by Holly Hall
“She’s an independent, passionate woman, Jenson,” Mom says, as though that’s explanation enough.
“She’s a force to be reckoned with.”
“It takes one to know one,” she says, and I don’t miss the subtle smirk she gives me. “Now, let’s have some pie and get you cleaned up. I don’t know what you’ve been doing the past few weeks, but you look like a vagrant.”
I leave my mom’s place with more than I brought with me, but I’m finding out that’s what happens when you give the things that feed your soul the attention they deserve. My perspective’s been altered, but I’ve got more on my mind than I’ve had in months, about much more than Lindsey. The guilt that I so easily disappeared from everything—life, responsibilities, the small number of people who still count on me—didn’t just subside when Mom forgave me. I’ve overcome a lot, I’ve lost more, and still I was willing to risk what few great things I had left all because of my inability, my refusal, to cope with the things that test my limits.
My band deserves better, my mom deserves better, and I’m beginning to realize that I, and the kid I was at seventeen—the unfettered dreamer—deserve a hell of a lot better. It’s the first time I’ve admitted to that last one, and maybe that’s why it hits me hardest that it’s time for a change. Two stints in rehab didn’t work. Praying didn’t work. My divorce didn’t work. But maybe I can work. Maybe I can do something notable for once, be the man the people around me deserve to see, and kick this thing once and for all.
Those realizations were slow to come by but hard-hitting. I know what I have to do, and nothing is holding me back. And if I ever owed anything to Lindsey, it’s to be the man who’s halfway worthy of her.
Chapter 23
Jenson
If air could be wound up like a rubber band, that’s how I would describe the atmosphere in the green room backstage. It’s the night of our performance, and I’m trying my best to swallow the vomit that threatens me every time I hear a cheer go up from the crowd.
They’re expecting a comeback. What they don’t know is this will be my grand exit. Not from music forever, but from being the headliner, the face of endorsements, the poster on the walls of teenagers all over the country. I don’t need all that. I never did.
I need the music.
I live for the music.
And so, I’ll live for the music.
The experiences I’ve had are invaluable—the people I’ve met, the relationships I’ve formed with my band. Those are the things I’ll mourn when this is over. But what I don’t need is the adoration of millions. I can live without the empty satisfaction of record sales. I haven’t broken that news to the band yet, and they might be more pissed at me that I decided to wait until the show is over to tell them, but they’ll soon realize it will all be worth it.
They can have my songs, the glory. Hell, they can find a new frontman for their show. They don’t need a ghost, and that’s what I’ve become.
It’s time to kick this toxic relationship. Maybe I have Lindsey to thank for getting the ball rolling, but everything in life has led me to this moment. So I sip on soda, sans whiskey, and try to wrangle my thoughts toward my first love—music.
When we’re finally escorted to the stage, the guys are hyped. This is what they live for. Carter claps me on the back good-naturedly, but I know he senses my masked unease. I stride through the cargo cases and music equipment like I’m going into battle, and I guess in a way I am. This is my last stand. Nobody will know it until tomorrow, but for now the performance is significant to me in a different way than it is to them.
We use the dim floor lighting to find our places in the dark, just as we rehearsed. The director thought it would make more of an impact if we came into our first song with the lights off and none of our usual hurrah. Fine by me. I feel at home in the darkness, and the anticipation in the air is electric. The crowd knows what’s coming, and they punctuate the silence with whoops and wolf whistles.
The guitar tech hands over my Martin OMJM, and a curtain of calm comes over me when my fingers find the strings. People come and go, trends go in and out of style, but this guitar and I, our music, it’s been the only constant in my life. An anchor amid oceans. If I can focus on the music, I’ll make it through this night.
I take my place on the stool near the front of the stage, ignoring the lights from countless cellphones and camera flashes. I adjust my earpiece, swallow a gulp of doubt. When I finally strum out a few chords, the richness of the notes broadcasts through the speakers and a cheer rolls through the audience. Then I start with the opening verse of “Temptress.”
The lights eventually come up as the verse builds toward the chorus, but I keep my eyes more on my guitar, my band members, or the blackness of the far reaches of the amphitheater we’re playing. The hollers in response to a song the crowd has never heard before are enough to tell me they’re feeling our performance. We play one of our catchy older songs next, one guaranteed to get everyone on their feet and energized. Carter drums his heart out and Nick and Travis work the crowd, walking to the very edge of the stage to give high-fives and let some of the bolder members of the audience cop feels, before switching into something more nostalgic, slower.
When we reach “Hellion,” the second-to-last song on the setlist, I’m not surprised to see teary, glimmering eyes looking back at me from the people closest to us in the pit. I’m not surprised at the lump that arises in my throat and gives my voice that extra rasp, either. The audience loves it, and I keep it together. It’s all I can ask for.
As the lights go down and the masses call for an encore, I breathe out a long sigh of relief. It’s like I’ve been running my whole life and have finally found a place to rest. There won’t be any more encores. Not from this version of me, anyway.
