They’re asking me to go down this road again. To risk it once more. And deep down, I know I owe it to them to do at least that. They could have kicked me out for good—like all my band mates before them—but here they are. Asking me to come back.
"I made a total mess of everything. I’m not putting you lot through that again."
"C’mon. It’s been the three of us since we were little," Eric says.
I laugh at this, but shake my head. "I don’t know, mate."
"Then at least jam with us now," Benji says, holding out his new guitar to me. "If part of this is about not wanting to see Cassie, you should still go. Sort things out with her. She’s a mess. You’re a mess. Be a gigantic mess together."
I look at him in surrender.
"Come on. You came here for the music. At least give in to it." Eric smiles from behind his drum throne already counting down with his sticks.
I take Benji’s guitar. And as soon as I play the opening notes, it is as if the last two weeks have evaporated. All we have is now. This pulse. This beat. This rhythm.
I miss my best mates.
I miss music.
We don’t vocalise what song we want to play, but it’s as if we’re acting on instinct and can read each other with our instruments.
Why did I let my insecurities get the best of me?
I glance back at them. They’re both off in their zones: Benji moshes as hard as he can with a guitar and Eric head bangs to the intensity of his beats. There is nothing like playing music with my best mates, but I must learn to not let the kraken get the best of me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Twelve hours of sleep isn’t enough to peel me off my bed. My eyelids are as heavy as ever. I don’t want to move.
Tamara barges in my room—we’ve been doing this to each other since we could walk. "Time to celebrate!"
I grunt.
"Come on. We’ll be off to the pub later on to get massively pissed! I’ve just finished a major exam and you’ve survived your first two weeks at work."
"I think I’m dead," I say to my pillow. "Plastered to my bed."
"Your song-writing abilities have not faltered."
I grunt again and go back to sleep. I’m completely knackered.
When I wake, I glance at the CDs and vinyl records on my table—untouched from the day I left. Even my Stephen King novels have gathered dust. I look away. Yesterday was incredible—playing music with my mates again—but I have to stick to what I said. I ain’t gonna give the monsters an opportunity to unleash itself again.
Today is the music festival in Manchester. Benji and Eric have been pestering me non-stop this morning even to the point of telling me what time they were meeting up at the station and what time the train leaves. They think I’m going to change my mind.
Ha.
I want to sleep all day, so at least I won’t have to think about missing out on the benefit gig in Manchester or Callum Ford talking about Ear for Music.
I only get up when my stomach cramps from hunger. Once I’ve devoured to my stomach’s content, I go back to bed.
Dad walks in my room looking distressed.
"What’s the matter?" I ask, getting up. "Is it Mum? Tamara? Timmy?"
"Heavens, no!" he says and then looks at me. It’s as if he sees me for the first time in days. "You look horrible."
We laugh at this.
"What’s it to you?" I mimic Tamara, and we laugh again. It feels good to laugh like this, but it’s fleeting.
"Aren’t you supposed to be in Manchester playing that gig?" Dad asks.
My jaw drops—literally drops. I almost say "bull" but can’t because it’s rude to do so.
But almost.
"How…" I say, unable to finish my sentence.
How did he know about the festival?
"Timmy," Dad explains, as if it’s no big deal. But it is.
"Weren’t you the one totally against this whole music thing?" I ask in disbelief.
Dad sighs. "Son, I was wrong."
My jaw drops again. Dad admitting he’s wrong is massive.
"I thought this morning you were having a slow start. I can only imagine how knackered you must be, but when I saw that you had no plans of getting out of this room…it’s been two weeks since you got back. It’s not like you to stay home. I called Benji and he told me you weren’t going despite them telling you to." He looks me right in the eye. "You’re finishing what you started, whether or not you’re scared because of the mistakes you made."
I shake my head. Dad never lets me off the hook, especially when I muck about.
"I’m not letting you abandon your best mates when they need you most. We have tickets to Manchester to see your show, do you know that?"
I nod. "Tamara told me."
"It’d be such a waste. Even some bloody lad called Callum Ford’s been talking about your band on the radio."
"Bull!" I say out of surprise. "Sorry."
"Isn’t he one of those lads from your favourite band, The Gramercy?"
"Dad, it’s The Gramophones," I correct. "Where did you hear this?"
Dad shows me his mobile: The screen’s on URadio’s website.
"Since when do you listen to URadio?"
"Since you were a DJ." He shrugs, as if trying to downplay that he’s been listening to me all this time. "They’re one of the stations that play your band’s music."
I recall the first time I heard them play one of our songs on the radio. It was glorious.
Dad presses play before I can pry any further. Judy and Nathan banter on a bit before they go wild with excitement as they introduce their special guest Callum Ford. How did they get an interview with him?
First Callum talks about their comeback and their performance at Willowfields Music Festival—I cringe during this part. Halfway through the eighth minute, that’s when I hear it.
"And we’re back, bitches!" Nathan says.
Judy chastises him for cursing on
