“Of course!” We both climb in mine. This key slides right in. “Can we see a horror movie instead?”
Eleanor’s head whips around in a huge grin, “Oh hell yes! Screaming over crying any day!”
“I’ve done enough crying.”
She whoops and turns on the music. As Gabriel Cocker’s famous voice pours out of the speakers, my all-knowing friend glances my way. “Were you torturing yourself?”
“Guilty,” I mumble, keeping my eyes on the road.
“Mmhmm,” she hums, unceremoniously switching it over to someone who doesn’t share Eric’s last name.
As we drive toward a store that’s open twenty-four hours, I challenge, “Were you ending things with Dion in case you might get hurt?”
She shifts in her seat. “Guilty.”
CHAPTER 34
WREN
G inny holds the mic with sheer joy igniting her big-toothed smile, wild mass of curls showcased to perfection by the pink spotlight. “Thank you so much for coming out, everyone! We’re Phoenix and we’re doing a show at Terminal West in two months!” The audience increases their applause knowing what an enormous step-up that venue is for any up and coming band. She holds up her hand and grins, “See you there!”
The lighting engineer takes his cue and the stage goes dark, the main house-lights switching on, bringing everyone back to ‘real life.’ While they gather their things people discuss how far the band has come. Eavesdropping on their appreciation only deepens the ache that persisted during the show. Like my soul is throbbing with grief, yet there’s nothing I can do about it.
Terminal West is a coveted space for a new band. It’s not a huge stadium but it’s the step before one. Perfect sound system, large playing room, great stage and lights, even outdoor patio areas so people can hang out with their friends, bars in each. Concert-goers happily pay top dollar for amenities like those. And that translates to the band earning some money for once. Too often they want us to play for free just because we’re artists and love what we do. It’s not fair or right. Nobody asks them to punch into their office jobs without a paycheck. They wouldn’t show up.
“Wren!” Ginny calls out as she heads my way. “You came!”
I don’t have to fake the smile I give her as we hurry in for a hug. “God, you guys were great.”
She squeezes me and pulls back to see my face, hers beaming. “Yeah? You thought so?”
I run my hands down her arms. “I loved it. You should have been singing this whole time.”
Clucking her tongue like it’s not true, but she’s secretly glad to hear me say it, Ginny objects, “You would have been so much better than I ever could be.”
“No.”
“It’s true!”
“You mean if I didn’t black out when the spotlights hit me? Sing off key as if aliens had taken over my body?”
Spinning her bracelet she offers, her voice kind, “Maybe you could see somebody about it. Stage fright is normal for a lot of people.”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to be in actual terror, Ginny. But stop, you are incredible and it’s obvious. It was supposed to be you this whole time.”
“Hi Wren!” Lauren calls as she heaves sections of her drum set out to where their cars wait patiently in the back parking lot. Her black hair waves from side to side as she grunts.
“Oh shit, that’s Wren!” Shriana cries out, clipping the case shut on her upright bass. She runs to us and practically lifts me off the stained cement floor with a huge hug.
The new back-up guitarist has figured out who I am, and she stays in the background to carry the instruments and give our sad reunion space.
“We didn’t think you’d come!” Shriana says, squeezing me.
Laughing as we separate I drag my hand through my hair and blink away tears. My old bandmates spot them, and both crumble, each reaching for one of my arms, hanging lifelessly at my sides.
“I’m sorry, I’m very happy for you. I’m just feeling a little lost is all. Seeing you guys up there and knowing how much I love music and yet I can’t do anything about it, it’s just…it’s killing me. I can’t seem to find a solution. It just sucks, you know? But I’m so proud of you guys! I want this for you, I do.”
Their nods are coupled with compassion and helplessness.
Shriana scratches her shaved head with all ten of her fingers, “We know you do,” blue nail polish matching the dyed blue, shorn locks.
Lauren walks inside with empty hands ready to grab lighter percussion parts. Frowning, she strolls over. “Are you still writing?”
“Yeah, every day. Well, almost.”
“We need some new songs.”
I blink at her, and Ginny and Shriana look over, too, their troubled expressions clearing at the same time.
Ginny explodes, “That’s it! Write for us! You don’t have to be on stage to do music!”
Shriana agrees, “Of course! It’s perfect! None of us are as good as you at writing lyrics! Hell, most of our songs are ones you wrote!”
Tucking long black hair behind her ear, Lauren bobs her head. “All the good ones anyway.”
They exchange guilty glances like they’ve been all too aware their newer numbers were lacking that special quality that makes a song stand out from other people’s.
I didn’t want to say anything, but I’d noticed during the set. They play so well together I felt it didn’t matter, and clearly booking agents agree. But I could make them shine.
“You really want me to?”
Melting at the hope in my voice, the three of them give an emphatic, “Yes!”
Lauren’s already in overdrive. “We can put your name on the website as our writer, and give you a page on there, and you can use that to help sell your songs outside of the band, too!”
Ginny holds her hand out, palm down. “But we get your best stuff!”
Shriana runs a hand over her shaved head again as she nods several times, “Oh fuck yeah, we get first dibs. That’s a must.”
“Of course!” I grin.
Ginny flips around,
