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Nothing more.
Except, it feels like more. Deep down, I know there’s a connection between us and I can easily chalk it up to the way we are when we perform on stage, in front of thousands of people. It’s an act, a moment we’ve rehearsed over and over until each look is ingrained in our memories. I won’t deny there’s a tug toward Justine. I would have to tell the world I’m not a man if I were to say I didn’t find her attractive. I do. But my heart belongs to Nola and whatever is salvageable of our relationship.
Besides, she’s young. I have almost ten years on her and a world of experience.
And my sister would kill me if I ever did anything with Justine. It’s like the old saying, don’t shit where you eat, or however it goes. The fact that Dana and Hendrix have whatever the fuck it is they have going on drives my sister batty. She hates band drama.
The eraser—what’s left of it—taps against the notepad. Yet, I can’t bring myself to scratch out Justine’s name. Part of me likes it there, likes seeing it in my handwriting, even though the rational part of me says it’s wrong.
Instead of erasing, I rip the sheet of paper from the spiral binding, crumple it, and hold it in my hand. I know I should toss it into the corner of my bunk or in the heap of other discarded pages, but I don’t. After smoothing the sheet out, I fold it, slip it under the last page, and pretend like it’s not there.
The task at hand still looms. On a fresh sheet of paper, I write one through eighteen and start placing down, moving new onesto the first, middle and end of the list, and replacing the encore with an older track, one of the first ones I’ve written for the band. Sitting here, I realize I’ve spent my entire Sinful Distraction career writing about Nola. She’s been my muse for all of it.
Every lyric is about her, us, and our relationship. The good, the bad, and now the ugly. Each night, I sit on my stool or stand at the microphone and sing for her. Wondering if she’s still watching, still following us online, listening.
Maybe she’ll hearmein the lyrics again and remember.
That I waited.
That I’m still waiting.
Each night, when my phone doesn’t show a missed call or text, I know she’s not.
And yet, I still hope.
I sigh heavily and write out the last of the list. This is going to have to be it. I can’t do this anymore. Not tonight, at least.
Fading Ink
I Still Do (acoustic)
Come Undone (feat. Justine)
Stayed Too Long in Goodbye(unplugged teaser)
Something Real
I need one more and my mind screams at me to add it, to add the one I haven’t shown anyone. I tell myself it’s a secret, still under wraps because it’s not finished or because I’m not ready.
But I’m considering it because if Nola were to hear it, then maybe, just maybe things can go back to normal. A new normal.
And that’s bargaining, isn’t it? Thinking that if I say the right words, in the right key, at the right venue . . . she might hear me. And she might change her mind.
If that’s what I really want.
“Seriously?” Dana’s voice startles me from outside my bunk. I didn’t know, until now, that I’d left the drape open.
I glance up. She’s rubbing her eyes, hoodie twisted off one shoulder. “You’re bumping ‘Break the Silence’ again?”
“It didn’t land last show,” I say, as if this is just about performance.
“You mean it didn’t landfor you.” She sighs heavily and shifts from foot to foot. “You’re programming the set like it’s a damn apology.”
And the secret is out, even though I won’t confirm anything. My friends have assumed because Nola’s missing from the tour, from video chats, and I’m never on my phone, unless I’m caught staring at it, willing it to fucking ring or chime.
I roll my pencil between my fingers. “You think she’s still listening?”
Dana sighs. “I think you’re still hoping. And that’s not the same thing.”