twenty-two
Beau
Pain wakes me before the sun.
I shift on the pillow to find a more comfortable position and wince at the pressure throbbing in my head.
Cracking my eyes open, I settle at the vision of Stasi sprawled over Liam’s bare chest. He’s got one arm slung over her shoulders, pinning her waves of golden hair to the gray t-shirt he loaned her.
I watch them breathe for a while, determined to ignore the oncoming headache. When it doesn’t let up, I roll out of bed and stumble into the bathroom.
Nausea overtakes me, and I curl over the toilet to puke my guts out. After I’ve dry-heaved for a while, I fall back onto my ass, wrung out and skin clammy.
At least the dizziness is gone now, though the sour taste of acid in my mouth isn’t fun.
I pop some medicine and return to my spot on the floor in the bathroom to wait for it to kick in, not wanting to wake Stasi and Liam with my tossing and turning. But when the pain finally subsides, I’m not tired enough to climb back into bed.
After brushing my teeth and splashing cold water on my face, I creep down the stairs to slip on my shoes. I grab two sets of keys off the hooks next to the garage door—the spare key for the studio and the set for Liam’s other car—theblack Porsche.
I hesitate, knowing it’s not smart for me to drive. There’s always the fear that a migraine will set in and my vision will fade to a mass of warbling gray.
But my headache is mostly gone… so I should be okay.
My blood beats a little harder beneath my skin as I pull out of the garage and hit the gas.
It’s blissfully quiet when I enter the studio—an Eden of musical possibility opening its gates to me. No other eyes or ears.
No expectations.
I’m anxious to work on my song. I’ve never been solo. My career started in a sweltering garage in Phoenix with Noah and three other guys we met at a concert. I figured it would end with a group, too.
As I run my fingers along the curved body of the classical guitar I’ve come to know on a spiritual level in my time working here, I question if I’m ready. Am I giving into false confidence that I can climb my way back to where I was when Lithos released our first album?
I poured my heart into those tracks. Two decades-worth of want so potent, it was practically a living, breathing entity.
To think I have the success now but can’t produce…it’s a special kind of mental hell.
My confidence flags as I pick up the guitar and wander into the recording room.
No, we’re not going to spiral out.
Planting my ass on a stool, I’m prepared to slaughter my worry for the future and fight for my dream.
I pick up where I left off in Liam’s music room earlier, finding peace in the way the notes fill up the empty space around me. My right hand is in sync with my head for once as my left glides along the frets, tapping and bending strings.
It’s going to be a good day.
Everythingfeelsgood.
I fall deeper into the sound, letting it guide me. I don’t force anything, and what results is a song filled with more emotion than I ever thought possible for me to produce.
About to play through it again, movement in the studio has me startling. I glance up and see Liam braced against the recording room door frame. Natural light pours in behind him.
Is it morning already?
“It sounds good, Beau.”
I drag a hand through my hair and blow out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for years. “Maybe.”
