Beyond the Sea (34 page)

The sound on the TV in the private lounge was tinny, but Brian would have known Troy’s voice anywhere. He sat on the edge of the plush couch with Joan, the airline rep, watching Troy stand outside the hotel in Honolulu where they’d said goodbye—when? A day ago? Two? He wasn’t even sure.

“
I wanted to thank you all for your love and support. My family, friends, and fans—I don’t know what I’d do without you. I had faith that I’d see you again, and I’m so grateful to be here. And I’m incredibly grateful to Brian Sinclair for saving my life more than once. I know I wouldn’t have survived without his bravery and generosity.”

Brian couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. From the corner of his eye, he was aware of Joan’s presence, and he struggled for composure.

Troy looked down for a moment. “And most of all, I need to thank Paula Mercado, who landed our plane against all odds and lost her life. My heart goes out to her family and friends, and I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am for Paula’s courage and skill. Thank you.”

Then he was gone, whisked into a waiting car so quickly Brian had barely blinked. He sat back on the cushions, exhaling. The reporters were all shouting, and Joan muted the TV.

“
Seems like a nice young man.”

“
What? Yes. Yes, very nice.”
Smart, sweet, kind, funny, passionate.

Joan crossed her legs, the fabric of her pantsuit swishing together. She was an older woman, no-nonsense and efficient, her graying hair in a bun. He’d never dealt with her before, and couldn’t remember her title at the company although she’d surely told him.

He was extremely glad she was there. She’d arrived with the jet in Honolulu and debriefed him on the way to Auckland. Paula’s parents had met them in a private hangar in the airport, and it had been…

Well, it had been torture. Maia had wept, George’s stoic facade cracking several times. Brian had assured them Paula hadn’t felt any pain, which was the truth at least. There one moment and gone the next. Visibility on the beach had been so poor she probably hadn’t even seen the cliff coming.

He didn’t tell them about her arm.

Now he was back in Sydney, waiting for entry. His passport and wallet had been in his coat pocket on the plane, but Joan assured him it was being handled. She’d also given him a replacement cell phone, telling him it was all set up with his account. Brian knew he should turn it on and check his messages, but it sat beside him untouched.

Soon, customs officials bustled in, and after perfunctory questions, Brian was cleared and in the back of a Town Car with Joan. She apparently didn’t feel the need to fill silence with chitchat, for which he was profoundly grateful.

As they drove to his apartment in Southern Sydney, Brian stared at the passing scenery. It was familiar and utterly foreign at the same time. Joan assured him his apartment and possessions were untouched and his car still parked in its underground spot. He hadn’t been officially declared dead yet, so it had all been waiting in limbo.

“
How are you for money?” she asked.

Brian stared at a group of kids on the steps of a building, laughing and goofing around.
Money? Oh, right. Money.
“I should be fine. I have some savings.”

She nodded. “Shall we stop for groceries on the way?”

“
Right. Sure.” He’d longed for food so much on the island, but even the prospect of an ice-cold beer left him ambivalent. When he’d imagined eating and drinking all his favorite things again, Troy had been there too.

“
Why don’t I nip into the store and get you a few things.” She spoke to the driver, and Brian tuned out again.

When they turned down his road, he blinked at the mass of people clustered by the three-story apartment building, one of many lining the street along with tall trees Brian didn’t know the name of. “Who…” Then he realized it was the media. “Oh.”

Joan leaned forward. “Don’t slow down,” she told the driver. “Make that left, and then another. The manager’s meeting us around back.” She turned to Brian. “Don’t worry. The press will lose interest in a few days. We’ll give a statement on your behalf. It’ll be standard: gratitude at being alive, condolences to Paula’s family, etc. Do you want to approve it?”

“
No. Say whatever you want.”

She nodded briskly and tapped something into her phone. “I’ll be back to get you tomorrow afternoon. Sleep in, get acclimated. I know this must be overwhelming.”

There was something about her straightforward demeanor and lightly graying hair that reminded him vividly of his grandmother in that moment, and Brian had to swallow hard. “Thank you,” he croaked.

Joan smiled then, a sad little movement. “If you need anything, ask me. I mean it. I wish I could give you a few days before we meet with the safety board, but they’re chomping at the bit. It’ll all be done soon, and then you can rest and…take stock.”

The building superintendent waited by the entrance to the underground parking, ushering them inside as reporters raced down the alley, shouting questions Brian wouldn’t answer even if he could make them out.

The super chattered about how glad he was Brian had returned, pressing a new set of keys into his hand. Brian nodded and smiled, following him up the stairs to his second-floor apartment. He carried the several bags of groceries Joan had bought, the plastic digging into his fingers.

He couldn’t wait to be alone.

The parrots were late.

He could tell the sun was up, bright beyond his eyelids. Murmuring, Brian stretched his arms over his head, careful not to tear the mosquito net. Yet his fingers didn’t brush the airy fabric. Had Troy—

Gut churning, Brian opened his eyes and stared at the white stucco ceiling. Rays of sunshine streamed through the sheer curtains on the other side of his shoe box, a gauzy film over the sliding glass doors to his little terrace balcony. There was no sand stuck between his toes, and his skin and hair weren’t tight with salt and sun.

