The Stench of Roses

In The Stench of Roses, Erin Kavanagh writes on losing young love and growing up, in a grungy rock-band romance.

I think he liked how I admired him. (Image: WIX)

He dropped my hand. He dropped my hand, and everyone saw. Dallas dropped my fucking hand and let me go in front of the rest of the band. I had never been so embarrassed. All night, he had been acting weird. He said he was just stressed from the concert, but I had seen him stressed many times, and I knew something else was going on. He could barely look me in the eye after he kissed me earlier, as I wished him luck for the show, and then, when we were leaving the venue, in front of the band, and in front of the screaming girls trying to get his attention, he dropped my hand. I stared at him as he signed some pretty blonde girl’s collarbone – if she lowered her shirt any more, her breasts would topple out over the top – before I turned my attention to Dallas’ bassist. He was looking at me, with an emotion I couldn’t read at the time plastered over his face, which I later identified as pity. The other three couldn’t even look at me as I awkwardly stood beside Dallas while he continued to chat and laugh with the girls, all of them desperate for his attention. I could hear them all screaming while Dallas and the band were playing their set, and one even threw a bra towards my boyfriend. Some of these girls I recognised from a few of Dallas’ previous shows; one in particular, who had called me a bitch the last time I saw her. She was just jealous I was Dallas’ girlfriend, and it didn’t bother me; what did bother me was Dallas not standing up for me. That was before he dropped my hand.

Once he was finished signing everything those girls shoved in his face, Dallas said his goodbyes – and some see-you-at-the-next-shows – and hurried off towards the tour bus we had spent the last three weeks on, leaving me and the rest of the band to follow behind. Alex, Dallas’ bassist, patted me softly on the back as I climbed up into the dingy old bus.

It was late by the time I climbed into the tiny bunk beside Dallas. I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep, while Dallas snored softly beside me, black eyeshadow smudged on our shared pillow. This stupid tour bus had six tiny bunk beds — five for the members of the band, and one for their manager — so Dallas and I had spent the last three weeks sharing this tiny mattress; except for the several times he kicked me to the stiff couch because he needed his beauty sleep, and my breathing was keeping him awake. On this particular night, I did not get a second of sleep. Dallas reeked of some sweet floral perfume; one I hadn’t smelt on him before. It stank of roses, which I only knew the scent of because Dallas used to bring me a single red rose before every date. I don’t really remember when he stopped doing that. It would have been years ago - we’ve been together for almost three now. We were fresh out of high school when we met; he was eighteen and I was seventeen. Always the youngest of my friends, I would use my old fake ID when we went out to clubs, surrounded by loud music and bright lights. This one club in particular, The Luminary, was my favourite, and not just because Dallas and his band played every Thursday night. He grew to recognise my face in the crowd, and after a couple of weeks, he approached me. He didn’t have many fans back then, only the few locals who didn’t have work on Friday mornings. He asked me out that first night we spoke; I think he liked how I admired him. I thought it was so cool, dating a musician. He played his guitar for me on our first date, an original – one he claimed he wrote for me, that he later admitted was about some other girl he knew in high school. My collection of dying red roses sat in a vase next to my bed, and that smell followed me for months. And there it was again, lying next to me on that tiny tour bus, snoring softly.

There were only about five more shows left on his tour before we were scheduled to head back home, and the first four flew by. Dallas tried to act like nothing happened, like he didn’t drop my hand and didn't ignore me that night, and I never said anything. I felt crazy that it had bothered me so much. The only reason I didn’t think I was completely psychotic and jealous was the way that Alex treated me those last few shows. He had never been particularly talkative to me, or especially kind, but after that night when Dallas dropped my hand, Alex started smiling at me more. Not happily, but sympathetically.

Before Dallas and the band went on for their final show of the tour, I looked out at the crowd and saw that blonde girl from the other night. She was with friends, who were trying to pass her a beer, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Dallas, who was setting up his mic stand and guitar on stage. I glanced over at him, expecting him to be hard at work with the rest of the band, preparing for their concert, only to find him staring back at her. And he was smirking. I felt the blood rush to my face as my heart sank straight to my toes. Stumbling back into the wings of the stage, I darted to the bathroom and stared at my reflection in the dirty mirror, as a drunk girl in cowboy boots tripped out of one of the stalls and exited behind me. My mascara was already running before I had a chance to slow my breathing down. I looked so stupid. God, I followed him around for weeks in that bus, made excuses for him for years…what an idiot I was. My reflection that night haunted me; I looked like a little girl. So fucking naive.

When I had composed myself, I marched out of the bathroom and headed towards the bar, and ordered myself a whisky, neat. My father used to drink the same thing, except it generally resulted in my mother picking me up from school the next day with a black eye. I had never felt more like his daughter than that night. After I had thrown back my third whisky and ordered my fourth, Dallas was already halfway through his set. Before long, I smelt it. Roses. I glanced next to me to see the blonde girl ordering some fruity little cocktail, smiling sweetly at the bartender. I was staring, I knew I was, when she turned to me.

Hey, you’re with the band, right?

My eyes traced her face, perfect little nose, shining bright blue eyes, soft skin…god, she couldn’t be older than eighteen. 

Did you hear me? 

I didn’t know what to say to her; I hated her. This fake-blonde, baby-faced…slut. 

What is your problem? 

I was making her uncomfortable. Good. After a moment, a small smirk crept onto her face. 

Dallas’ girlfriend, right?

Something in my mind snapped, and before I knew what I was doing, she was already on the ground. I swung at her so swiftly that even the bartender took a second to react. He tried to yell at us to stop, but the blonde girl was already back on her feet, trying to pull at my black mop of hair, her friends throwing punches in any direction but mine.

The music at the front of the bar stopped, and I glanced over to see Dallas staring at me. The band were silent on the stage, until Dallas jumped off, stalked towards the commotion and grabbed my arm. He battered off the crazed fan girls and forced me out of the bar. I had never seen him like this before. A part of me was brimming with glee to have made him so angry.

What the fuck are you doing?

I could barely speak, the adrenaline and alcohol mixing to make it feel as though I was in a dream-like state. Dallas raised his hand to me, and my cheek burned from his strike.

What the FUCK are you doing?

I glared at him. What are you doing? That child? That blonde high schooler?

What are you talking about? 

Don’t act dumb. I’m not stupid, Dallas.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. I can’t do this right now. I’m in the middle of a show.

As he began to walk away, back towards the bar, I called after him. You dropped my hand.

What? The other night, when you saw her after your concert. You dropped my hand. Dallas couldn’t look at me. We’re done.

He pursed his lips, silent, and nodded before walking back inside. Not a word. Ever again. His manager let me onto the tour bus that night, so I could grab my stuff, and I called my mother to come pick me up. We weren’t far from home at this point; we were supposed to head back the next morning anyway, but there was no way I was hanging around until then.

Dallas never tried to contact me; no calls, no visits, no letters. Three years seemingly meant nothing to him. I wondered if that blonde girl was the first, or just the first I found out about. I had never been suspicious; if he was experienced at cheating, he didn’t lead on. I didn’t hear anything from the band for a very long time, not until Alex stopped by my apartment one Wednesday night. He barely said anything to me, and didn’t even come inside, but he handed me an envelope and told me to open it later. And then he was gone. I tore the envelope open to find almost a thousand dollars inside and a scribbled note from Alex. 

Your cut of the tour.