, and Sun Chips as the highest. In the middle price range floats Ruffles, Doritos, and Cheetos. He tosses in a Pringle for me.

A quick peek at my cards already screws me over. I have a two of hearts and a eight of hearts, and the cards that are set out don't give me what I need in any way. There are two more hearts on the board, and I just need one more for an alright hand, but those chances are low. It never works in my favor.

The betting increases to a Dorito or two, but doesn't raise any higher until all of the cards to finish the match are set out and I have a flush. Anyone could beat me but I could also beat anybody.

Taylor pulls her sunglasses off her shirt to and down to the tip of her nose to shoot us both questionable stares. "I would suggest y'all fold while you've still got your dignity."

"What is this, the Wild West?" Brendon's lips tug at a sneer. He picks up two Doritos and sets them in the pile. It's not very big, but I wouldn't mind taking all the chips.

"Hell yeah," she flicks in two Doritos to match, "reach for the sky, I'm about to rob you both blind."

They both turn to me for my bet. It's go big or go home, and I plan on going back to bed no matter who wins. I drop in two Doritos and a Cheeto.

Taylor's jaw drops, her eye twitching as the possibilities turn in her mind. Brendon's startled at first but he quickly settles back to confidence.

"Alright, I call." He slides his chips into the center.

Taylor lets out an excruciatingly long sigh, sets her cards down, and slips them beside the deck. "Forget it. I fold. I'm not playing cat and mouse, Gumby."

"Didn't want to play with you," I lock eyes with Brendon and smirk when I lay my cards out on the table, "I know who's an easy target. Anyways, I've got a flush."

Brendon plays offended until he holds up his hand. "Read 'em and weep, Gumby. Full house. I win."

He cups the stack of chips and adds them to his collection, still grinning as he sets them into his neat little piles again. "Which one of you decided to start calling me Gumby?" I ask but neither answer.

I glare at Taylor and she gives in immediately. She silently pokes a thumb in Brendon's direction while he's distracted with his fortune. He hums softly to himself while he collects it.

"I'll get you back for it, Urie." I stand and grab a few Cheetos before heading back to bed. It wasn't a long round, but that was enough for me. Thirty thousand people are probably thirsting over me as I speak, and I don't like that one fucking but.

I'm not even allowed to crawl back under the covers because as soon as I touch the blankets, the bus swerves and everyone drops what they're doing immediately. At first I was scared the bus had broken down, and honestly I would've expected it, but I glance out the window and we're pulling in to an empty parking lot outside of a coffee shop just off the road.

"Do you want anything?" Sarah comes up behind me. Tyler and Josh stand behind her.

"No, I don't really like coffee. I'll just stay here."

"Suit yourself."

"Yeah. Have fun." I wave everyone off the bus and as the door swishes shut, I finally let out the breath I'd been holding when the vehicle stopped.

That was enough socializing for a while. Granted, it was a little fun, but tiring and required a lot of strategy. Additional thought was also required because we didn't have normal chips, we had to use actual snack chips, and it was twice as difficult to keep track of the values when all three of us were confused.

I'd be napping at home in blissful ignorance if I hadn't gone out and decided to record a song.

Peak dumbass. My fault.

🎼

It takes Brendon an extra half hour to get back to the bus after everyone else.

Everyone just sighs when I ask around as to why. I don't get my answer until Brendon hops back in the bus with red lipstick smudges all over his neck.

9 - I Wish Harrison Ford Was Really Our President I Think America Would Actually Be Great For Once

Nobody is exactly sure who was there taking pictures when the bus had made a quick coffee stop, but photos circulate and the cheesy lines steal the front of the gossip sites.

Last Night's Frontman Dallon Lays Low While Crew Grabs a Drink. It's me, glaring at the building from the window when nobody came back for fifteen minutes.

Who Is She? It's Brendon, sprinting back to the bus, while a tall brunette covers her face, climbs in her beat-up red buggy, and speeds away.

Last Night's Drummer Taylor's Tall Drink of Water. Someone's added a pointless emoji and the same photo of me staring through the window, like I'm supposed to be her secret lover or something. I do open that article and skim through it while we fly down the lonely highway. The tall drink of water they were referring to was actually venti, and all they did was speculate about why both of our bands decided to travel together. There was no reason to bait a romance, but they did it anyways.

My GPS app says we're still a ways away from our destination. Taylor has resorted to snipping snowflakes from folded sheets of paper. Brendon has been passed out for forty minutes on his bed. Sarah, Tyler, and Josh are holed up on the bottom two beds together in a mountain of paperwork.

I could hijack the bus if I wanted to. I have elbows and I can throw a punch, and if I was pushing ninety miles an hour I could be back home by midnight. I could swerve off the road and do a flip into the ocean, and then swim off and evolve gills. And then—

"Dallon!" Taylor yells at the top of her lungs even though we're six feet away. "I want a cat. Adopt one with me."

