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Fan-fucking-tastic.
I have one suitcase that won’t zip, one with a broken wheel, and one still sitting open, only half packed and I’m supposed to be out of this hotel I’ve been calling home for the last week in less than an hour. Maybe I should’ve woken up earlier to have this done before I went over for sound check a little bit ago, but I knew my days of sleeping in however late I wanted were over.
Any ideas I had of folding and packing things in nicely have flown out the window as I begin grabbing armfuls of clothing out of the closet and shoving them in the cases however they can fit. I’d like to think these will eventually get refolded or hung nicely, but knowing I’m going to be on a bus for the next six months doesn’t bode well.
As I move into the bathroom to pack up my makeup and skincare, a knock at my door interrupts my haphazard dumping of products into my smallest bag. I peer through the peephole and am met with Boone’s eyeball just as close as my own.
I fight a smile as I open the door for my mentor and closest friend. “You said 6:00pm.”
Never one to wait to be invited in, Boone breezes past me and flops backward on my unmade bed. “I said 6:00pm to meet at the venue for a little pre-show huddle, but we need to get your shit on the bus before the show. And from the looks of things”—he surveys the piles of clothing, journals, phone cords, and more scattered around—“you need a swift kick in the ass to get it in gear.” He claps his hands as if that’ll get me moving quicker.
I check my phone, noting that we only have a little over an hour until this pre-show huddle, and head back into the bathroom to finish packing up my toiletries. “I’ll be ready, I promise.”
“I’ve heard that one before.” He snorts.
I shoot him a middle finger, reaching behind the shower curtain to grab my shampoo and conditioner. I zip up my bathroom bag and toss it on the empty desk in the bedroom before settling on the floor in front of the mostly packed suitcase to finish shoving the last of my clothes in.
“Now I’m going to ask you something and I just want you to know that you are more than welcome to refuse. And honestly, I feel like a dick even bringing it up, but you know with Naomi coming on the road this time and we’ve spent most of our years together in short spurts where I can carve out the time…” Boone rambles on, sitting up and sliding to lean off the edge of the bed.
“Get to the point,” I cut him off, grabbing the scrunchie from around my wrist and pulling my hair back into a low ponytail to keep it from falling in my face.
“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind maybe for at least the start of the tour staying on the second bus with the Whisper Me Nothings guys…” His tone is guilty, even as his eyes are hopeful.
My brow furrows, unsure of why he seems so nervous to ask me this. “I don’t care where I bunk. It’s fine, dude. You and Naomi can have the bus to yourself for the whole tour, I get it.”
Boone instantly relaxes, his posture melting into the mattress below him. “Are you sure, Scar? I don’t want you to feel like I asked you to join me on this tour and kick you to the curb before we even start.”
I meet his stare head-on. “Unless I totally blew at sound check this afternoon and you’re kicking me off before we even start, then like I said, I don’t care.” And I mean it; I really don’t care who or where I bunk on this tour. I’ve never met any of the guys in Whisper Me Nothings, but since Boone trusts them, I don’t mind bunking with them. And if they suck, I have noise canceling headphones and two working middle fingers.
I move over the last unfinished suitcase, the one with the stuck zipper. “You know if you ever start feeling like—” Boone starts, but I cut him off before he can say anymore.
“I told you I’m fine. My counselor said I’m fine, Vik couldn’t be happier that I’m going to be bringing her more money, and I’ve been sober for almost two years now. Spare me another conversation about it,” I bite out, feeling tension lock up my shoulders and neck. He means well, they all do, but it gets a little grating when everyone around you feels like they need to constantly check in on how a twenty-four-year-old grown adult is doing.
A flash of hurt crosses Boone’s face, so fast I almost miss it, before he’s hopping up and nudging me out of the way to get this damn zipper to close.
“I got it,” he says softly, like I’m a spooked abandoned animal he’s trying to approach, which only further adds to the annoyance bubbling inside me.
Instead of picking a fight where deep down I know there isn’t a need for it, I gather the rest of my bags up and start piling them at the door. Boone only takes a few moments of gliding the zipper back a couple inches before smoothly sliding it around the entirety of the bag. As I stand there watching him, frustrated that I couldn’t do it myself but also grateful that he’s here, he shoots me a knowing smile and without another word, starts pulling the larger two suitcases behind him toward the door.
As I open it up and he starts to walk past, I step out in front of him for a moment, blocking his way through. Craning my neck back, I press a kiss to his cheek and he wraps one arm around my shoulders, bringing me in for a hug.
“Thank you for bringing me on this tour with you. You know I appreciate you, even if I don’t always say it.” I sink into his embrace as a voice in the back of my mind wonders how long it’s been since someone has hugged me like this.
Too damn long.
“I always got your back, Scar.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head before pulling back, his peppery cologne clinging to my nose. I swear he hasn’t used a different cologne in the six years that I’ve known him.
“Now, let’s get this shit loaded up on the bus. We’ve got a tour to kick off tonight!” he booms, clearly not caring that the volume of his voice could be disruptive in this quiet hotel hallway. I shake my head, turning around to gather up the final few bags. My scrawny arms are weighed down with way too much but there’s no such thing as two trips in my book.
I take a final look at the hotel room. No empty liquor bottles and broken glass, no lingering stench of vomit, no stained sheets or ruined towels strewn about.
Progress.
As Boone starts down the hallway toward the elevator, he curses as the suitcase with the broken wheel drags like dead weight behind him.
“Of course you stick me with a dud here,” he grumbles. I huff out a small laugh because even though I didn’t purposefully task him with that bag, I can’t say I’m not happy I’m not the one having to lug that thing all the way down from the room to the tour bus waiting downtown at the arena.
“Sucks to be you.”
