Hangovers
When I was younger, I could go out drinking every night of a tour and wake up no worse for the wear. Sure, I might need an extra espresso or two to make it to the show, but hangovers were like unicorns. I knew what they were, but I was doubtful that they actually existed.
Now that I’m in my late twenties – ugh – I’m still doubtful about unicorns, but hangovers are most definitely real.
My head throbbed before I even lifted it from the pillow, and it felt like someone had glued my body to the bed. When I realized I was alone, though, I pulled myself up quickly in spite of all the pain screaming through my body. I thought leaving the morning after was my thing, not Seamus’. Yet, he was gone.
We hadn’t even done anything for him to be ashamed of, besides a rather inspired karaoke version of some country song we didn’t know the lyrics to that just happened to be playing in the bar. I had kissed him first; I remembered that clearly. But nothing happened after that aside from some boring talk, the particulars of which hadn’t clung to my memory.
So, what the hell was his deal?
I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, though. Thanks to the hangover, I suppose, I slept in far later than I was supposed to. Even though our concert isn’t until the evening, we’re due at the venue early in the afternoon for a walk. So I drug myself through the shower to get rid of the lingering tequila and cigarette smoke smell and threw on the first pair of jeans and t-shirt I pulled from my suitcase. It wasn’t much of a look – white jeans and a black tee – but it would have to do. I had a sneaking suspicion that a certain Irishman would be avoiding me, anyway, so I didn’t really care what I looked like.
My first stop on the bus, once I had stored my bags, was the portable coffee maker. On hangover mornings – really, any mornings – it was my best friend. I wasn’t purposely trying to ignore anyone; I was just far more focused on getting some coffee mixed in with the leftover alcohol in my bloodstream.
Seamus, however, was most definitely ignoring me. If I hadn’t heard soft breathing from his bunk, I would have thought we had left him back at the hotel. I didn’t disturb him, though. If he wanted to be left alone and to pretend we hadn’t shared a bed and a single, boring kiss, then so be it. I knew when to let things go.
He stayed in his bunk all day, not even emerging when we stopped to fuel up and eat lunch at some little gas station not too far from the venue. It was starting to piss me off, but what could I say to him? I had run out on him after worse than that. Whatever guilt he was feeling, I understood. I wasn’t heartless, after all.
It seemed someone had made a comment like that to me recently, but I couldn’t remember who. Something was nagging at my mind, but it was just out of reach.
I didn’t have much time to dwell on whatever it was that I couldn’t remember, though. I had a walk to drag myself through. That sounds bad, but it’s not as though I didn’t want to do it. Those walks were sometimes the one good thing about my day. But when I’m fighting a hangover with a cup of coffee in each hand and a stomach that can’t even handle the thought of food, walking a mile on blistering hot pavement is really the last thing I want to do.
But I pulled myself through it somehow, and I think my speech at the end might have even made sense. No guarantees, though. I don’t think anyone even listens to them anymore; they’ve all heard it a million times. Still, I can’t seem to stop myself from talking, even when I’m sloshing lukewarm coffee around and wishing I had an ibuprofen or ten for this fucking headache.
Once the walk ended, I was finally able to make my way back into the relative quiet and darkness of the venue. Most of the lights were up, though, since people were still milling about, getting ready for the night’s show. Merch booths were being set up, sound guys were doing there thing, and so on. In the middle of it all, of course, was Seamus. His soundcheck was always sandwiched in between the walk and our soundcheck, there was no good reason for me to be surprised by the sight of him on stage, tuning his guitar.
Maybe surprised wasn’t the right word. Stunned? No, that wasn’t right either. I suppose the only word that fit was floored, but it wasn’t what he was doing, so much as just how he looked doing it. I didn’t think there would ever come a time when I could look at that man and not have to steady myself to keep from being knocked off my feet by just how gorgeous he was.
He didn’t glance my way, though. I knew he was avoiding me, and despite my immediate physically reaction to him, I didn’t really relish the thought of talking to him, either. For one, what could I even say? And for two, I was far too hungover to say anything. It was in everyone’s best interest if I just whined to the guy at the pizza bar – who puts a pizza bar in a concert venue, anyway? – until he found me another cup of coffee.
