a work of art

chapter 11: stuck (part 2)

We couldn't tell how much time had passed. At one point, we'd heard a thundering of feet as doors opened and those in line outside had rushed for barricade. We could tell that wherever we were under the stage, it was close to where fans were standing, eagerly awaiting the show.

The show.

Billie was starting to lose it. We knew that in the next couple of hours, the opener would play, and then shortly after, she'd be expected to perform. At first she paced the room manically, banging on the door with each passing, yelling under the crack, banging on the walls of the wooden room. Nothing.

Now she sat beside me on the dusty concrete floor, her head on my shoulder. I stroked her hair while she cried silently.

"Shhh," I tried to soothe her, my heart in my throat. "They're looking for you right now, I'm sure. Try to breathe, Bill."

"We're right under the stage. They have to check here, right?" She lifted her head, trying to peer at me in the dark. She sniffled. "But why would we even be in here? They'd never think to check here."

The persistent tears worried me most. I hadn't known her long, but I knew she wasn't an easy crier. I shushed her again and pushed her head gently back down onto my shoulder. "Please try to take a minute, Bill. We can't do anything more right now. We just need to sit tight for a minute."

She sat, sniffling into my shoulder while I stroked her hair, her arms wrapped around my waist. I hugged her shoulders tightly. The crowd outside was loud, but muffled by all the boxes.

"Let's talk about something else," I tried to distract her. "Now that we're officially girlfriends, what do you want to tell people? Or more specifically, who do you want to tell?"

"I've been thinking about that a lot, lately," she said quietly.

"And? Any big conclusions?"

"I think I'd like to know what you think."

"That's cheating," I said, nudging her. "But... I've been thinking about it, too. And I think – I just want what you want, Bill. I think about fame, and... not only is it not something I desire, even if it was, it would never be mine. I know lots of people have fantasies about dating someone famous, but it isn't ever their fame. The fame belongs to the person they're dating."

She was quiet, picking at a seam on her jeans.

I continued. "So, I guess it's just like getting all the hard stuff without all the parts of it that you love, like your fans."

She shifted. "That's a good way of looking at it, because there's a lot of bad stuff. I just hate that... whoever I date really only gets the bad stuff, like you said."

I kissed her forehead. "I'm okay with the bad stuff, Bill. I just wanted you to know that I'm not doing this to somehow... get some of what you have. I just want you."

She moved her hand to hold one of mine. I gripped it tightly. "The last guy I dated wanted exactly that; my fame. I've always kept my relationships as hidden as I could, and I suddenly found myself with someone who already had his own fame, and that felt like such a relief, at first. But then... he was just obsessed with getting mine, too. And... well you know how that ended. It wasn't such a relief after all, to say the least."

My heart hurt for her. Once again, I was reminded of her seemingly constant state of vulnerability.

She looked up at me and continued. "But what if I don't want to hide this time, either? What if I want to be open? What if I want to be able to just tell whoever I want about it? Not just everyone close to me in my life, but the fans, the press?"