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Shows are a welcome distraction. Instead of waiting for the band backstage, I’ve taken to sticking to the green room. I respond to emails within minutes. Ironically, I’ve never been more productive in my entire life. Heartbreak is the ultimate amphetamine. I can’t stop moving, or else the hurt will leak out of my pores, and I’ll melt into a puddle of sadness.
Henry and Apollo keep leaving trinkets on my bunk, inexplicably girly things that are supposed to make me feel better: a bottle of hot pink nail polish, tabloid magazines, a magnet shaped like a bear that says “I had a BEARY good time in Salt Lake City.”
I’ve been avoiding all phone calls outside of work. I haven’t talked to my mom in over a week. When I showed up sobbing at her doorstep with my suitcase in hand, she was nice enough not to ask any questions, but now her patience is wearing thin.
Mom:Lyndsey, seriously. What’s going on? Are you okay? I’m getting worried. I talked to Allison, and she said she hasn’t heard from you either. This isn’t like you.
I silence my phone and place it face-down on my lap. I’m sitting in the booth by the little kitchen table. Vince is fuming on the couch, scrolling through his phone, tapping the screen so hard it might break in two.
We’re on our way to Arizona for a show. I watch the desert landscape pass us by.
Suddenly, the bus chugs. Something thunks, then scrapes. A shrill, metallic dragging sound pierces the air. It can’t be a good sign. I hop out of the booth and make my way up to the front, where the bus driver is white knuckling the steering wheel.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Um, I want to say yes, but I genuinely don’t know.” The bus lurches forward with a jerk.
The driver flicks the hazards on and pulls over just in time for the bus to screech to a halt. When he tries to turn the key in the ignition, nothing happens.
“Fuck.”
“Um, okay. Shit.”
Priya walks up to me, “Is everything okay?”
“The bus is dead!” The driver yelps. He opens the center console and hands me a tiny business card, “Can you try and call Triple-A?”
“I guess,” I say. I dial the number and press the corresponding key for each menu that the automated voice tells me to. When I finally make it to “buses and large vehicles,” it puts me on hold. I put my phone on speaker and hopped out of the bus. The driver is peering beneath it.
“I’m trying to see if something caught. I heard scraping. Did you hear scraping?” He asks.
“Yeah.”
The rest of the band troops out onto the road. We can’t turn the bus on, so there’s no air conditioning. The sun is high in the sky. It’s barely past noon. Already, I’m starting to sweat.
To entertain themselves, Henry and Apollo strike up a rousing round of the license plate game. Vince sulks with a book in hand, sitting on the ground and leaning against one of the wheels. He says nothing to me.
Priya’s the last person to emerge from the bus.
“Jesus, it’s hotter than Satan’s crack in there!”
“It’s not much better out here,” I tell her. I’ve been on hold for forty-five minutes.
“You’d think they’d have more human workers for emergency services,” Priya grumbles.
“I know.”
I turn to Vince and address him directly for the first time all week, “What are you reading?”
He wordlessly shows me the cover. It’s a meditation book.
Priya sighs, “Vincent, can I ask what you did to Lyndsey?”
Vince places his book on the ground next to him, “What makes you think it was something I did?” He asks.
“Well, you don’t have the best track record.”
“What the fuck do you know about my track record?” Vince hollers.
