—Mayday Parade

Manchester United was losing in the footy match on the staticy screen of my hotel room TV. Not just trailing, but losing atrociously, and to Liverpool. That was bad enough. But when I heard the screech-like moaning coming from Devon's room next door, I knew it was going to be a long, annoying fucking tour.

It was like they couldn't go a single night without banging some girls, and sometimes even passed around the same one to share. Call me mad, but it was inconceivable to me how they enjoyed the sleazy girls when their motives were so bloody obvious.

Bragging rights. Cash. Gifts.

It was the worst game ever, of at least two people using each other. The lads exploited their own recognisable fame to use the girls for their bodies. The girls, in turn, used the lads for the prospect of wealth, improved self-esteem, and stories to tell (or sell) for years to come. Both parties involved were objects, rather than real people.

True, my mates were taking advantage of the stardom that had befallen us, but it was hard to feel pity for the leeches, bumming off of our band's notoriety. I was sure that Nick got a kick out of listening to the huffing and groaning outside their doors every night, like dogs in heat.

What a ridiculous game, with both people pretending to actually be interested in the other.

The other already knowing it was complete rubbish.

None of that ever appealed to me, and because of that, nearly everything the lads said to me was a piss-take. For a while, their ribbing was relentless—jesting questions of my sexual orientation, manhood size, and the like. It took a long enough fucking time, but the guys finally stopped asking me to participate, and even stopped mentioning their escapades to me altogether. Thank heaven for that. I only wanted my beautiful Brooke. My first, last, and only.

It knocked me on my arse to think of her with anyone else, and I could've quite easily seen myself strangling her dickhead of an ex boyfriend with perhaps too much joy. Just picturing his face fucked me off. It quite baffled me how Caleb, or whatever the hell he was called, landed her for any amount of time. He never deserved her smile, her laughter, her love, her body. I should have found her first.

Why couldn't I have found her first?

Countless times, I mentally returned to the petrol station in Tucson, and imagined closing the distance between me and him with just a few long strides. He was so close, so within my reach, and I let the wanker maggot get away.

That damn smirk on his face would have sent me off the deep end, for sure. I would've swept his legs out from beneath him effortlessly, and connected my fists with his jaw. He would have never seen it coming. The images of blood gathering around his lips and teeth would have only made me pound him harder. As sick as it was to think that way, he deserved every bit of it for the unspeakable things he did to her. Many of which, I was sure, Brooke never even told me about. Karma was taking too damn long, so perhaps I could have hurried the process along.

All I really wanted to do was speak to Brooke. But, naturally, I had to be a right pillock and slam my mobile phone on the ground on New Year's Eve, so the screen was cracked and would barely power on. I didn't remember her mobile number by heart, and couldn't access it on mine, so I used my laptop to, hopefully, find her on the messaging program. Brooke hadn't been online in some time, so she couldn't answer me there. For that reason, I didn't bother sending a message whilst she was offline.

I looked up the Tucson Telegram's number again, and used the hotel phone to ring her there twice. I set my alarm to make sure to ring during her normal, scheduled hours at work, but still, there was no answer.

Because of the holidays, and the tour kicking off so shortly after Brooke left London, I had no time whatsoever to get a new mobile phone. So, I endured days without speaking to her. Considering how she looked when she left England, without even turning around once to wave to me at the airport, I didn't believe she wanted to speak to me, anyway.

I couldn't blame her. Maybe if I wasn't so insecure and needy...

As soon as we got to Rome, Italy, I used my lone three hours of free time before the show to find a shop that sold mobile phones, and could make some tweaks on it for me. Thankfully, I did find one, and the associate was even able to transfer my number over, so I could keep the same one, along with all of my contacts and multimedia.

The first thing I did with the new mobile was take loads of pictures and videos for Brooke. Everything there reminded me of her, as most things usually did. I could almost feel her soft skin as I imagined poking her side, whilst cracking jokes about her identity and origin. I could actually picture her smiling, trying not to show teeth, but doing so anyway, in a wave of insuppressible giggles. It would have been so incredible to have her there with me, and if not for her job and stubbornness, she could have been. It was alright, I told myself, I would take her here once the tour was over.

