A Year Of Living Stupidly

6. Saint George, Pt. IV

"You're still fucking her, aren't you?" Bank Teller demands instead of watching the band we've come to see. God displayed a wicked sense of humor by placing BF and OBF in the same club at the same time. It's not the way I'd prefer they meet. BF left early with a boy toy, stranding OBF. Bank Teller insists we give her a ride home. OBF immediately jumps in the passenger seat. Before I could tell her she's taken the wrong seat, Bank Teller waves me off with a death glare in her eyes.

"You can drop me off last," OBF offers. "I don't mind." It didn't work.

Bank Teller climbs into the front seat as OBF wanders off to her apartment.

"Yes," I answer Bank Teller's original question, setting fire to an uncomfortable conversation about exclusivity in which I blurt I can't know who else she's been fucking, either. Bank Teller storms out of my car to spend the night in her bed alone. I call OBF and scream for five minutes before hanging up on her.

I am not equipped to resolve this. My genius plan is to make life as unpleasant as possible and hope one of them walks away. Every time I'm with Bank Teller, I act like a raging asshole, but she never takes the bait. She always calms me. OBF gets an earful about her youth.

"You're too young for a serious relationship," I declare.

"I know what I want," OBF stands her ground. "I want to be with you."

"For now. But what happens when you get curious about others and leave me?"

...

"What were you afraid of?"

"Everything–being the bad guy, hurting one of them, getting hurt by one of them, making the wrong choice."

"Shouldn't the decision have come from your heart?"

"I can't say with complete certainty I knew my heart. And the fear may have led me to make stupid choices."

...

BF and I make a date alone for the first time in forever.

"Maybe I should have asked first," BF says forty-five minutes after she knocked on my door. "I assumed it would be okay." She refers to the curiosity-satisfying sex she'd administered, answering the 'what-if' between us and cementing my status as an asshole opportunist. Hers too, I suppose. She wasn't shy about inserting herself into my bed, knowing I was in at least one relationship with a girl she considered a friend. I want to tell her she's betrayed OBF also, but it won't end well.

The last time I saw BF naked was the night she stuffed me into the friend zone. Now, sharing a quick shower, her nudity feels mundane.

"Do you mind if we don't go out?" She asks, climbing back into bed with two refilled wine glasses. "Hello," BF taps my forehead. "Anyone in there?" I must have drifted.

"I'm totally happy staying here."

"Have you asked her to go with you?"

"Who?" I catch myself. She means Bank Teller. "No. No, I haven't."

"You should. You two are good together."

She's right. Bank Teller and I are good together. OBF and I have a volatile relationship that is sure to end badly. I get the feeling Bank Teller will never hurt me. OBF is just... whew. Or maybe the smart money says move to California myself and let the chips fly where they may. If either of them wants to be with me, she will find a way.

"Weird," BF says, interrupting my internal monologue. "We may never see each other again."

"Don't be ridiculous." I kiss her and accidentally stick my finger up her ass, pulling her closer for more sex.

We'll fuck two more times in as many weeks. She gives me a hurried blowjob in a semi-public place, believing she's won a prize no one else will ever get. Months ago, OBF got there first.

I have no idea what to do.

Ex-Partner has been scarce since our last show. He dove right into building on our momentum by forming a new 'super group.' He's shared no music with me, but it isn't difficult to imagine the sound.

The night before the move, Ex-Partner and his new group make their debut. I choke up a little when the crowd cheers as they take the stage. A fan approaches.

"You getting up there tonight?"

"No. This is his show."

"You really going to California?"

"I really am." I turn my attention back to the stage. Ex-Partner cherry-picked players from the best bands in town. The first number rocks with more weight than our band. This team shows more confidence, less hyper energy. They're off to a decent start. He steps up to the microphone and out roars that voice, the one that commanded the guy in the Purple Shoes turn away from the promise of sex with two Green Lights, and face the promise of a lifelong dream to come true.

He peppers the new band's set with reworked versions of some of our old crowd favorites. Shrewd. Might be my ego talking, but as the set goes on, my interest wanes. The act works on paper, but the steak fails to live up to the initial sizzle. Ex-Partner senses he's about to lose a forgiving audience and dials up his stage antics to a level unsuited to this act. He's putting his all into the show, but no one else on stage can keep up with him. Forget about a foil—he has no support. What can he do but call a Hail Mary?

"Get up here," he commands me through the PA. Despite any differences, brothers help brothers out of a jam with a jam. Even though he's abandoned me, it gives me no joy to see him stumble.

I squeeze my way through the crowd and onto the stage. As a roadie hands me a guitar, we figure out songs everyone could fake their way through. We start with a song on which Ex-Partner and I sing two-part harmony beginning to end. The crowd rewards us with a huge serving of our former glory. Of course, we lap up every morsel. We have no guarantee it will ever be this good again. Swathed in the adulation, it occurs to me I'd always known I was better with him by my side, but he may have only now realized how much he relied on me. Will this move work out for either of us?

Two songs later, I step off the stage, dripping. And there she stands across the room.

"Hey," I whisper when I reach her. OBF wraps her arms around my neck, tight.

"Take me, don't take her," she pleads, clinging to me, tears dotting my shoulder.

We cross Southern Utah under a magical full moon.

The road has been ours alone for a hundred miles. The air still radiates the desert heat. The hum of the tires on the highway lulls me into an alpha state. Between red cliffs rising to nudge the stars, a huge white owl interrupts my daydream, diving out of nowhere to pick up a prairie dog right in front of us. I open my mouth, but the moment is over before I can utter a syllable. I turn my eyes back to the road and let 3b sleep.

...

"3b?" She asks.

"I told you I had been in love three times with four women. The last two were at the same time. In order, I had 1, 2, OBF, who was 3a..."

"Making the bank teller 3b." She's not there yet.

"Three..." I drag out the word and close my mouth on the letter 'b.'

"Ah," the light comes on. "Threeb!"

...

My thoughts drift back to a first kiss on the long staircase outside my loft. I lose track of the odometer, hypnotized by a bit of uncertainty, a gentle snap of electricity and a moment of adjustment. When I come to, we have made Saint George.