Page 36 of Not a Friend (Crescent Light #1)

Two Years Ago, November

T he Newbie Comp effectively took over my life in the best way possible. Once I narrowed down the topic I wanted to focus on, a fire ignited under my creativity.

I spent my days meticulously researching musical artists currently in rotation—solo singer-songwriters and groups alike—in the greater New England area.

Artists who were more than deserving of attention but who hadn’t been given a proper platform to be heard.

I had two groups already in mind that I listened to regularly, one of whom I saw perform live with Gemma during our second year of grad school.

It was a good start, but a better sample was needed to research and compare.

The project had me watching live performances and listening to music through a new lens and with a new sense of purpose.

I found myself poring over lyrics line by line, dissecting them, stewing on them.

I dug into the history of each group and learned who they drew inspiration from and who influenced them.

Within a few short weeks of research, I set out to see as many of my chosen artists perform live as I could .

It helped that a lot of them had overlap in their fanbases. So much overlap that some of the artists performed in the same lineups, opening shows for one another.

It was only a matter of time before my research led me to a band that was all too familiar.

I was scrolling through the social media pages of a little-known alternative band when a photo caught my eye. The band’s drummer leaned with an arm slung around Jared Christensen’s neck, the pair of them holding drumsticks high in the air. The caption confirmed it wasn’t a hallucination.

Thank you, Washington, DC! Shoutout to @crescentlightband for letting us share the stage tonight.

Suddenly, my apartment felt too cold.

Crescent Light had been steadily gaining popularity throughout Massachusetts and beyond over the last two years.

I shouldn’t have been shocked when their name kept popping up in my research, but it was no less jarring each time I saw it.

Abandoning my laptop on my couch, I grabbed an oversized hoodie and slipped it on, burying my face under the hood.

If I wanted to be as fair and unbiased in the project as possible, I had a responsibility to exhaust all options that fit my requirements. As much as I wanted to turn a blind eye to Crescent Light, it wouldn’t be fair. They belonged with the best.

I tucked my legs under me, returning to my laptop screen.

Thirty minutes. Give them thirty minutes of research. If they’re a good fit, they get added to the shortlist. If they aren’t, they don’t.

It was a stupid thought. I knew they would make the cut before I even typed their name into the search bar .

With embarrassingly shaking hands, I pulled up their discography and pressed play.

I found it helped to listen to the music as I did research; it allowed me to fully immerse myself in the feel of the artist I was digging into.

I recognized the first song immediately as one of the older tracks I used to have saved on my phone.

Well, it was still saved to my phone, I just never listened to it.

The sound of Nate’s voice sent a frisson across my shoulders and down my arms.

God. My eyes closed . I forgot how good his voice is.

Crescent Light’s popularity wasn’t limited to Massachusetts anymore.

According to the set of concert dates on one of their posts, they’d played as opening acts for other popular bands in Connecticut, DC, New York, New Jersey, and up to Maine.

They even headlined a few shows, selling out one in a decent-sized venue.

No longer were they confined to playing in tiny bars and at open mic nights.

Their social media also revealed they’d released an EP not long after I moved to Boston.

Not surprising. Nate worked on it day and night the last few weeks we were on speaking terms.

They were set to release a full-length album soon and were promoting the hell out of it on their social media pages, which had risen to over ten thousand followers.

Posts were either of updates about their new album, promotions for one of their three EPs, or an aesthetically artsy shot of an instrument: a black and white drum set photo, a microphone in a shabby soundproofed makeshift studio, a close-up shot of hands playing the piano—Leo’s, if I had to guess.

There were some photos of the members, but almost all were of them on stage, backlit so severely that they were indecipherable .

But there was only one photo of Nate.

I tried not to skim the page with the intention of looking for him, but dammit, my eyes deceived me. The song playing through my laptop speakers shifted to another, one I didn’t recognize, but I barely paid attention to it.

The photo was a shot taken from the vantage point of someone standing over him as he sat on a low footstool.

He had one long leg splayed out in front of him while the other was bent ninety degrees with an acoustic guitar resting atop it.

His small leather notebook balanced open on one knee, and he squinted like he was reading as he played.

The photo didn’t show his face, just his messy mop of dark brown hair and a hint of his perfect jawline.

The caption read, Fearless leader hard at work , with a guitar emoji.

I don’t know why I sat and stared at the photo for so long. It had been nearly two years since I’d last seen him, since the last time we laughed together, slept together.

Since he made me feel disposable.

I blinked the thought away. Clicking the link at the top of their social media page led me to the band’s website.

Most of it was the usual: their band’s logo at the top, promotions for the EPs, a timer in big, grey lettering counting down the weeks and days until the new album.

I clicked on the Shop tab in the menu and was led to a page dedicated to their extremely limited merchandise: a few logo t-shirt designs, some enamel pins, signed albums, and a lyric book.

