Soy Bacon
I wake up to the unmistakable feeling of a strange bed. It’s a feeling I know all too well; I’ve spent most of my life sleeping in strange beds. During the first few years we were famous, I insisted on carrying my own blanket and quilt everywhere, just to make the endless hotel beds feel a little less wrong. Now it’s more remarkable to actually wake up in my own bed, on my own ridiculously expensive sheets.
These particular sheets don’t feel remotely like mine, and I can already tell I’m all alone in what appears to be a much smaller bed than the one I share with Kate. There’s sunlight streaming in a large window, blinding me even though I haven’t found the energy to open my eyes yet, but I’m curious enough to brave the pain.
Carrick’s bed.
Somehow, that explains everything and confuses me even more at the same time.
The stale smell of liquor seems to linger in the air around me. I rack my brain to try to call up the events of the night before, hoping that I haven’t totally drowned them in whatever it was I drank. The first memory that comes rushing back brings a wave of nausea with it. It’s so fresh in my mind that I can practically still taste Taylor’s lips and feel his hands pulling me to him. But the most vivid part is the blank look on his face before he turned and walked away from me.
For a moment, I clutch at the sheets, my nails digging into the mattress. I have to find some kind of purchase, something to anchor myself. The nausea doesn’t pass completely, but I suppose I have the liquor to blame for that. Slowly, cautiously, I pull myself up to a sitting position and scan the room for my pants. I don’t even remember taking them off, but there they are, dangling off the foot of the bed. I wiggle my way back into them, then stuff my feet into the shoes I see laying haphazardly beside the bed.
I don’t know what time it is, but the house is eerily quiet. With wobbly legs, I make my way into the hallway and scan the kitchen. Empty. The same goes for Austin’s bedroom and the bathroom. With no other choice that I can see, I guess I’ve got to brave the first floor and see what lurks there to remind me of the night before.
When I shove open the stairway door, I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. Some kind of proof that the party really happened, I guess. The stale smell of liquor, beer and weed still lurks around, as do plenty of empty bottles, cans and glasses. An abandoned plate of brownies sits on the coffee table, and I’m tempted to grab a few for the road. From the downstairs kitchen comes the distinct smell of breakfast being fried. I turn the corner and head that way, no longer concerned with the brownies.
“Good morning, starshine,” Carrick says, not even glancing over his shoulder at me. I guess I’m the only party guest who spent the night. “You’re just in time for breakfast – although I use the term ‘breakfast’ loosely, given that it’s past noon.”
I attempt to chuckle, but I can’t quite find my voice yet. It’s never the prettiest sound in the morning, anyway, and the combination of drinking myself silly and kissing my brother seems to have rendered me mute. Not feeling up to facing the world totally sober, I grab a beer from the fridge and collapse into a waiting chair at the table.
I sip the beer slowly, not certain that my stomach is on board for what my brain has planned. I’ve barely lightened the can at all when Carrick walks over, a plate of food in hand. He passes it to me, our hands barely brushing. My stomach ties itself in knots at the feel of it and I find I can’t even lift my eyes to look at him. Head down, I manage to croak out, “Thanks for cooking.”
I stare down at the plate, whatever appetite I thought I might have had completely drained out of me. That subtle touch of Carrick’s hand let loose another round of memories in my mind. But these memories weren’t about Taylor. They were about Carrick. I want to believe my mind was only playing tricks on me, the booze and weed planting false memories, but I know the memories are real. I had really dry humped Carrick in my sleep, and rather than teasing me or freaking out or any normal reaction, he had dry humped me right back and jerked me off.
What the actual fuck?
Slowly, cautiously, I lift my head to look at Carrick. His back is turned to me, his fingers tapping out some melody on the counter as he waits for his bagels to toast. I try to find, somehow, some hint that he remembers what we did, some sign that he is as confused by it as I was. I knew he was bisexual; at least that little fact wasn’t a surprise. But knowing that didn’t help me to make sense of why he would interpret my drunken sleep humping as a sign that I wanted him to touch me.
And I hadn’t wanted it. At least, not until it was happening. I was so worked up, though, so drunk and high and screwed up over Taylor, that any touch at all would have sent me reeling. It didn’t have to be Carrick. But it was. My best fucking friend had jerked me off, and now he was cooking me breakfast.
“Bagel?” He asks nonchalantly, spinning around and holding two of them up.
I nod, even though I haven’t managed to touch the food that’s already on my plate. Carrick grins, tosses both bagels onto his own plate and joins me at the table. He swipes my beer and gulps half of it down, keeping it and instead handing me back a toasted bagel. Doesn’t seem like a fair trade to me.
Carrick shoves forkfuls of the fried eggs and bacon onto his bagel and stuffs it into his mouth. I don’t know where he puts all of it, but I swear the boy eats more than I do. I can’t do more than pick at the bagel until I finally get up the nerve to try a little bacon.
“Soy bacon?” I ask, forcing myself to chew it.
He chuckles around his own mouthful of it, nodding. “Sorry man. Still trying to do the vegetarian thing, even though Austin gave it up. There might be some actual sausage in the fridge, if you feel like trying it.”