I was trying to find the courage to apologise to Brooke for my behaviour. It was awful of me to isolate myself in the bedroom on her final two nights in London, ruining the last of her holiday abroad, but I had no idea how to process everything that had happened. Before I broke down into childish sobs before her, I secluded myself to the muting comfort of my pillow.

Never in a million years would I hold against her the events that transpired. She could never have known what was to come, just as I couldn't have known. She was only trying to help me, as that was all she ever did. It terrified me to let Brooke think I was weak, but I still should have pulled myself together, wiped away my wussy tears, and kissed her at midnight to ring in the new year.

Instead, I had made an absolute tit of myself.

Humiliation, from my lack of control over my anger, became me. I had spoken harshly to my mother, whilst adding to the destruction of her putrid hotel room. Although Eileen deserved the words, I never wanted Brooke to see that side of me. Never would I think to speak to Brooke in such a manner, however—my love and respect for her knew no bounds. How ashamed I felt to know she had also witnessed me hitting the nonworking thermostat on the wall of my flat, then kicking a kitchen chair, like a terroristic toddler. Handling or suppressing stress had never been my strongest suit.

Still, I should have swallowed my pride and asked her to sleep in bed with me both nights, even though I knew she'd be warmer on the sofa, by the fireplace. The nightmare I had, though embarrassing, was also welcomed, since the outcome of it resulted in her cool skin on my warm chest.

I should have grovelled. I should have drank her sweet smelling, white coffee, and tried her turkey sandwich for lunch, no matter how sick my stomach felt at the thought of her leaving... and the memory of my childish outbursts. I should have knocked on the spare bathroom door when I heard her crying inside the shower.

But if I had caused her that pain—and my worst fear was, in fact, realised—I would have never been able to forgive myself.

I was a stupid, stupid boy.

Had I been just another name on the list of males that had been a detriment to her life? Myself, her dickface ex boyfriend, her biological father...

Whilst I'd often wondered about the details of Brooke's real dad, I never wanted to stir up painful memories for her. Brooke's skin was perfectly beautiful as it was, and I couldn't risk the possible provocation for a resurfacing of her old, self-harming tendencies.

The chance was there, and I wouldn't take it.

Brooke never told me anything—not a single detail—forcing me to infer the obvious: that she never wanted to discuss the matter. It was off limits. I didn't even know his name, or how old she was when he left.

And Brooke's total unwillingness to speak of her father led me to believe she was either completely apathetic towards him, or completely done burying the pain of him. I could understand the desire of wanting to keep some memories permanently buried.

I couldn't be a hypocrite. I would respect that wish of hers.

Perhaps she would tell me one day, when she was ready. Then again, maybe she never would be ready. Disappointing as that was, to be unaware of an important piece of her history, I trusted her. I wasn't entitled to know the details of his departure anyhow.

To mollify my own curiosity, eventually, I'd just put it down to abandonment... just another divorce, or another story of parental neglect. To that, I could thoroughly relate. Maybe the reason why her father was gone, didn't really matter. He just was, and that was that. It was his loss, at the end of the day.

Granted, I still wanted to know the answers to the nagging questions inside my head, but I could admit that it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference. Brooke's stepdad, Adam, had evidently stepped up, when her real dad stepped out. With Adam, it seemed to be a complete family unit, and had been for some time. Thankfully, it seemed that my darling hadn't been without a loving father figure, unlike my worthless self.

I really was completely worthless, wasn't I?

The truth of the matter was that I was pathetic, desperate, and unwanted. Brooke still had two parents that loved her, whilst I had none—just a dead father, and a deadbeat mother who, though still living, was similarly dead to me. It stirred me, though, to find that Riley had known about me before he passed away, and even recognised me on the London Eye. What luck.

