Maybe.
Chapter Twenty-Two – Logan
Mic night is a big thing around here, I guess. I get there early to sign in, and I bring nothing but an acoustic guitar. I think I’ve got most of it down, although when given a choice, I’ll always choose electric.
Don’t want to be too much like Pope tonight. Tonight isn’t about reliving the old glory days. No, tonight’s about something else. It’s about me. Me and Wren. Fuck, I hope she comes. She never gave me confirmation either way, and I didn’t push her.
She’ll either show or she won’t. Regardless, I’ll have to deal. If she doesn’t come, then… then that’s it. I need to find a way to move on, as impossible as it seems.
What a joke I’ve turned into, huh? Can’t get over a girl. Never thought that’d be me.
I take a seat at one of the tables in the back, get myself a drink—non-alcoholic, which is nowhere near as good as the real stuff—but I want to be in my right mind all night. No mind-altering substances.
I’m halfway done with my drink when I feel someone slap me on the back of my shoulder. Instantly I tense up, but then I realize there’s no way in hell Wren would ever greet me like that, so by the time the person slides onto the chair next to mine, I’m wearing a scowl and a frown.
And then I see who it is, and that scowl dissipates. Mostly.
“Hey,” my brother, Deacon, says. It’s not his real name, but old habits die hard. He’s more Deacon than anyone else. He still has the mantle of drummer for Black Sacrament. It’s who he is. He wears an old leather jacket, similar to mine, all black. We look pretty similar, save for the hair. While it is the same color, he tends to keep his on the long side.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I say, trying my best to hide my shock. I told him I was doing this, and I told him why I was doing this, and when I did, he didn’t say anything about coming, so this is a surprise.
He shrugs. “I had a little bit of time to kill. Besides, I figure it might be nice for you to have some support or whatever.” My brother, ever the wordsmith.
I raise my glass at him before I take a sip, and when he cocks a dark brow at me, I say, “Non-alcoholic.” Booze and drugs got me into this whole mess to begin with. I need to steer clear of that shit.
Then again, it’s really hard for me to look back and regret it all when I never would have met Wren otherwise.
“This girl,” my brother says after a while, “she ain’t here yet, is she?”
“No, and I don’t know if she’s actually coming.” My guitar rests in its case, leaning against my legs beneath the table.
“You going up there either way?”
I nod. “I have to. Even if she doesn’t come, it’s… it’s something I need to do.” Running a hand through my hair, I let out a world-class sigh. “The tables have turned, huh?” When Deacon only gives me an unimpressed look, I clarify, “You guys turned into simps for your girl. I thought you were all fucking insane for that, but look at me now: a wreck because of a girl who I shouldn’t even know exists.”
Deacon chuckles softly. “When you first brought up this girl to me, I thought it was a phase. It’s a different world here. Your, uh, skills only work on a certain type of girl. You weren’t used to anyone turning you down or giving you trouble. I assumed you’d get over it.”
He isn’t wrong. I kind of thought that, too. In fact, it’s what I wanted to happen for a while. If I got over Wren, if I could’veacted like she didn’t exist, then my life would’ve been so much easier these past few months.
Some things, though, are just impossible. Getting over Wren is one of them.
“But you didn’t,” he says, “and that’s not a bad thing.”
I sigh. “Depends on who you ask, I think.” I stare hard at my now-empty cup. I should get up and ask for a refill from the bartender, but the mere thought of doing anything right now is strangely overwhelming. Like, if I get up, I might decide to say,fuck this, and leave—and I don’t want that to happen. I don’t trust myself enough to stay.
“What makes this girl so different from all the others?”
What a loaded question with an equally loaded answer, and it takes me a long while before I say, “It’s hard to describe. She’s… everything that Pope would’ve never looked twice at.” I glance around us. No one is listening. Everyone is too busy getting ready for their turn on the stage, talking to their friends or other people.
Talking. Laughing. Having a good time. They’re all smiles. A far-cry from how I feel.
Deacon says this next part very quietly, “You’re not Pope anymore.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard that. It’s not even the first time I’ve thought it. That fact used to hit me like nothing else could, like a goddamned freight train, and it’d send me spiraling. I used to hate it, not being Pope. I lost a part of my identity when I was kicked out of the band.
But I was a dick. I was a grade-A asshole, and I made the mistake of being one while still in character. I made a mistake, and it cost me everything.
So, no, I haven’t been Pope for a long, long time now, it’s true, but tonight is the first time that hearing it doesn’t upset me. It doesn’t cause a wave of anger or depression to settle deepwithin my gut.I’m not Pope. I’m Logan, and that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.