"We're on the road. Touring musicians. No time for silly pets, only good vibes and collecting money by convincing people they need to pay in order to meet another human being."

"Alright, party pooper. I'm getting a cat anyways, but we can share it so you'll be forced to take care of something. Maybe it'll influence you to look after yourself."

She's taking digs at me already. And she wants me to adopt a cat with her? Not at this rate. "I take great care of myself. Never had a cavity in my life."

She glares at me, I can feel it. "When was the last time you brushed your hair?"

"This morning."

"Before this morning, then."

"Last week. Before today, when was the last time you brushed your hair?"

She sputters for an answer, but I quickly realize it's only because she's shocked I tried to turn it around on her. "I brush my hair every day! Multiple times a day, dumbass. And last time I checked, I also cook from scratch for myself very frequently. Do you?"

Ah. I've been cornered. "I fill the styrofoam cup with water to make noodles. And sometimes, sometimes I'll feel a little fancy, and I'll put it in a bowl instead of keeping it in the cup."

Taylor doesn't say anything in response for a minute. She clenches her jaw and so kindly refrains from kicking my ass until she gathers the perfect phrases to chew me out for existing.

"I hope love finds you soon." She says. "I feel like... I feel like love could change you for the better."

That, I'll admit, catches me off guard. I don't get a frown or a playful fist to the stomach, but she gives me a nice smile and a warm feeling in my chest.

I don't like it. I don't like the feeling. I don't like the smile. I don't like the implication that finding romance will magically transform me into a Queer Eye poster child.

"Hold on, what? What the hell is that supposed to mean? How dare you relate the negative aspects of my personality to the denial of love and affection."

"I never stated those connections aloud. You know," she waves her hand around like she's painting a picture, "you usually care more about yourself when you're in a happy and stable relationship. That's what the experts say and that's why I said it."

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'? You can't just — you don't — ugh."

She struggles for the right words. While she does so, I slide my laptop out from my backpack beside me and start up a word document. In less than a minute, she will provide a deep and meaningful speech about what love is, even though she hasn't been in a relationship for quite some time now.

Before I can think of a title on the spot, she says, "I think you're just a hopeless romantic."

It takes every ounce of willpower to not burst out laughing in her face. I pull up urban dictionary and read to her the definition she's definitely gotten wrong.

"I'm definitely not? By dictionary definition, hopeless romantic," I point to my screen for her, "is a person who strongly desires a successful romantic relationship, but struggles greatly to find or maintain one in practice."

Taylor frowns, stares off into the distance for a second, then she snaps back to the present. "Yeah. I know what I said. You are a hopeless romantic."

"I'm perfectly fine not being in a relationship, I'm not actively searching for one nor do I strongly desire one, and I am willing to bet cold hard cash I could keep someone around if I genuinely wanted to."

"Then do it," she says, "go find a relationship."

"No. I just told you I don't want one right now. Are you deaf or something?"

"No, but I'm trying to give you advice."

"Can't I just get a dog? It's the same construct, me having to put effort into something other than myself in order to die a little slower."

"You haven't brushed your hair in a week."

"Mhm."

"When was the last time you did laundry?"

"Hm."

She sighs deeply and I can hear the frustration seeping into her tone. "Remember that one time you didn't leave your house for a month?"

"Mmm."

"What about when you watched the entire Friends series in five days? Back to back? Didn't sleep?"

That was fun. I read it took five days and one hour to watch the entire series, so I did. It was in fact, five days and one hour. "Hm."

She purses her lips and crosses her arms, glaring at me for a few minutes while I continue to surf the web and refuse to add to an intelligent conversation. "Do you like anyone?"

"No."

"Come on," she whines, "you have to have a crush on some celebrity or at least someone you know. You're driving me up the walls."

"Megan Fox."

"Someone attainable."

Serves her right for prodding into my personal life. It's personal for a reason. It's not meant to be shared, and it never will be. "God."

"You do not have a crush on God."

"Yes I do. I'm a child of God. Never sinned before in my life. I love the man upstairs."

"I hate you so much."

"I wrote a new song for our first album." She says. My eyes dart to the stack of papers beside her, half of them clipped into snowflakes, the other still intact.

"About?" I ask.

"About how much of a fucking annoying person you are to be around. You don't even talk that much and you irritate the shit out of me some days. We're in a band together, talk to me about something other than self-depreciation. Make conversation. We're friends." She grabs a sheet of paper, scribbled in black ink from top to bottom in jagged letters. It's an angry song, definitely regarding how boring and lame I am.

"Thanks. I didn't bring recording equipment, so just scream it into your voice memos for now."

"Fine," she snatches her phone off the table from behind the pile of snowflakes, "I will."

I watch her storm past me and slam the door to the little bathroom behind her. Sarah sits fixated on the door with me, confused until obscenely loud screeching echoes throughout the bus.

Sarah shoots a glare my way, shakes her head, and goes back to sorting through forms and helping Tyler and Josh type emails while it's their turn to stop and stare.