I toggled back to the menu and paused for a moment at the tab labeled Tour before clicking.

And wouldn’t you know it? As luck would have it, Crescent Light was coming right to my backyard. The next fucking weekend. I clicked to view the show info.

Shit .

Not only was Crescent Light headlining the show, there were two opening acts. Of the two, one had already made it to my short list of artists I wanted to research more.

No. I told myself. Absolutely not. Crescent Light probably doesn’t even qualify for my project.

They did qualify. In fact, they were a perfect candidate based on the parameters I set for my research weeks prior.

Currently, Crescent Light’s shows were exclusively in New England and the East Coast, with nothing abroad or nationwide of note.

They had less than five hundred thousand streams on their most popular song and had less than two hundred fifty thousand monthly listeners.

They had never charted on a nationally-recognized music chart, and they had never been nominated for a major music award.

Even their style perfectly matched what I was seeking.

Their music was a unique blend of modern indie rock that also pulled inspiration from pop, alternative, and folk.

Each member was trained in more than one instrument, making them diverse in their individual talent and in their experimentation with the band’s sound.

They oozed talent and charisma and were slowly but surely building their platform into something that I knew in my bones could be big .

The pieces fell into place too nicely. I couldn’t ignore that, try as I might.

My project needed them. And Crescent Light deserved to be in The Mountain .

I took a steadying breath as I pressed Buy on a set of tickets and braced myself to see Nate Cassidy in the flesh.

“What are you doing next weekend?” I asked Wren over lunch the next day.

She stabbed a heaping pile of lettuce onto her fork, fishing for a crouton. “No idea. I don’t plan my life that far in advance.”

True. “I need a date for this concert I’m going to. It’s… for my project.”

“Why did you say it like it’s an alibi?”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Well, it’s mostly for my project. Like eighty-five percent.”

She blinked between chews of her too-big bite of salad.

“But I could also use the moral support?”

Her green eyes narrowed. “Haven’t you gone to, like, three shows by yourself so far? What makes this one so special that you need a support buddy?”

I grumbled and pushed strawberries around on my plate. While I’d made a point of leaving my past firmly in the past when I moved to Boston, Wren was my closest friend after Gemma, and there was a lot she didn’t know about me. If there was anyone I could tell the full truth to, it was her.

“I’m researching this band, Crescent Light, for the Newbie Comp. I used to listen to them a lot. They’re… brilliant. Super talented. Definitely a group that deserves to be highlighted, and honestly, my project needs them. But…”

She leaned incrementally, eyebrows raising. “But?”

“I kind of used to be fuck buddies with the singer?” I grimaced, splaying my hands out in front of me as if to say ta-da !

Droplets of water splashed on the table as she choked—bad timing on my part—and coughed loudly, eyes bulging .

“Way to bury the lead, Olive!” She coughed again. “Okay. Hang on.” She slid her half-empty plate to the edge of the table, wiped a few stray crumbs away, and took another sip of water. Then, she leaned forward, folding her hands in front of her as if in prayer. “Tell me everything.”

So I did.

I figured, at the very least, Wren would have a unique, fully non-biased, third-party perspective on everything.

We took a long lunch so I could tell her every detail.

The good, the bad, the confusing, all of it.

I even told her things I’d only ever hinted to Gemma that even she didn’t get the full scoop on.

It was the first time I’d ever let myself look at the full picture of my relationship with Nate with hindsight.

The first time I ever said all my feelings out loud.

I used to care so deeply about him, and once upon a time, I thought he cared about me, too. But he was always so caught up in his own orbit, and I deserved better than to sit on the sidelines and wait for him to want me. No matter how much I used to like him.

The weight of those words, ignored and unacknowledged for two years, lifted off my shoulders, and the relief washed through my system.

Wren listened to the whole story, gasping and laughing at all the right times. She interjected for clarification here and there but stayed with me, letting me get the history off my chest.

“So, yeah.” I leaned back with a huff. “That’s the last time I talked to him.”

“You left him on the fucking sidewalk?” She giggled. “God, you’re such a badass. I would kill to see his dumb expression when he realized how bad he messed up.”

I laughed. “Did he mess up, though? He was single and got a girlfriend. No crime in that. ”

“No, but he had someone amazing right in front of him and then fumbled the bag. Maybe he isn’t a villain, but he’s definitely stupid.”

Gemma’s words from the night I met Nate rang through my mind: Boys are stupid.

“Also,” Wren continued, “why do men out here have the communication skills of toddlers? He never texted you? Nothing?”

I shook my head, smiling at the ridiculousness. “He probably thought I didn’t want to hear from him.” I stopped my thoughts before I could consider what would have happened if he had reached out. “So, will you go to the show with me or not?”

“To see the hot singer you used to have sex with? Abso-fucking-lutely.”