Riven (Riven 1)

“How could they, unless they come eavesdrop while I’m in the shower.”

It came out harsh and I felt immediately guilty when Theo winced.

“People could hear the songs if you let them, Caleb. Don’t you think all your fans would want to—”

I snorted, and shook my head. “Doubt I’ve got many of those left.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. People love your music; I’ve seen online—”

“Loved, past tense, man. Very past. They loved Caleb Blake Whitman, and that fucker’s dead.”

I ground my cigarette out on the porch and pushed inside.

Theo’s hand caught me as I walked to the kitchen.

“That’s not true,” he said, eyes flashing, aggressive. “I’m looking right at him.”

“Nope. Not the same guy.”

“Not the same, sure, but still here. Still a brilliant fucking musician. What’s wrong with you? It’s like you don’t even want to try to get it back.”

“Get what back? What exactly is it that you think I can have anymore?” The bitterness boiled up from my gut and coated my tongue like medicine. “You weren’t there, Theo, you don’t understand what…what I was.”

“I’ve watched videos. You were spectacular.”

I choked out a laugh.

“No. What I was—I was wild, impulsive, on fire because I was out of my fucking mind drunk and on drugs. That’s—that was me. That’s who my fans knew. I once passed out onstage. Not blacked out. Passed out, because I hadn’t drunk any water in two days, only whiskey. Rhys slapped me to bring me around and the crowd cheered and toasted me and offered me more whiskey. I missed my own tour bus because I was conked out in some lady’s bathroom, and when I showed up at the show that night and told the story, everyone applauded.”

I shook my head because that didn’t even scratch the surface.

“That’s not—that doesn’t mean those people actually liked those things about you, Caleb. That’s what people do—what fans do when someone they admire does…anything. They like it because they like you. You coulda told them fuckin’ anything and they’d have cheered because it was a thing that Caleb Blake Whitman did.”

I spun away from him.

“No? You don’t think so? I once got super pissed off at a show in Indiana. I don’t even remember why. And I was looking out at the crowd and instead of the usual appreciation I just felt…scorn. Like they were pathetic for liking us, for liking me. And instead of saying my usual bit about, like, ‘Hey, Indianapolis, I like your fill-in-a-thing-about-the-city,’ I said that I was gonna tell them some super funny jokes. Then I told these totally boneheaded dad-jokes, and people laughed their asses off and cheered for me. The review of the show the next day was like ‘Theo Decker isn’t just a singer he’s also a comedian’ and ‘Theo Decker charms crowd with joke-book offerings.’ Then for the next fuckin’ month, every interview, people would be all, ‘Have any jokes for us?’ wink, wink.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Or once I wore my shirt backward by mistake, running out to get a coffee, and someone took a picture and it was in People magazine with a caption like ‘Too cool to care,’ or some shit, and then a group of pictures the next week did a ‘Regular People Jumping on the Trend Bandwagon’ feature of these dipshits who purposely wore their shirts backward.”

Theo crossed his arms and squared off with me.

“It’s not about the thing, it’s about the person. Your fans were your fans because of the music. They accepted things about you because they were about you, not the other way around. And they’ll still love the music without the shenanigans.”

It was like the world cracked open at Theo using a word like shenanigans to describe the utter landfill of disaster that was my life, and I made a mental note to tell Huey about it. He loved the euphemisms people in meetings used to describe their behavior, and he loved telling them to “call a shit a shit” when they used them.

“Okay, sure, laugh at me, that’s fine,” Theo muttered, and walked toward the bedroom.

“I’m not laughing at you,” I said. “It’s just…”

Theo came right up to me and looked me in the face.

“It’s just what? Because what I see is a whole lot of fucking talent and a whole lot of fucking fear. And I’m kind of hoping the talent is stronger than the fear.”

I sucked in a breath. Put like that, so did I.

Theo’s expression softened and he slid a hand up my arm.

“You can do this on your own terms, Caleb. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me? We can choose not to play the game?”

I nodded slowly. I had told him that. I’d even believed it.

“You wouldn’t have to tour if you didn’t want to. You wouldn’t have to be anywhere that made you feel out of control. But you could still record the songs. You could still get the music out there. Start small, you know? Take it slow?”