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28
February 10th (Charlotte, NC)
Sky
Why didI worry that I’d never cope with the rock and roll excesses of touring with the world’s biggest band? The reality is a little boring, tiring, and I want these next weeks over. I promised Dylan I’d be there for him, but this is the second week and I’m exhausted. My head spins with the monotony and even though Dylan looks brighter, this is exhausting him too. I don’t go to his gigs anymore—instead, I use the time to write.
Well, if I’m going to live life in a bestseller world, I may as well channel the experiences into something good. Dylan keeps trying to read what I’ve written, but I’m worried he’ll read too much into my words. I’m especially worried he’ll see himself in there.
Usually, Dylan comes home straight after gigs, but some nights he hangs around longer. They’re his good nights, the days he remembers why he loves this life and why I know he couldn’t leave forever. Home. Such a weird name for our carousel of hotel rooms and suites.
I’ve kept in touch with Tara, who requests an update every day, and keeps me in the loop about things happening in the life I left behind in Bristol. I’m careful what I tell her, memories of phone tapping scandals and thoughts of intercepted emails worry me. I love her words about the ordinary I left behind, sharing gossip about old friends from school and raving about Tom, the love of her life. I was skeptical about this title for him at first, but the few times I’ve spoken to her, I hear the truth in her voice. Seems everyone is falling in love.
Absently, I scroll through the rest of my emails, deleting the junk.
The name of a sender jumps out from the screen.
Lily Parker.
What the hell?
I debate whether to delete this straight away; where the hell did she find my email?
No, she’s not intimidating me. I open the email.
Why didn’t you believe me? How can you accept him?
Blinking at the screen, I delete the message. The carefully matched pieces that join Dylan’s and my worlds isn’t complete yet. And this is one piece that has no place.
