One for the Road

Atlanta, United States

We spent three days in the tour bus after New York, with shows in Boston and Philadelphia before the long trek to Georgia for a music festival. On the way, I learned about how gross guys can be when they don't care what a girl thinks about them, about the importance of a real shower in a real bathroom, and how much I genuinely loved greasy food on the road. I also learned all the ways someone can just look at you and practically make you wet, which was more of an inconvenience than I was willing to admit, and was all that Alex was doing since our hotel encounter.

I had responded to his question– about the possibility of my forgetting San Francisco– with a dumbstruck "no" in New York, hands still pressed against his chest, his still clutching at my waist.

He had kissed me again then, slow, careful, and then released me, walked away without another word, and I had stumbled into my hotel room and taken a cold fucking shower.

Two shows later and he hadn't spoken to me since, just kept looking at me, smirking at me, finding moments to stand close to me and graze my body with the lightest touch, and it was driving me up a fucking wall. But, as we entered Atlanta the morning before the festival, I could have cared less if he was playing with me, I was only focused on one thing: the beautiful, long shower I was about to take.

We had a night off in Atlanta, a night to sleep in a hotel and regroup before the festival– which Miles and I didn't even need to work– and I was looking forward to the two days of relaxation and music, and some quality time with my best friend at a festival we'd never been to.

The quiet and privacy of the hotel room– after days on a noisy, crowded tour bus– was almost as delicious as the hot shower I took once alone. The water washed away the fatigue and soreness from bus travel, woke me up and made me feel refreshed. Even though it was hotel shampoo and soap, they were the equivalent of a luxury spa for me at that moment. And when I towel dried my hair, pulled on just a baggy t-shirt, cranked the air conditioning, and crawled into the clean sheets of the bed, I smiled against the pillows as I thought about the grade-A nap I was about to take.

And then there was a knock at my door.

There was no doubt in my mind it was Miles, so I threw back the covers and went to the door without even putting pants on– the t-shirt I was wearing was practically a dress it was so big anyway– and threw it open.

And, of course, it wasn't Miles. It was Alex.

He smiled crookedly, looked me up and down once before saying, "Can I come in?"

I was suddenly wide awake, whole body immediately alive with fizzling energy. I stepped aside for him to come in, closing the door behind him.

He sat on the edge of my bed, looking casual and comfortable in his t-shirt and jeans, glancing around the hotel room, at my rumpled bedding.

I sat next to him, not knowing what else to do with myself, and he met my eyes.

"What's up?" I finally asked, because he wasn't saying anything, just staring at me as we sat on the bed, air conditioner humming across the room. I thought I was going to disintegrate from the anticipation, from the feeling of my body on edge, waiting for him, and I didn't like this power he had over me– that no one had ever had over me.

"I didn't want you to think I only kissed you because I was pissed," he replied.

I hadn't been expecting that response, and I didn't know what to say in return, so I waited.

"Two years ago," he was saying, "in San Francisco– I know we were pissed, and both 'eartbroken– but I've thought about you since."

Despite how much I had been thinking about it, It seemed like a lifetime ago, so the fact that in the interim he had thought about me at all– in all his escapades that had made the writing of AM possible, while I was in the midst of a floundering relationship and not even tangentially in his life– shocked me.