Distracted with ghosts, I forget not to and look up, only to lock eyes with Foster. His pen tip still touches the paper, but his entire focus hangs on me. All intensity like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. My breaths start slipping, too short. The thrum of my pulse paces faster. I think about that damn lyric notebook. How I wrote his words on my bedroom wall, and now I know he wrote mine on his skin.

A few raw seconds pass before his jaw flexes, then his eyes fall away. Brick by brick, he lays a familiar cold wall of resentment between us. Like everything else to do with him, I slam into it heart first.

The pitiful thing clearly hasn’t learned its lesson.

Gathering my camera and nail polish, I knock Colton’s feet as I retreat to the only place I can. I drag myself up the ladder and collapse on my bed and fucking breathe.

I need the man down there to be Adams North. Not only for the documentary but my sanity. He can’t be the wandering boy. He can’t be that restless soul who’s always echoed in mine. He can’t be memories and constant reminders.

That man can’t be Foster.

Because Foster hurts too much.

* * *

The atmosphere backstage ahead of a show is hypnotic, a drug direct in your veins.

At least it is with Of Men and Wolves.

People rush around, orders are given, and the air hums with an unidentifiable electricity. A mounting hype promised when the band takes the stage. It’s hectic and fast-paced, but at the center of it all lies the eye of the storm.

Lounging in Dev’s case.

His long limbs sprawl over the blue fabric couch in their dressing room. He has his eyes closed while his thumb strums invisible strings, his fingers stretched over an imaginary fretboard and his foot tapping. He’s running through the entire setlist in his head. Every riff and interval.

It’s his ritual.

They each have their own, I’ve noticed. It all starts and ends with shots as a band. Dev visualizes first. Then he’ll jog in place, dispelling the building energy. He also has a tiny keychain shaped like Arizona. He’ll kiss it and tuck it in his pocket. A gift from his grandma, he told me.

Felix takes a few extra shots and jerks off. A little less sentimental than a reminder of Grams. No one can deny the calmness and focus in him ahead of taking to the stage, though. All the chaos and crudeness step aside to let him do what he does best. Shockingly, that has nothing to do with pussy but sticks and a kick.

Adams, I haven’t the slightest idea. He vanishes after the shot and returns in time for the other one. A buzz surrounds him then, and for the moment he seems to have tamed his demons.