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There’s a joke in there somewhere, and for a second the pressure in my chest eases as I think of Will.
I don’t really think he’d appreciate the joke though, pun and all.
Too soon,he’d say. To which I’d say back,When will it not be?
I blow out a breath. In front of me, Shawn doesn’t break stride as he flits me a quick look over his shoulder. He doesn’t have to say anything. Neither do I.
Even Mason’s silence closing in on me from behind speaks volumes.
They know I’m losing my shit.
Hell, who am I kidding? I’ve been slowly losing my shit since our late-night dinner last night, when some fuckhead had to go and drop a frying pan as I was digging into my waffles.
The pack of cigarettes in my hand crinkles from the pressure of my fist, as I remember the echo of it slamming against the linoleum floors of the diner ringing out like a—
“Way.”
“I’m fine,” I say sharply. I don’t even know who spoke.
Easy,a voice warns me, one that sounds suspiciously like the guy I’m trying really hard not to think about right now. Knowing it would only send me spiraling faster.
Blinking a few times, I wince against the grating buzz of another stupid, swinging lightbulb.
I mean, really, couldn’t they’ve afforded something a little less garage chic?
My teeth clench and I stare hard over Shawn’s shoulder, counting the steps I have left as the hallway ends, giving way to a small, but spacious, foyer. One with glass walls stretched out before me, giving me an unobstructed view of the outside world.
There,I think, cracking my neck as I step away from the guys, finally feeling like I can breathe again.
Me and tight spaces, we have a love-hate relationship these days. And today’s not a day where I’m feeling the heart-eyes. Today’s a day where I want to curl up in a ball and not exist for a couple hours.
I frown, steps slowing until I come to a stop inches from the double glass doors. “What time is it?”
Street lamps light up the quiet street. A car whooshes by, spraying puddle-water on the sidewalk. Heavy bass thrums from an old beater car idling in front of the apartment complex across the street, rattling the glass.
“A little after midnight,” Shawn says, pushing open the door. He holds it for me, and I hold it for Mason as he trails behind us.
Shit,I think.Another late night.
We usually call it quits by nine, but we’ve been struggling with this one song the label wants on our album. Todiversifyit, whatever that means.
Because it’s happier than the other tracks?I scoff at the thought.
Well, as it turns out tweaking happy music when I’m not exactly happy is really fucking hard. Shocking, right? Who knew?
It’s only been ten days,a voice reminds me.
I mentally flip it off.
Tonight, though, tonight was about more than just figuring out why this song isn’t working. Hell, even our agent, Paul, who usually never leaves our side when we're at the studio, left hours ago, knowing we were done getting anywhere. I only vaguely remember him slipping out with a tired, “See ya,” leaving us to our guitars and notebooks and Mason’s keyboard.
In the corner of my eye, I watch as Mason steps around me, snapping a photo with his phone of the semi-busy street.
I fight an eye roll. He’s always taking pictures these days of the most random things. When I asked what that’s about, all he said was, “Snapchat.”
At first I thought he was posting them for our followers on the band’s page. We don’t have a crazy huge following, despite what it might look like on our TikTok page—that shit’s very misleading, we’ve come to find out—but it’s big enough.
Big enough to garner the attention of vicious assholes who want to shit on our success for no other reason than theycan… or die-hard stalker types who want to have our babies.
