Tourist - (B.U.)

Constant Conversations

I reached down for my bag, ready to hoist it over my shoulder and step out of the black Escalade onto the cracked pavement of my apartment complex, but the car kept moving forward and Ryan and Brendon didn't mutter a word.

"Ryan?" I glanced nervously behind us as my decrepit brick-building rolled further away. "We just passed my house."

Ryan hummed amiably, staring down at the tablet he had fixed on his lap, making insufferable notes about future interviews and photo shoots for the band. He tapped away relentlessly as the blue light burned into his tired, brown eyes. When was the last time he slept?

"Am I not going home tonight?"

The word home tasted foreign on my tongue, knowing it held a different meaning than it had in the past.

A couple of weeks ago Brendon and I got into an especially loud and destructive argument, over something stupid I'm sure but I can't really remember, and I called Ryan crying from the patio, begging that he find me a different place to live.

Brendon was storming around inside, pushing over our furniture and swearing viciously. I absolutely hated when he cried. I tried to block out the memory of tears striping his cheeks and staining our expensive, down comforter as he sat on his heels and pulled on my wrist, trying to stop my departure.

As soon as I saw his tears I left. I hated knowing I was the cause of them. Such a coward.

I clutched the phone closer to my ear, the surface sticking to my tear-stained cheek, and pleaded as softly as I could to him, "please, Ryan. I can't live with him any longer. I'll still make appearances, I won't tell anyone anything. Just please find me a place. Any place, anywhere. I don't care."

Ryan always had a soft spot for me, even if Brendon was his best friend and first priority. He knew we weren't happy together, and I personally believed Ryan didn't agree with the idea of our sham relationship- even though he knows it's the only way the album will sell.

Once the damn album sells. Then we can move on. Then Brendon can go on to writing lyrics about heartbreak and how much of a bitch I am.

"Huh? No, you're going home with Brendon," Ryan muttered and turned around from his position in the passenger seat to give me a soft smile.

An innocent smile that silently spoke "listen, I know it sucks but we have no other choice, please don't be mad with me."

I sighed because no, of course I could never be mad at Ryan. It's not like it was his fault that Brendon and I had fallen out.

"But why?" I pouted.

It felt strange to talk about this when Brendon was sitting two seats away from me. Like I was betraying him. My eyes flickered over to his figure; he was staring down at his hands in his seat, his eyes glossed over and emotionless. A gold-plated Rolex GMT covered his wrist and reminded me that it was almost midnight and I was too tired to argue with anyone about this.

Every now and then a passing street lamp would illuminate Brendon and I would see a flash of his hunched over figure. The lifeless look to his body made my stomach churn. I never wanted this.

I bit my lip and forced myself to look away.

When Ryan didn't answer Brendon stepped in, "it's because we're being followed."

"Followed?" I asked naively.

Even after five years of being on tour with the band, attending rehearsals, interviews, it was hard for me to come to terms with the maturity of their fame. Fans were desperate and creepy. And paparazzi was even more so.