Chapter 11
1770words
Time is a dull knife; the process of scraping bone to heal wounds is slow and painful, but it eventually does take something away.
It took away my day-after-day waiting, took away my obsession with staring at the phone screen until my eyes ached, and took away Leo Vance's figure, polishing him from a living, warm memory into a static portrait hanging on the wall of my heart, only occasionally glanced at.
I'm now an intern at a top special effects makeup studio in Hollywood, a nobody whose daily job is to clean molds covered in fake blood or spray the final layer of protective coating on monster masks before they leave the factory. The air is perpetually filled with the pungent smell of latex and alcohol, but to me, this is the scent of dreams.
I've removed my braces, and the acne on my face has miraculously subsided, leaving only faint marks that can be easily covered with foundation. I look... ordinary. In Los Angeles, a city filled with tomorrow's stars, being ordinary is the best camouflage.
And Ryder Kang, he is no longer ordinary.
His band "Kollapse" was signed by a mainstream label, and their first album "Train Station Ghosts" debuted in the top three of the charts. His face appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine, and those eyes that once gleamed with unbridled brilliance in dimly lit underground clubs now gazed down upon the masses from billboards across major American cities.
He became a red-hot rock star.
But to me, he was just Ryder.
He was the one who, during the first month after Leo left, when I was almost evicted for not being able to pay rent, unceremoniously pushed his spare key into my hand.
He was the one who, when I failed at my first attempt at creating special effects makeup and turned myself into a disfigured monster, sat silently outside the bathroom door as I broke down in tears, wordlessly passing me a pack of makeup remover wipes.
He was the one who, on countless nights when I was exhausted like a dog after being ordered around by seniors at the studio, drove me in his old Ford Mustang to eat the best Mexican burritos in Los Angeles.
Throughout this year, he transformed from a silent observer, an apologetic old friend, into the only constant coordinate in my life. We watched countless old movies together in his small, rundown apartment overlooking the entire city, and shared cheap pizza in his band's noisy rehearsal room.
With an almost stubborn patience, he gradually filled the enormous void in my life left by Leo's departure. He never mentioned Leo, nor asked what happened between us. He would simply hand me a cup of hot tea without a word when I occasionally fell silent, triggered by certain scenes, or change to a lighter topic.
He was like a slowly growing tree, and before I knew it, he had already provided a cool shade where I could catch my breath.
"Jules, will you come to the show tonight?" His slightly tired, hoarse voice came through the phone, with a background of bustling crowd noise and equipment being tested, "It's our first time performing at the arena, and I want you to be there."
"Of course," I smiled, holding the phone between my shoulder and cheek while skillfully coloring a zombie mask, "I'll scream for you, Ryder. Just like when I first met you."
A deep, soft laugh came from the other end of the line, "Then I'd better make sure my performance tonight deserves that kind of screaming."
The Forum Arena in Ingwood was brilliantly lit, like a massive spacecraft that had landed on Earth. Outside the venue, thousands of young girls waved light sticks and posters with Ryder's face on them, hysterically shouting his name.
I took the backstage pass he had given me, walked against the flow of people, navigated through the maze-like corridors, and found their dressing room.
As soon as I pushed open the door, waves of noise and the intense scent of adrenaline hit me. The other band members were making their final preparations, while the manager was frantically shouting into his phone.
Ryder sat on the sofa in the corner, wearing only a pair of black skinny jeans, his bare upper body covered with a thin layer of sweat that outlined his smooth and firm muscle definition. A makeup artist was applying eyeliner on him, and he kept his eyes closed, his long eyelashes casting small shadows under the lights.
He heard the door open and looked at me. In that moment, all the surrounding noise seemed to be muted. His gaze bypassed everyone else and landed precisely on me, the corner of his mouth slowly curving into a familiar smile.
At that moment, I had to admit that under the spotlight, Ryder Kang possessed a lethal charm capable of making any woman's heart race uncontrollably.
"You came." He waved at me.
I walked to his side and squeezed his tense shoulders. "Nervous?"
"A bit," he admitted honestly, then turned his head and said in a volume only I could hear, "But much better now."
The concert was a massive, exhilarating sensory storm. When Ryder held his guitar and stood at the center of the stage, when the first spotlight shone on him, when he sang the first lyrics with his signature husky voice, the entire stadium erupted.
