Grant hears the slosh of the bottle before he sees the body that holds it. He has come to realize that the less liquid there is in a container the louder a sound it makes as it is moved, not a good sign for the rest of the night. The room he sits in, a sort of queue area where the acts wait to go on stage and occasionally mingle after the show, is situated around a corner from the stage where everyone performs so he has no idea how the performance went, or if the crowd liked him, or if they bothered to listen at all. There are seven names on the roster tonight, Bradley’s was second from the bottom. The odds of many attendees being interested in the sixth billed signer aren’t worth considering.

The bottle and its owner round the corner, Bradley is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, his hair sticks to his forehead, and his heavy wool flannel, the only item left to him in his grandfather's will, is damp and musky. The guitar he has played on since he was sixteen swings dangerously close to the concrete floor as he walks. Grant considers letting him break it, he wouldn’t even have to do anything, just watch. But managers don’t get paid to have their acts self-destruct, so he takes two long strides and with a long sigh lifts the instrument out of Bradley’s hands.

“It’s gone out of tune.” He says by way of greeting. All of the folding chairs in the room are occupied so he begins to drift toward the curtain that comprises his small section of the green room. Grant plays a chord on the guitar and identifies the flat string, making a mental note to tune it later tonight after Bradley has passed out.

The green room assigned to them, labeled with a piece of printer paper duct taped by the opening, is little more than two chairs and a card table upon which sits a case of bottled water and a bowl filled with snack-sized bags of off-brand chips. It is the best accommodation they have received thus far on the tour. Bradley doesn’t so much sit in the chair as he surrenders to gravity and trusts in the chair to stop his fall. Once he has properly slumped down in the seat he begins unbuttoning the flannel, but his hands have gone clumsy from the drink and he succeeds in only undoing the first two before giving up. Grant pushes the chip bowl and waters aside to clear a place for the guitar before finding his own seat.

“How’d it go?” 

“Let’s go, wanna get to bed.”

“Sorry Brad you’ve still got merch to sign.”

“We still have the stock from Barlett don’t we.” He does not frame it as a question, they are both acutely aware of the box in the back of the bus that has not gotten any lighter since the tour started. Grant could probably identify each CD and tee shirt by touch, he has handled them enough times. They are on the first leg of Bradley’s second tour, done to promote his third album in four years. He is a talented country musician. He knows this. The people who produce his music know this. Grant, whose responsibilities began with managing Bradley's career and image almost six years ago; and have since expanded to include regulation of his moods and drinking, knows better than anyone. 

“The tables are all set up, they’ll expect you out there after this set.”

But Bradley has already left this thread of conversation behind, he renews his attempts to undo his shirt. “Hotter than Satan’s cellar in here. Let me change at least.” But it is clear that if he continues himself that the shirt will not separate from his body until the vodka does. So Grant does what he always does, he manages. He grabs his chair and sets himself in front of Bradley, so close that they have to alternate their legs and Grant’s knee hits the plastic that Bradley sits upon. Slowly, with fingers that shake only the slightest bit, Grant begins undressing Bradley. This is not new for either of them. When half the buttons are undone, Bradley claps Grant’s hands in his own before leaning forward, pushing their foreheads together. The sharp scent of the vodka stings Grant’s nose but he is used to it, almost craves it.

“I like the way you touch me,” Bradley mutters, still holding Grant’s hands. They both stop breathing for a small infinity.

Grant and Bradley have slept together before. It’s not a secret. Coming out is much less complicated when no one cares about who you are, so they both got it out of the way early. On the first EP Bradley had two songs that alluded to the fact, with more in the other albums, and his short-lived relationship with an author in between his first and second albums was not a secret. There was pushback of course, but he came to realize early on that if the music is good then no one cares, and so he put everything into his writing and never blamed bigotry for his failure to launch. Grant, not being a public figure, never had cause to worry and so he didn’t. Not even when Bradley ran his hand up his thigh during a recording session for the single on the first album, not when they finally kissed on the last night of the first tour or during the three months after where they spent every waking moment together, and especially not when he figured out that Bradley Shaw was not the kind of man who committed to a relationship only after he had fallen in love with him, and finally realized he had been worrying about the wrong future all along.

Grant stares at Bradley and seriously considers giving in. Then his eyes are drawn towards the floor, more specifically Bradley’s growing crotch, and everything falls into place. He removes his hands from Bradley’s gentle grip and returns to the buttons. First and foremost he is a manager, a manager who believes his act can be great, and will not stop until he is. These are the things you put up with for the people you believe in. You push ahead, you ignore, and you fight. Bradley says nothing, only lets his arms hang limp, and surrenders to Grant’s infinite patience. There are only three buttons left when the curtain moves, someone is tapping the fabric, causing it to ripple. Grant makes sure most of Bradley’s chest is covered and tells whoever is outside to come in. Hoping that they won’t notice the smell on his client's breath, sharp and biting.

The vocalist of the top-billed group is a lanky man in his late thirties whose stubble is beginning to take on a salt-and-pepper hue. He sticks his head inside before the rest of his body follows. Grant and Bradley are silent, one in apprehension, the other in awe.

“You had a good set tonight.” He starts, looking around for a place to sit. Both the chairs are occupied so he shifts his weight to one foot and continues. “How’s the tour going?”

“It’s going alright,” Bradley says with only the slightest slur between words, “we’re making it.”

“I take it you do the managing around here?” This directed with a nod towards Grant, still sizing up the man and his presence. He has a good idea of where this is going, he should be the one doing the talking.

“Well, that’s what he pays me for at least.” 

Bradley chuckles, Grant doesn’t know what was funny. The vocalist moves the case of water to the floor and leans against the card table, taking care to not touch the guitar. Bradley doesn’t notice. The vocalist directs the offer at Bradley.

