One for the Road

Los Angeles, United States - A Third Time

Miles came with me to get my stuff when we got back to L.A. We had one day off before the first show back in town, and he insisted on helping me get everything– made a joke about me being too weak to carry all the boxes by myself. I knew he was just insisting on providing the moral support whether I wanted it or not– the layer of protection in case I bumped into Chris– and I was grateful for his presence.

My hands shook as I unlocked the front door, heart pounding like I was in a sad horror movie. But Chris wasn't home– told me he would be at work all day and to take my time.

Walking through the house felt as strange as I thought it would– like I was a stranger in my own home. Trespassing in a space that wasn't even my own anymore, to be fair. Luckily, Chris hadn't missed much. He had erred on the side of caution, had packed everything that was mine, and most of the things that we had bought together– that could be considered his as well. Aside from the TV, and other major appliances or decorative pieces, he had been generous.

The boxes were waiting near the front door, but Miles didn't touch them right away. Instead, he followed me throughout the house like a loyal dog, silent, waiting for me to need him, always close at hand.

My shampoo and conditioner weren't in the shower, Chris had packed that too. For some reason, that's what set me off.

I sat on the lid of the toilet and started crying like a baby, the pain and emotion hitting me out of nowhere. Without any kind of build up or fight at all tears were streaming down my face and I was sobbing like the world was about to end.

Miles knelt in front of me, put his hands on my knees, and said, "Come on, Bug. It's all right."

"What is wrong with me, Miles?" I asked, vision watery with tears, snot probably running down my nose like a toddler.

"What'ya mean?" he asked kindly, rubbing my arm, taking my hands in his.

"I mean, why can't I keep a boyfriend?" I asked. "What's wrong with me that it never works out?"

He looked heartbroken at my words, and gave my hands a squeeze, saying, "You just 'aven't found the right one, Bug. Doesn't mean you won't."

Alex popped into my mind without warning, but I took one of my hands back to wipe my nose on the back of.

"Actually," he said, feigning absolute disgust at my actions. "That might be why, love."

I laughed out loud despite myself, and he handed me a wad of toilet paper to dry my face.

"Someday you'll find someone better than me," he told me cheekily. "And then you'll know he's the one."

I laughed again, shook my head and said, "You're an ass."

He smiled at me, hands still on my knees, and we were silent for several minutes.

When I spoke again I was quiet, and I said, "I'm going to miss him."

"It's just 'abit," he squeezed my knee gently. "It will fade."

I took a shaky breath, swiped at my face with the toilet paper.

"And if it doesn't, you can always stay friends," he nudged me. "We did, didn't we?"

I rolled my eyes. He knew that was different, but he smiled again.

"Let's get your stuff, babe," he said, helping me up. "We got friends coming round tonight. You're my co-hostess and I will not tolerate a co-hostess covered in bogies."

As "co-hostess" I didn't have to do much.

Miles hadn't been home since the tour started, so the house was spotless. I shoved all of my things– my suitcases and boxes– into one of his guest rooms and shut the door, finishing the job. We grabbed hamburgers and hot dogs, bags of chips, and a ton of alcohol, on our way home from Chris's, and we were pretty much done.