I close my phone and lean forward on the steering wheel, eyes wild with inspiration. The sun is dipping itself in the wavy, wheat-filled sauce of the horizon, fizzling out, just as I’m starting to burn up, starting to smile, completely out of control.
I haven’t felt like this since I first started writing. And I mean really writing. When I had finally hit my stride writing theHate Mealbum. Found my voice. When each note and each lyric and every thrust of fingers over strings filled me with bone-deep purpose.
I sigh. “I’ve got to get my shit together,” I tell myself out loud.
Then wonder if those are Ian’s words coming out. Or my own. Why would I think that when I feel like I’ve got my shit together more than I have in years?
The stars are so far away…and you’re right here.
The sun is gone by the time I’m back at the hotel. I park the car and just sit in it, staring at my phone, at the lyrics I typed out in haste, thinking about that lingering look in Timothy’s eyes.
I’m out of the car crossing the parking lot, thinking about the life I’ve built on the road and the people who depend on me.
I’m waiting on the elevator and wondering how selfish it is to want anything for myself when the world around me is built to collapse the second I turn my cheek.
The elevator door dings, opens.
Wily is standing there. Long hair drawn back, tied up. He’s in black shorts and a tank, leg sleeve showing, serpents and dragons from his left calf to the thigh. “Hey, man. Hitting the gym. Wanna meet me there? Raj didn’t answer his door. Fiona is … busy.”
His hesitation with “busy” tells me she’s having another night trying to get back with her ex Laina. “I was just thinkin’ I’d retire to my room and—” I start.
“I don’t care who you went off to bone.”
Every last word on my tongue dies.
Wily shrugs past me, then stops. “I just hate working out by myself in weird hotels. They smell funny and are too bright. Come and sit with me if you don’t wanna go up and change.” He’s on his way, not waiting for my answer.
I stare at the elevator.
Its door shuts.
And there it is.
Wily has one of those sleeper builds. You look at the guy and think he’s made of skin and bones until he takes off his shirt in a “weird hotel gym” and has a damned bookcase of abs. There’s a TV on in front of the treadmills with no means to change the channel, stuck on an infomercial for some age-defying serum. I’m staring at it while leaning against a treadmill, squintingin confusion. Wily is nearby grunting over and over at the fly machine.
I can’t hold back anymore. “Are people sayin’ I ran off to bone someone?”
“Said I don’t care,” grunts Wily, launching into another set.
“Well, I care.”
“Forget I said anything. What do you think about Raj?”
Classic Wily. Changing the subject after bringing one up. “Are you seriously not gonna answer my question?”
“Been almost a year now. He’s different than Cam.”
I sigh. “Different good? Different bad?”
“Just different. Raj is cleverer, but simpler. Maybe it works for this new rock style of yours.”
New rock style… I shake my head. “Our style isn’t so different.”
“Cam leaned way more into country, hitting harder … He was so good at playing with the crowd. Remember when he would play games with the audience? Like, he’d hit two beats, they’d clap two times. Then he’d hit four, they’d clap four …”
“What’re you getting at, Wiles? Did Raj do somethin’ off at the last show? Are we seriously turning into a pair of gossips here?”
Wily dabs his forehead with a towel despite never breaking a sweat. “Everyone gossips about everyone. Even us.” He eyes me as he returns to the fly machine, tossing his towel aside. “Even you.”