Backstage, I accept the usual high-fives and back slaps, managing a smile. My band is happy, so it’s not too difficult, but most of me feels bad that I’m about to let them down. I remind myself we’ve had a good ride, and it’s for the best. Carter lingers longer than usual, his black brows furrowed, and I conclude he’s caught on. He’s cool enough not to say anything.
Travis opens a bottle of Fireball once we’re back in the green room, and the guys trade off taking shots straight from it. I pass on everything, and they’re all in too good of spirits to notice. There will be an after party, maybe an after-after party, but pounding beers and cherry-picking females from the crowd lost its allure the second I realized what I was trading in the process.
Just as I’m working up an excuse to leave, the green room door opens and a familiar face appears—Sal Reyes, a well-known videographer I’ve run into several times over the course of my career.
“Hell of an entrance, man,” he declares, pulling me in for a hug when I wave him over.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“Always so humble, this one,” he teases, greeting the rest of the guys. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has. Probably my fault, mostly.” We laugh, but we both know it’s not much of a joke.
“Hey, it’s life. But it’s good to see you back! Unfortunately, I’ll miss most of it.”
For a second I suspect he’s heard something. But that’s impossible, I haven’t told anyone my intentions of trading this career for something else. “Why do you say that?” I ask.
“I’m leaving the country, man. You know that band Dare and Fall?”
I nod. They’re an indie punk-rock band that gained most of their notoriety from social media and rose to fame, beating out several traditionally-signed acts for top spots on the charts.
“They’re kicking off their European tour after New Year’s. Got themselves into a mess last year with drugs and partying and stuff, so their team came up with this plan to document their days on tour, put all the footage straight on social media so it’s like their fans are with them every step of the way. Something to jumpstart their image by making them seem relatable. You know how that is,” he says, and I nod. I mysel
f am a PR nightmare. I’m sure plenty of meetings were held discussing options not unlike that one to get me back on the high road.
“Seems like a hell of a job. Congratulations.” I shake his hand and gesture for James to bring over the whiskey. Sal takes a swig and offers it to me, and I set it aside.
“I’ve got my hands full. No rest for the wicked, right?”
“If anyone can make those punks look good, it’s you.”
“Maybe so, but I’m just one man.” He spreads his hands and chuckles, and my brain starts whirring.
“You don’t do anything with photography, do you?” I ask, rubbing a hand over my beard.
“Nah, man. I dabbled back when I started out, but videography is more my thing.”
“Look, I don’t know what kind of contract you have with those guys, or if they’ve already considered and vetoed this idea, but I have a photographer in mind whose work kills. She could make those guys look like professionals. Or, hell, bunny rabbits, if you asked her to. She’s pretty green, so I’m sure she’d sign on more for the experience than the money. I can show you some of her stuff.”
Sal looks off, thinking, then he nods slowly. “Sure. I can’t promise anything, but having another perspective could be sick. She have a portfolio?”
“A website she probably hasn’t updated in a year, but fairly successful social media pages. Here, I’ll let you see for yourself.” I pull out my phone and start scrolling through it.
If Lindsey knew what I was doing, she’d probably never forgive me. She’s determined to blaze a trail on her own, and if a job came her way that she didn’t think she earned, I don’t doubt she’d pass it up on account of her pride. Even something this big. There’s no telling if this will go anywhere, but if it does, maybe my conversation with Sal can be kept under wraps long enough for her to get out of the country and kick some ass.
Long enough to catch her dream.
Chapter 24
Lindsey
I read and re-read the email countless times. Not to make sure it’s real, but to give it a chance to incite some excitement in me. I’ve been offered a permanent position at the paper. It’s probably everything my parents could’ve dreamed of for me after I laid waste to their aspirations of me becoming a surgeon—a solid, relatively non-nomadic job at a decent publication, with a salary and benefits. Unfortunately for me, this is not the sort of thing that satisfies my wanderlust-ridden heart. Then again, neither does working the lunch shift at the café.
I twist my bracelets, releasing a long-suppressed sigh. It’s the twenty-first century; I’m lucky to have been offered a position in my field of interest that pays anything at all. On that note, I type out my acceptance and send it. It’s not traveling the United States in pursuit of all things uncharted and musical, but it’s something. It’s something.
The one time I went to yoga, I learned to think positive thoughts, was urged to give myself a pat on the back occasionally. Or maybe that was just something I saw on a motivational poster. Either way, I reach over my shoulder and pat my own back, just as Anika pushes through the door to our room.
She looks at me, then turns her attention to her little desk in the corner, then looks at me again. “Did you just give yourself a pat on the back?”
“Somebody has to. Might as well be me.”
“Still bummed about Jenson?”
“What?” I feign shock and disbelief, pushing my laptop away from me. “I’m not bummed about Jenson. If anything, I’m bummed he had to go and ruin our arrangement.”
Anika had been home the night I came in, nearly frozen from sitting beneath the stars, makeup pooled beneath my eyes, and hadn’t relented until I admitted everything that happened between Jenson and me. She’s been trying to pry open the steel door I’ve kept on my emotions ever since.
“Sure, because normal people mourn the loss of regular sex. Boo-hoo.”
