Taylor

I got back to the hotel suite first, opening the door to find it empty and dim. I put the car keys on the tiny excuse for a dining table, and added my purchases next to them.

"Hey, I'm back," I called out, just in case anybody was home, and was greeted with nothing in response. I sighed, looking around and thinking maybe I should be grateful for more time alone, but my mind ventured over to Scott, like it had been doing for the past two hours.

I - I wanted to go see him, but I didn't know what to say, or if I even should go to him. I weighed the options in my mind, playing with the loose change in my pocket. Then, for no reason, I dug it all out and smacked it on the table, too, with a spectacular metallic crash. Without even realizing what I was doing, I began to use the pennies as materializations for my options.

"I want to apologize," I said out loud, pushing a penny forwards with my pointer finger. "But I also want him to apologize to me." I pushed another penny forwards, about a foot away from the first one. "I said some pretty mean stuff." Cent number two for the "yes" bank. Another "no" popped into my head. "He said stuff too, and he initiated the conflict."

Now I had two cents in each bank. I began selecting reasons not to go see if Scott was here.

"He probably doesn't want to see me." Three cents. "We might just argue again." Four cents. "I don't know what to say to him . . . how to start." Five cents. Satisfied with the number of "don't"'s, I decided to add to the "do"'s.

I slid another cold red cent to the left pile. "I miss him." Three pennies. "I don't want to be away from him, and I need to talk to him about the photos." Another two cents, equaling five. But I didn't stop. Reasons kept flowing. "It feels like something is missing - I can't stand being apart from him. My heart hurts and I know Scott can fix it. I need him. I just want to be around him. It doesn't matter what we do. Even if we fight. I want to talk to him and find out what he thinks about everything and get to know him - I don't even know about his life - and just have him there with me."

Now I had a hella buttload of pennies in the Go-See-Scott pile.

I turned around from the table and took my keycard out of my back pocket, looking for a flimsy excuse to drop by the Moffatts' room. I darted into the bedroom without even thinking about it. Ah ha. Ha ha HA. A discarded outfit belonging to Scott he'd seemed to have forgotten about getting this afternoon lay crumpled on the floor. I kneeled onto the floor and gathered his clothing in my hands, noting the texture and color of everything; his soft and worn white cotton boxers, long and sort of starched khaki shorts, a wrinkly and limp, deep red Adidas shirt.

Upon that shirt, I lifted it to my face, hoping to catch a faint scent of him. I closed my eyes and breathed, inhaling a low-keyed twinge that smelled like Scott's hair, like his natural body scent, all sharp and soft at the same time. I rose quickly, trying to maybe memorize the smell somehow. Shaking my head, I turned around and headed for the doorway.

"I'm whipped," I sighed quietly.

Quickly, I changed into the electric blue Lavacaberries T-shirt from the stern black I'd been wearing all day, and decided to redo my ponytail. If I was going to see Scott, I wasn't going to go see him looking like a wreck. I just hoped he was there.

Eyeing myself in the reflection of the TV, I began to nervously stroke the scar on my thumb. It was long and deep, running down from the tip all the way to the joint where it met my palm. Maybe I'd gotten a little carried away. But in actuality, I'd kind of gotten a kick out of seeing the razor cutting my skin and not feeling incredible pain. I was kind of morbidly fascinated with watching the blood slowly trickle in a fat droplet across my skin. I smiled at my thumb. About as scarred as my heart was.

"You're nervous?" I asked myself slowly, letting myself try to laugh it off. "You're nervous about this?" I threw my black shirt onto the couch. "Somebody's gotta end this thing."

With that, I turned and stalked out the door, shutting it behind me with a satisfying SMACK.

Zac

"We should probably get out and get dressed," I suggested to Dave. He nodded, but simply put his head back on my chest. For a few moments of pure blue bliss, all was quiet and calm in the restroom. We listened to the comforting background noise of the water beating against the bathtub. It lapped at our legs, which were entwined and still as numb as our minds were from the abnormal stimulus. I heard myself sigh. Then, in one of those perfectly-timed horror-movie jolts that scare the shit out of you, Dave sat up.

I almost expected him to shout "EUREKA!"

But he glanced around, intently looking off into the middle of nowhere. His ears picked up, and for a second, he looked like a stealthy predator. With another jerk, he turned off the running water, and my ears picked up as well to a voice shouting,

"Hey, I'm back!"

Dave and I froze, tangled there in the bathtub. Not in fear, but perhaps distaste in getting caught in a rather Scott-and-Taylor-ish activity. We shot each other a quick look, asking the same question telepathically.

Should we get out and get dressed?

Dave was obviously with me on that thought, because he made an inquiring gesture with his thumb, pointing to the realm beyond the rim of the bathtub, on the other side of the shower curtains. I bit my lip; I could just see Taylor walking in to discover us both wet and half-naked. So I shook my head.

"He'd s-"

Dave snapped forward and clamped his hand across my mouth in the sudden Kung Fu method he'd picked up. I jumped back in surprise. He held a finger up to his lips, signaling silence. The dripping of the faucet echoed in the bathroom, and I gently moved my leg over so the drips hit my foot instead, plapping down noiselessly into the skin and sliding down harmlessly (noiselessly) into the drain. We perked our ears again.

