Advice From Pete
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He calls Pete from his study, or his writing room as his friends like to call it. It’s Tuesday-four days left before his wedding-and he’s been home alone for most of the day, enough time to sit in a chair in his garden and stare into space, make himself some food just to have something to do with his hands, write nearly ten pages of completely useless shit in his journal and take Hobo out for a walk.
If home is where the heart is then we're all just fucked…
It’s late afternoon. Keltie isn’t back yet, and for that he’s grateful. He can still feel her everywhere in the house, just like he can still feel Brendon’s hands all over his skin, even now. Most of the first floor is filled with her boxes, all her things from the apartment in New York that now has someone else’s name on the lease. There’s a dance studio downstairs and new wallpaper in his bedroom. A walk-in closet filled with summer dresses and high heels. Down the hallway from the master bedroom is a smaller room, still empty, painted in baby blue for when they’ll start a family.
He tastes like you only sweeter…
June is half-way over, and Ryan is turning twenty-four in a month and a half. It hasn’t struck him until now how young he actually is. Growing up on tour, starting your working career right after high school, tends to warp your way of seeing things.
I want everything to change and stay the same…
Pete answers with a cheery “Hi, Ryan, what’s up?” and Ryan can hear shuffling in the background, the familiar sound of Bronx’s baby stroller moving over hardwood floors.
Ryan closes his eyes, leans against the wall. This is Pete. If there’s anyone who might understand what he’s going through right now, this is his best bet. He clears his throat, takes a deep breath. “Did you-Before you married Ashlee, did you ask yourself whether it was the right thing to do?”
Pete is quiet for a moment, weighing Ryan’s question on the other side of the line. “Cold feet?” he asks lightly, and Ryan can tell that Pete is keeping an exit open for him, like he can sense the real question behind the words but won’t call him on it until Ryan asks him to.
“No, it’s worse than that. A lot worse.” The door swings shut with a smooth click. He imagines that somewhere in his mind, Pete hears it too.
There’s a long silence. Ryan can practically hear any left-over playfulness seep out of the conversation.
“Brendon?” Pete asks finally, voice quiet and careful. Ryan lets out a shuddering breath. “Yeah.”
“How bad is it?”
“I think he might be the love of my life. And I can’t believe I just said that. It sounds so fucking ordinary when you say it like that.”
Pete sighs. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he murmurs, and there’s an undertone in his voice, a quiet longing. Pete passed the crossroad Ryan’s at two years ago, and Ryan needs to know, needs for Pete to be his map in this.
“Is it worth it?” he asks, and can almost see Pete wince at the bluntness of the question.
“It was a choice,” he replies, and he doesn’t sound unhappy, or even resigned. “I chose the family thing and I’m happy with my life. Having kids is great, Ash is loads of fun-it’s a pretty neat way to live. Do I still think about what might have been? Yeah. Not as often as in the first year, but yeah, it crosses my mind. Main thing is, though, I still have my best friend. And I know it’s kind of chicken shit, but sometimes I wonder if things wouldn’t have just fallen apart if I’d made the other choice. And pretty much everything is worth that not happening, so… It’s cool. We’ll just keep ignoring it for the rest of our lives. My living room is pretty huge, it can take a pink elephant or two.”
“Did you ever tell him?”
Pete doesn’t answer, and Ryan can hear him shuffling about, the sound of a stereo being flipped on, a disc taken out of its case.
How cruel is the golden rule?
When the lives we live are only golden-plated…
Patrick’s voice drifts through the speakers, slow and mournful, and Ryan bites his lip, because he promised himself that no matter what Pete told him, he wouldn’t cry.
“It was my goodbye,” Pete says softly. “Well, a mutual goodbye, I guess. He wrote the music after all.”
“Did the two of you ever…?”
“No. Thank God for small mercies. I don’t think I would have been able to…” Pete trails off, and Ryan can practically hear the pieces come together in his mind. “You did,” he states. It’s not a question, so Ryan doesn’t even bother to reply, just nods his head, bites his lip harder. “Fuck, Ryan. When?”
“Saturday.”
Pete is quiet for a very long time. Then he chuckles.
“Well, I guess that answers the question about which of us is the bigger pussy,” he says. “The Q&A fans will be happy to have that one sorted out.”