The more I thought about it, the more sense it made that he didn't introduce himself to us properly.

"Hello, Julian. I recognised you from the television/internet/magazine. I just learnt of your existence a handful of years ago, from your druggie mother, and I'm about to croak soon, but I'm your dad, so let's connect," was a modern day, less climatic version of, "Luke, I am your father."

I would have probably laughed at the nutty old man and told him to piss off before I beat his face inward.

Truth be told, though, I was glad to have gotten those short moments with Riley—even if I didn't know it then, and even if his ominous final words of advice made little sense to me. In time, maybe I'd reach out to my half sister, Elizabeth. I wanted to learn more about her and my father. Hopefully, it wouldn't be awkward when I did.

"What are you doing, mate?" Mason asked me, as I remained horizontal on the sofa of the dressing room in Rome. "We go on in five."

"I'll be out." I rubbed my forehead.

Nothing felt right. I wasn't enjoying the shows, security was amped up, and everywhere we went, extra precaution had to be taken. Everything was becoming an absolute mare, most of all being away from Brooke and being unable to talk to her.

"You're thinking of your Tucson girl, aren't you?" Mase chortled.

"Brooke," I corrected him with my eyes closed. "And no, I'm not."

Yes, I was.

The only part of the show that I enjoyed was playing "Endlessly." I wanted Brooke to be peeking out behind the curtains, seeing all of those thousands and thousands of people, singing along to the words that she penned. She would have felt so proud. I was already so proud of her.

Everything else about the shows, however, was draining me. See, whilst my bandmates were busy being rockstars, I was still busy being an actual musician. The pressure of needing to carry a great performance, in front of a sea of unfamiliar faces, was making me ill every night. I never said anything about it, to avoid having anyone think I was in the least bit ungrateful for the luxurious experiences and opportunities given to me, but I wasn't having as much fun as I used to have. It pained me to admit it, even to myself.

Playing every night, whilst being so far away from Brooke, was beginning to feel like actual work suddenly, and I just wanted to be home. Home being wherever she was.

In an attempt to distract myself, I picked up the old, cobalt blue Ibanez. Leisurely, I took my time restringing it, with a fresh pack of DR Blues 9s, and then tried to write. But my mind just wouldn't stop turning.

The end of this riff is almost too open. There are so many places it can go, but I can't find the most fitting direction.

Right, I don't want to change the ending of the riff, because the voice leading works so perfectly, to go into this open E. Perhaps we could try to put some chokes in there, with just one guitar playing?

Ah, fuck me, no. That doesn't work. Kills the momentum.

Hey, maybe if we go to the fifth, B, instead of E, and harmonise it with the diminished fifth of B, which would be F...?

Blimey. No. That clashes too much.

F sharp?

Damn it. No, that ruins the voice leading, of the ending of the riff before it. I don't want to use thirds either. So, let me try to go back to the E again.

Might I put the F over the E, and have it be a minor ninth?

Fucking hell, no. That sounds awful.

At that point, I'd had enough of torturing myself for the night. I was getting nowhere with the writing. Besides, I needed to get some kip after the show in Rome. So, I grabbed a shower and went to sleep a bit past midnight, with the hotel alarm set for five in the morning. It should have been early enough in the evening in Tucson by then for Brooke to pick up, and, hopefully, I would have been able to speak with her for a few hours. It was killing me to go so many days without hearing her sweet, accented voice.

As soon as I roused, I texted her, to make sure she was awake and able to talk first.

I love you so much. x

Minutes passed without a reply. I was about to give up and ring her when my mobile dinged. Finally, a text off her...

Who is this? she wrote back. Although I had gotten a new mobile, my number was still the same. She wouldn't have deleted me from her contacts. I knew she wouldn't do that.

Jules. I wrote. Who else would have been telling her that he loved her?

Quit texting my girlfriend, prick. As soon as I read the words, my body jolted up in the bed, and I struggled to catch my breath.

