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But it’s the first thing I’ve written in weeks that doesn’t hurt.
And maybe that’s something.
THIRTEEN
Soundcheck feels off today.
Not wrong. Just . . . loose around the edges. My fingers are steady as they move over the chords, my voice is warmed up, and the band’s locked in like always. But something isn’t sitting right.
It starts during the third track of our run-through. I glance into the half-lit venue and swear—for half a second—I see her.
Stage left. Sixth row. Leaning forward like she always used to, wearing my hoodie pulled tight around her face to avoid someone noticing her, elbows on her knees, eyes fixed on me like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
There was a time when I was the only one that existed in her life.
There was a time when I’d stand on this stage for rehearsal or soundcheck, and when I was done, she’d rush the stage like a wild fan, calling my name to make me laugh.
But when I blink, she’s gone.
Just a seat. Just air.
A figment of my imagination.
I close my eyes and keep singing.
I tell myself it was nothing. A flicker. A memory playing tricks on me.
But the damage is done.
After soundcheck, I head straight for the greenroom and plant myself on the couch, the kind that feels more like a piece of plywood wrapped in vinyl. I drop my head back and shut my eyes. These rooms haven’t changed, at least not in my twenty-plus years of exploring them. If it’s not a vinyl couch, it’s some suede plush number that no one wants to sit on because you have no idea what the person before you did in here.
Still, I lie on the couch and put my arm over my eyes to block out the noise, the visions, and the memories.
Yet, she’s still there, in the back of my mind.
Lingering.
I don’t want her to be.
Not now.
Not when I’ve finally started to believe she wants nothing to do with me.
Especially not after last night.
I sit up and look around the room for my bag and spot it under the rack of clothing Elle wants me to change into but never do. I’m not that kind of rocker. I reach into my bag, pull out my notebook, and flip to the page I started working on last night. I know I shouldn’t look at the new lyrics. Not now. Not when my head’s spinning. But I do anyway, running my finger over the ink.
These words were written for her.
Not Nola.
They should feel wrong, but they don’t.
And yet, they need to be. Justine can never know I wrote these words with her on my mind. No one can. Not every song has to be about someone or something in my life. I’m certainly not writing ballads about my brothers-in-law or my sisters beingpregnant. While I’ve written mostly about my life, especially the love side, I can change it. I look at the lyrics again and know I can’t finish this song. No one can ever know.
A knock on the door pulls me out of the moment. I close the notebook and push it back into my bag before going to the door. With my hand on the knob, I take a deep breath to center myself. Opening it, I’m surprised to see Justine standing there.
“Hey,” Justine says. “You okay?”