And I put a fair chunk of my savings into the session at the studio.
That would be tomorrow.
Shit. I was supposed to be having a chill day before the recording tomorrow.
It was a “me” problem and for the sake of the band, I’d keep being fired a secret until we leave the studio.
I took a deep breath, straightened my t-shirt and ran a hand through my hair. Omelet at Randy’s—here I come.
I left the diner with a box of glazed donuts and a banana smoothie as my lunch and dinner for later.
Trixie was relaxing at her girlfriend’s, so I had the house to myself. I dragged my precious Strat with me to the couch and tuned it.
As I lazily plucked the strings, the image of Trent listening to me play floated in my brain. If he was here, he’d flash a dimpled smile at me, crunch on a lollipop and pull me into a crushing hug that always felt like it could fix all of my problems.
I stroked a random chord, then another, my fingers moving into familiar positions, my mind on my amazing Cupcake.
“On our crumpled bed sheets
We’re still there,”
I hummed quietly, then changed the chord.
“Eating strawberry lollipops
Better than cigarettes
Sweet like you.
I keep my rose-colored glasses on
Around you
But they’re not on my nose
It’s my world that’s happy
Because you are in it.”
Needs work, but it came so easily, I could do something with it. The chorus was obvious:
“Sweeter than strawberry lollipops
I can lick all day.
All day
All day ay ay ay”
I grabbed the notebook I kept on a shelf by the guitar and scribbled down the lyrics. It was a song about sex and the freedom to experiment with all genders.
Fuck being sad.
I had music to write today.
And an album to record tomorrow.
Chapter Eighteen
