“He’s a nurse. Didn’t he go to work during COVID? Risk his life for his job?”
“He’d say his job is essential, mine’s not.”
“Music is pretty damned essential.” Pete softened his tone. “If he doesn’t respect what you do, is he really the guy for you?”
I just shrugged. I still couldn’t tease out who was right and who was wrong between us. Or whether that mattered. Maybe if you loved someone, you had to sometimes let them win when they were wrong. All I knew was that Rocktoberfest was the thing that’d kept my head above the deep dark waters through my trial, my one hope of going back to something like my normal life. I still wanted to perform with every breath I took. But Lee had been like the oxygen around me, and those breaths felt strangled now.
I set the last bite of my burger on the plate, suddenly unable to finish.
Of course, it didn’t matter who was right or what I figured out, because Lee was done with me. I’d texted him, after giving him a day to calm down. Just a simple,~Let me know if you ever want to talk.He’d read it. Never answered, no matter how often I checked my phone. Which was an answer. I’d managed to lose the one guy I cared about, again.
“Which room do you want me in, Pete? I think I’m going to turn in.”
I wasn’t sure if that was pity in his expression, but all he said was, “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Sleep was no easier to come by in Pete’s beach-themed guest room than it had been back home. I lay in bed, turning side to side, and watched the headlights of the occasional car sneak between the curtains and flash across the wall before vanishing. The soft bouncing-ball hoots of a screech owl sounded from a tree outside, then went silent. I’d rarely spent a full night with Lee. Most of the time, he went back to his Mom’s place. But the other side of this big bed seemed like a black hole without him there.
Around three, I got out of bed. Words and notes had begun colliding in my head and I might as well get them down. Better than recalling that last night with Lee for the hundredth time. The outcome never changed.
My acoustic guitar sat in its case in the corner. I pulled over a chair and opened the lid. I was never sure if this old case really held the scent of scuffed wood and paper and sunshine, but the impression filled my nose. I’d written “Edge Dancing” on this guitar, sitting on a battered wooden window ledge while Lee lay sprawled across my couch. I had a vivid sense memory of the sun on my shoulders, the faint stuffiness of that small apartment, Lee’s voice drawling, “How about ‘Edge Prancing’?” with a limp-wristed gesture, before I tossed my discarded T-shirt over his face. He’d laughed.
I hoped Pete’s room at the back of the house was far enough away tonight to muffle the sound, but he at least would understand.
The outer pocket of the case was stuffed with notebooks and bits of paper and pencils, beginnings of songs that never came to be, and early versions of songs that charted higher than I ever dared hope. I tore a page out of a notebook because sometimes words came easiest on scraps of paper.
long hellos, short goodbyes
make a home for love
taking risks
trust lost
I wrote a lot of bits of lyrics, searching for the angle I wanted. When the words ran dry, I picked up my guitar, checked the tuning, and began picking out a melody. Maybe I’d write a song for Lee. He’d likely never hear it, might not welcome it, like that ceramic his dad sent. I hadn’t originally asked him to come with me to Rocktoberfest because a big crowd of hard rock fans wasn’t his thing. Now, of course, that was just as well. Maybe one day, he’d come across a video or a recording and wonder if I’d meant for him to hear me.
I could write a love song, something that talked about his red hair and his easy smile, his sense of humor and his intense caring. Put in his mom, Willow, even Alice, all the people he loved. For a while I messed around with that idea, a gift for Lee. Names changed, of course, so only he would know the man with the huge heart who formed the soul of the song was him.
The lyrics never gelled, though. I kept coming back to “Goodbye,” the major chords turning minor under my fingers. So I wrote that one instead, until the world outside the curtains began to lighten and I was exhausted enough to put the guitar and my notes away and fall into bed for a few hours of sandy-eyed sleep.
When time for rehearsals rolled around mid-afternoon, none of the band made it weird that I’d ditched the party. Maybe they chalked it up to jetlag. Maybe Pete had told them my excuses. I hadn’t asked him not to.
Either way, they just greeted me with the same cheer as the day before and asked where in the playlist I wanted to start. I was grateful for the easy acceptance, and equally grateful for the way they settled into backing me up like they weren’t international stars who’d climbed higher than I ever did. Didn’t hurt that they were fucking awesome musicians, better than any backup band my label ever hired.
For an hour, I forgot everything but the music. We picked apart the arrangement of “Don’t Look Back” and clipped the bridge to shorten it for the truncated set time I’d been given. Shondra suggested some keyboard effects that made “Wings of Ice” sound fresher. I told them I was leaving time at the end for a solo new piece and got the expected teasing about letting them hear it now-now-now. I laughed and said no, and didn’t let them know that, a week before one of the biggest performances of my career, I hadn’t yet written the song I’d play.
Last week, I’d imagined giving the crowd “Isn’t It Funny” with the verses taking hurt to hope. But now “Goodbye” nagged in my brain…
“Time to take a break,” Pete called from my right, setting aside his guitar.
I blinked away cobwebs and turned to him. “Getting wimpy in your young age?”
He went to the fridge in the corner, got out a bottled water, and tossed it to me. “You’re sounding hoarse. Take it easy and let the real pros show you how it’s done.” Circling the room, he handed out drinks to everyone.
I popped the bottle top and poured the blessed liquid down my throat. He was right, I was parched and sore.Just parched. Because I’ve been singing for an hour.I sipped some more water, then stepped away from the lead mic and slumped on the leather couch.
Pete drained his water, tossed the bottle in an open recycling bin, and turned to his band. “What do you say, gang? Ready to rock and roll?”
Zoe called, “Any time, grandpa,” and Quinn delivered a rim-shot on his snare.
