Standing By

Bombshell

(Tim)

I stared at them in shock, my pseudo-calm in the wake of my most recent decision to look into ending things with Jenika wavering. What the hell were my friends saying? I seriously couldn't imagine my life without music, the one constant, my impetus, my reason for living, loving, smiling. And to not do it for a job—to leave my music career, all I'd worked for, for so long, dreams come true before my eyes—I couldn't go back to a mundane life. Get up, go to a desk job, come home, spend time with a woman whose love was only conditional, go to bed, only to get up and do it all over again just wasn't something I could do.

I blinked at Adam and Rob, both telling me to go. To go. To leave them. That—oh my God. I leaned over and rested my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. That they didn't want me. Didn't anybody want me? Jenika didn't want me because I wanted to have a career in the music industry. And my music industry friends, my own band, didn't want me because they want me to want her?

My head was starting to pound. Nobody wanted me. Can't go home to Tennessee. Can't stay here. Back to Texas? If nothing else, my parents and brothers would welcome me back with open arms. Suicide, for me, unlike whatever anyone in this room seemed to think, simply was not something I'd ever do. Ever. That wasn't even an option. Hadn't crossed my mind until Carrie mentioned it. Still crying, I rolled my eyes at the absurdity. Clearly, she didn't know me. And my friends—would they still be considered friends if they didn't want me?—they should have known better. Known me well enough to know that.

My mind raced as I gave a hurt look at Adam, who was crying himself, a hand on his chest, as though his heart was hurting. He really looked distressed. One hand was trembling and Rob reached out to steady him with his own trembling hand. Why were they so shaky? I closed my eyes, trying to force my addled brain to think. Clearly, they did want me, if nothing else, as a friend. I'd quit, I'd walked off, yet here they were. They'd followed me, each of them, faithfully, to not leave me. And they'd come running, afraid I'd do something to myself. Yes. They were definitely friends. They loved me. They may not want me in the band, but they wanted me in their lives. I'd take that. I could live with that at least. I'd just have to find another band. Or try again on my own. I hadn't been doing that badly solo. I could build it back up. Hmm. Or maybe Chris might want to work together and collaborate. Yes—surely Chris wouldn't turn me away. I could make it, somehow.

I looked from Adam and Rob, still holding onto one another for support, to Austin, sitting on the bed, looking like he'd lost his best friend—which he probably thought he had. I felt my hand fly out and come to rest on his back to reassure him that I—Tim the friend—wasn't going anywhere. Tim the singer might be, but not Tim the friend. I looked at Chance, who was digging the nails of one hand into the palm of the other. I hoped he realized his gesture earlier, when he took my hand and let my fingers fall on his scars, wasn't lost on me. My pain was his pain. His pain was mine.

I let my hand fall off of Austin's back, giving him one final pat, and turned to Chance, pulling him tightly into a hug. I even heard the breath escape his lungs as I squeezed him.

"Please," he pleaded. "Don't go. I'm not as good as Adam and Rob. I'm selfish. And I don't want you to go."

"I'm not going anywhere," I promised him quietly into his ear, my eyes glancing over at Pentatonix. Even they, friends of only a few days, had come rushing to my aid, to Adam's and Rob's, Chance's and Austin's aid. Kevin, who'd thought the worst, sounded the alarm, was perched on the dresser, sad puppy dog eyes gazing at seemingly nothing but everything at the same time. Kirstie, Scott, and Mitch all huddled together, holding onto and talking to each other softly. Mitch's and Scott's eyes were wet. Kirstie's were dry but her facial expression mirrored their eyes. Avi, leaned against a wall, trying to hide behind his hair that he'd pulled free from its bun, but not quite managing to conceal the pain that his face revealed.