15
Alina
“You seriously think you have a shot?” Dustin says, hiding a scoff behind the question, his brown eyes peering at me incredulously over the rim of his beer glass. I can’t believe he expects me to answer this.
“I do,” I say, reaching for my water. “I think we have as much chance as any other band out there.” I take a sip, a bit defensively. We’re sitting in a corner booth at Carbon Bar, where—after working at the salon for the last eight hours and getting the news—is the last place I want to be tonight. I’d really rather be with my girls right now, but I felt guilty for blowing Dustin off the other day, so here I am.
On a date with Dustin.
Just he and I, while the girls have headed a few blocks down to enjoy a few celebratory drinks without me. And now I’m stuck with Dustin’s suddenly lacklustre attitude, which is starting to ruin the amazing high I’ve had all afternoon. I’m thinking this wasn’t such a good idea. My hackles go up at his disbelieving tone, and I guess it’s no wonder why I’ve been questioning my feelings for him. Where did the nice, supportive guy he was at the start of our relationship go? And more to the point, why do I feel that this is the type of relationship I deserve?
I just finished telling Dustin about the phone call with Tommy and about our chance to audition, the details of the tour, how excited we all are, and what song we’re going to play. And he says that? What an asshole.
I smile, despite my thoughts. God, Paisley and I had gone crazy, jumping up and down in the middle of the salon like two loons. I haven’t felt a rush like that in so long. Maybe Dustin’s just jealous? No, it couldn’t be that…
“Relax, babe,” he says. “I’m not saying ya don’t have a chance. I’m just not so sure you guys are cut out for an eight-week tour with so many big names. I mean, you’re still lagging on your legato skills, and Roxie needs better timing from what I saw the last time you played at Fyst.”
I sit, stunned at his admission. Here I thought he thought we were good, that he was the supportive type? I figured he’d be excited for us, sing our praises, and help soothe my already-worried and stressed mind. Instead, I feel shame at his words, deflated. I’d almost convinced myself we were good enough. That maybe, for once, I was good enough. A sense of embarrassment washes over me for being so excited, for actually thinking we stood a chance.
Having Dustin critique my playing is fucking with me. It’s the one thing I had complete confidence in, and now he’s saying it’s lacking, and in one of the most important aspects for a lead guitarist. I mean, I’d always thought my legato skills were pretty on point. I string the notes together so fluidly, so smoothly, and without any audible gaps…but now, here sits my so-called boyfriend getting all up in my head, forcing me to wonder if what he’s saying is true.
“Don’t be pissed, babe. I’m sure you’ll get better over time. And there’ll be other chances. Not this big, but we can practice together.”
“Yeah. Okay,” is all I can muster as the server places my BLT and Dustin’s burger on the table. Without hesitating, I reach for a fry and stuff it in my mouth.
“Maybe you guys should just cancel? Or—if you’re gonna chance it—definitely rehearse a ton this week. I mean, you don’t want to look like fools in front of Sicken Union.”
He’s right, I don’t, and with my luck, that’s exactly what would happen: I’ll fall down on the job and make us all look and sound horrible. Maybe I should head over and tell the girls I can’t do this?
Reaching under the table, I wrap my fingers around my wrist. A sudden urge to call the server back and order the burger special, a prime rib dinner, and chocolate-fudge cake for dessert rushes through me like a wave, crashing straight through my resolve.
No. I’m better than Her. I can do this. We can do this. I know it’s our time.
“You’re right. I’ll practice. I’ll see if I can get some one-on-one time with Travis,” I say, before retreating back into my thoughts, trying to tamp down not only Her voice, but now also Dustin’s negativity, too. But I will not let either of them take this from me.
Yeah, I’ll call Travis. Good idea. I feel a sense of relief. Travis is my guitar instructor over at the conservatory where I took lessons once the band started to get more serious. I wanted someone I could learn some real techniques from, rather than solely relying on my natural abilities.
“Good call,” says Dustin, around a mouthful of cheeseburger. “Last thing you need is any pressure on you, eh?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, “I definitely don’t want to feel I’ve let them down.”
“Maybe call Travis now, babe. Sooner the better,” he smiles, as if what he’s saying isn’t breaking my spirit.
You’ll never be enough.
God, he’s right. I need to call Travis immediately. I’m not going to be able to pull this off; I’m not a strong enough player, am I? I’m going to end up letting the girls down. I stuff a few more fries in my mouth as I sit silently, putting a plan into place.
“Babe, don’t eat all those fries. Don’t be that chick who stress eats. I like your ass the way it is now; that shit’ll go right down below,” Dustin says, winking as he reaches over and steals a handful of fries from my plate. “You look fucking adorable, all pissy-faced like that. Aw, does my girl need some lovin’ from her man now?”
No.
Hell, no.
She needs the damn server!
After dinner, I kissed Dustin goodnight, saying I was exhausted and needed to get a good night’s rest with all the rehearsing we’d be doing this week. He’d agreed, and said he’d see me Saturday night to celebrate. He wished us luck, and managed to give me what seemed like a heartfelt apology. He even admitted he could be a real ass sometimes, and wants to make it up to me. So maybe there’s hope for us yet? Even if he is a little mix of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Thankfully, later that night as I sit in front of the TV reading a couple of texts from the people that seem to have an innate ability to reach out when I need them the most—Paisley and Lucky—I’m able to shut Her out from creeping back into my head. So, instead of eating the cupboards bare like She wants me to, I sit and chat with Lucky—who’s a few hours away in Kingston at the Canadian Forces base, working on a job until tomorrow—and then Paisley. Somehow, they both manage to convince me that Happenstance is going to kick ass on Saturday. They each simultaneously help to rebuild my confidence brick by brick by reminding me how talented a guitarist I really am, until I almost believe them.
Dustin’s negativity was also drowned by Travis, who texted me back just as I was getting ready for bed. Resting against my headboard, I sit grinning, reading and re-reading his response to the messages I texted him earlier when I was in a panic.
Travis: Girl, please! The audition’s so in the bag, it’s not funny. And, please, your transitions are smooth as can be. I should be paying you for lessons. You don’t need me, Ali, but I’ll be around every night this week if you want to stop by and jam.
Me: Thx, Trav. I needed that.
Travis: You just need to believe in yourself, like the rest of us do.
Me: See you tomorrow night?
Travis: I figured. LOL