Thankfully, the guy at the bar seemed to understand the urgency of my coffee crisis, and I was soon cradling a warm cup of something that definitely wasn’t gourmet, but would get the job done. I was so absorbed in it, that I didn’t really notice that at least some of the noise from the stage had stopped.
“Hungover?” Asked an amused voice from behind me, and I didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was.
“Just a bit,” I lied. “The smell of pizza is definitely not helping.”
“Lightweight,” Seamus said with a laugh, leaning against the bar next to me. Suddenly, we seemed to be back on friendly terms, after half a day of silence. Did he have split personalities or something?
“Maybe I am,” I replied, eying him cautiously. I had no clue what he was playing at, but I figured it was best to follow his lead.
Something strange flashed in his eyes as he asked, “Do you even remember last night?”
I knew that tone of voice all too well. That was the voice someone used when there was something either really wanted you to remember or really wanted you to forget from the previous night’s alcoholic haze. I wasn’t sure which one it was in this case. That made it a little trickier to know how to react. I decided to go with my best blank stare, and tell very nearly the truth. “Nope. Don’t remember a thing.”
Seamus heaved a sigh and I could see relief written all over his face. He clearly was not much of an actor. Now the question was, what happened that he wanted me to forget?
“Why, did something interesting happen?” I asked. “I get a bit frisky when I’m drunk, you know.”
“I’m well aware,” he replied, his tone decidedly unamused. “Anyway, nothing happened.”
I couldn’t help smirking a bit at his reaction . For once, I seemed to have the upper hand with him. “Nothing at all? I do seem to recall you coming back to my room with me… yet, you weren’t there when I woke up.”
“Didn’t think you’d want my company in the morning.”
“Aww, now what makes you think that?” I was teasing him. I couldn’t help myself.
“Taylor,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I know what you want from me, and you know that’s not what I want. So let’s not pretend this is going somewhere when we both know there’s nowhere for it to go.”
With that, Seamus turned on his heel and walked away. It wasn’t often that anyone could leave me speechless, but he had. I watched wordlessly as he marched to the stage and snatched his guitar from its stand like it was a weapon and he was about to go to battle.
As he adjusted the mic stand and prepared to finish the soundcheck he had mostly spent talking to me, I tried desperately to remember what had happened the night before. I remembered the singing. I remembered the kiss. And I remembered… talking. But none of the words would come to me. I did, however, distinctly recall that whatever we had said, it ended with us falling asleep inches apart but not touching. Something, I didn’t remember what, had driven a wedge between us.
With one last glance in my direction, his eyes unreadable from the distance, Seamus began to sing.
Every kind of love
Or at least my kind of love
Must be an imaginary love to start with
Guess that can explain the rain waiting walking game
Schubert bust my brain to start with
Cause every kind of love
Or at least my kind of love
Must be an imaginary love to start with
Guess that can explain the rain waiting walking game
Schubert bust my brain to start with
Oh, to look at you
In a cab
Back of your head across my lap
Oh, what grace
Green back seat against the red of your face
Oh, to look at you
Any old grand hotel
Drunken demands give way to reservations
Oh, what a room
Champagne brings such happy faces
Happy faces
Cause every kind of love
Or at least my kind of love
Must be an imaginary love to start with
Guess that can explain the rain waiting walking game
Schubert bust my brain to start with
Cause every kind of love
Or at least my kind of love
Must be an imaginary love to start with, baby
Guess that can explain the rain waiting walking game
Schubert bust my brain to start with
Oh, oh…
As the song faded away, I remembered.
He told me he liked me. He had practically begged me to explain why I wouldn’t let anyone get close to me in any way that didn’t involve sex, and I had refused. I had practically thrown a tantrum, which I was quite well known for doing both when things didn’t go my way and when I was drunk. Yet, he still claimed to like me.
It made no sense at all. Why would he still want something from me that he knew I wouldn’t, couldn’t give? I suddenly understood everything that had just transpired between us. He was ashamed for admitting, so bluntly, how he felt. I couldn’t blame him. If I had told some drunken whore that I liked them, I would feel pretty ashamed, too.
Except, I was the drunken whore. And I liked him, too.