Taylor seemed to be relatively quiet, but as usual, he was mumbling a bit to himself. He made a loud noise, and began to announce various muffled things to himself (most like ranting about Scott . . . Taylor's my brother, and brothers are predictable). Dave listened for a moment to the indecipherable voice and mouthed to me,

"Does he talk to himself a lot?"

I just shrugged, trying to listen and pick apart words from the big long mumble. Then, something hilarious occurred to me, as one suddenly realizes a funny situation, and a chuckle escaped my throat. Dave tossed me a dismayed look.

"Shh," he insisted, keeping his hissy whisper as quiet as he could. This only made me laugh more. Despite my best efforts not to let any voice behind my laughs, and to keep them empty and small, it didn't work, and I broke yet another chuckle. Dave's hand pressed even harder against my mouth, vainly trying to make the noise stop. "Zac, quiet," he commanded in a soft whisper.

I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to depress the helpless giggles. They were welling up in my chest, and pretty soon, I was struggling to breathe for want of laughter. Dave pursed his lips in frustration and leaned back over me, his hot skin making contact with mine again.

"Shh," he implored again, whispering directly into my ear. His hot breath tickled, but also felt nice, in a way. I reached up and peeled his hand from my mouth.

"This seems a little familiar, don't you think?" I pressed, giggling as quietly as I could. Dave's eyes widened in realization, and he forced himself not to laugh.

"The situation isn't quite the same," he mused. "This time, we're the naughty ones." "But yet, we're still the ones hiding in the bathroom," I whispered, laughter mingling with my whispers. Dave began to softly giggle under his breath with me. A moment later, we were both physically struggling not to break out into uproarious laughter. I grabbed his hand again and pressed it over my mouth. Then, I put my hand across his mouth. As weird as it sounds, I kind of liked the feeling of his hand there.

Taylor

Softly, I rapped my knuckles against the unfriendly white door of room 734. Scott's clothes were hanging from my hand, and for a second I felt bad for not folding them up neatly to return them; it's what my mom would have made me do. But I tightened my hold on them, determined to return them anyway. There was one of those unnatural pauses where you stop thinking and just look at stuff around you nonchalantly. Everything registered again when the door gave a soft click, and Bob's face appeared at the doorway. For a moment, his sad face lit up in relief.

"You're here to talk to Scott, right?"

I nodded. "How did you know?"

"I was just sort of hoping," admitted Bob. "He won't talk to us."

I bit my lip. Shit. Now I was causing trouble between Scott and his family. This was way too out-of-hand. A frustrated, over-emotional argument between me and Scott had erupted by making something of nothing; now it was turning everything around to a big deal. Dutch-door action. First he screws me, then he screws you. Oops, tangent.

"I hope he'll talk to me," I murmured as Bob opened the door wider to let me in. I was greeted with noises of an over-acted TV movie on ABC and of Frank's voice. Clint sat on the couch in a little nook in the corner, deeply absorbed in Animal Farm, and Frank, well, I don't know, Frank was off in his own little cloud; perhaps on the phone, perhaps talking to the TV or to himself. Bob shut the door behind me and said hurriedly,

"I would probably avoid saying anything to Clint. He and Scott have not gotten along today. Um, are Zac and Dave at your place?"

"No, they're still out eating somewhere," I replied, standing uneasily in the doorway of the suite and not sure where I should go, what I should do, and upon arrival, what I should say. "Um . . . where's Scott?"

Bob pointed to the closed bedroom door. "He's in there with his music. Last I checked, he was listening to one of his old Nirvana CDs."

I nodded. "Thanks, man." Bob nodded, too. I slowly ventured over to the bedroom door, unnoticed by Clint and Frank near me, and watched by Bob. I felt like Indiana Jones the way I was so hesitantly prowling. But I found my hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly, and blocking out all other sounds as I heard a lovely chord echoing out from an acoustic guitar.

It was then that I witnessed one of the most amazing things I'd ever witnessed. Though his back was turned from me, which caused his voice to be diverted, Scott's head was tilted up, and his voice clear and strong. I didn't even know what he was singing at first, but it didn't matter. I was listening to him sing; sing and play his guitar. There was Scott in his most natural state. Nobody watching him, hearing him, judging him, screaming at him, fainting at his feet, treating him like a star. But yet there he was. Singing like it was for a million people. Changing chords as faultlessly as a smooth, seasoned musician. He didn't even need to think about it. The music had control of him. I knew exactly how he felt, and what he was trapped in.

I stood there in that doorway silently, taking in the beautiful sounds and only beginning to make out his words. The more I paid attention to the tune, the more familiar it seemed, until I realized I'd heard it before, and very recently. It was a Moffatts song. One of Scott's many chances to shine. I found myself mouthing along, shocked I knew it; I'd heard it only once, but was anticipating what came next.

"I wish there was a way to show you my love is real," his voice flowed huskily, without fault, without break or uncertainty of the music. His fingers danced along his guitar, coaxing out lovely, single, clear notes. "Webster hasn't found the words to express what I feel. Well, just like a river needs the rain to flow, you've warmed a heart that once was cold . . . with your love . . ." I didn't realize he'd stopped until he'd already let go of his guitar, letting it crash to the floor in a disharmonic snap. He sighed in a mixture of frustration and futile sadness, kicking it softly aside, and slowly rubbed his hands up the length of his cheeks.

As he whispered, "I can't even sing an entire song without crying," I stepped into the room and shut the door.