Meanwhile, Chase sits sprawled out on the shabby couch we hauled up from the basement last week. The bruise on my shin is a nasty shade of green, having bloomed sometime between step five and me cursing the existence of whoever designed Tag’s staircase. Sadly, girl power does not equate to muscle mass in the face of a three-hundred-pound three-seater sofa.
Chase nods at our newest band member, Zach, who also happens to be Tag’s old friend from high school. “Sounding good,” he says.
I tip my head back, reveling in the breeze coasting across my neck as I glance at Zach, who is hunched over his five-string bass, locked into a groove so deep it practically carves a canyon.
After a slew of so-so bassist auditions, Zach walked in and nailed it. He’s got the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing and reminds me of the lead singer of Sevendust, with warm, deep-toned skin and a head full of lush locs. He’s more low-key than the rest of us, but every bit as sharp.
We’ve upped our practice time to 8:00 p.m. since Zach sleeps like a normal human and the ultra-late nights were starting to wear us all down. Breaking the news to Alex was harrowing. It’s cut into our personal time, giving us only a small window to have dinner together after work, and making date nights less frequent. Even talks of Thailand have been put on hold.
I’ve had to endure the frequent mood swings, passive-aggressive comments, and cold shoulder, but in the end, I was doing this whether he approved or not.
I’m not sure if that makes me selfish or driven.
My gaze swings back to Chase in his black jeans with unintentional rips, smudged sneakers, and lack of a T-shirt. All the guys are half naked. The air smells like a combination of body odor, Rock’s weed collection, and an assortment of lavender-scented candles courtesy of Kenna. “You make my napkin lyrics sound good,” I call out to him.
He flicks me a smile.
I can tell he’s only half present, lost in a solo. He’s buckling down hard, showing up an hour before practice every night and being the last to leave.
I don’t blame him.
We’re opening for a well-known band called Unbidden, a progressive rockgroup with flashy guitar riffs and heavy metal undertones. We’re not quite as hard, less growl and more heart. But where they shred, we swell. Where they erupt, we simmer.
We’re the slow burn, our sound akin to open windows during a summer storm.
Rivers of sweat trickle down my neck as I puff my cheeks with an exhausted breath. Zoned out from heatstroke, I stare at Chase’s tattoo rippling across his skin like ocean waves as he focuses on the rhythm. It’s cathartic, watching him play, listening to my lyrics become tangible. We have three new songs under our belt, the fourth one currently in production.
It’s something I whipped up between diner shifts last week, huffing and puffing, needing a quick escape from kitchen chaos and demanding customers.
Resilience folds like paper
Conviction frays like floss
We draw lines in the sand
Just before we cross
Chase looks up, catching me staring. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do I. These are the only moments I allow. Tender glances tucked beneath the chords of whatever song we’re playing. Though small and fleeting, I hold his gaze like it means something.
It feels better to know that we tried
We tried
But everyone knows
That’s just another way to lie
“There’s no topping Walter White. You can’t change my mind.” Rock’s voice cuts in as he spins his drumsticks with a showy flick of his wrist.
Tag scoffs. “Saul was better. The character development was a masterclass.”
“Snooze.”
“You’re a fucking snooze.”
I look away as Rock busts out a quick drum solo. “Team Tag,” I chime in. “That show was basically a tragic love story dressed up in legal briefs and cartel blood. Total brilliance.”
“Team Tag,” Rock parrots, a frown pulling. “Team Tag…Tag Team.” His eyes glaze. “Whoa. Missed band name opportunity?”