🎼

That night in the bus bed is rough. And by rough, I mean it was the worst sleep of my life.

Driving through the middle of New Mexico meant the only road was a straight line that hadn't been renovated in years, possibly decades. Every bump and dip in the road meant Brendon would sit up, cough out a lung, and then spend another five minutes settling back down.

After he decided he was in an adequate position, he'd either light another cigarette or take a drag, then hack the smoke into a mason jar that he'd nestle in between the wall and his pillow.

So that happened for two hours.

Two hours.

Two hours until I sat up with him, grabbed the cigarette out of his hand and shoved down the back window real quick to toss it out and pray I wouldn't be responsible for a wildfire.

He sets the mason jar down and screws the lid tighter. "Hey! What the hell?"

"I'm trying to sleep, but I can't when you're breathing cancer into my personal space, dickwad. If you want to kill yourself, that's fine with me, but don't drag me down with you. I want to die, just not like this."

When he sighs, I almost puke. "Why are you here?"

"Excuse me? I think you know why, and food for thought, I don't want to be here. So—"

"Just fucking go home then. Nobody's forcing you to do this. Leave and live alone on whatever you got from that life insurance shit."

"That's private. I don't bring up your losses and failures in front of you, dick." I'm glad I started hating him at some point. If I could go back a few years ago and tell myself one thing, it would be that Brendon is an asshole and I shouldn't invest in anything of his.

"Alright, then don't bash me for having some fun every now and then. Not your place."

I feel the strong urge to throw him out the window. "I thought you liked me."

He rolls his eyes and snickers quietly. The rustle of blankets fills the near silence. "I don't hate you, but I don't like you very much either. You're so... undeserving."

"Really? Undeserving of what, the mere chance to be graced by your presence? I think you're a pretentious twat that deserves far less than what you've been given."

"I know," he says, "I know I don't deserve anything I have, and I wish I didn't. But you, you complain about everything. You can't even give enough of a shit to maintain a friendship with your own bandmate. You don't even have a real job anymore, you sit in bed all day and wallow in sadness over something that happened over a decade ago."

I'm not upset over that anymore, I've moved on and I wouldn't be hesitant to admit it if I hadn't. "Fuck off. Your music sucks."

"Yes it does, but it's important to note the income is from the tours, baby. As long as I keep playing hit songs and continue to take off my shirt, I'm golden."

I'm really glad I started hating him a while ago. "You've really been faking this whole friendly gig, huh?"

"I wasn't at first, I thought we could get to know each other, but the more time I spend with you, the more I realize how much we clash. You judge me for fucking everything, don't think I haven't heard you going off in your sleep about how much I suck."

I didn't know I talked in my sleep, but I do now. "Didn't think you were half bad until recently, actually. Your music is a different story."

"Wow," he mutters, "so positive. Thanks for proving my point, shithead."

"No problem, you useless string of broken Christmas lights."

He falls back on the mattress and pulls the blanket up to his chin, glaring up at the curved ceiling. "Yeah, you're lucky you've got a handsome face, otherwise I would've punched your lights out already."

God, Taylor is going to kill me. Teamwork makes the dream work, at least that's what she says, and I guess everything is going to fall apart. The thing is, I don't hate Taylor, and I'd feel awful if she didn't have a good time.

"Okay, look," I hug my knees and stare off into the black void of the rest of the bus, "I hate you. You hate me. If Taylor finds out, she's going to plan both of our murders in scary detail. She may or may not hire a hitman. If she does, she will not be arrested for murder-for-hire because she's too good at things like that. She'll kill us. Literally."

Brendon sits up again. I can barely see his eyes through the darkness, but he's frowning. "What are you suggesting?"

"Fake it until we make it. The ultimate publicity stunt, and we make Taylor happy. You like her, right? She's way cooler than I am."

"I do like her," he says, "and I like that idea. We bait the paparazzi, I get more tours, Taylor gets the exposure, you..."

"I get to hand the band off to Taylor once she's famous enough, and then I can go back to living in solitude." Man, that sounds fantastic. I can feel myself ascending to heaven just thinking about the seclusion and silence.

"So, let me get this straight. We fake it between us, muscle through our free days and interviews together, play the venue, keep it up for a bit after that, and we're done."

"Yup," I nod, "and then we never have to speak to each other again. Win-win situation."

"Whatever floats your boat, Dallon. You've got yourself a deal."

We don't have rules, for example a guideline as to what famous entails in order to establish a stopping point. I think that would define itself, so it doesn't matter as much, but I'm not sure what baiting the paparazzi alludes to.

Also, what did he mean by keeping up the act for a little while afterwards? How long is that? How public does it need to be? The lack of detail in that idea is terrifying.

Before I can ask, Brendon rolls over and begins to snore within five seconds of his head hitting the pillow.

I lay back down and listen to the wheels of the bus dip into pothole after pothole after pothole. It's pitch black outside, everyone but the driver is asleep, and I've just sealed myself into the craziest deal I've ever made.