“Are you guys ready to hit the stage yet?” Abigail asks.
“I thought we had the meet and greet first,” Ryan pipes up.
“Venue staff thought it would be better to have the meet and greet after. It was out of my hands,” she says, throwing her hands in the air in frustration.
Ryan grimaces.
I’d love to see the organizers put on a three-hour show, then have a formal meet and greet directly after while drenched in sweat.
Usually, we would have the formal greet with fans before the concert, a light meal and some drinks, then send them on their way so we can hit the stage.
After the show, we’d shower, change, do whatever we needed, then go out and meet the fans who didn’t have special tickets.
We’d sit at a table for hours taking pictures and signing autographs, which wasn’t as exhausting as having deep conversations with people who’ve shelled out hard-earned cash to have a meal in between the pictures, the chatting.
But knowing Abigail, she fought for us and it’s something they wouldn’t budge on.
“Let’s get out there then, yeah?” I look to Ryan, Liam, Gage, and Jason.
“Let’s do this.” They murmur back, the excitement of putting on a show gone.
“I have to say that’s the first time in a long time I wasn’t feeling a show before we went on stage. Meet and greet after was daunting, but their fuckin’ energy was hard to ignore.”
Jase is mumbling erratically, the adrenaline of performing in front of thousands of fans is addicting.
As we make our way off the stage, Natalie cuts in front of us.
“You guys have about seventy very important people to get through before everyone else. We’ve already made an announcement on how it will go.
“Everyone is already formed in a line, pictures first, and while they’re meeting you guys, before posing for pictures, they’ll get their autographs.
“When everyone has had a chance to meet you and get a picture or whatever, you’ll all sit down and share a meal. They won’t be coming up to you, interrupting.
“Layla, Abby, and I thought this might be better, seeing as how they wouldn’t change the times. You guys have ten minutes to go freshen up or change.”
This woman is a Godsend. She makes me forget how we got along before she came our way. We must’ve been a fucked-up brood.
Natalie isn’t much younger than I am, yet she takes on the mother role for all of us. Well, all of us except for Ryan, that is.
I decide to make a run for the bus to take a quick shower and change before the greeting commences. I take off without saying a word, so that I won’t have contenders for the shower.
When I make it to the bus by way of back hallways to hide from any fans, fans I certainly don’t want touching me while I’m covered in sweat-soaked clothing, I grab a clean pair of jeans and an Affliction shirt, one of my favorite clothing lines.
I take the world’s fastest shower, throw the clean clothes on, and style my hair before going to greet fans. I’ve got a short Mohawk—I change my hairstyle up every now and then.
Not that I personally care about labels or outward appearances—it’s just something I’ve always had for myself.
I’ve realized that I have no power to control anything around me—of the past or my future—but I can control what I do, or how I look, even how I speak and what I want people to know about me.
I can control my life.
So I do, down to the smallest and meaningless things of my life—like my hair.
This month my hair is colored a hunter green; next month will probably be navy blue.
I squirt some hair glue in my hands, run my fingers through my hair, pulling it straight up to fashion it in my trademark rocker style.
Before I exit the bathroom, I observe myself—the sharp cut of my jaw that’s hairless thanks to my favorite razor, my full lips that curve slightly as if God himself wanted to play a joke on me by giving me a permanent smirk.
Or the dimples that are etched well into my cheeks that no amount of plastic surgery—if I had wanted—would remove them.
Hazel eyes, green with a light mix of brown that spoke to me of someone drowning in dull lifelessness.
It amazes me that when we do shows or greets with fans, how many of them want to meet me—the most boring one of the group.
My story is just that—my story—and it’s no one’s business. The guys being the exception, if they ever brought it up.
I fabricate my background to the press and magazines, to fans, because I don’t want any of them to intrude themselves in Rush or my parents' lives. They didn’t need noses shoved into their daily doings.
To everyone else, I am me, I have no one. I am alone.
And I like it that way.
