The melody lingers in my head for a moment longer. My fingers drum against the counter automatically, chasing the beat. Music has always done this to me. The second a line appears in my head, the rest of the world disappears until I write it down. I push my empty coffee cup to the side and rush to the couch. I pull my backpack onto my lap and rummage around inside, going by touch alone.
Where is it?
The realization hits like a punch to the gut. My songbook isn’t here.
I freeze as my brain recounts the last few days. The gig. The dressing room. Kirk. It must still be at Headstone along withmy guitar. Who the fuck loses their guitar and songbook and doesn’t realize it for days? Me. I do.
Releasing a groan, I walk into my bedroom and pull on some baggy combat pants and a band shirt that has been worn so much the print has almost faded. Shoving my feet into my trusty Dr. Martens, I order an Uber.
The ride to Headstone is quick. Coming Undone by Korn plays on the radio, and I stifle a chuckle at the irony. Who the fuck goes to a bar at 11am? Alcoholics and desperate people, that’s who—and I know which one I am.
I didn’t think of the logistics when I decided to come, only that I needed that fucking songbook. I’m praying that a cleaner or someone is there, and I’m not sitting outside like an addict waiting for them to open. All I want to do is get in and get out.
As the Uber comes to a stop, I thank my driver and get out. I pull my leather jacket tighter around me—the chill from earlier still hasn’t fully left my bones, and the crisp air isn’t helping. Walking around the corner, Headstone comes into view. I stop in my tracks when I see Elias dart down the alleyway, followed by a woman. She has long, black hair and is wearing a sapphire skin-tight dress that shows off her slim figure. My stomach hardens, and my feet move. Something similar to acid curls in my stomach. Before I realize what’s happening, I’m standing on the edge of the alleyway, peeking around like a deranged stalker.
They’re close—nearly as close as Elias and I were the other night. Her breasts are almost touching his chest as she looks up at him. Pain flares in my jaw, and my eyes sting.
She laughs at something he says, tilting her head back slightly, the faint sound carrying down the alley. Elias leans closer to hear her over the traffic. Too close. Something tightensin my chest. My fingers curl against the brick wall beside me as I watch them. Rooted to the spot like a fucking idiot.
Of course he’s with someone. Why wouldn’t he be? He probably has women throwing themselves at him every night of the week. Women who look like her: polished, confident, and effortlessly beautiful. Not women who he has to carry out of the bar.
The thought lands like a boulder in my stomach.
I turn away, heat prickling behind my eyes. Relief washes over me as I find the front door to Headstone unlocked. Biting back the tears, I march toward the dressing room.
Stupid, Kat.
Stupid to think that moment meant anything.
Men like Elias don’t look twice at girls like you.
Eighteen
Kat
Kiss Me Until My Lips Fall Off – Lebanon Hanover
Closing the door behind me, I slump back against the wall. The chill from the concrete tames the shame working its way through my body. The flush in my cheeks is slowly dissipating. Resting my head against the wall, I take three deep breaths. The air smells faintly of stale beer and lemon cleaner.
Anger rumbles somewhere in my mind, but inadequacy pushes further forward. I feel stupid. I feel like I’ve been living in some sort of dream world the last few days. I was stupid to think he wanted me as much as I wanted him. Shame presses against the walls of my mind as I remember crying out his name in the shower.
You’ve lived through worse, Kat.
I see my songbook resting on the table in the corner of the room. Someone definitely cleaned the place. I flip it open, the pen moving in my hand before I can think. Words spill across the pages, messy and slanted, tumbling over each other so badly there’s no doubt anyone can read this but me. I don’t comprehend the words—I just write. It doesn’t matter; I never read what I write. It’s like living in the darkest parts of your mind—it’s just a creative outlet. Once three pages are full of writing and my hands are decorated with ink smears, I close the book,dog-earing the next blank page so I don’t have to read my writing next time I open it.
I shove the small leather book into the front pocket of my guitar case. I should probably leave. But what’s there to go back to? An empty apartment? I’ll probably come face-to-face with Elias, and I’ll have to see him withher.
My stomach hardens, and I feel the flush creep back into my cheeks at the thought.
I absentmindedly run my fingers over my guitar strings, stopping when they catch in some grit. Fuck. I was supposed to restring this last week. I shrug my shoulders and decide there’s no better time than now when I’m avoiding something.
I pull a fresh pack of D’Addario’s out of my guitar bag and set to work snipping and loosening the strings. I twist the first peg, loosening the string slowly. The metal gives a soft whine as the tension releases. Normally, when I restring, it’s almost meditative—a rare time when my brain is quiet. Not today, however. My brain refuses to shut the fuck up.
Why the fuck would he be so nice to me if he had a girlfriend? Am I that fucked up that I think any man showing me the slightest bit of attention is flirting?
I snip the string and pull it free.
Maybe he’s just that kind of person. Some people are just naturally nice, friendly, and warm. Normal.