“Pete…”
“What do you want me to say, Ryan?” Pete throws back. “I don’t regret my kid. I don’t regret choosing Ash, but I’m so fucking jealous of you right now that I kind of want to punch something.”
Ryan doesn’t have an answer to that, so he doesn’t give one. In the background, the song keeps playing, a serenade of could-have-beens filtering through the landline.
Tongues on the sockets of electric dreams
Where the sewage of youth drowned the spark of my teens
And I knew that the lights of the city were too heavy for me (too heavy for me)
Though I carried karats for everyone to see (everyone to see)…
“So how do you choose?” he asks as the final note dies out, the CD jumping onto the next track. Thnks fr th Mmrs. Ryan swallows hard, forces his heart to slow down.
Pete scoffs. “Do you have a crystal clear picture of what you want with your life?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t help you. Look, it’s like extreme sports, okay? Some people, loving them is like mountain biking, or off-pist skiing or something like that-you fall, you get banged up. You get bruises, maybe break some bones, might end up paralysed in a wheelchair for the rest of your life if you’re unlucky, but at the end of the day, you will still be alive. And then there is that love that’s like parachuting or deep-sea diving, where you know that if you fuck it up, you’re dead. No remedies, no second chances, just no more air. Game over. I guess I decided I was more the skiing type of guy.”
“What if I can’t do it?”
“What’s your alternative?” Pete asks bluntly. “What? You’d have them both? The thought crossed your mind, didn’t it? Some strategies even, perhaps? After all, what could be easier, right? You’d be on tour most of the time, far away, no prying eyes. Easy enough to get hotel nights more often than not. Spencer and Jon wouldn’t say anything… You thought you could reduce yourself to that? You thought you could reduce him to that?” Pete is practically hissing, the anger flooding bright and hot through the tinny reception of the phone. “Yeah, see right there. That, he’d never forgive you, even if you managed to blind him enough to agree to the setup in the first place.”
Ryan feels his cheeks burn, knows that Pete is right, even though he doesn’t want to hear this particular truth. He could probably live like that, in the grey zone, leading two separate lives. If he’s honest with himself, he knows he could play the part, keep both Brendon and Keltie happy enough that they wouldn’t be pushed to leave him. He could have it all if he really tried.
And Brendon would never forgive him.
Keltie might; she’s more like him, pragmatic rather than romantic, good at making the things that are pleasant and perfect spread out over a cracked surface, making it all smooth again.
Brendon would keep cracking until Ryan reached for him one day and got only shattered glass in his hand.
Is he capable of destroying the person who means most to him in the world? Leave his parachute behind when jumping off a plane just because it’s easier, less of a hassle without all the straps and cords to sort out first? Is he really that stupid?
Is he really that afraid?
“I have to get Bronx ready for his bath,” Pete says, cutting the conversation short. “And I believe you have some bridges to burn, whatever you decide them to be.”
Ryan can only nod, too much fear in his stomach for him to make actual words without doubling over.
“Oh, and Ryan?” Pete adds, just as Ryan is about to hang up the phone. “Need a light?”
Ryan doesn’t really have time to react before he hears the soft whirr and click of CDs being shifted, followed by the sound of Pete’s phone connecting with the polished wood of his media centre. The music starts up, and Ryan slumps against the wall, slides to the ground, forehead pressed tightly against the creamy wallpaper, no longer bothering to stop the tears from running down his face.
I’m good to go
And I’m going nowhere fast,
It could be worse,
I could be taking you there with me…
He sits there until the darkness creeps in through the window, until the shadows span all the way across the floor. He thinks of summer picnics and public kisses on the red carpet. Thinks of cuddles in the bus at three am and a warm hand on his back at photo shoots. Ballet shoes and guitars, blonde hair in the kitchen and dark hair in a warm bed. Conventional versus Extraordinary. Someone who grounds him versus the one who makes him soar. The voice to everything he can’t properly express outside of his own head.
Everything he’s ever wanted.
Everything he’s ever needed.
Saturday. When these open doors were open-ended…
His phone is still in his hand. He flips it open with shaking hands, presses speed dial. It’s time to make a choice.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE:
What’s Ryan’s choice for extreme sports?
Parachuting || Off-pist skiing