“No, this is okay,” I reply, shaking my head. It’s definitely not okay, but it’s way better than trying to eat sausage in front of Carrick with a straight face right now.
A tiny smirk plays at the corner of his lips, then falls away quickly. That tells me two things I was too afraid to ask. One, he’s thinking the same thing about the sausage. And two, he remembers last night, too. I choke down more of the bagel and eggs, stuffing my mouth so full that there’s no physical way for me to ask him what the fuck.
I finish as much of the meal as I can possibly stomach, then reach for the can of beer, hoping it’s not empty yet. Carrick reaches for it at the same time and our fingers end up tangled together around it. I can feel blood rushing to my face and eggs churning in my stomach. My eyes are stuck on the image of our hands together, Carrick’s long fingers wrapped around –
“So, last night?”
I meet his eyes slowly, hoping I can play dumb, but knowing that never works with him. He always sees right through any kind of act I try. Still, it can’t actually hurt to try. “What about it?”
“We got pretty trashed, huh?” Carrick asks.
The question is deliberately vague, I decide, and I figure it’s best that my reply be the same. “Yeah… I don’t even remember how much I drank.”
“Half of my most expensive bottle of tequila.”
“Oh,” I reply, sheepishly. I can still recall the razor’s edge I rested on, torn between rage and drunken oblivion. “Sorry about that.”
He shrugs. “It’s no big deal. If I was in your position, I’d need to get shitfaced, too.”
“But you’re not in my position,” I reply, not even caring how childlike and pathetic I sound.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t relate, in some way,” he says.
His tone is light, but somehow I can tell there’s something lurking underneath the surface – something he’s forcing himself not to say. I’m still biting back my own words as well, swallowing all the questions I long to hurl at him.
“So, how much do you remember?” He asks, and the weight he gives it lets me know that he knows it’s the million dollar question.
I’ve got several choices here, and I stuff my mouth full of that fucking soy bacon just so that I have time to consider them. I could tell him I remember what we did. But then what? It’s pointless to say I didn’t like it; the way I came in his hand kind of disproves that statement. Do I tell him it meant nothing? Do I ask what it meant to him? There are just too many open ended questions, too many scary, scary questions, if I go down that path. So I choose the easy way out instead.
“After the tequila? Not a thing.”
Carrick nods. “Good. So you slept well?”
I nod. And that’s not a lie at all. I slept the best I have in weeks, maybe even months. We’ve been on and off the road for so long, and this thing with Taylor has only been building to a fever pitch. Sometimes even the bowl I smoke after every concert isn’t enough to bring me down and let me rest. But with Carrick, I slept peacefully. I don’t know whether it was him, the weed, the tequila or a combination of all three, but it worked.
Carrick downs the rest of our shared beer and leans back in his chair. He looks so fucking calm; he’s always chill, so that’s nothing new, but right now it’s pissing me off. I know he remembers, so why isn’t he reacting? He usually knows me so well. He should know that this is a huge deal and I’m not in any way equipped to deal with it, let alone act like it was perfectly normal. But that’s exactly what he’s doing. Just how fucking often does he jerk off his friends, anyway?
I push back my plate, even though there’s still half a bagel and several slices of that goddamn bacon left. I clear my throat, staring off into the distance just past Carrick’s shoulder. “I should probably get going.”
He nods. “See you Monday, man.”
And that’s it. No personal goodbye more fitting of our friendship. Nothing at all.
I stand up and stride out of the room hesitantly, giving him a chance to say something else, but he doesn’t. I stuff my hands into my pockets and, amazingly, find that my wallet and keys are still there. My cell phone is nowhere to be found, but I don’t have the patience to stick around and search for it. In seconds, I’m down the hallway and swinging the back door open.
There’s a decent sized backyard behind the house and a private little alley that’s just barely big enough to hold the band’s van and my truck. I step up into my truck and slip the key into the ignition, letting the air conditioning wash over me and cool my rising anger. From the cup holder, my phone buzzes at me, alerting me to a barrage of new messages.
I don’t have to guess who they’re from, and I don’t listen to a single one of them.
The drive back to my house gives me precious little time to even my mood out. There’s absolutely no way in hell I can explain to Kate what’s going on in my mind, and judging by the way my phone is still imploring me to check my messages, she’s looking for an explanation. I told her I would probably spend the night at Carrick and Austin’s, although I had planned to cash out on their couch, where I most definitely would not have gotten a hand job from anyone other than myself. But even that, apparently, wasn’t good enough for her.
I ease my truck into our driveway and reluctantly walk into the house. I’m plotting dozens of different ways to explain to her why I smell like alcohol and weed – as if she doesn’t already know – and why I didn’t come home until the afternoon. But realistically, I know that no excuses I’ve got will be good enough. This will still end up on the list of all my failures.
I tiptoe into the kitchen, my ears alert for any sound, but hearing none. The babies must be napping. And Kate? I have no clue where she is. I don’t keep tabs on her the way she does me. Still not in any hurry to face her, I creep to the refrigerator and pull out a soda. Soft footsteps behind me alert me to Kate’s presence, and I spin around slowly.
“Zac, we need to talk.”