My eyes drift, noticing a comment at the top.
My home, love you babe<3
The picture was posted months ago. I click the comments because what the hell, I’ve made it this far.BigChadcommented. What the fuck? Big Chad? Who names themself that?
I exit the comments and continue to browse her page, but there isn’t much more. I don’t see any photos of her and another guy. I go back to the comment, and because apparently, I’m a fucking stalker now, I click his page. Which, of course, is public. No one cares about privacy anymore. If it weren’t for being in a band and being required to have a social media presence, I wouldn’t have one at all. I hate it. Yet here I am, stalking a chick I’ve known for two and a half seconds and her douchey-looking boyfriend.
His page matches his name. Fucking Chad. Polo wearing, preppy motherfucker. Takes tons of shirtless gym selfies every other day, along with photos of his Range Rover. I have to scroll for a minute, since he posts every two fucking hours, but I find her.
Six months ago, he posted a photo of himself with his arm around her at a fancy-looking restaurant. He’s smiling and so is she, but it’s small. It doesn’t reach her eyes. My eyebrow arches when I see the photo has sixty comments.Might as well.
Click.
It’s a shit ton of girls commenting stuff like, “wow,” “lucky girl.” I can hear the sarcasm from here.
I close Instagram and throw my phone aside. What the hell am I doing? I rationalize it by telling myself she’s going to be at our show this weekend, and I was curious. Now I know she’s off-limits. She’s someone else’s.
A few minutes later, I pass out, definitely not thinking about her.
7
PENN
The next fewdays tick by in an exhausting blur. Between preparing for the show tomorrow and working at my uncle’s, I’ve barely had time to shower and sleep. Not to mention that I got zero writing done, and the guys are on my ass constantly. We’re trying to finish up our second album, and I’m slowing us down.
It’s not from lack of effort. I’ve tried. I sit down at night with my pencil, notebook in my lap, and stare at the lines. Too tired to write a single lyric. I’m physically exhausted and mentally tapped out. I haven’t been able to reach my sister in months, and it’s been eating at me more than I want to admit. Any free second I have, I spend worrying about her, and I can’t concentrate on anything else.
Pacey and I drifted apart after our dad died. Instead of clinging to each other like we should have, we let go. Burying our heads in our grief and letting it swallow us whole, then she met Ryan and became someone I didn’t recognize.
I’m about to call her again, when my phone vibrates in my hand, the band group chat crossing my screen.
Tanner:
T-minus 22 hours before show time. We need to be there at 8. Let’s meet at Travis’s at 6.
Liam:
Could you pick me up?
Tanner:
Yeah.
Travis:
how long is the set?
Tanner:
One hour. They want us to play two covers.
Travis:
Ugh. Dicks. When will we finish up?
Travis has a deep hate for playing covers. He says it’s because his voice wasn’t made to copy shit, but the crowd usually expects a hit cover, and the bar likes to cater to their older audience that might not be into our style of music.
Liam:
