Jenson

 

On her breaks, she works on her laptop across from me. Or pretends to. She has this Polaroid camera she sometimes carries with her, and although I’m mostly lost in my own world, I’ll catch the click of a shutter now and then. 

“What are always taking pictures of?” I’ll ask her.

“That’s not for you to worry about,” she’ll say with a wink.

In the weeks that follow our mad dash to the rooftop, the band and I rehearse our new songs, getting a feel for how they sound, and I put more effort into making our sessions count. I’m back to doing what I love, after all. It should be easier, hurt less.

The guys are feeling the music I’ve written, but it wasn’t the songs I was worried about. Putting lyrics together is like visiting an old friend; it just works. It’s everything that comes after that I detest. I’m no closer to deciding which direction the band will go than I was six months ago—whether the songs we’re recording and the shows we’re planning mean we’ll be back for good.

It’s my instinct to hide away, escape from the world and the unknowns of the future with a bottle of whiskey or bourbon, but now I feel provoked. Lindsey reminded me that I’ve put too much power in something that shouldn’t possess it. And I’m angry. I’ve allowed alcohol to bring me to my knees and call the shots for far too long.

I grab my bag from the floor and escape into fresh air outside the studio. November used to mean something back when I had a family. Now it’s just colder air, a welcome reprieve from the stagnancy of rehearsal. I could use a cigarette and a fifth of whiskey right about now. Rounding the hood of my truck, I falter when I notice Carter waiting for me on the driver side. His position against the door makes it clear I’m not leaving until I get through him. Well, Carter has probably thirty pounds of muscle on me, and there’s the matter of him being my best friend to consider.

“What’s up?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

Carter pushes off the door, taking a step back so I can get my bag inside. “You want to get a drink?”

That throws me off. Being my roommate both during and after my divorce meant Carter witnessed my downfall in all its pathetic glory. He heard every meltdown. He saw my drinking evolve from an unhealthy routine to a monster that stalks my every step and plays me like a puppet. There’s no hiding anything from him.

I agree before I even really consider it. You can’t hide how easy it is to down a double whiskey when you’re not alone.

“Cool. Mind if I ride with you? I caught a ride with Travis earlier. I can Uber home.” Before I answer, he’s popping the handle on the passenger side.

I light a cigarette for the road and turn the truck toward Tripp’s. I don’t think I’ll get any closer to Music Row anytime soon, unless I feel like inciting a riot.

Meanwhile, my thoughts reel. What Carter has to say can’t be good—after all, I’m the fuck-up between the two of us, and he’s yet to really confront me since the “intervention.” Probably knew his advice would fall on deaf ears.

“Can’t believe this thing is still running, dude,” Carter says, slapping the outside of the door through the open window.

I exhale a ribbon of smoke. “She’s a gem.”

“She’s a piece of shit.”

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” I retort. I’m partial to my Bronco. I’ve had her since I was eighteen, and I’m hanging onto her like I’m hanging onto the hopeful kid I used to be. Getting a new car would be like erasing history. No more sliding into the worn, threadbare seats. No more smelling the hints of nicotine and shitty air-freshener.

Carter barks out a laugh. “If only these seats could talk.”

“They’d tell a hell of a story.”

I park in the back, behind Tripp’s pickup, and we go in through the rear door. Tripp nods at me, then calls out in surprise when he notices Carter. They greet each other the way guys do—handshakes and hard slaps on the back, and we order a round of beers. Now’s not the time to be inhaling liquor. The least I can do is pretend I have my shit together.

Carter reclines against the bar, throwing a glance at a group of girls who’re making fools of themselves around the pool table. “How’s the new place, man?” he asks.

“Too damn quiet.”

He snorts. His walls were paper thin, and the house was always filled with the sounds of either music or sex. My place is somber in comparison. Not to mention, I haven’t even unpacked most of my boxes yet. I don’t care enough to try making it feel like home.

“Oh yeah? I figured that’d be a good thing. That, or you’d find a few ways to liven the place up yourself.”

I catch the insinuation. “Nah, not really. Just been trying to focus, man.”

