Dad drank all the money we had away.
The cab jolts to a stop at a traffic light, snapping me out of my thoughts. I look out the window to see the festival grounds ahead. A sprawling sea of tents, amusements, and stages. And somewhere in that throng is Jett, probably already halfway to blackout drunk and surrounded by a gaggle of groupies.
I feel a surge of jealousy boiling up inside me, hot and viscous. After all the shit I've put up with, he couldn’t even follow through on his own promise.
I think of all the nights I’ve spent waiting up for him, patching him up after drunken brawls, listening to his grandiose rants about the band's "imminent success."
And for what?
To be relegated to an afterthought, a footnote in the epic saga of Jett Vice?
Am I what I claimed I’d never become—a doormat?
The cab swerves toward the signs indicating the artists’ entrance and comes to a stop a few minutes later in front of the barricaded parking lot.
Right before I left, I exchanged whatever money I had on me to Euros. Those Euros come in handy now as I thrust a wad of cash at the driver and clamber out of the cab. He hurries to help me with my luggage and then gets back into his vehicle and disappears.
I stand there for a moment, inhaling the fresh air. Even the faint barbecue scent from the campers smells different here.
I dial Jett to let him know I’m here, at the gate, but instead, I’m greeted by his voicemail.
Great.
The entrance to the fenced-off festival grounds is right across the parking lot, and once I’ve gotten enough oxygen into my lungs, I square my shoulders and start walking.
Alright, Jett. You want me to come to you? Fine. But you better be ready for the hell I'm about to bring.
Turns out,bringing hell past security isn’t that easy.
"Pass?" a beefy guy at the entrance asks.
"I’m with Sonic Trash," I supply.
"Sure. Still need a pass."
"I haven’t gotten one yet. I just flew in."
I'm jostled from all sides by a group of people rushing to get past the guard. They wave their laminates and disappear inside.
"Look, mister," I say flatly, "I had a really long flight. I’m tired. I need a shower and a nap. Do I look like a band stalker to you?" I gesture at my luggage. I’m feeling all the things I just described to the beefy guy. Filthy and exhausted. And lacking enough mental capacity to solve the pass problem right now.
"Look, lady." The guard’s face remains a mask. "No one’s allowed inside without a pass. Including artists."
"My boyfriend’s band is play?—"
"Sorry, sweetie, but festival rules are rules." Another security guy—clearly with more compassion—steps in. "Too many big names on the bill for us to be risking our necks for you. Your boyfriend should have arranged for the pass in advance if he knew you were coming. Nothing a quick call can’t solve."
Easy for you to say, buddy. Your partner probably doesn’t hang up on you every time you try to get them to talk to you on the phone.
"Holla at your guy inside," the nicer security guard instructs. "Have him meet you here."
My temper’s fraying at the edges at the thought of Jett.
I'm pretty sure thinking about your boyfriend is only supposed to bring joyous feelings, so I blame my strange emotions on exhaustion.
You’re tired.
Any woman who just flew across the globe would be cranky.
