And Not, When I Came To Die, Discover That I Had Not Lived - Chapter 5
Chapter 5 - "Waiting"
POV: Patrick
I've been up most of the night. Reading. And thinking.
Yesterday, before we all parted ways at the O'Hare baggage claim, after I'd just finished giving Andy a goodbye hug (a very manly one, mind you, what with the clasped hands and the one arm embrace), I turned around and there was Pete. I wasn't really expecting much of a farewell from him. After all, all four of us reside, for now, in the same old area and we only have a two week break before we meet back in L.A. to finish recording the new album. Not to mention our little unspoken...whatever. And because of this very short interval between now and our next studio session, I was infinitely surprised when instead of saying anything (not that I expected that, per se), he slammed a notebook against my chest, holding it there until I, bewildered, lifted a hand to grip it myself. And he gave me the slightest nod (really, I may have imagined it) and went to go call himself a cab to his parents'.
And that's where I am now. At 7 a.m. Sitting at Peter and Dale Wentz's kitchen island sipping coffee and still staring at that same notebook. Waiting.
As soon as I got to my mother's place, after letting her fawn over me for a good hour (complete with dinner) and then dumping my stuff in my old room (which is more of a guest room now, I guess - strange thought), I pulled Pete's composition book out from my messenger bag and sat down with it around midnight. I flipped past the pieces I recognized; mixtures that seemed odd to me at present, having separated "Dance, Dance" verses from those of "Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner" so long ago that I had forgotten they were originally written on the same page. I stopped on the last (well, the last one that had writing on it) and read the heading. Scrawled in Pete's messy, illegible-to-any-but-those-who-had-mastered-it chicken-scratch was "Move verses if you want, but keep the chorus and title. No arguments this time." and then,
7 Minutes in Heaven (Atavan Halen).
When I read the title, I slammed the book closed on pure instinct. I didn't want to read anymore. It took me a good thirty minutes of pacing the room to open it again.
I've cried too many times in the past few months for this to have been an exception. That alone kept me awake for the first hour.
When I sensed that that portion of the program had ceased, I sneaked downstairs to the front door, somewhat surprised that I remembered all the creaky spots on the steps from sheer muscle memory (sometimes it's handy to be a musician). And I drove over to Wilmette, pulled into the Wentzs' driveway, extracted the spare key out of the ceramic turtle's mouth and let myself in quietly. About five hours later is where I think you came in.
I hear the stairs creaking and I automatically know it's Pete. Andrew's home right now too, but he won't be up before noon and it's another hour before their father has to be up for work. Not to mention Pete's an insomniac and I long ago memorized the sound of his walk.
I watch him carefully step over the doggie gate in the doorway, then he shuffles into the kitchen in an old Saves The Day T-shirt and penguin pajama bottoms, rubbing at his eyes and looking like a six-year-old. If six-year-olds were allowed to put bright red streaks in their hair. It takes him a moment (in his beeline for the coffee-maker) to notice that there's someone else in the room (once he sees there is already coffee made), let alone that it's me. Yet he doesn't seem particularly surprised to see me. I watch him pull out one of his old mugs (camouflage print, emblazoned with the words "Invisible Mug") and nonchalantly pour himself a cup. Then he pads over to the island and carefully lowers himself onto a stool across from me. He takes a deliberate sip, staring. Waiting.
I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. My mouth tastes cottony, like I haven't used it in weeks, which is ridiculous considering all of the speaking and singing I've been doing. But then again, I hadn't been forcing myself to fill a long, drawn out silence then.
Really, I should have known from the beginning that it would be me who would crack first. Maybe I did.
I clear my throat like I do when I'm warming up and push out, "I think we need to talk."