Stop messing with me, Brooke. She had to be joking. This was just her way of getting back at me for taking so long to text her. It had to be.

Instead of a text reply, I received a picture message. I knew I shouldn't have opened it, but I did anyway.

Some wanker with dirty, light-coloured hair and nerdy fucking glasses was smiling like an idiot with his arm far too closeto my beautiful Brooke. His head leant in towards her, like they were so comfortable together. Her wide smile shattered my heart into a million tiny pieces, remembering how dismal her face looked with me during her final two days in England. This cunt had to be Eric.

I examined the picture even more, and noticed the bare skin of her neck, where her arrow necklace should have been. My mind started spinning in frantic circles. I didn't want to believe it.

Somehow, I talked myself down, just long enough to catch my breath. Maybe this was a misunderstanding. I needed to hear her voice to be positive about it. Brooke wouldn't do this to me. She couldn't. She always said she never would. This had to be a mistake.

I rang her five times, then ten. Ten turned into twenty, then I got a text.

If you don't stop calling me, you'll be sorry. Her message read.

This is utter shit. What the hell is going on? I need to speak with you, Brooke. I love you. Please. Damn it.

I phoned her again, and this time, someone picked up. It was a male voice.

"Hello?" He not only looked like a dickhead, he sounded like one as well.

"Put Brooke on," I demanded without an ounce of courtesy in my tone.

"Why do you need to talk to my girlfriend? She's... a little busy right now."

"Let me speak with her, now." My vision was turning red. "I'm not playing games. Don't test me."

"She doesn't want to talk to you, dude. Tough shit. That's why she had me answer. Fuck off and don't call or write again." He rang off.

No. No. NO!

I couldn't lose her. This wasn't happening. I slammed my fist through the drywall behind me.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!

I needed to compose my-fucking-self. I still hadn't heard her voice. It wouldn't be real until I heard her voice. Until she told me herself. There was still a chance.

Just give it a few minutes, I told myself, then ring her again.

I paced the hotel room, with my feet leaving tracks in the carpet. Over and over, I walked the same path on the floor, trying to slow my breathing and steady my fluttering heart.

When some red had left my face and neck, I sat on the edge of the bed and picked up my mobile to ring her again.

The line rang five times before I heard the sweetest sound in the world.

Her voice.

"Hello?" Brooke said, sounding nervous for some reason.

I was about to tell her that I loved her. That I needed her and I wanted her to come back to London. Or come on tour with me. Anything so long as we were together again, because I couldn't stand the fucking distance and paranoia. I wanted to tell my beautiful, broken Brooke that I should have never let her leave my flat. The words were on the tip of my tongue.

Then I heard it.

The sound that would solidify my greatest fears, and forever change the rest of my life.

Someone, a male, clearing his throat with a cough, near her. It was true. She was with another guy.

That goddamn fucker Eric.

I should have known when I first saw her wearing those earrings in my flat. Tormenting images of his hands on her soft body made my livid nerves explode. I rang off abruptly, and turned my mobile off so she couldn't ring back to apologise for leaving me. Just like I always knew she would.

Why did I allow myself to trust her?

To love her?

I was better off keeping her at arm's length, just like I always had with everyone else, until she barrelled in and knocked down all of my walls.

Straight away, I tore off the stupid bloody bracelet from Disney, leaving a white ring of skin under it. My tan from the Maldives made it ever noticeable, but I didn't give a shit. What good would that do, anyway? The symbol of her was on the skin of my ribs for life, and the mark of her was embedded inside me for even longer.

I just had to get the hell out of that stuffy room. The suite was enormous, actually, but suddenly, it felt like all of the air had been pulled from it, and I couldn't catch my breath.

I heaved over the sink and drank small gulps from the silver tap, to wet my cotton tongue.

Once I could inhale a bit easier, I changed into a black t-shirt and regular jeans, from the Manchester United kit she had given to me for Christmas, and made my way down to the lobby.