22. Tequila

She leans back slowly, her eyes locked on mine, lips slightly parted. Then, without a word, she slides off my lap.

“You know that’s not possible,” she whispers, gaze dropping to her restless fingers in her lap.

“But it is,” I say, reaching out and gently taking her hands in mine.

“Come with me,” I beg, my voice pleading, trying to bridge the chasm growing between us.

She watches me, her face calm but unreadable—until a slow, playful smile curves across her lips.
"Or," she murmurs, voice low and teasing, "we could just stop thinking and have a little fun."
She climbs back onto my lap, straddling me with deliberate confidence, her arms looping around my neck as she pulls herself close.

“Evi, don’t.” I say, my eyes closing briefly. My hands grab her shoulders gently and I push her away.

For a moment she just looks at me, as if she is trying to read my mind. “Come with me.” I repeat myself.

Her hands slide down my arms before she pulls away completely. She stands up, taking a few steps away from me before turning to face me, her brow furrowed.

“Come with you? To L.A.?” she repeats, almost incredulous. “Bill, are you crazy? We barely know what this is… what we are. And you’re asking me to leave everything? To move to the other side of the world?”

I stand up and slowly walk toward her, my heart thudding. When I reach her, I take her hands in mine, my fingers gently curling around hers, giving it a light squeeze.

“I know what this is,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “I know what I want. What I feel. And I know… you feel it too.”

I pause, searching her face, willing her to meet me where I’m standing, not just physically, but emotionally.

I exhale and take another step closer, my eyes roaming her face for a sign, any sign that she feels the same. I know she does.

“We have to stop lying... to ourselves, and to each other. Acting like distance is some unbreakable barrier between us.” I pause, eyes locked on hers. “You’re here. I’m in L.A. Yeah, it’s not easy. But this…” I gesture between us. “this is real."


Evi:
"Bill.." I exhale, looking into his eyes. But before I can even think of what to say, a sudden wave of nausea hits me.

I close my eyes and place a hand on my stomach.
Everything tilts, just slightly at first, then more violently, like the whole room is spinning.

“I,” I start, swallowing hard. “I don’t feel so good.”

I stumble sideways, grabbing the edge of the couch for balance.

I lurche toward the hallway, not so much walking as zigzagging. My shoulder bumps the wall hard, and I nearly go down.

“Whoa, hey...” he reaches out, but I'm already moving again, kind of.

One hand covers my stomach, the other drags along the wall for support. I disappear down the hallway in a clumsy, desperate sprint, feet barely catching up with the rest of me.

I stumble into the downstairs toilet, barely managing to shove the door close behind me before dropping to my knees.

I grab the toilet bowl with both hands and then it hits. My stomach twists, and I heave, the alcohol burning its way back up in violent waves.

Behind me, I hear the door creak open again.

I barely register him until I feel his hand gather my hair, pulling it back gently and out of the way. His other hand hovers at my shoulder, steadying me as another wave hits.

When it finally ends, I rest my forehead on my arm. My body shaking slightly, the taste in my mouth sour and bitter.

“I hate tequila,” I whisper hoarsely, eyes shut tight.

“You were never good with tequila,” he murmurs, voice surprisingly soft.

I lift my head slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
When I try to stand, my knees betray me. Bill clamps his hands tightly around my elbows, dragging me upright.

“You okay?” he asks.

The room spins. My head spins. Everything spins.
“Fine,” I mumble, shoving his hands away.
“Go away.” I say, suddenly irritated by his presence. Why? I don’t know.

I stumble toward the stairs, but I miss the first step entirely, collapsing halfway down, my head resting on the second stair. “I’ll just sleep here,” I mumble.

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” He crouches, his arms closing around my waist, pulling me up.

“I told you…” My words slur, nearly swallowed by my own tongue. “…go away.”
My weight sags against him anyway—my legs officially off-duty, unwilling to carry me anywhere on their own.


Bill:
By the time we make it upstairs—after at least four near-deaths and one actual face-plant—I’m out of breath and silently cursing myself for skipping the gym for the past… well, forever.
“There,” she mumbles, pointing toward the door I know as her parents’ old room.

I push it open, and we stumble inside.
She slips from my grip halfway to the bed, collapsing onto the mattress. She sinks into the pillow.

I spot a water bottle on her nightstand, grab it, and kneel beside her. “You should drink some water,” I tell her, keeping my voice soft.

Nothing. Her breathing is slow and steady—she’s already gone.

“Evi?” I nudge her shoulder gently. No reaction.

I sigh, push myself up, and stare at her for a second. I debate with myself, then shake my head and step to the foot of the bed. I crouch, slide her shoes off, and set them down beside the bed.

Now I’m just standing there, not sure what to do. I’m way too drunk to drive home. But I’m also not drunk enough to think crawling into the same bed is a good idea.

I leave the room quietly, and go to her old room.
I stand there, just looking around the room and I sigh. Sleep is not happening right now.

I walk over to her desk and sit down on the chair in front of it. She really didn’t change a single thing since l left. Everything is exactly the same as it was four years ago. Every single detail.

My eyes land on the corkboard above the desk. The pictures are still there. Our pictures. Her handwriting on the notes still pinned beside them.

I reach up, my fingers brushing the edge of one picture—her leaning into me, my arm slung around her shoulders.

The picture next to it stops me cold. I don’t remember ever seeing this one. Tom must have taken it. I pull it from the corkboard, holding it closer.

We look so… happy. My arm around her, her head tilted toward me, and there’s this look on my face—soft, unguarded. In love. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at anyone like that, not before her and not after.

A long breath escapes me, the kind that leaves my chest feeling empty. I lay the picture down on the desk and let my eyes wander, trying to focus on anything else. That’s when I see it.

The map.

My fingers twitch, wanting to reach for it, but I pause. I don’t know why, but she never wanted me to look inside this map.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I open it.

Inside, is mostly old Tokio Hotel posters. This is the part that always confused me. When it’s just old posters, why didn’t she want me to see them?

I flip through the map: posters, press shots, tour pictures, old interviews from back in the day. She kept everything. Every single thing that was ever written about us.

Moments that belonged to an entirely different version of me. It’s strange, seeing myself like that again. Younger. Untouchable. Or at least pretending to be.

Then something slips out from between two posters—a piece of lined notebook paper, folded twice. I hesitate, my fingers resting on the crease. Part of me wants to put it back, pretend I never saw it. But curiosity wins.

I unfold it slowly, the handwriting instantly recognizable. The first lines make my brows furrow. It’s… a story. About me.

Not the man sitting here now, but the version she built before we ever met, a paper-and-ink version of me, pulled from magazine covers and staged interviews. Her words make me into something untouchable—mysterious, magnetic, flawless in ways I’ve never been.

I read every line, my chest pulling tighter with each sentence. There’s an innocence to it, something raw and almost painfully sincere, as if she’s holding up a mirror that reflects someone I could never live up to.

This was who she thought I was. The man she built in her mind. Who she wanted me to be.
And all I can think is how far from him I’ve always been… and how, somehow, she still chose the real me… and I’m not sure I ever deserved that.