We Are Inevitable by Gayle Forman (read aloud txt) 📕

not distant cousins,” Hannah continues. “They’re more like fraternal twins. Different ways of telling a story.”

“People say that, but lyrics just don’t do it for me.”

“Lyrics are just one part of it, like dialogue is in a book. But songs have so much more. Texture and pacing and emotional build.” Her excitement is so infectious I nearly believe her. “If they’re done right, that is. It’s hard to write a good song, much less a perfect one.”

“What makes a perfect song?”

“That’s totally subjective, but to me it’s a song that uses all the elements, instrumentation, pacing, lyrics, to deliver an emotional experience. It’s what I want our songs to do. But . . .” She grins at me. “It’s impossible. Because what’s perfect for me might be noise to someone else.”

“I don’t think any song will be perfect for me.”

“Well, you’ve thrown down the gauntlet.” Hannah kicks my ankle. “I’m gonna have to find you a perfect song.”

“Now who’s the glutton for punishment?”

Hannah laughs. “You gonna stay out here and mope or come inside? There’s a cooler full of club sodas waiting in the green room.” She stands up, dusting off her backside, and reaches a hand for me. I grab it and she hoists me up and we just stand there for a minute, hand in hand.

Neither one of us lets go as we walk toward the stage door right as Jax flings it open. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Hannah glances at her phone. “I thought we weren’t up for another half hour.”

“Not you,” Jax says, staring at me. “You.”

“Me?”

“You’re Chad’s friend, right?”

“Is he okay?” My throat tightens. If something happened to Chad . . . when we were in a fight . . .

“He’s fine. Just come on . . .”

We follow Jax to the bar, pushing past the bouncer. There’s a small scrum around Chad, who has fallen off the barstool. “Where’s his chair?” I yell. The bartender points to the corner. I run and get the chair and help Hannah and Jax hoist Chad into it. He’s like a rag doll, though, and falls forward. Jax catches him just in time.

“He needs fresh air,” Hannah commands. “Let’s get him outside.”

“What about his tab?” the bartender asks.

“They’ll handle it,” Hannah says, pointing to Jax.

Hannah and I get Chad outside into the parking lot. Jax shows up a few seconds later with a bottle of water, which they prop against Chad’s mouth. “Can you drink this?”

Chad takes a few sips, then sputters, coughs, and pukes.

“Oh, boy,” Hannah says.

“Sorry,” Chad mutters, and then he retches again.

“Get it all out,” Jax says, patting his shoulder.

Chad shakes his head, miserable. “Sorry,” he repeats.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Jax replies before turning to me. “Can you get him home?”

“I don’t know how to drive his truck,” I say. “I’ll just wait for him to sober up.”

“You could be here all night,” Hannah says. “He’s really plowed.”

Jax looks back toward the stage door. “We gotta go on soon. Aaron, you stay with him out here. One of us will come back out to help you as soon as we’re done.”

“Okay,” I agree.

Jax leaves. Hannah lingers. “You gonna be okay?”

I nod.

“You’re a good egg, you know.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m not. Chad was right. I am a coward.

“I gotta go,” she says. “We’re almost on.”

“Play extra loud so I can listen from here.”

“Don’t think I won’t!” she says, disappearing into the side door.

Chad’s mumbling something. I crouch before him. “What?”

“Betaable?” he says.

“What?”

“Behtanvil.”

“Oh, Beethoven’s Anvil. Don’t worry. We’ll see them another time.”

He nods. Then drifts off. It’s starting to rain, so I push him under the awning by the door. I can hear the band go on. Can hear Hannah sing “To Your Knees,” the same song they opened with the other night. From out here, it doesn’t sound so bad. I close my eyes and picture her boinging around the stage. My toe taps to the beat.

A while later Chad wakes up. Calls my name, then mumbles, “Ibuzsanedpus.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“IthinkIneedapiss.”

“You need to piss?” Chad nods. “Oh. Okay. How does that work? Do you need me to unzip your pants? Stand you up?”

He gestures to the satchel on the back of his chair. “Ziploc. Catheter.”

I open the satchel, find the Ziploc. It contains a bunch of foil-wrapped catheters.

I hand it to Chad but he’s so drunk he drops it.

I pick it up.

“You open it,” he tells me.

I look for an opening.

“Hurry!”

“Stop yelling! You’re making me nervous.”

I fumble with the foil and get it open. It’s a long tube with a suction cup at one end and a bag at the other.

“Now what? Do you need me to—”

“Fuck,” Chad says.

“What? What happened?”

But then I hear the sound of water dripping. And it’s not raining that hard. Chad hangs his head. “I pissed myself.” He puts his head in his hands. “I suck.” He shakes he his head. “I suck. I suck. I suck.”

“You don’t suck. It could happen to anyone.”

“Has it happened to you?”

“Not specifically, but trust me, I’m no stranger to humiliation.”

“Will you help me? Change? I keep a spare set of clothes in the truck.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I fetch Chad’s sweats from the cab. I unzip his pants, pull them down. I clean him off as best I can and get the sweats on, before throwing the soiled pants in the dumpster.

“I’m sorry,” Chad says when it’s over.

I’m not sure if he’s talking about the piss, or what he said earlier, about me being a coward. But there comes a point when such distinctions cease to matter.

“I’m sorry too,” I say.

When You Reach Me

Because Chad’s still too drunk to drive when the set ends, Jax arranges for us to spend the night in a friend’s elevator-accessible loft. After ferrying us over in the van and getting us situated, they return to the club to load out.

It takes a while the next day to rouse a hungover Chad and fetch his truck from the club, so it’s past noon when we pull up