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One
Colin
As my Uber pulls away from the airport, my driver’s eyes in his rearview mirror linger on my face, like he’s wondering, “Where have I seen this guy before?” I realize not every Uber driver in every city knows my band, and that if they did, they wouldn’t necessarily know our drummer’s face. But this is Seattle. Our hometown. The city that’s bursting with pride to have spawned 22 Goats. So, I don’t think it’s crazy to think this driver might be a fan of my band and he’s trying to place my face. Or hell, for all I know, he’s seen my face on that stupid guest appearance I did on Sing Your Heart Out.
“Are you returning home or just visiting?” the guy asks, steering his car onto the main highway.
“Both. I live in LA now but grew up here.”
“What brings you home?”
“My childhood best friend is getting married tomorrow. I’m one of his groomsmen.”
“Nice.”
“Oh, I should probably text him to say I’m on my way to the rehearsal. I’m later than I said I’d be.”
I pull out my phone and tap out a quick text to Logan. And since I’ve got my phone out, anyway, swipe into Instagram to check out whatever reactions people have made to a photo I posted earlier—a photo of me at this afternoon’s table read, in which I’m surrounded by the main cast and famed director I’ll be working with in less than two weeks.
I didn’t post about my first movie role before today because I’d convinced myself the opportunity would fall through for me, either due to a scheduling conflict with my band or because our legendary director, Gary Flynn, would realize he’d made a huge mistake in casting a newbie like me.
But I’ll be damned, Gary complimented me today in front of everyone—which, apparently, is fairly unusual, according to the film’s big star, Seth Rockford. So, I bit the bullet and posted the jaw-dropping photo. And now, I must admit I’m having fun scrolling through all the congratulatory comments underneath the shot.
Kiera.
I stop scrolling at the sight of my ex-girlfriend’s name. She’s sending me well wishes, along with everyone else. It’s a seemingly innocuous act, but I find it weird. Kiera and I haven’t interacted at all, even on social media, since she dumped me four months ago. So why is she bothering to congratulate me now?
I know Kiera and I said we’d always be friends when she dumped me, after taking a job as a backup dancer on a popstar’s extended world tour and saying she was planning to “fuck her way around the globe.” But since that devastating conversation, I’ve realized I have no sincere desire to keep in touch with her. I guess I assumed, based on our mutual lack of interaction, Kiera felt the same way.
Against my better judgment, I swipe over to Kiera’s Instagram to see what city she’s presently “fucking her way through,” and quickly surmise Kiera is in London. Which means my ex is no longer getting railed by American dudes, she’s moved on to getting shagged by British blokes.
Stop it, Colin.
Why am I even looking at my ex’s photos, when I don’t even want her anymore? If Kiera dropped out of the tour and begged me to take her back, I’d say no. And I’d mean it.
Admittedly, I was heartbroken for about a month after she dumped me, but after my initial feelings of rejection and humiliation wore off, I realized Kiera had done me a huge favor by ending our longtime on-again-off-again relationship. I realized I hadn’t been mourning the loss of Kiera, per se, but the loss of the last-ever girlfriend who’d known me before my band hit it big. Before fame and money and the world’s projections of me became part of the equation. Before trust became so hard to come by. I think that was the toughest pill for me to swallow: realizing I’d have to return to the dating pool as “Colin from 22 Goats.”
“You’re the drummer from 22 Goats!” the driver shouts, as if reading my mind. When I look up, he’s displaying a photo of Dax, Fish, and me on his phone, his face aglow. “That’s you, right?”
“That’s me,” I acknowledge.
After lowering his phone, the driver bangs his palm against his steering wheel and hoots with glee. “I knew you looked familiar! I just couldn’t place you!”
“That happens a lot, thanks to me looking like every other tattooed, brown-haired white guy in a band.”
The driver scoffs. “I don’t think they pay every tattooed, brown-haired white guy to model in their underwear, sir.”
I chuckle. “Oh, you saw that.”
“My wife drooled over that shot. You were on Sing Your Heart Out this season, right?”
“Briefly.”
“My wife has a huge crush on you. So do I—but on your music.”
“Thanks.”
“Hey, would you mind recording a happy birthday message to my wife? Her birthday is next week. I know she’d flip out to hear you say her name.”
