“I had a bad habit of numbing my emotions with booze…sometimes drugs, and it only ever made me feel worse,” I admitted. There were also a lot of women, but I didn’t voice that part out loud. “I realized I had to quit that shit if I didn’t want to end up in a body bag before I hit forty.”
She tugged the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands, studying me. “How’s that working out?”
“Well,” I said, holding out my hands. “I’m here. I guess that’s something.”
An expression I couldn’t read passed over her face like a storm cloud. A subtle shimmer glittered in her eyes, almost like there were tears hovering just above her lashes.
Her voice was soft when she spoke. “Thatissomething.”
“My therapist gave me some homework today,” I said. “Because that’s a thing I do now. Therapy, I mean. She wants me to write my feelings in a journal.”
“Oooh, did you pick out a pretty new diary with a lock on it?”
“They make ones with locks on them?”
“You’ve never been a thirteen-year-old girl before, and it shows,” she teased.
“I guess I don’t really need a lock on it, anyway,” I said, running my hand along the back of my neck. “Because I can’t even bring myself to write anything down.”
“What? Why not?”
“I’m not sure, actually,” I answered. “It feels like a lot of…pressure.”
“Hmm,” she said, lips pursed in thought. “Maybe you just need to change how you’re looking at it.”
“How so?” I asked, leaning closer.
“When I think of a journal or diary, I think of these detailed accounts or letters,” she said, moving her hands as she talked. “And that can be heavy. Especially if you’re working through something. It can be a lot to relive it. But you’re a creative guy. You’ve got that whole mysterious, brooding musician thing going on.”
“Brooding and mysterious, huh?” I couldn’t help the satisfied grin that tugged at the corners of my mouth.
“Not the point,” she said, rolling her eyes. “The point is, maybe you shouldn’t look at it as some elaborate record of your life. Think about it like writing a song.”
Why hadn’t I considered that? Probably because when Midnight in Dallas broke up, I’d broken too. That band had been my entire fucking world. It was the only thing about me that ever made sense. But it never occurred to me to write anything on my own because I guess I never saw myself separate from the group.
“Songs tell stories differently to different people, right?” she continued. “You could write something that has a very specific meaning to you, but I could read the same words and they represent something else entirely to me. Without context, lyrics are just words. People are what give them meaning. The only thing that matters about your words is that they mean something toyou.”
I nodded, the gears of my mind clicking into place. “That’s a good idea. I’ll try that.”
“Sorry about that. Kitchen got backed up because there’s only two of us working tonight,” a bald guy whom I assumed was the bartender said as he approached the table. “You’ve got a friend joining you. What can I…” He trailed off, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head. “Holy shit, dude. You’re Luca Sterling. From fucking Midnight in Dallas. It’s nice to meet you, bro. I’m Freddy.”
I shook his outstretched hand. “Thanks, man. But tonight I’m just any other guy.”
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Freddy said, lowering his voice. “What can I get you? You seem like a tequila guy.”
“Actually, I’d just like a cheeseburger,” I said. “I’ve heard good things.”
“You are going to have the best cheeseburger of your life.” He tapped his fingers on the table, turning to McKenzie. “You want another Bushwacker?”
“Yes, please,” she answered with a smile.
“How about some more chips?” he asked her, arching one brow.
“If you insist,” she answered, and he nodded, disappearing into the back.
I chuckled, folding my arms over my chest. “You reallyaredoing some drinking tonight.”
“I never half-ass anything,” she said.
