“I … I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
I mean Ian isn’t god, and you should just follow the beat of your own drum—but that’s a tad on the nose to say to an actual drummer, and the last thing I need to do is villainize Ian to our newest member. Besides, Ian isn’t wrong; every single thing we do right now is on the world stage for everyone to dissect. Who we date. What we sing. Our social medias. Even some improvised tune no one’s heard before, thrust into the opening of the concert because I let some guy get into my head. “Just don’t letmysuccess be what moves those hands of yours, alright? Move them because of that passion inside you. That passion is the only thing that matters.”
Raj stares blankly back at me.
I catch Ian’s gaze across the dirt, phone still slapped to his ear. He acknowledges me with a tired nod. I nod back. Then he returns to whoever he’s got up at this hour. Probably his wife Hailey. The two got married around the time my career started kicking off five or so years ago, but it’s been hot and cold with them for the past three, and I can’t help feeling my career and its associated stresses are directly to blame.
Sure, success is nice, touring keeps people employed, and we all make money. But at what cost?
We’re on the road again. I’m in the bedroom in the back of the bus. Most of it is used to store personal belongings of the others, and I never shut the door, wanting the band to feel welcome to it, even the bed—I always hated feeling like the pampered leader. But no one ever wants it, so I’m always in it anyway. Glorious, my ever loyal guitar, rests next to me on the sheets like a lover, and that’s not far off. I’ve written so many damned songs on it in bed, it just became a thing that I started sleeping with him next to me.
I strum a gentle E flat major. Then a G minor. I smirk to myself and scribble in my notepad. Fiona was right.She always is.
Then I think about the secret sauce behind the song. The guy who somehow managed to unravel all my insecurities in a way no one in my band or crew has ever dared to. Calling into question my authenticity as an artist without even knowing my music. Each time his words seep in, I feel just as indignant as I do fascinated.
That whole encounter is an unfinished story—as unfinished as this song my brain and guitar-troubling fingers can’t work out.
I can’t hope to sleep a wink, no matter how smooth our ride with the new tire, no matter the bed. I even snuck past the bunks and ate some cereal out of my favorite smiley mug and still can’t find peace. Wily and Fiona are snoring away. Raj, too, except for the snoring. Other than the driver, I’m the only asshole on the bus still awake with my phone out under the sheets.
I’m looking up the next ten stops on the tour. All of them here in Texas. And in the dead center of those cities, like a speck of dust I could accidentally wipe right off the map with a flick of my hand, is a town I have never once in my life heard of before—at least, not until tonight. “Spruce,” I mumble, reading its name while rubbing a thumb over my lips, bothered.
Chapter 3.
Timothy
Screams and whistles and cheers.
Millions of feet roaring on the ground.
A rhythm catching hold in the discord of endless stomping.
Then a rich, soulful voice cutting through.
I see the passion in you…
My eyes snap open. I sit up with a start. It’s dark. Bed sheets kicked off. Pillow on the floor. Sweated through my shirt. Large window next to me with gentle rain tapping on it.
As if the storm from that crazy night followed me home.
Yeah. I’m home.
Where I was destined to be anyway.
Not in a car ripping across the Nevada desert with AJ. Not in Las Vegas laughing at the M&M Store or snapping shots with Elvis. Not gasping in a gorgeous, echoing cave full of natural wonders.
Mom was pleasantly stunned to find me back early, as if it was my gift to her. The greeting was short. “Get cleaned up, sweetie, and unpack. I’ll make you some lunch, and then I’m sure your father wants to show you a few new developments.He made you an office in the guesthouse,” she said, a belated birthday present. It was nearly time for dinner, with my taking the long roads home, as if delaying the inevitable. And while upstairs in my room, I was still trying to stall; the slower I unpacked, the further away I was from that spot in the office that already has my name on it. Even as the familiar, clean, buttery aroma of the house already began to sink into my bones. How my room, unoccupied all these months, was still dusted and in order. How when you stand in place for a moment, you hear the town’s whisper all around you in the trees, in the birdsong, in the hum of a distant vehicle coughing on the road. I wonder if I should go suit shopping yet. Buy some tie clips. Get a bobble-head I can boink every time I have an ill thought. Hopefully I don’t break its neck on the first day. My lunch was soon joined in by my dad, who gave me a warm hug and welcomed me home, and I got to enjoy about two and half minutes of sharing fun stuff that went on this past semester before all conversation rerouted completely to tractors, loans, and business.
When my dad excused himself for seconds, I got a text from AJ asking how I was surviving Spruce.
I left him on read.
Not in a petty way. I just didn’t know what to say. How honest to be. He probably knows the answer. He feels bad. He isn’t a bad person. This isn’t his fault, and I don’t blame him.
This is just my life and the way it always plays out.
Now it’s three in the morning. And the rain from the night I nearly puked my life into a trash bin and instead ended up puking words and emotions all over a total stranger who didn’t ask for it is tapping on my window in a greeting. I move to my desk, pull out my notebook and a pencil, and prepare to draw something.
Ten minutes later, I’m still staring at the blank page.