He nods, tips his bottle up. One of the girls is writhing against her friend, but I can tell I’ve got his attention. Unfortunately. “Good. So, you think you’re ready for all this?”

“Which part?”

“Strahan’s really pushing the comeback tour.”

A wave of nausea roils in my gut. A few shows are one thing, jumping into a tour is quite another. “Yeah.”

“You don’t sound too sure about that. And you don’t look it, either. What’s going on with you? Looked like you were straight miserable at rehearsals.”

Regrettably, I drain the last of my beer and set it on the counter harder than I mean to. This is a conversation for hard liquor, but I know better than to pull that in front of Carter. The craving itches at the back of my mind. “It’s hard to imagine being back. How everyone will respond,” I admit.

“Yeah.” His shoulders jerk up into a shrug. “Fuck ’em. It’s gonna be what it’s gonna be, and nobody else needs to have a say in it.”

My eyes tighten, and I jiggle my foot to distract myself from the Scotch I know is sitting atop my refrigerator at home. Saying “fuck ’em” to everyone I might disappoint is a lot easier said than done—Carter isn’t the one charged with keeping this entire ship afloat.

“You know this doesn’t have to happen now, right? You can take more time, if that’s what you need. I’ve got your back, and the guys will understand.”

“I’m good, Carter. I’m straight.” I look over, noting the doubt in his expression. There’s no clout in my words anymore. I force confidence I know I don’t possess. “It’s time to get back in the saddle, leave this era behind me.”

“I agree. But, just saying, if you’re having any second thoughts, it’d be better they came out now. Save all our asses so we don’t get burned at the stake for hyping up something that isn’t gonna happen.”

“Is this you talking, or James?” I bite. His words and tone are sounding all too familiar. James is the newest member of the band, and he has the most to say out of all of us.

Carter pulls a face. “Man, come on. You know you’re my boy.”

“Can’t blame me for checking. I haven’t been around as much as James.”

“Speaking of, where have you been? I wasn’t expecting Lindsey to show up at rehearsal. You know—since we’re supposed to be keeping the girls separate from the business and all.”

I cut my eyes at him. It’s not a spoken rule, but we all know what happens before or after a show belongs to a separate reality than our work on stage, or at rehearsals. And nobody adheres to that rule more than me. Hell, I had a wife and never encouraged her to take the bus with us, no matter how lonely I was. “It’s not like that. She does good work.”

“Does she now?”

I rub my hand over my face, fighting frustration. “Not that kind of work.”

“Hey, I’m not judging. I’d be the happiest out of anyone if you were getting regular pussy.”

I shoot him a look. “She’s a cool girl.”

“Oh yeah?”

“And that’s all it is,” I say, purposely not supplying the answers he wants.

“Like I said, I’m not the one to cast stones. I’d be happy for you if you found someone who wasn’t just a temporary stand-in for Ra—”

“I got it,” I finish for him.

“So she’s a legit photographer?”

“Of course she’s a legit photographer. What did you think I was doing? Bringing a random to rehearsals just to impress her?”

“I’m not saying I believed it, but that theory was thrown around.”

“Nick gossips too much,” I say decidedly, because if any one person is to blame for the tales that pass through our band like a virus, it’s him.

“A photographer, huh? Convenient. You don’t think she’s—”

“Using me? No.”

“That was a quick answer.”

“Anyway. . . ” I trail off, ordering a second beer. It’s not whiskey, so I have a better chance of staying in control. When Carter glances over his shoulder at the girls again, I bump him with an elbow. “I won’t judge you if you go over there and tell ’em you’re Carter Evans. I know you want to.”

“Shit, man.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Didn’t I tell you I had a girlfriend?”

“That girl you met at the meet ’n greet? The roadie?”

“Yeah.” He laughs again.

“Damn. And I thought I had it bad.”

An expert at changing the subject, Carter mentions my physique is slipping and how he needs to get me back in the gym. Our usual banter returns without a hitch. For now, I forget about the band, and records, and tours. All of that will still be waiting for me tomorrow.