Free In the Absence of You by Sunniva Dee Page A

you badly. Got it?”
    The muscles in my cheeks support smiles, it turns out. I feel it when the corners of my mouth curl upward, crinkling my eyes too. I bob my head. “Sweet,” I manage. “Can you take me to the hairdresser’s?”

EMIL
    I f I don’t count singing, life’s a crack whore dragging me into shit I don’t want to deal with. Who cares that it’s sunny outside and people are fucking beaming around me? The beaming is no surprise with Nadia around. Bo and she together are contagious, leaving everyone rosy-cheeked and on their best behavior, apologizing and offering assistance with random crap from the moment they step out of their bunks in the morning.
    How much longer?
    At least I’ve wised up; beautiful Aishe can’t end up in my bed again. Most of the time, I operate from within a bubble where others’ responses sound muffled. Their anger and joys are hushed elevator music to my senses. Maybe I’ve been tricking myself from the start or maybe something changed, but the hurt in Aishe’s gaze after I slept with a groupie was the decibel distortion I needed to grasp her state of mind—this girl, she isn’t a detached motherfucker like me.
    There’s a bunk between us on the bus, but her scent shoots up to me whenever she shifts on the mattress. She’d be my number one choice for oblivion, which is my problem now. I’m trying to muster the willpower to not be the guy who takes advantage of the situation.
    She’s not Zoe.
    No one fucking is.
    I know I need to forget my baby. My love. The love of my drab-as-hell life. I know. I know. Bo tells me all the time. Troy too, whenever I give him the chance. But it’s hard when all I want is to get her back and I don’t like to breathe without her. If only Nadia didn’t keep visiting us on tour.
    Show nights are my absolution. The stage is a purge. I sing, scream, shout out the lava boiling in my chest. I don’t know where I would be if it weren’t for my fans. It’s crazy to keep this heartbreak imprisoned in my head.
    I don’t do drugs. I’m not an alcoholic. Since Zoe left, I’ve kept warm on the after-show chicks, but now there’s this special girl in a bunk beneath me.
    With its rounded sectional and big TV screen, the back lounge is the preferred hangout for video games. In a corner, there’s Troll’s makeshift office desk, and toward the back wall, two bunk beds hide behind thin, sliding doors camouflaged as wallpaper.
    I’m splayed out on my back with my elbow covering my face. I’ve been lying like this for a while. Everyone has left. Maybe I’m the reason, not sure, don’t care.
    “Emil?” Nadia’s voice reaches me from the doorway. “Sweetheart, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
    This is old news. It’s been four months since Zoe sent me packing. I—
    I just can’t—
    “Never mind, Nadia. Go enjoy your time with Bo. I’m not redeemable.”
    Bullets. Round and smooth like women’s breasts. Orange brass tipped with shiny silver. And what about when they explode? Pow.
    I stretch my arms, touching the back cushions with my head bent backwards. What would it do to Clown Irruption if I vanished? Bo’s the real songwriter here, and his voice is damn good too. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t upgrade from backup vocals because of my role in the band.
    His style is different from mine. Bo can’t copy others’ voices, but then again, most professional singers can’t. It makes no sense to do what I do anyway, because the fans prefer one recognizable sound.
    It’s just me being weird; David Bowie’s voice should remain on his records. Andrea Bocelli’s got nothing to do at our rock concerts, and though my latest noodling with a few Adams out there—Adam Ant, Adam Lambert, Adam Levine—left the audience awed, my friends were in stitches at the bizarreness of the gig.
    Zoe loved my imitations. No one could ask for a more supportive girlfriend than my Zee—not even Nadia could beat her. She was jealous though.
    Zoe