A Twist of Fate SERIES (Pentatonix)

(35) Bad Weather

( SCOTT )

It's a damn good thing Esther and Jonathan were able to book our last show less than a half hour away in Hollywood. Because if we had to get on a plane for a couple hours after a night like tonight, I don't think I'd be able to do it. I'd probably be thrown out by airport security before I could even step foot on the premises.

After the show, I don't even bother heading back to my dressing room—Esther will get everything later—before racing out to the tourbus. Since what happened last year in Nashville, and earlier this year in May, fans are no longer allowed to come within thirty feet of the tourbuses. Unfortunately, this distance is still close enough for them to identify anybody who exits the venue through the back to get to the buses.

As soon as I step outside into the less stifling October air with two security guards walking on either side of me to shield me as much as possible, people start to shout my name, asking for pictures and autographs. To my gratitude, they're at least respectful and aren't too loud or demanding; they, too, are still hurting and recovering from losing Mitch, and they know how hard it's been for us to continue touring without him, both emotionally and physically, even if it's only been for a month-and-a-half.

I quickly climb onto the bus, keeping my head down the whole time, eyes hardened and trained on the pavement. I can hear the security guards talking to the fans for a minute before they close the door, and then it's completely silent—almost eerily so.

I take this rare moment of solitude to inhale deeply, letting my eyes wander around the front lounge. Per usual, I try not to think about all of the memories that have been made here. But, right now, I'm just so exhausted and worn down and relieved that the fake as fuck façades I've been erecting since the beginning of September can finally collapse into nothingness that I can't help but picture Mitch hiding over in the corner on his phone, Esther yelling at us to get our asses into the arena because we're running late, Kirstie dashing up and down the bunk aisle with whipped cream in her mouth and calling it exercise.

I almost, almost, let a small smile creep onto my face, but instead I fall to my knees, burying my face in my hands as I let more tears fall, wondering how I still have any left.

The fans' voices harmonizing "On My Way Home" echo in my ears, and I want it gone. I don't want to think about the reason they somehow conjured that miracle up. I don't want to think about the reason they had to do it to begin with. I don't want to think about the reason the four of us added those two songs to our set list in the first place.

I just wish the last five months could disappear. That, instead of the restraining order of sorts we've issued against the fans, I could be outside smiling and signing autographs and accepting gifts. That, instead of breaking down into full-on sobs in the middle of shows, I could be laughing, singing, jumping around. That, instead of racing to the tourbus just to bawl some more, I could be hanging out with the rest of the crew, wishing tour wasn't over so soon and already anticipating the next one. That, instead of mourning over Mitch's death and wishing he were still here, I could be holding him close.

I've been told, countless times, that things happen for a reason. From my family, from my friends, from the crew, from the fans (though I've mostly stayed off of social media since we released the statement back in May).

But I just don't think they get it.

I guess I once believed that everything happens for a reason, too. That was, you know, before my best friend in the entire fucking universe committed suicide. Before my best friend in the entire fucking universe told me what he was going to do—and, in a way, I let him do it.