“We’re looking at openers for the next tour, next few months or so. September to February, Chicago then snaking down to Pensacola. No big stadiums or anything like that, just hockey rinks, stuff that size.”

Either Bradley is too stunned to speak or he’s realized that this is not his job. Grant clears his throat and the vocalist turns back toward him. This is leagues bigger than anything they have been considered before, the vocalist’s group has Grammys, they get radio time. When Grant saw their name on the roster he assumed they were playing at a venue this small as a favor. He wonders if this was their real reason for attending, then he finds he doesn’t care. He produces his business card from his pocket, the one he keeps for situations such as this, the one that has been sitting in his pocket for six years, and hands it to the vocalist, who promises to be in touch before exiting. 

“We’re doing it. I want to do it.” Bradley says, his eyes have come back into focus with that intensity that Grant fell for forever ago. He sees that Bradley is no longer here in this curtained room, he is six months in the future playing in front of thousands of people, a year from now accepting a Country Music Award to the roar of countless fans, decades later enjoying everything he has worked so hard to deserve. 

“It’s a good offer, I’ll get the specifics out of them once they contact.”

“I don’t care about the specifics, you shouldn’t either.”

“The specifics are my job Bradley, you’re not going to get shafted on my watch.”

“I won’t get big on yours either.”

It’s not the worst thing Bradley has said drunk but it comes close. Maybe he means it, maybe he doesn’t, Grant won’t know until tomorrow when he’s himself again; then will come the apology, or the silence, and the pretending it didn’t happen either way. Because they both need each other. Neither will admit it but Bradley needs someone with a clean head who does not leave and Grant needs someone to fight for. In this way they are perfect for each other, and in this way they could not be less suited together. 

Another tap on the curtain, Grant’s What? comes out harsher than he intends and he gets up and exits to make sure he hasn’t scared whoever it was away. It’s a young man, maybe a boy Grant can’t tell. He is as thin as a sapling in a drought and his face is a patchwork of acne and stubble. “Is Shaw still here?” He asks. His voice is high and wispy and Grant has a pretty good guess as to why he wants to talk to one of the handful of openly queer country artists. 

“One second.” Grant returns to the green room, Bradley rests his head on his fists with his eyes closed. It’s getting late and Bradley is inebriated, he opens his eyes and looks into Grant with no small amount of apathy. “You’ve got a fan outside.”

He sighs and stands, stretching his back with a succession of audible cracks. He exits and Grant follows, keeping a respectful distance behind. The singer and the fan shake hands and after a few hushed words move toward the back door, open to the summer night.

This is why they have kept at it for as long as they have. Grant thinks as he makes his way to the front of the venue, where the table with Bradley’s merch is. They’ve sold so few CDs that one given away can hardly be counted as a loss on investment. Bradley’s music has reached one person, for Grant that is enough, they have succeeded. For Bradley it will be a beginning he decides, the first of many to be touched by his music. He knows that for both his act and for the man he once loved it is as much about the fame as it is the music. 

All of the other acts are at their table, signing shirts and vinyl and foreheads. Bradley’s presence is not missed, there is no line at the table, not even the stray concertgoer curious about the sixth-billed man. Grant snags a CD and heads back the way he came. 

The fan is already on his way back, the two nearly collide at the back of the stage. He has been crying, Grant can see the tear marks rolling down his cheeks. And there’s something else, something sharp wafting off his face.

“I’m really sorry.” The fan says, already moving around Grant. “I’ve got to go-”

“Hey wait.” The fan turns, his face quivering. Grant holds the CD out for him. The fan doesn’t immediately grab it so Grant tells him that it’s free, a souvenir. He takes it, slowly, like he’s grabbing cheese out of a trap, then once he has it he turns again and begins walking away to the front entrance, in short, clipped steps. Grant turns back toward where the fan came from and does not see him toss the CD on the table.

Bradley is still out back, Grant has to search for a few minutes before stumbling upon him, leaning against the wall next to the door. He wears a small smile and Grant has trouble thinking of the last time he saw Bradley authentically happy.

“How’d it go? What’d he want?”

“Oh, you know.” Bradley pauses and looks down, Grant sees the last three buttons now undone, the now shrinking bulge at his crotch. “Just to talk– you know– queer country and all that.”

The time between Grant leaving the two alone and the fan coming back was less than three minutes. Grant is good at many things, but judging the time it takes to complete a task is not one of them, Bradley is the one who makes sure he gets to the venues and hotels on time. He can take a guess at what those three minutes held, there’s a good chance he might be right. He doesn’t want to be. Bradley is looking at Grant with raised eyebrows, he forgot to respond and his mind is having trouble staying in the present. It takes him a moment to string the words together.

“That go well? If you open for those guys you’ll be a lot more visible. You could be a role model.”

That gets a laugh out of Bradley, coarse and heavy. “Can you even imagine?”

Grant can imagine it, very clearly, that is the dilemma. He doesn’t bother with Bradley’s question. He leaves him outside and goes back to the green room, with the guitar and bottle lying on the table, taunting and tempting in equal measure. He sits in one of the chairs, time slips by and he does not notice, he is stuck in those three minutes, that brief period that will haunt him forever if he gets back on the bus with Bradley. His fingers brush his pocket, something is missing and it takes him a moment to realize it’s the business card that he gave to the vocalist. So that he could get in touch so that Bradley could open for them. And with that, the decision is made.

Grant grabs the bottle, still half full, and takes two long sips of the vodka, the sharp taste slicing his throat as it travels through him. This is what it will take, he thinks, to get used to ghosts. He stands up, walks to Bradley, and tells him that they need to get to the bus.