Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Above me, the dim overhead light gives enough of a glow for me to see what I’m writing. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve erased song titles, crumpled up overused paper, and restarted. My sister, once again, wants to change up the setlist, after seeing one too many live streams of the same show. People commented that the show was predictable, and some other shit that I never wanted to worry about, but I do. It’s important to me, and to the band, that the reviews of our show are exceptional. We don’t want fans yawning in the audience or leaving early. We want to give them the show they paid for.
So, here I sit, with my pencil in hand, erasing and rewriting titles like the setlist owes me the answers, like it’ll fix everything. Not only in my life, but in the minds of our fans.
It’s probably too late in the tour to add songs we haven’t rehearsed, but I’m tempted. Our entire catalog stares at me, almost mockingly. The songs we haven’t performed for years or never played because they didn’t fit a show, blinking like they’re have a mega-sale and want my attention. My mind plays tricks when I lack sleep, and lord knows sleep has evaded me since Nola walked out of my life.
It's easy to start with all the heartbreak songs. My heart is broken, shattered. Or at least, it was. Slowly, the jagged edges have smoothed out and stitched back into place. Still, pain, longing, and love seep through the holes, looking and waiting for some recognition of her familiar face, scent, and voice.
Only at times, it’s not my thoughts of Nola that seem to close the wounds.
It’s Justine.
Which doesn’t make sense because I’m in love with Nola . . .
Was.
My thoughts have me sitting up straight. I look down at my piece of paper and see that I’ve written Justine’s name down.
Why? What does that mean?
It can’t mean anything and it’s my subconscious playing a dirty little trick on me because I’ve spent a lot of time with her.
That’s it.
Nothing more.
Except, it feels like more. Deep down, I know there’s a connection between us and I can easily chalk it up to the way we are when we perform on stage, in front of thousands of people. It’s an act, a moment we’ve rehearsed over and over until each look is ingrained in our memories. I won’t deny there’s a tug toward Justine. I would have to tell the world I’m not a man if I were to say I didn’t find her attractive. I do. But my heart belongs to Nola and whatever is salvageable of our relationship.
Besides, she’s young. I have almost ten years on her and a world of experience.
And my sister would kill me if I ever did anything with Justine. It’s like the old saying, don’t shit where you eat, or however it goes. The fact that Dana and Hendrix have whatever the fuck it is they have going on drives my sister batty. She hates band drama.
The eraser—what’s left of it—taps against the notepad. Yet, I can’t bring myself to scratch out Justine’s name. Part of me likes it there, likes seeing it in my handwriting, even though the rational part of me says it’s wrong.
Instead of erasing, I rip the sheet of paper from the spiral binding, crumple it, and hold it in my hand. I know I should toss it into the corner of my bunk or in the heap of other discarded pages, but I don’t. After smoothing the sheet out, I fold it, slip it under the last page, and pretend like it’s not there.
The task at hand still looms. On a fresh sheet of paper, I write one through eighteen and start placing down, moving new ones to the first, middle and end of the list, and replacing the encore with an older track, one of the first ones I’ve written for the band. Sitting here, I realize I’ve spent my entire Sinful Distraction career writing about Nola. She’s been my muse for all of it.
Every lyric is about her, us, and our relationship. The good, the bad, and now the ugly. Each night, I sit on my stool or stand at the microphone and sing for her. Wondering if she’s still watching, still following us online, listening.
Maybe she’ll hear me in the lyrics again and remember.
That I waited.
That I’m still waiting.
Each night, when my phone doesn’t show a missed call or text, I know she’s not.
And yet, I still hope.
I sigh heavily and write out the last of the list. This is going to have to be it. I can’t do this anymore. Not tonight, at least.
Fading Ink
I Still Do (acoustic)
Come Undone (feat. Justine)
Stayed Too Long in Goodbye (unplugged teaser)