Hayes
Then
As I shut the motel door behind me, my eyes snag on the weathered numbers nailed to it, crooked and rusted with age. Room 112. With a tortured sigh, I walk away from Tank’s and slide into the driver’s seat of my truck. Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I turn it back on for the first time since last night.
Damn, that’s a lot of notifications.
Scrolling through them, I ignore everything from Jane. I’m not in the right frame of mind to deal with her. Besides, we broke up. Is there really anything urgent that we need to discuss?
There are other calls from my bandmates—Rowdy, Josh, and James—and two missed calls from Charlotte, our manager.Charlotte, who has been with us since we first started Outlaw, is also Jane’s big sister, so for obvious reasons, I ignore Charlotte’s calls, too.
“Siri, call Rowdy on his cell.”
I wait, stopped at a traffic light, for the call to connect.
“Hey, man. ‘Bout time you resurfaced. Where’d you go last night? Jane’s been raising holy hell trying to find you.” Concern filters through Rowdy’s deep voice. “Not calling from jail, are you?”
“No need to bail me out this time,” I chuckle, but my laugh stops as quickly as it started as I debate how much to tell Rowdy. He’s my best friend, but he’s also Jane’s friend, which places him squarely in the middle of this situation. “Escaped to a cheap motel last night, and I turned my phone off because I needed time to clear my head.”
Unfortunately, waking up to find Annabelle gone has left my head anything but clear.
This morning, when I rolled over in bed to cold sheets and an empty motel room, my stomach lurched. And not from last night’s tequila. We’d agreed to one night, but Annabelle’s absence this morning stung with disappointment.
As casual as things between us started, undercurrents of something more developed. For me, it went beyond physical attraction. There was something irresistible drawing me to her, and I wanted more. As crazy as it sounds, I think we might have stumbled upon the start of something special.
But she left before I could do anything about it.
From behind me, a horn honks, and I accelerate through the light, waving an apology to the impatient motorist.
“You don’t sound too broken up about things.”
“I’m not. Jane and I are better off splitting up.”
“Wait! Y’all broke up?” Rowdy yelps.
“Uh, yeah. Did Jane leave that part out when she spoke to you?” It’s so typical of Jane to gloss over the bad parts of life, as if she can rewrite history to her liking.
Rowdy whooshes out a heavy breath. “She sure did. Probably in denial or hoping you’ll take her back.”
“I won’t,” I say with conviction. “I needed to end it, Rowdy. There was just always something missing between us.”
“Better to be single and alone than together and lonely.”
“Sounds like a good start to a song.”
“Speaking of songs, Charlotte has been applying some pressure, reminding us we need to get back into the studio soon and bang out our next album. I’ve got a song or two I’ve been fiddling with. You got anything new yet, or should we listen to demos?”
The four of us—Rowdy, Josh, James, and me—started Outlaw while we were in high school, and from Outlaw’s inception, we agreed we wouldn’t sing music written by other people. We wanted our music to be personal to us. I think that’s why Outlaw’s been so successful. People feel the connection we have with our songs because the inspiration behind them comes from our personal experiences.
But after our last album dropped, the music stopped for me. The novelty of being in a band had worn off, and things that had once been invigorating—concerts, touring, fame, the revolving door of groupies—lost their luster. I was just going through the motions, stymied by life. No matter how hard I tried to write, the words wouldn’t come.
Until last night. Annabelle inspired me, and I felt the dam blocking my creativity burst open.
“About that. I have a melody and some lyrics for a new song. It’s not complete, but it’s a solid start to one, and I have ideas for a few more. Want to come over and see if we can finish it?”
“Hot damn, Hayes is back!” The excitement in Rowdy’s voice spurs on my own.
Tipping back his beer, Rowdy glances at me sideways. We spent the day holed up in my living room, strumming guitars and writing songs, like we used to do in Rowdy’s grandmother’s garage back when we were dumb high schoolers.
