a sigh. “Yeah, I just can’t seem to get it right—something’s missing.” I lean back against the sofa and curl my legs under me.
“Do you want me to help you tonight after the show?” he asks with a grin, making it obvious that there’s a not-so-hidden meaning behind that question.
“Nah…it will come in due time,” I deflect, waving him off. “I know better than to force it.” I don’t miss the disappointed look on his face. There are way too many things that could go wrong if Ryder and I were to get together, and breakups among couples in my industry are just a matter of time. I hate the thought of that happening since, not only would I lose the best guitarist I know, but I’d lose a friend too.
“Well…if you change your mind, let me know,” he says, standing up. As he leans in to look at my notebook, I close it as nonchalantly as possible. Ryder has helped me out in the past when I’ve struggled with certain parts of songs, but this time it’s different.
“I will, thanks Ryder.” I hold up my cup of tea and he winks before leaving the van. The guilt hits me as soon as I hear the door close. Sometimes I think I should give him a shot—maybe it could work out for us. We’re both from Texas, though we didn’t know one another when we lived there, and we both love country music. That’s more than Maverick and I had in common, and a hell of a lot more than a certain blue-eyed rapper from Chicago who, despite the recent video clips I saw, still seems to be stuck in my brain.
The sound of an incoming text pulls me from my thoughts; probably my mother with some last-minutes instructions. I set the cup of tea down to answer it. Well, speak of the player, which, by the way, is exactly the name I used when I saved his number—just so I wouldn’t forget that that’s exactly what he is. I am tempted to erase the message without reading it but curiosity gets the best of me. Trace hasn’t texted since the night we both began our tours, and I can only assume it’s because he’s had his hands full…literally.
Hey, haven’t heard from you. How’s your throat feeling?
Okayyy…I don’t hear from him in a week and this is what he asks? Unsure what to say, I respond with the truth.
Shitty, actually. It’s raspy and sore.
I don’t bother asking him about his voice because I don’t care—at least that’s what I keep telling myself anyway.
So my cure didn’t help?
Cure? I scrunch my eyebrows, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about, but I’m coming up short.
You lost me.
While I wait, I drink some more tea. Almost showtime. His next text still has me scratching my head.
Those fuck-ups. I’ll get it to you before your next show. Promise ;)
Hesent me something? I want to ask but I guess he would have said what it was if he wanted me to know.
Me: Okay… but you didn’t have to get me anything.
Trace: It’s all good. I know how hard it is performing every night when you’re on tour.
Me: Well, thanks?
Trace: Don’t mention it. I’m on in five so good luck tonight. Albuquerque, huh?
Holy crap, he’s checked my schedule? I’m saved from responding by another text.
You available to talk tonight?
Um, yeah. Though do I really want him to know I’m a loser who doesn’t go out and party after my shows? Unlike Mr. Jetsetter, I have to hop back on my bus to get to the next city. I know my band usually parties it up in the bus behind mine but I never join them. My fingers flip from Y to N before I finally give up the fight.
Yes
The thought of talking to him tonight thrills and scares me at the same time. I pick up my tea again with shaky hands, and I know they aren’t from pre-concert jitters.
Cool…talk to ya after the show.
With a burst of inspiration, I toss my phone down and write the words that just popped into my head. You are so much more than I gave you credit for. It fits perfectly where I’d gotten stuck earlier. All of my creative energy vanishes
“Do you want me to help you tonight after the show?” he asks with a grin, making it obvious that there’s a not-so-hidden meaning behind that question.
“Nah…it will come in due time,” I deflect, waving him off. “I know better than to force it.” I don’t miss the disappointed look on his face. There are way too many things that could go wrong if Ryder and I were to get together, and breakups among couples in my industry are just a matter of time. I hate the thought of that happening since, not only would I lose the best guitarist I know, but I’d lose a friend too.
“Well…if you change your mind, let me know,” he says, standing up. As he leans in to look at my notebook, I close it as nonchalantly as possible. Ryder has helped me out in the past when I’ve struggled with certain parts of songs, but this time it’s different.
“I will, thanks Ryder.” I hold up my cup of tea and he winks before leaving the van. The guilt hits me as soon as I hear the door close. Sometimes I think I should give him a shot—maybe it could work out for us. We’re both from Texas, though we didn’t know one another when we lived there, and we both love country music. That’s more than Maverick and I had in common, and a hell of a lot more than a certain blue-eyed rapper from Chicago who, despite the recent video clips I saw, still seems to be stuck in my brain.
The sound of an incoming text pulls me from my thoughts; probably my mother with some last-minutes instructions. I set the cup of tea down to answer it. Well, speak of the player, which, by the way, is exactly the name I used when I saved his number—just so I wouldn’t forget that that’s exactly what he is. I am tempted to erase the message without reading it but curiosity gets the best of me. Trace hasn’t texted since the night we both began our tours, and I can only assume it’s because he’s had his hands full…literally.
Hey, haven’t heard from you. How’s your throat feeling?
Okayyy…I don’t hear from him in a week and this is what he asks? Unsure what to say, I respond with the truth.
Shitty, actually. It’s raspy and sore.
I don’t bother asking him about his voice because I don’t care—at least that’s what I keep telling myself anyway.
So my cure didn’t help?
Cure? I scrunch my eyebrows, trying to figure out what the hell he’s talking about, but I’m coming up short.
You lost me.
While I wait, I drink some more tea. Almost showtime. His next text still has me scratching my head.
Those fuck-ups. I’ll get it to you before your next show. Promise ;)
Hesent me something? I want to ask but I guess he would have said what it was if he wanted me to know.
Me: Okay… but you didn’t have to get me anything.
Trace: It’s all good. I know how hard it is performing every night when you’re on tour.
Me: Well, thanks?
Trace: Don’t mention it. I’m on in five so good luck tonight. Albuquerque, huh?
Holy crap, he’s checked my schedule? I’m saved from responding by another text.
You available to talk tonight?
Um, yeah. Though do I really want him to know I’m a loser who doesn’t go out and party after my shows? Unlike Mr. Jetsetter, I have to hop back on my bus to get to the next city. I know my band usually parties it up in the bus behind mine but I never join them. My fingers flip from Y to N before I finally give up the fight.
Yes
The thought of talking to him tonight thrills and scares me at the same time. I pick up my tea again with shaky hands, and I know they aren’t from pre-concert jitters.
Cool…talk to ya after the show.
With a burst of inspiration, I toss my phone down and write the words that just popped into my head. You are so much more than I gave you credit for. It fits perfectly where I’d gotten stuck earlier. All of my creative energy vanishes
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