Page 59 of All That Remains
"Yeah...I guess," I drawled. "Why don't you just take her in?"
"She's got a collar, see? Belongs to someone else...they're not very mindful of her though. She's too well-groomed to be a stray. That's what I've figured, anyway. But she comes 'round every now and then and I give 'er whatever I have on hand."
"It ever scratch you?" I muttered, lifting her into my arms.
"She," he corrected me with a laugh, rising to his full height. "And yeah, once or twice." He twisted his arm to show the old marks.
"Nothing you're not used to, I guess."
I regretted it the second it slipped from my mouth. It was an absurd reference to our lovemaking. It had the potential to destroy the mood of my visit beyond repair. Whether he found it awkward or discomforting, he didn't let on. He simply laughed and moved forward.
I set the cat down and fell into step behind him, mindlessly shadowing him around the yard. It was 2013 again and we were heading from the greenroom to stage. The intro music blared over the hall speakers to let us know it wasgo-time. He was fixing his belt as he moved, greeting the crew in passing with a chuck of his chin.God, I would give anything to relive those years.
21
The hardest part of this was being Ralph Rawlings. The world thought they knew me. In their eyes, I was a singer, a charmer, a gentleman. Sometimes a womanizer. Apparently, I was also the lead character in many people’s disturbed fantasies. I struggled with these identities growing up in the spotlight, not knowing which to adopt or if I should adopt any at all.
When I was younger my mother encouraged me to bemyself, irrespective of what that might entail, and assured me I had her undying support in any regard. She also trusted me enough to know I wouldn't try to be something she would disapprove of. My dad, on the other hand, encouraged me to work hard at whatever I did, and to maintain my authenticity at all costs. Even if my career ended up on the line.
My parents tried to make me good at a lot of things early on—piano, cooking, badminton, football. These things defined me until the band came along. I suppose neither of them could’ve anticipated what I might become after the academy. At such a young age, my mum had naturally been reluctant to part with me, but understood I was on the road to something promising. She might've sensed untold things in my future, but I don't think even she was fully prepared for what was in store.
Were it not for her being exactly as good as she was, my off-handed comment about how the academy‘looked fun’would've died the moment it left my lips. I'd probably still be a member of a lousy garage band, working in a deli, andstudying at university. The apex of mediocrity. And it's because of herexactgoodness that I gained the courage to sing in the garage band at all. And it’s because of herexactgoodness she zoned in on my flippant comment about the bootcamp advert on the telly and signed me up. And it’s because of her exact goodness that I ultimately became the artistthe world adored today.
Through her, Ralph Rawlings #1 was born. Then the day she signed me up to audition for the academy and stood with me in its impossibly long lines, hunger pangs and all, Ralph Rawlings #2 was born. Like a rogue alter. This was the Ralph the world knew and who had evolved before their very eyes. From cheeky dimpled cherub to professional rocker to charmer to womanizer—and the labels kept on coming.
Problem was, no one knew about Ralph Rawlings #3. He’d been conceived in secrecy the moment Rome and I became one. And now I had no idea what to do with him. Some days he struck me as nothing more than a rumor. Pervasive, but incorporeal. Hard to get a hold of.
And it was because of Ralph #2—singer, charmer, womanizer—that Ralph #3 couldn't lift his head above the surface to breathe. He was fragile, self-conscious, and lost. All things Ralph #2 wouldn't allow me to be, public facing. So #2 grabbed #3 by the shoulders and shoved him so far under the surface that he drowned, relinquishing the reins completely.
***
The arid days of 2016 seemed but a vague recollection of a past life as I gazed into his eyes a few feet away on the sofa. Swimming in his laughter, my blood slowed to savor the warmth of his regard. He’d fallen back into his old habit of studying me. Having lit a scented candle, he plopped down on the couch andlit a Marlboro. Just like old times. The satisfaction I derived from seeing him smoke hit like a cool towel to a fevered brow.
His lips curled around the filter with such grace, and with each inhale, I inhaled. With each exhale, I tried to refrain from shuddering. Smoke shrouded the space between us, spilling from his parted mouth in an irreverent display. One that said:‘Fuck our health. Fuck our youth. Do whatever feels good.’Heavily lidded eyes watched me over the pall of smoke, tempting me with every unspoken device in his arsenal.
Hanging his head on the back of the couch, he puffed away as though this were an opium den somewhere amid the bustling streets of Bombay. I followed suit, folding my hands atop my stomach. Our silence was already comfortable.
After reuniting, I couldn't stop revisiting every elation and misery of our past. Unlocking a corridor in my mind that I raced down in true abandon, recollecting the lost pieces. Sights, smells, sensations, and sounds. The aroma of the weed he carried in his backpack, which left the odor all over his books and paperwork. The warm moisture of his tongue caressing mine. Chocolate on his breath whenever we kissed after sweets. The two of us lying across the bed stark naked and intertwined. Images of him asleep—long dark lashes against hollowed cheeks.
I leapt up and wandered over to his record player and vinyl. Pink Floyd, Zeppelin. Loads of Bob Marley and Prince. I took the liberty of keying up OneRepublic, listening to the crackling as "Feel Again" began. I shut my eyes and vibed around the room as he took a few calls on the patio. I fell into the percussion, playing air guitar, banging my head. Spinning with abandon.
Eventually I opened my eyes to find him staring at me from across the lounge. He had slipped back in and posted up against the sliding door, watching me with quiet bemusement.
“Fuck’s sake…” I laughed, plopping onto the couch to hide my face.
"Don't mind me," he chuckled. "I was enjoyin' the show."
"M'sorry. I lost it for a minute there. I miss this so much."
"Me too.”
“Can you believe it’s been two years? I haven’t spoken to you in two fucking years, mate.”
“Never seemed real.”
“I know…”
He moved into the kitchen and there was the suction of the fridge opening and shutting. He reemerged with twoStellasand opened each with the bottom of a plastic lighter. Before we drank, we toasted to old friends and new paths. To our success, and to whatever else the future may hold. Ilostmyself watching his lips part to wrap around the rim of the bottle.
