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Before: Flowers and Candy


Nick

When I got off stage, I threw a towel over my head and security ushered me out to the bus. On the way I passed a bunch of people holding up signs of support, but I tried not to look at them. I was so sick of everyone rallying to me to support me. I didn't need support, I was fine. Couldn't they just let me forget? I climbed onto the bus and closed the door and grabbed a protien drink from the fridge, shaking it on my way to my bunk.

When I'd sat down, flipped on the TV, and muted it, I called Ashley's cell phone.

She must've been sitting right on top of it because she answered immediately, "Hey," she said.

"Hey," I said back.

"How was the concert?" she asked.

I sighed, "It was okay."

"Still not having as much fun as you hoped?" she ventured.

"I just really wanna go home," I replied. It was the first time I'd said it, the first time I'd let myself really feel it. It used to be that I thought of the tour bus as home, and when I was actually home I was on vacation. There was a time when I went home on breaks and I laid awake at night, staring up at the ceiling next to whatever my flavor of the week girlfriend had been and felt a yearning homesickness for the bunk on the tour bus. This was the first time in twenty-one years that I'd ever felt homesick for home.

Ashley knew me so well, that I didn't have to tell her this.

"So are you gonna quit?" she asked.

I drew a deep breath. "I think so," I answered. This was the first time that I'd vocalized this, too, though the thought had been in my mind since the conversation I'd had with Kevin on the sidewalk in front of the gas station...and really, even before that.

"When?" she asked.

"We finish this leg next week," I said quietly, "Then there's a two-week gap, then we go to Europe and Asia and South America for almost a year."

"A year, wow," Ashley whispered. She sounded... was that frightened? I dunno. She sounded some emotion that I couldn't quite put my finger on.

"I don't think I could take a year away," I said honestly.

"So... you're talking about quitting in three weeks."

It sounded so frightening when she put it like that.

"Give or take," I replied.

"You're brave," she said admirably.

"Brave?"

"Yes, to see something you don't want to happen to yo and being strong enough to get up and walk away," she said thickly.

"I'm scared shitless," I confessed.

"It's not brave if you're not scared," she said.

"So... what was wrong earlier?" I asked. I opened my protien drink and took a long sip.

Ashley was quiet for a long moment. "Chris and I had a fight, that's all," she said.

"A fight?" I asked.

"Yeah. It wasn't a big deal, I just felt lonely after. You know how I get when I have a fight with someone," she said quickly.

Ashley and I had fought once for one week. The fight had come after I'd been diagnosed with cardiomyopathy. Ashley had gone with me to the doctor's office and she'd held my hand as the cardiologist told me my diagnosis, and the prognosis. A prognosis that was conditional: if you do better, you'll get better, if you don't, you'll die. And at the time, I was headlong, deep in a depression that I'd struggled for years to crawl out of. And I didn't give a shit if I did die. In fact, it was almost a relief. And I'd continued going out drinking and I'd continued doing drugs and I'd continued being wild and then one day Ashley showed up at my house and poured out all my liquor, flushed my drugs down the toilet, and screamed at me that I wasn't going to die, that I was going to get better, and if I didn't that I was going to lose her forever. I'd told her to fuck off. And I hadn't heard from her for two weeks. After two weeks, I missed her more than I could ever have missed the drugs. You'd think I would've learned then that I loved her, but I'm a hard learner. Instead, what I learned was that as hardcore as Ashley played or sounded, she was really terrified of losing you the entire time and it always, always turned out that, even though she stood her ground, she'd cried until you came back for her.

"What'd y'all fight about?" I asked.

Ashley was quiet. "Nothing really, it was a silly misunderstanding," she laughed.

"Tell him you're always right," I said, laughing. "Always. No matter what. Even when you're wrong you're right."

Ashley laughed.

"You tell him I said that," I said.

"I will," she said thickly.

"So other than the fight..." I asked, "How's married life?"

"It's been... just... great," Ashley said slowly.

I laughed, "You sound so enthusiastic."

"Sorry," she said, "It's been a long day." She paused. "I gotta go." And just like that, she hung up without even saying good bye.

I stared at the phone, "Um... night, I guess," I said. I sighed and clicked the phone into it's charger and swallowed the rest of my protien shake. I basket-ball threw it into the trashbin. It bounced off the rim. I rolled my eyes, but I was too lazy to go get it, so I left it there on the floor and crawled into my bed, pulling the covers up to my chin.

What would it be like, I wondered, not being a Backstreet Boy?




Ashley

I hung up the phone and shoved it into the drawer and turned over in bed so that my back was to the door. I'd heard Chris come in the front door. "ASHLEY!" he yelled into the apartment. I hugged my pillow close to my chest, refusing to respond to him. I closed my eyes tight, I thought about Nick, about his voice, about his laugh, and I buried my face against the pillow, as though it was him, as though he could save me from wherever he was.

Chris banged through the apartment. "Ashley!" he yelled more urgently. But I still refused to respond. He called me again, and again... his voice getting louder. Then the bedroom door slammed open and I kept my eyes closed and tried to breathe in as rhythmic a way as I could, trying to pretend that I was asleep. His foot falls brought him around the bed and he knelt beside the bed, right by me, and he reached up and shook my shoulder, "Ashley," he said.

I didn't open my eyes immediately.

"Ashley wake up, god damn it," he said.

I opened my eyes because I was afraid he'd hit me again if I didn't. I struggled to back away from him as he lifted his arm and I cowered... but he only turned on the lamp. He looked at me, like he was surprised to see me covering my face, bracing myself for a blow. "Stop that," he said, and he grabbed hold of my arm and pulled it away from my face. His touch was white-hot, like being seared by a branding iron.

"Don't touch me," I begged.

"Honey I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have hit you like that."

I shook my head, "You enjoyed it, you said so. You said it felt good, you enjoyed hurting me."

"You hurt me first," he said, "Taking to Nick..." he shook his head, "You know how I feel about Nick. He tried to steal you from me... he tried to stop us from being together... and I love you so much... and I cannot imagine where I would be in life without you..." His voice shook.

"Beating on some other bitch," I said coldly. If I could have rolled away, I would've. But my stomach was way too huge for rolling anywhere.

He moved and I reflexively flinched away again. He sighed, "Don't, don't do that. It's never going to happen again. I promise."

I swallowed, my throat ached from emotion.

He moved again and pulled a small bouqet of flowers out from behind his back, and he picked up a small box, which he laid on the mattress beside me. "They're chocolate covered strawberries," he said quietly.

I stared at the box.

"I know you love those," he said.

"Yeah. Thanks," I said thickly.

"I'm sorry I forgot your birthday," he added. "I've been so busy..."

"It's fine," I answered.

"Ashley," he said, "You really do love me, right? You weren't just saying that before? Earlier, I mean?"

"I married you didn't I?" I asked. "I chose you over him didn't I?"

Chris sighed. "Yeah."

"So why are you asking me this?"

"Because," he said, "I can't stomach the thought that you might love something more than you love me. Anything. But most especially I can't stand the thought that you still love Nick."

I took a deep breath, "If you ever, ever hit me again, Christopher, I will not be here when you come home."

"I'm sorry."

I shook my head. "You really can't be sorry enough."