He was born for the stage.
On stage, he was wild, sexy, filled with raw vitality, like a beast that had broken free from all restraints. His every move, every glance, could easily ignite the passion of tens of thousands of people below the stage.
I stood in the shadows of the side stage, watching him surrounded by countless gazes and camera flashes, watching him become the absolute center of the night, and a strange feeling welled up in my heart. It was a complex emotion mixed with pride, detachment, and a hint of possessiveness.
When the last note of the final song fell, when Ryder thanked the audience, triggering another wave of thunderous screams, he brushed back his sweat-soaked bangs, and his gaze once again cut through the entire boisterous venue, landing in my direction.
We gazed at each other from across the crowd, and in that moment, I felt as if this grand concert was held just for this one look from him now.
Back in the backstage, the air seemed ignited. Celebratory champagne, the excited screams of the manager, congratulations from the staff, all blended into one.
Ryder was surrounded by everyone as soon as he entered the door, people patting his back and offering him drinks. He responded politely, but his eyes kept searching for something in the crowd.
When he saw me, something lit up in his eyes. He pushed through the crowd, walked straight toward me, grabbed my wrist, and without a word pulled me into a smaller storage room next door that was filled with equipment cases.
The moment the door closed, all the noise from outside was shut out.
The room was dark, with only a sliver of light coming through the crack of the door. We could clearly hear each other's rapid breathing, and his still lingering hot scent mixed with sweat and cologne.
"Jules." He spoke, his voice terribly hoarse from shouting earlier, yet carrying an undeniable force.
Before I could answer, he leaned down and silenced my lips with a passionate and urgent kiss.
This kiss was just like him on stage, full of aggression and an irrefutable dominance. His tongue pried open my teeth, carrying the slight bitterness of champagne and the sweet tang of adrenaline, frantically plundering every inch of air in my mouth.
My mind went completely blank, and I could only instinctively grab his arms as he pressed me firmly against the cold wall. His body was scorching hot like a branding iron, with only a few thin layers of fabric between us.
I don't know how long the kiss lasted, until we were both nearly suffocating, and he finally pulled back slightly, his forehead pressed against mine, his pitch-black eyes staring intensely at me in the dim light.
"A year ago, at that train station, when I looked at you," he said breathlessly, each word seeming to be squeezed from deep within his chest, "I told myself that someday, I would make you forget him."
My heart felt as if it was being tightly gripped by an invisible hand.
"I've waited a year, Jules," his gaze seemed to burn right through me, "I've been waiting every day, waiting for the right moment, waiting for your wounds to heal, waiting for the day when you look at me without that person's shadow in your eyes."
He raised his hand and gently caressed my cheek with his calloused fingertips, "Have I succeeded? Jules, tell me, who are you thinking about when you look at me now?"
I looked at him, at those eyes that seemed exceptionally bright with excitement and longing, at his forehead covered with beads of sweat and his slightly trembling lips.
I should say "It's you, Ryder, I'm only thinking of you."
I should give the answer he wanted to hear, the answer that would reward this man before me, this man who had been my shelter for the past year, with what he deserved.
But I couldn't say it.
Because he lied, I was also lying to myself. His hit song, the one that shot him to fame, "Train Station Ghosts"—every lyric, every note, was reminding me of the person who left.
He is a ghost, and so is Leo. Both of them are ghosts haunting me.
Facing Ryder's burning and expectant gaze, my lips moved, but I couldn't make any sound.
My silence was more cruel than any words of rejection.
The light in Ryder's eyes visibly dimmed bit by bit. The rock star-like fervor and confidence on his face quickly faded, returning to the Ryder I knew so well—somewhat awkward, somewhat uncertain, always carefully observing my expressions.
"Jules?" he called my name tentatively, his voice carrying a barely noticeable tremor.
I couldn't answer.
The companionship this year was real, and the warmth and security he brought were also real. I can no longer imagine what life would be like without him.
But is this love?
I don't know.
Is it habit, gratitude, or after losing someone, out of survival instinct, grabbing onto another piece of driftwood?
Facing his hurt eyes, I could only shamefully look away like a guilty criminal.
