Travis’s phone beeps multiple times in a row, keeping me from dozing off. He snickers to himself, piquing my curiosity.
“Something funny?” I ask, peeling an eye open.
“Remember that chick from the show last weekend?”
Immediately, golden wavy hair and a schoolgirl-lookin’ skirt flash across my mind.
“Ellie,” he adds as if he knew exactly where my thoughts went.
Not really.“Sure.”
“Been talking to her. She’s a cool chick. I invited her and her friend to the show this weekend at The Cold Spot.”
I straighten, pulling my feet from the table to send him a look. “The fuck? Those girls don’t belong in a place like that on a Saturday night after dark.” Maybe the friend, Ellie. She’d probably fit in, but if Little Miss Barbie shows up dressed like she did last weekend, she’ll be eaten alive and not in the good way.
We try to avoid seedy areas, but we can’t afford to pass up a gig. This club itself isn’t so bad. It’s the area it’s in. High crime and just far enough out of the city that police response times are low. I know because Tanner checks every single location before we decide if we’ll take the slot or not. This one was iffy at best, but being Saturday night, prime-time, and a college campus close by with classes ending for winter break, we had to take it.
“They’ll be fine. We’ll be there and we’re leaving straight after to go to my place.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You know we can’t actually be of any assistance to them. Since we’ll be, ya know, on fucking stage?”
“Dude, chill. It’s fine. They have security there. I’ll have them moved to the front.”
The knock at my door stalls my argument. We spend the rest of the day eating and watching some weird as shit bird documentary before Travis finallyleaves.
I climb back into my bed, punching my mom’s number into my phone as I stare up at the ceiling.
“Hi, honey.” Her soft voice floats through the phone, making me miss her instantly. Guilt eats away at my stomach. We talk all the time, but it’s been weeks since I’ve seen her.
“Hey, Mom. How are you?”
“Good. I’m about to head into work. I’m on nights this week.” My mom works as an ER nurse at our hometown hospital. She’s damn good at it too. Best fucking nurse that place has. “What’s going on with you? Any new shows?”
I smile. She always makes it a point to ask about the band. Even though I’m sure she thought this was a phase I’d outgrow, she was never anything less than supportive of my dream, same as my dad was. “This Saturday. Should be good, an hour set.” Which is decent since we’re playing local.
“That’s amazing, honey. Call me after and let me know how it went. You know I’d be there if I could.”
“I know.” I swallow the lump that tries to rise. I know she’d make every show if she could. She’s been to several. Even when it was just me and Travis putting on street shows for our town, she was there. She always made me feel as if I were playing on the biggest stage and not someone’s backyard with a bunch of drunk dudes who weren’t even listening to the lyrics.
“I’m getting in the car. Call me later. I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom. Have a good night at work.”
I hang up and immediately dial my sister’s number, knowing she’s not going to answer. When the voicemail picks up, I end the call and open my text messages. I type a short message that’s sure to be ignored like the others.
Penn:
Call me when you can. Love you.
I open Instagram and type her name in the search bar,Pacey Hayze, and go to her page.I check for updates, but there haven’t been any in months. Her last post was of a cupcake with a single candle, her birthday. A stabbing pain slices my chest. I try to ignore it, but it never really goes away.
The guilt. The grief. It lingers like a black cloud, like a stray begging for me to feed it, and I usually do. I swipe out of her profile and scroll on my feed before tapping the search bar again. Not exactly sure what I’m doing, I type Olivia, Brown University.Nothing comes up, so I delete it and try Olivia, Rhode Island. I scroll past a few profiles that are definitely not the girl from last week until I land on ‘Olivia Whittington.’ Damn, even her name is prissy.
I click the photo. Luckily for me, her page is public. It’s her. The unmistakable light brown eyes call to me through the screen, just like the night at the bar. I continue scrolling, checking every post. The latest one is a picture of a hand, I’m assuming hers, nails painted pale pink, holding a ball of yarn. The caption reads ‘time to relax.’
Isn’t that something old people do?
She doesn’t post much. Her feed is mostly her and Ellie, a few sunsets, and more yarn stuff. I stop when I come to a photo of just her sitting in the sand, her legs stretched out, on display in the yellow strappy dress she’s wearing. Her pale skin is tinted red, but from the sun this time. Her hair hangs down her chest, blowing in the breeze as she stares at the water. She looks peaceful and…so fuckin’ pretty.
