Who Knows When (Joger/Dealor)

Chapter 61

My heart nearly stopped hearing that voice—that awkward, one-of-a-kind, easily recognizable voice. I almost forgot how to speak, I was so awestruck.

"You there?" it sounded again.

"Hi," I managed to spit out, gripping onto the phone as if my life depended on it. Both Freddie and Brian looked my way.

"Hey," John replied, a soft chuckle following his response.

"H-How are you?" I stammered, cautiously eyeing the other two men in the store as they lurked towards me, curious to see who was on the other end of the line.

"I'm good...I'm good. How are you?"

"I'm good," I repeated him, the beating in my chest growing faster and faster with each step the singer and the guitarist took towards me. I didn't know why my nerves were starting to heighten; it's not like I was afraid of them, or of them finding out that it was John who'd called. After all, he was their friend too. Maybe, deep down though, I wanted this moment to be between just the two of us, because there were so many things that I wanted to say to him, things I would never say in front of the singer or guitarist. They weren't idiots, they knew how I felt about John, but that wouldn't stop them from humiliating me about it if I confessed it to him. I mean, thank god they weren't on the trip.

"How are Freddie and Brian?" the bassist inquired, probably just out of courtesy—or at least, that's what I told myself to keep the illusion going; to keep thinking that John wanted to speak with only me too.

"They're fine," I answered bluntly, the two men in question standing by my side and in front of me. I felt like the two of them were walls closing in, and my response only made them even more interested in the conversation. Selfishly taking the phone and receiver into my possession, I brought them into the small room behind the counter, closing the door behind me and falling against it. Once the door clicked into place, I slid down the jagged surface—penetrated by the ghosts of nails and staples—until I hit the floor, holding the receiver in my lap and the phone up to my ear and murmuring, "I miss you."

There was a long pause, and for a moment I worried that, in my haste to get away from Brian and Freddie, I'd cut our connection. However, a low voice whispered through the speaker, replying, "I miss you too."

I couldn't contain the smile that my lips formed into upon hearing his words. I began to twist the phone cord around my finger, continuing just as quiet as he, "So, when are you coming back?"

Silence crackled over the line, and I never realized how deafening silence could be. I thought that term was only reserved for shows and the crowd's response, but that's the only way I could describe it. Deafening.

"Hey, have you guys put out the album yet?" John blurted out, trying to breathe life into the conversation that was slowly but surely dying, "I've been listening to the radio, you know, waiting for them say 'And here with their newest single, Queen!'" He laughed at his imitation of a broadcaster, and I did too, but it felt forced, unnatural. This was unnatural. "Maybe you could send me an early copy of it?"

I chuckled sadly at his request, thinking about how there were no early copies—not any that we had, at least—and how hopeless the album seemed at this point. However, I had too much pride to admit that to him, and so instead, I answered, "Sure, John. I'd love to."

"Will I get to hear the song you wrote about me?" he whispered, his voice quiet but clear, as though his hand was cupped around the bottom half of the phone so that only I would hear him. Or maybe it was to disguise the smirk that appeared on his face at the sheer thought of a song dedicated to him being on an actual album.