K Szpara: We're Here, We're Here

“Tyler?” I hear Jasper’s muted voice as he pounds on the thick door. “Ty, it’s me. Open up.”

He can’t hear my “No” or my sobs as I slide to the floor.

“Is he in there?”

“I think so, but he’s not answering.”

“Tyler?” More knocking. Jeff’s voice. “Tyler, I’m coming in.” He cracks the door.

I don’t move. Don’t look at him when he peeks through the crack, but I know he’s there. His cologne smells like crisp white wine. He slips between the door and its frame then says to the guys outside, “We’ll only be a minute, boys,” and closes it.

“Tyler,” Jeff says with an air of I don’t know what to do with you. He massages the creases in his forehead while he plays with his phone. “I thought we were on the same page?”

I don’t try to answer.

He squats down to my level, the legs of his suit rising with the bend of his knees, to expose gray argyle socks. “The label’s giving you a few days to decompress. Regardless of what you might think, we care about your well-being. Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

What he means is, let me know when you’re ready to behave the way we want you to and I’ll give you back your voice.

“Fuck you,” I mouth. It’s enough. He knows.

Jeff locks his phone and slides it into his suit pocket, stands and adjusts his cuffs. “Get up.” He looks down at me but doesn’t move. “Come on, the buses need to leave, soon, and you’ve already made enough of a scene tonight.”

More knocking and muffled voices from the other side of the door.

“We’re here for you, Ty.”

“Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

I don’t want them to see me like this. Not the guys or the band or the crew or fucking catering. The one thing everyone likes about me—that I like about myself—is gone. Stolen. No, I gave it away when I let the label stick an implant in my throat. How could I have been so fucking stupid as to think I owned my voice?

“Tyler.” Jeff is still here. “You can walk out of here on your own or—”

That’s all it takes to get me to my feet. I fling the door open to see the guys hovering beside the door. Jasper chewing on the ragged collar of his shirt, Aiden on his necklaces, Zeke on his fingernails. They all stop. Straighten up.

“Ty.” Jasper reaches out, but I knock his hand away before he can make contact. As if I need a reason for the label to hold my voice hostage any longer.

I don’t mean to look at him, but I can’t help it. His forehead is wrinkled, lips parted, a held breath between them. I speak a silent, “I’m sorry,” but it’s too late. I walk beside Jeff all the way back to the bus, so I don’t have to look at him. He stops short of the front door and I hop on, followed by Jas, Aiden, and Zeke.

When the door closes and we’re alone, Zeke grabs my sleeve and finds my eyes with his. They’re dark blue and searching, their usual spark softened. “Do you want to talk about what happened back there? You sort of… fled.”

“If you’d rather we give you some space…” Aiden looks at the others, making sure they don’t overcrowd me. Thing is, I want them with me. It means so much that we confide in one another and care about each other in the same world where frat bros once called us ‘Butt 2 Butt.’ Where I’ve otherwise lost my faith in men.

But how can I tell them when I can’t speak. How can I make them understand when they didn’t seem to care I kissed Jasper and didn’t support me during the interview or notice when I couldn’t speak.

I break away, leaving the three of them in the front lounge, while I hide in my bunk. Their voices rise over the hum of the road, as the bus pulls out of the parking lot. Aiden’s soothing tones, Zeke’s suddenly serious. I can’t make out their words but listen for the patter of their shoes as they pass. Two go into the back, to unwind. The third stops.

I close my eyes when the curtain draws back an inch.

“Hey.” It’s Jasper.

I don’t look at him.

“I know you’re awake, Tyler.” He rubs my shoulder and my anger rises to his touch like a magnet. “Ty.”

I press my face into my pillow. One I took from the house I haven’t been back to in years. That used to live on my bed but now lives on a bus. I didn’t know I only had so many sleeps in that bed, so many nights as a regular guy with a family and a home.

“Talk to me, Ty.”

“I can’t!” I shout it right in his face, feel the scratch in my throat. The dry air on my lips.

Jasper blinks like I’ve spit on him.

I slide out of my bunk, claiming most of the narrow hallway. He teeters back, and I continue even though he can’t hear me. “I can’t talk to you because Jeff turned my fucking voice off, okay?” I slice my hand across my throat.

“You can’t talk,” he says.

“No,” I say, then shake my head, which is so hot, and this bus is so small and stuffy. I throw my head back and scream. Tears well in my eyes, spilling over when I look at him. They catch in my eyelashes and blur Jas’s thick brows and brown eyes until I blink them free.

“Ty, I’m here for you.” He pulls me into a tight hug. “Are you sick? Did it happen during the interview?”

I start scanning the bunks for a pen and paper. I need something to write with and Jasper’s black leather notebook stands out against the ivory sheets. I drop down to his bunk and pick the notebook up. Jasper sits beside me on the messy pile of blankets and pillows. We lean back against the outer wall, our feet hanging over the short edge and resting on the floor. This feels safer, like we’re outside of time and space.

“Wait.” Jasper slaps his hand on the leather-bound cover. His fingers curl, face twitches and tenses. This is his journal. I didn’t even think. It’s—it might be private. I shouldn’t. “You know what, screw it.” Jas hands me a pen and gestures for me to go ahead.

Without stopping to read, I flip through pages of cursive and sketches and scratched-out lyrics, glimpsing my name amongst others, until I find a blank page.

<> I write.

“Yeah.”

<>

“Yeah?”

<>

Jasper scoffs. “No.”

<> I underline the word three times.

“No.” He’s pleading when he says it this time.

I circle the word YES until the paper rips.

Jasper looks away. “He can’t— they can’t. Can they?” He wraps a hand around his neck, looking to me for confirmation.

“I’m not making this up,” I say, then write the same words.

“I believe you, I just can’t believe it ,” he adds. “This is because you kissed me.”

<> I squeeze the pen in my fist. Jasper wraps his hand around mine. The tension feels so good, I want to feel it everywhere. Want him wrapped around my whole body. To quench the fire. Crush me to cinders.

I drop the journal and pen between us and press my mouth against Jasper’s.

I kiss him because Jeff doesn’t want me to.

I kiss him because he’s scared, now, too.

I kiss him because the label could confiscate my voice forever and I’ll lose not only my voice but him and the others. What else will they take from me? What else did I sign away when I signed over my life as the heartthrob? How many of the few remaining moments belong to me?

I kiss Jasper because I am not wholesome. I’m a fucking weirdo. A queer —that’s the word everyone’s terrified to use. It doesn’t matter if I was born a girl, as long as I blend in, now. I’m a man, now.

I pull my mouth off Jasper’s long enough to tell him how badly I’ve wanted him and for how long. How I want him, unconditionally, and want to be him. I can say anything I want, now that no one can hear me. He listens, anyway, holding and kissing me until we’re so close to breaking all the rules.