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The guys bullshitted with their fantasies of a sold-out tour and an audience of thousands—the way it used to be. But that was when I could strut my shit and work the crowd. That wasbefore.
Without the charisma of an energetic front man, what the hell did I have left?
None of these guys understood that. They hadn’t lost anything that night—other than their lead singer's pride and confidence. But they could move on if they wanted to. They were all solid musicians and could start over, no problem.
Me though?
I doubted it.
“I’m freezing,” I lied, struggling a little in getting out of that damn chair. Why was it so low to the ground anyway?
“Really? It's not that bad,” Dave said, looking at the other guys for backup.
“Then, you enjoy it,” I muttered in reply. “I'm going to bed.”
“You sure?” Greyson chimed in. “Zach still hasn’t come back with our drinks.”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m just tired.”
“Okay,” Simon said hesitantly, watching as I strained to get to my feet. “Do you need help or—”
“I'm fine,” I fired back.
The guy was just trying to help—I knew that. He was being my friend, a good one. But, holy shit, what did he think I had done for months when he wasn't around?
Trudging away from the firepit and toward the converted garage, where my father was already asleep and my own bed awaited, I thought about Lennon.
I thought about the things she'd confessed, about her vision and disability. I thought about her so-called magic pussy and the songs she’d inspired me to write. I thought about her curtain of black hair and how the car had filled with the scent of orchids when she fucked me. I thought about our time at the bookstore, how she liked to read, and the cup of tea she’d encouraged me to drink.
I hadn't gone out on a date since high school, but that was what it had been, hadn’t it? I’d told myself it wasn’t, that it was just a prelude to reentering the fount of inspiration. But I was wrong; we had dated, to some degree. Even if she had lied to me, even if she had been a fan, looking to use me in the beginning, there had been a little more between us than just good songs and mind-blowing sex … right?
I closed the door behind me and released a sigh into the converted garage's small living room.
After the accident, my physical therapist had suggested I join a support group for amputees. He thought it might be beneficial for me to talk to other people who understood what I was going through, and I'd promptly declined. The last thing I wanted to do was remind myself of my newfound disability by being surrounded by people in the same boat.
But that didn't mean I couldn't find solace in someone drifting in the same ocean.
So, I pulled out my phone and shot a text off to Lennon, not expecting much to come of it.
Imagine my surprise when she actually replied.
***
Me: Hey. So, this is random as fuck, but I'm getting ready to record my fifth album, and I'm kinda freaking out.
Me: And I'm sorry you're the one I chose to text about it. I just don't know who else to talk to.
Lennon: Why are you freaking out?
Me: Shit, I didn't think you'd get back to me.
Lennon: Yeah, I thought about ignoring you, but I'm a glutton for punishment, I guess.
Me: Okay, so maybe I was a dick the last time I saw you. But you gotta put yourself in my shoes.
Lennon: I have, and I've gotten over it.
Me: Really?