He wondered how long it would take to remember that he was home, and Golden Sands was lost to him, thousands of miles away. That Troy was too.

Home.

He would have laughed if his throat wasn’t so dry. His apartment was a simple open space with his bed pushed against one wall, a TV mounted on the other and a beige love seat roughly in the middle. The shallow kitchen stretched along the other side, little more than a fridge, stove, and sink with a few cupboards. The door to the bathroom was just beside it. There was one closet, which Brian’s clothes shared with cleaning products shoved in the bottom.

After four days of having his blackout curtains closed to thwart photographers who’d actually tried climbing one of the trees in front of the building, he’d gone to sleep late last night with the sliding door open a few inches and a breeze coming through the screen. Let them take a picture of him sleeping. Fuck it.

Street sounds came into focus. Cars driving by with a low zoom. A bus with brakes that screeched just a little as it pulled up across the road. Beyond the merry chirps of birds were murmurs of conversation, indicating the media was still gathered on the lawn. In the hallway, a door closed, a dog barking a few times before being silenced. The fridge hummed.

This had been his home for three years now. He should have felt comforted to be back within the four cream walls, his one piece of cheap IKEA art—blue flowers in a yellow vase—looking down through freshly Windexed glass. The super had kindly dusted and cleaned, but even with the balcony door open, the musty smell remained.

Brian’s bed was soft, pillows positively luxurious in their plain cotton cases (also IKEA). It had to be close to noon, but he was in no rush to move. The duvet was tangled around his legs, but he only idly kicked at the wadded material. He wore boxers that slid down his hips. After three days of interviews with safety board and company officials, he didn’t have anything to do.

The screen on his phone on the bedside table lit up with another call. The ringer was off, and he glanced at the number, which had no name attached to it. As he let it go to the voice mail he wasn’t checking, the thought occurred.

What if it’s Troy?

He was reaching for the phone before he could talk himself out of it, pressing the code for his mailbox. He held the plastic tightly to his ear. Of course there was a litany of other messages to get through first. He erased the media calls immediately. They were interspersed with familiar voices, messages from old friends in the States that started the same way.

“
I don’t know if this is still the right number…”

Call after call, the friends he’d cut out of his life too easily wished him well and asked to reconnect. Even Rebecca and Alicia had called, leaving awkward, short messages of support. Alicia hadn’t asked to see him again, or for him to return the call, but he hadn’t expected it.
“I’m glad you’re not dead. Take care and stay that way.”

The voice mail bounced to the menu.

“
You have no new messages. To send a message, press—”

Jabbing the red end button too hard, Brian tossed his phone to the foot of the bed. He wanted to call people back. He did. But what would he say? How could he explain…any of it? What a shitty friend he’d been, and why he’d run away and let his guilt and self-pity take control. And what if they asked about Troy?

Looking to his love seat, the silver laptop beckoned. Brian ignored it, hauling himself out of bed and into the cramped bathroom. When he came out, his laptop was still sitting on the beige cushion.

Waiting.

With a sigh, he gave in, pulling a beer from the fridge before settling in again, the computer on his knees. He pressed a button, and the screen came to life, the red and white YouTube menu appearing. He scanned the names of the recommended videos.

Next Up Perform at Brit Awards 2015

E! Tyson & Troy Tanner Interview

Next Up History Video (Unofficial)

BT Best Fanvid

Next Up Interview FULL

Brian clicked on the so-called fanvid. He’d learned that fans and other people referred to Troy as “BT,” meaning “Big T.” This video was a surprisingly well-edited collection of interview clips from talk shows, some from when Troy had been a gangly teenager on
Rock ‘n’ Roll Academy
, all long limbs and bright smile. Brian couldn’t stop watching, even as the tightness in his chest grew.

When the video ended, another recommendation appeared.

Next Up Charity Concert Beyond the Sea

Heart clenching, he slammed down the laptop lid and hurried into the shower, making the water too hot. He scrubbed at his hair, which was still too long and in desperate need of a cut. Yes, that’s what he’d do. Treat himself to a shave while he was at it since he couldn’t bear to even unzip his grandfather’s kit. Everything reminded him of Troy now.

“
This is insane. I’m out of my mind.”

His voice sounded strange to his own ears in the steamy shower stall, dull and scratchy.

“
I’m straight.”

They’d had their…whatever it was because they’d been stuck together on a desert island. They did what people do when they’re isolated. People have physical needs. That’s all it was. He repeated what he’d said to Troy.

“
We were horny.”

It sounded as hollow now as it had then. It was bullshit.

I’m not straight.

He soaped his body roughly under the stream of almost-scalding water. That truth didn’t matter. Troy may have seemed like he hadn’t wanted Brian to leave, but surely he was glad now. There had been video of him arriving in LA with his mother and Savannah close by his side. Troy had worn sunglasses and kept his head down after waving to fans. He seemed fine. He could get back to his old life. His girlfriend. Once the dust settled, why would he choose Brian?

Surely Troy had snapped out of it. Now it was Brian’s turn.