“Don’t you?” I defer, picking at the dry petals of my newest dead bouquet—garden roses.
“Yes, but,” she huffs, dropping down onto the floor to take off her shoes, “you’re not normal.” When I give her a look, she says, “Sorry, but you’re not. You care about everything and act like it’s all nothing. That will never work out in your favor.”
I want to tell her she’s full of shit, but that would be a lie. Anika is one of only three people in Nashville who care that I even exist. The least I can do is be honest with her. “I never led him on, you know. I made my priorities clear from the beginning.”
Her shoulders droop. My forced indifference has that effect. “Step into my office.”
“Ani—”
“Don’t complain, just do it,” she says, her head already beneath the bed skirt.
I crawl under on my belly, but only halfway. My tiny rebellion against her weird therapy sessions. “What do you want?”
“How warm are your priorities going to keep you in, like, ten years? How many memories will they share with you?”
“You’re being awfully sentimental today, Ani. It’s freaking me out.”
She deadpans. “I saw the photos you posted of him on your feed. I witnessed you guys in action. That wasn’t nothing.”
“So we had chemistry. Cool. We’re also two completely different people at two completely different points in our lives. We’re headed down separate paths, toward separate goals. Sometimes those paths don’t always line up.”
Anika entwines her fingers together, brandishing them in my face. “But they can converge. And they can be magic. You can admit you were afraid. That maybe you discovered what you had with the boys from your past was nothing compared to the real thing, and the real thing is hard. It scared you.”
I burn my stomach sliding out. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Then you’ll never experience the full capacity of love. Not ’til you admit it.” The disembodied quality of her voice, muffled beneath the bed, makes it easier to ignore. Kind of like the voice in my head. The one in my heart.
“If that’s what love is, I don’t want it.” I grab my phone off my pillow, intent on taking a walk to escape my interrogating roommate and clear my head, when I notice the alerts: one missed call, one voicemail. Strange. Nobody leaves me voicemails unless they’re a bill collector. Or Craig. Anika disappears across the hall and into the bathroom just as I play the message.
“Hey, this message is for Lindsey. My name is Sal Reyes, I’m a tour videographer. I came across some of your work and have an opportunity I wanna talk to you about. It . . . well, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but it could be fucking phenomenal for your career. Call me back at this number if you’re interested.”
Like earlier, I have to replay the message over and over to make the words stick, then I comb my memory for a Sal Reyes. I’m fairly positive I don’t know of him. So, I do what any modern-day woman would do. I put on my stalking pants and get to work.
Sal Reyes has a few hundred thousand followers on Instagram and a feed full of clips of his work. I click through them and instantly become immersed. His videos are electric, energizing. They capture sound and color and movement all at once, in a way still photography can’t. The clips are interspersed by candid photos, and I’m surprised to see several familiar faces. Some of the bands I’ve crossed paths with on my jobs and musicians I’ve only heard of. This guy is well-connected. He knows his stuff.
Not that social media is totally indicative of character, but I feel more at ease calling him back. He picks up after a few rings.
“Hi. This is Lindsey. You, uh, called me earlier.” Not the smoothest of introductions, but I didn’t wake up expecting to have a chat with a noteworthy industry influencer.
“Yeah, Lindsey, hi. Sorry for calling out of the blue like that, but I promise it’ll be worth your time.” He speaks at a rapid pace, but his voice is warm.
“Sure, no worries. How did you find me?”
There’s a beat of silence before he answers. “The online community, the industry. Word t
ravels, you know. There’s a hell of a lot of talk I try to avoid, but in this case, the grapevine was helpful. You’ve made a good impression on the people you’ve worked with.”
I want to ask who he means, but he continues. “Listen, would you want to meet for coffee or something? That way we can meet face to face. See if we vibe. You can ask me as many questions as you want about the job.”
Friendly or not, I’m defensive, and this guy is still a stranger. “What is the job, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I’ve got a thousand things going on right now.” He chuckles. “You heard of Dare and Fall?”
I nod to myself. This is Nashville and they’re a punk band. It’d be difficult not to notice a group that’s breaking the mold of what’s expected in Music City. “Yeah, of course.”
“Right, of course. I just got hired on as their tour videographer. They’re starting their European leg in January, and their team planned this documentary of sorts. Anyway, I’m looking for a photographer to join the team. Give the project some dimension. The pay is okay, but the experience will be better.”
My body reacts before I can, chills racing down my spine. A tour photographer. Europe. I don’t want to believe it and I do. I do with all my heart.
“What time are you free?” I ask when I find my voice.
Sal smiles broadly when I enter the café, showing a mouthful of white teeth that are striking against his brown skin. He waves as if I might miss him, but he’s instantly recognizable. I adjust the crossbody strap on my shoulder and stride through the tables at Tin Cup Coffee—a warm, exposed-brick kind of place, with metal stools for seating and strings of lights draped overhead.
He stands when I reach the table and shakes my hand firmly and exuberantly. Two seconds in and I can tell he’s one of those people who instantly assumes you’re friends and won’t let you believe anything different. The image before me matches the rapid-fire conversation we had on the phone.
